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Presented  to  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 
LIBRARY 

by  the 

ONTARIO  LEGISLATIVE 
LIBRARY 

1980 


THE   CARSWELL   COMPANY    LIMITED 


ACKWOOD'S 


MAGAZINE. 


VOL.  XXXIII. 


,  1833. 


WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  EDINBURGH  ; 

AND 

T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 


1833. 


Af 

4 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCIII.  JANUARY,  1833.  VOL,  XXXIII. 


Catttwttf* 

THE  PORTUGUESE  WAR,             .   .        .           .           ,                      .  1 

TOM  CRINGLE'S  LOG.    CHAP.  XVII.    SCENES  IN  CUBA,          .           .  26 

THE  GESARS.    CHAP.  III.     CALIGULA,  CLAUDIUS,  AND  NERO,            .  43 
To  THE  MEMORY  OF  ENSIGN  GEORGE  HOLFORD  WALKER.    BY  MRS 

HODSON,               .              .          •  •>. -      :  - .        '    .            .            .  60 

LITTLE  LEONARD'S  LAST  "  GOOD  NIGHT,"       .            .    ,      A.            •  61 
MR  BIRD'S    PICTURE,  CHEVY-CHASE—ORIGINAL   LETTER   FROM  SIR 

WALTER  SCOTT,                 .            .            .                        .           ,  62 

IRELAND.    No.  I.           .        '" „''*'<    '  'l.'"'        .        .    •            •            •  66 
AN  IRISH  GARLAND. 

I.   YE  GENTLEMEN  OP  IRELAND,         ...             .              •  87 

II.   YE  JACKASSES  OF  IRELAND,        *--»r                      .              .              .  ib. 

III.  SONG  TO  BE  SUNG  AT  THE  LIFTING  OF  THE  CONSERVATIVE  STANDARD,  88 

IV.  SONG  TO  BE  SUNG  AT  THE  LIFTING  OF  THE  REVOLUTIONARY  STANDARD,  ib. 
ZEPHYRS,           .                         .         v:j           .         .  .           .        ,    .  89 
THE  PICTURE,               *,.,       ,«~      .  ,*,.     /  »   r         <           %/<        .  90 
MIGNON'S  SONG.     FROM  GOETHE,          .            .-          .            .            .  ib. 
SCOTCH  AND  YANKEES.    A  CARICATURE.    BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  ANNALS 

OF  THE  "PARISH,  &c.     Chap.  I.  II.  III.  IV.  V.  VI.              ..          .  91 

CROCODILE  ISLAND,       .^          .            .            .            .            .            .  105 

THE  SIEGE  OF  ANTWERP.    BY  LADY  E.  STUART  WORTLEY,               .  US 

FUTURE  BALANCE  OF  PARTIES,              .            *           i:        9.           .  115 
HYMNS  OF  LIFE.    BY  MRS  HEMANS. 

I.  THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  LONELY  STUDENT,            .            .            .  120 

;    .    II.  THE  TRAVELLER'S  EVENING  SONG,     .                .  .          .             .  122 

DESPAIR.    BY  THE  HON.  AUGUSTA  NORTON,                 .            .            .  »123 
CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN.    No.  I.    CHARACTERS  OF  THE  AFFEC- 
TIONS.    SHAKSPEARE,        .                        •            .            .            .  124 


EDINBURGH 

WILLIAM   BLACKWOOD,    45,    GEORGE    STREET,    EDINBURGH  ; 
ANp  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

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

PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 


ON  THE  14TH  OF  JANUARY  WILL  BE  PUBLISHED, 
IN  A  NEAT  POCKET  VOLUME, 

PRACTICAL  NOTES 

MADE    DURING 

A  TOUR   IN   CANADA, 

AND    A  PORTION    OF  THE 

UNITED   STATES, 
IN  1831. 

BY 

ADAM  FERGUSSON,  ESQ.  of  WOODHILL,  ADVOCATE. 

DEDICATED,  BY  PERMISSION, 
TO 

THE  DIRECTORS  OF  THE 

HIGHLAND  SOCIETY  OF  SCOTLAND. 

• 

«  VlDI." 

PRINTED  FOR  WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  EDINBURGH  J   T.  CADELL,  LONDON  J 
AND  W.  CURRY,  JVN.  &  CO.  DUBLIN. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCIV.  FEBRUARY,  1833.  VOL.  XXXIII. 


Cmttettttf* 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN.    No.  II.  CHARACTERS  OF  THE  AFFEC- 
TIONS.    SHAKSPEARE,       ....             .            .  143 

TOM  CRINGLE'S  LOG.    CHAP.  XVIII.    THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WAVE,  170 

To  THE  YEAR  MDCCCXXXII.    BY  MRS  HODSON,           .           .            .  187 
SCOTCH  AND  YANKEES.    BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  ANNALS  OF  THE  PARISH, 

&c.     CHAPS.  VII.  VIII.  IX.  X.  and  XI 188 

A  SHORT   STATEMENT  OF  THE  CAUSES   THAT   HAVE  PRODUCED    THE 
LATE  DISTURBANCES  IN  THE  COLONY  OF  MAURITIUS.    BY  AN  INHA- 
BITANT OF  THE  ISLAND,      .  .  .  .  .  .199 

TIECK'S  BLUEBEARD.    A  DRAMATIC  TALE,  IN  FIVE  ACTS,      .           .  206 

IRELAND.    No.  II.    THE  DISMEMBERMENT  OF  THE  EMPIRE,               .  223 

THE  FORREST-RACE  ROMANCE,           .....  243 

THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  GIFTED.    BY  LADY  E.  STUART  WORTLEY,         .  260 
THE  ISLE  OF  BEAUTY.    BY  THE  SAME,             .            .            .            .261 

THE  CHILD  READING  THE  BIBLE.    BY  MRS  HEMANS,             .           .  262 

LiTRICS    OF   THE  EAST.      BY    MRS    GODWIN. 

No.  III.    THE  SHIEK'S  REVENGE,                .           *           .  263 
No.  IV.    THE  CRAVEN  HEART,        .           .           .           .264 

A  DOZEN  YEARS  HENCE,           ......  265 

THE  LATE  CONSERVATIVE  DINNER,     .           .           .           ,           ,  26(j 


EDINBURGH: 

WILLIAM   BLACKWOOD,   45,    GEORGE    STREET,    EDINBURGH 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

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

PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCV.  MARCH,  1833.  VOL.  XXXIII. 


ELMUND  BURKE.    PAUT  I.     .  .  .  .  »  •  277 

TCM  CRINGLE'S  LOG.    CHAP.  XIX.    BRINGING  UP  LEE-WAY,  .  298 

TITHES,  '4   >    f  ..4s        4  .  .  .  »  .  321 

IRSLAND.    No.  III.    THE  ADMINISTRATION  OF  JUSTICE,       •  .  338 

A  LAST  APPEAL  TO  KING,  LORDS,  AND  COMMONS,  FROM  ONE  OF  THE 

OLD  CONSTITUTION,  »  •  .  .  .  358 

GoZZl's  TURANDOT.   A  DRAMATIC  FABLE,          »  371 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN.  No.  III.  CHARACTERS  OF  THE  AFFEC- 
TIONS.    SHAKSPEARE,      .  *  .  .  .  •  391 


EDINBURGH: 

WILLIAM   BLACKWOOD,    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, 


OUR  readers  will  observe,  that  the  Political  Papers  in  this  Number  were 
written  before  the  speechifications  of  the  present  Parliament.  His  Majesty's 
Ministers,  to  the  delight  of  the  Destructives,  have  begun  the  demolition  of 
the  United  Church.  Therefore  we  presume  that,  in  their  opinion,  it  is  the 
greatest  of  all  the  grievances  under  which  Ireland  groans,  burns,  and  mur- 
ders. About  a  dozen  Bishops  are  to  be  blown  away— the  clergy  subjected 
to  an  income-tax — and  Church  lands,  to  the  value  of  some  millions  of 
money,  confiscated  for  the  abuse  of  the  State.  In  our  Double  Number  for 
April,  we  shall  expose  the  weakness  aiid  wickedness  of  these  most  imbecile 
and  nefarious  measures. 

Probably  by  that  time  we  shall  know  something  definite  of  the  resolutions 
of  his  Majesty's  most  admirable  Ministers  respecting  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land in  England.  No  doubt  their  announcement  in  the  Honourable  House 
will  be  hailed  with  loud  cheers  which  will  last  for  several  minutes ;  out  of 
the  Honourable  House,  and  heard  above  the  mouthing  of  the  Movement, 
with  execrations  which  will  last  for  ages.  The  Conservatives  in  the  Ho- 
nourable House  are  comparatively  few  ;  out  of  it,  "  in  numbers  without 
number,  numberless,"  including,  by  the  confession  of  Josephus,  a  vast  ma- 
jority of  the  Landed  Interest,  and  of  all  the  learned  and  liberal  professions. 
The  Few  must  do  their  duty,  as  Mr  Stanley  says,  "  to  the  death ;"  and  they 
will  be  supported  by  the  Many  till  the  sudden  death  of  misrule,  which  cannot 
be  very  far  off,  and  will  be  sudden  as  by  sun-stroke.  The  Conservatives 
rightly  supported  Ministers  on  the  division  on  the  Address — and  so  will 
they  on  the  bill  for  the  pacification  of  Ireland.  "  If  for  no  other  reason," 
well  says  the  Standard  in  its  strength,  "  in  order  to  take  away  from  the 
Premier  all  excuse  for  continuing  to  connive  at  the  progress  of  murder, 
arson,  and  rebellion ;  but  it  must  also  be  supported  under  protest,  that  the 
Conservatives  dislike  its  tyranny,  and  see  through  its  dishonesty." 

Other  great  questions  that  have  long  and  oft  undergone  discussion  by 
the  Press  will  again  be  undergoing  it  by  the  Palaver.  The  renewal  of  the 
Bank  Charter,  of  the  Charter  of  the  East  India  Company,  the  Emancipa- 
tion of  the  Blacks,  and  the  Murder  of  the  Whites  in  our  West  Indian  Co- 
lonies, Infant  Slavery  in  Factories  as  contrasted  with  Infant  Schooling  on 
the  scheme  of  Mr  Wilderspin — these  questions,  and  others  of  equal  mo- 
ment, will  soon  be  brought  before  the  Great  Ten-Pounder-representative 
Debating  Society— where  is  nightly  heard  the  Collective  Wisdom  of  Three 
countries.  We  are  no  speaker,  having  a  natural  defect  in  the  palate, 
and  moreover  being  tongue-tied ;  but  we  can  Avrite  a  bit,  and  have  got  a 
gross  of  pens,  each  as  thick  as  the  lady's  little  finger  Byron  speaks  of  in 
the  Siege  of  Corinth,  and  as  transparent — a  keg  of  ink  bright  blue  as  in- 
digo—a pile  of  paper  soft  and  smooth  as  silk  or  satin.  So  woe  to  the 
Destructives.  We  smell  a  thunder-storm.  But  we  are  quite  pert.  What 
say  you—next  month— to  a  Noctes  ?  a  starry  Noctes,  on  which  you  can 
hear— or  think  you  hear— the  rustle  of  the  Northern  Lights,  as  from  the 
rim  of  ocean  they  shoot  shifting  up  and  over  the  innocent  but  angry- 
looking  sky  ?  And  for  months — for  years — for  ages — for  centuries  to  come 
— you  and  your  descendants  shall  have  Literature,  and  Poetry,  and  Philo- 
sophy showered  upon  you  in  all  "  the  pomp  and  prodigality  of  Heaven." 
If  you  have  not — then  is  not  our  name 

CHRISTOPHER  NORTH, 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCVI.  APRIL,  1833.  VOL.  XXXIIL 

PART  I. 


'I  HE  FACTORY  SYSTEM,  »  .  .  .  419 

TOM  CRINGLE'S  LOG.    CHAP.  XX.    BRINGING  UP  LEE-WAY,  ,  451 

THE  REVOLUTION  OF  GREECE.    PART  I.  .  .  .  476 

THE  CHIEF;  OR,  THE  GAEL  AND  SASSENACH,  IN  THE  REIGN  OF 
GEORGE  IV.    A  CARICATURE.    BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  ANNALS  OF 

THE  PARISH,"  ETC.    CHAPS.  I.  II.  III.  IV.  .         .V          .  508 

SCOTTISH  LANDSCAPE,  .  .  »       -')..      .,;*   -      -f.. .  512 

THE  GRACES.    A  POEM.    IN  TEN  PARTS.      .        t   $:       .  •  .  527 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN.   No.  IV.  CHARACTERS  OF  INTELLECT. 

SHAKSPEARE,       »  »         V        ;w          ^  i!'         .  539 


>*&  EDINBURGH: 

WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  45,  GEORGE  STREET,  EDINBURGH  ; 

AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

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

PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 


ALSO,  JUST  PUBLISHED, 

NO.  CCVII.  FOR  APRIL,  PART  II. 

CONTENTS. 

I.  Ireland,  No.  IV.  The  Coercive  Measures.  Church  Spoliation.  The 
Grand  Jury  System.— IL  The  Lay-Figure.  A  Painter's  Story.— III.  Lines 
on  a  Thrush  confined  near  the  Sea.  By  Lady  E.  S.  Wortley.— IV.  Female 
Characters  of  Scripture.  A  Series  of  Sonnets.  By  Mrs  Hemans.  Invo- 
cation. The  Song  of  Miriam.  Ruth.  The  Vigil  of  Rezpah.  The  Reply 
of  the  Shunamite  Woman. — V.  Lyrics  of  the  East.  By  Mrs  Godwin, 
No.  5.  Dying  Request  of  a  Hindu  Girl.  No.  6.  The  Ruined  Fountain. 
—VI.  My  Grave.— -VII.  Edmund  Burke,  Part  2.— VIII.  On  the  Picturesque 
Style  of  Historical  Romance.— IX.  Traditions  of  the  Rabbins.— X.  The 
Progress  of  the  Movement.— XI.  MotherwelPs  Poems.— XII.  India.  No. 
1.  Introduction, — XIII.  Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCVII.  APRIL,  1833.  VOL.  XXXIII. 

PART  II. 


IRELAND,  No.  IV.    THE  COERCIVE  MEASURES.    CHURCH  SPOLIA- 
TION.    THE  GRAND  JURY  SYSTEM,             .         .  .            •            •  563 
THE  LAY-FIGURE.    A  PAINTER'S  STORY,       .            .            .            •  $83 
LINES  ON  A  THRUSH  CONFINED  NEAR  THE  SEA.    BY  LADY  E.  S. 

WORTLEY,     .                 .                 .'                .                 .                 .            •'•-..                •  592 

FEMALE  CHARACTERS  OF  SCRIPTURE.     A  SERIES  OF  SONNETS.    BY 
MRS  HEMANS, 

INVOCATION,        .              .             •             .              •              *             «  593 

THE  SONG  OF  MIRIAM,                   i  *• 

RUTH,                   .                                          .                            .             ,  594 

THE  VIGIL  OF  RIZPAH,     .              .              .             •                            •  t&« 

THE  REPLY  OF  THE  SHUNAMITE  WOMAN,                «    '          .              «  •  *"• 

LYRICS  OF  THE  EAST.    BY  MRS  GODWIN, 

No.  V.   DYING  BEQUEST  OF  A  HINDU  GIRL,          .             .  595 

No.  VI..  THE  RUINED  FOUNTAIN,.            .                            .              •  *'*• 

MY  GRAVE, ;          .            .            J  596 

EDMUND  BURKE,  PART  II.,     ......  597 

ON  THE  PICTURESQUE  STYLE  OF  HISTORICAL  ROMANCE,      .            .  621 

TRADITIONS  OF  THE  RABBINS,            .  628 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  THE  MOVEMENT,           ^.   ,         .            .            -  651 

THE  FAIRY  WELL.    BY  S.  FERGUSSON,  ESQ.             ...  667 

B  to  THER WELL'S  POEMS,          ......  668 

THE  SKETCHER.     No.  I.,                     .            .                         .  682 

I'EVONSHIRE  AND  CORNWALL  ILLUSTRATED.      No.  I.                  .                 .  689 


EDINBURGH: 

WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD,  45,  GEORGE  STREET,  EDINBURGH  ; 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

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

PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCVIII.  MAY,  1833.  VOL,  XXXIII, 


LETTER  TO  THE  KING  ON  THE  IRISH  CHURCH  BILL,             .           .  723 
TOM  CRINGLE'S  LOG.  CHAP.  XXI.  THE  SECOND  CRUISE  OF  THE  WAVE,  737 
THE  CHIEF  ;  OR,  THE  GAEL  AND  THE  SASSENACH,  IN  THE  REIGN  OF 
GEORGE  IV.    A  CARICATURE.    By  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  AN- 
NALS OF  THE  PARISH,"  &c.  CONCLUDED,              .            .            .  7G8 
THE  EAST  INDIA  QUESTION,                •            •  .          .            »            .  776 
FEMALE  CHARACTERS  OF  SCRIPTURE,  A  SERIES  OF  SONNETS,  CONTINUED, 
BY  MRS  HEMANS. 

THE  ANNUNCIATION,     .               •              «  •           .              .              i  804- 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  VIRGIN,          .             •             .              .             .  fa 

THE  PENITENT  ANOINTING  CHRIST'S  FEET,          .              .  ,          .  {£. 

MARY  AT  THE  FEET  OF  CHRIST,                              ,              .              ,  gQ5 

THE  SISTERS  OP  BETHANY  AFTER  TUB  DEATH  OP  LAZARUS,   '          «  fa 

THE  MEMORIAL  OF  MARY,         .....  fa 

THE  WOMEN  OF  JERUSALEM  AT  THE  CROSS,          .             .              .  gQ6 

MARY  MAGDALENE  AT  THE  SEPULCHRE,               .              .              .  fa 

MARY  MAGDALENE  BEARING  THE  TIDINGS  OF  THE  RESURRECTION,  ib. 

ANTWERP,                               .            .           .            .           ,           ,  807 

SONG  OF  THE  WATER  GUEUSE,           .            .           *           .           ,  810 

ON  THE  POOR'S  LAWS,  AND  THEIR  INTRODUCTION  INTO  IRELAND,     .  811 

SONGS  AFTER  BERANGER,        •           ,            ,            .            .            .  844 

TWADDLE  ON  TWEEDSIDE,      .          §  846 


EDINBURGH: 

WILLIAM   BLACKWOOD,   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. 


HKl 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCIX.  JUNE,  1833.  VOL.  XXXIII. 


THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY.    No.  I.     ...  .  .  865 

ALISON'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION,     .  .  .  889 

THE  DEATH-SONG  OF  REGNER  LODBROG,       .  .  .  .  910 

NIGHTS  AT  MESS.    CHAP.  I.  .....  ^  924 

THE  FALL  OF  TURKEY,  *.  .  .  .  .  .  931 

THE  SKETCHER.    No.  II.        .  »  •  .  .  .  949 

THE  PARENT  OAK,      .  •  V          .  .  .  .  961 

THE  LIFE  OF  A  DEMOCRAT— A  SKETCH  OF  HORNE  TOOKE,  .  .  963 

LOCH  AWE,      .  •  •  •  •  •  •  984 


EDINBURGH: 

WILLIAM   BLACKWOOD,   45,    GEORGE   STREET,    EDINBURGH  J 
AND  T.  CADELL,  STRAND,  LONDON. 

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

PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE  AND  CO,  EDINBURGH. 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


NO.  cciu. 


JANUARY,  1833. 


Vol.  XXXIIT. 


THE  PORTUGUESE  WAR. 


THE  state  of  our  relations  with  Por- 
tugal has  become  so  anxious,  so  much 
perplexed  by  contending  factions,  and 
likely  to  involve  this  nation  in  such 
embarrassing  consequences,  that  we 
believe  we  shall  gratify  our  readers 
by  a  general  and  fair  outline  of  the 
question.  In  this  matter  we  take  no 
side.  The  competitors  for  the  Por- 
tuguese throne  are  equally  indiffer- 
ent to  us,  the  errors  or  crimes  of  the 
parties  are  not  within  our  estimate. 
We  have  no  intention  of  involving 
our  readers  in  the  mazes  of  Portu- 
guese law ;  and  as  little  of  entangling 
ourselves  in  the  web  of  Portuguese 
partisanship.  Dom  Miguel  and  Dom » 
Pedro  are  to  us  the  same.  Yet  we 
may  deeply  regret  the  circumstances, 
whether  arising  from  chance, caprice, 
or  necessity,  which  have  placed  Eng- 
land in  all  but  a  direct  position  of  war 
with  so  old,  so  faithful,  and  so  im- 
portant an  ally  as  Portugal. 

The  state  of  the  Peninsula,  since 
the  close  of  the  French  war,  has 
been  marked  by  perpetual  disturb- 
ance. Hating  the  French  as  masters, 
a  large  portion  of  the  Spanish  and 
Portuguese  population  eagerly  adopt- 
ed them  as  teachers.  The  strength 
of  public  loyalty  was  in  the  proprie- 
tors of  land,  the  nobles,  gentry,  and 
peasantry.  The  strength  of  disaffec- 
tion was  in  the  petty  traders  of  the 
towns,  the  minor  and  unemployed 
VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCHI. 


classes  of  the  various  professions, 
the  disbanded  officers,  and  a  few 
nobles  speculating  on  the  prizes 
of  revolution.  Both  parties  were 
powerful ;  but  the  party  of  the 
ancient  institutions  was  distinguish- 
ed chiefly  for  its  passive  strength. 
The  party  of  change  rested  its  hope 
of  success  on  its  restless  appeal  to 
popular  passion,  its  activity  in  taking 
advantage  of  public  reverses,  and, 
above  all,  in  the  living  and  inexhaust- 
ible Jacobinism  of  France.  But,  for 
the  purpose  of  accuracy,  we  must  go 
a  little  higher. 

In  1807,  the  King  and  royal  family 
of  Portugal  sailed  for  the  Brazils.  - 
Portugal  had  been  for  the  last  half 
century  an  object  of  French  and 
Spanish  intrigue,  and  the  project  of 
abandoning  the  uneasy  sceptre  of 
the  House  of  Braganza  in  Europe, 
for  the  noble,  secure,  and  flourishing 
empire  of  Portuguese  America,  was 
more  than  once  conceived.  There 
was  a  strong  temptation  in  thus  re- 
establishing the  Portuguese  name  in 
one  of  the  most  extensive  dominions 
in  the  world,  a  territory  equal  to  the 
entire  of  Europe,  and  still  more 
powerful  by  its  extraordinary  capa- 
bilities, its  forests  of  rich  woods,  its 
inexhaustible  fertility,  its  singular 
salubrity,  its  fortunate  position  for 
commerce  in  the  centre  of  the  New 
World  with  the  Trade  Winds  blow- 


The  Portuguese  War. 


[Jan. 


ing  the  commerce  of  tlie  Old  into  its 
harbour  mouths;  and  its  peculiar 
possession  of  the  largest  gold  and 
diamond  mines  in  the  globe. 

In  the  Spanish  invasion  of  1761, 
the  emigration  was  strongly  propo- 
sed, and  under  the  advice  of  Pam- 
bel,  the  ablest  minister  that  Portugal 
ever  possessed,  and  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  public  men  of  Europe,  it 
was  on  the  point  of  being  carried 
into  effect.  But  the  invasion  passed 
away.  The  natural  indolence  of 
the  Portuguese,  the  reluctance  of 
the  nation  to  see  their  government 
transferred  to  the  mountains  and 
forests  three  thousand  miles  off,  and 
the  equally  strong  reluctance  of  the 
Allied  Powers  to  see  Portugal  left 
open  to  seizure  by  Spain,  broke  up 
the  project,  and  abandoned  the  Bra- 
zils to  their  original  solitude.  In  the 
commencement  of  Napoleon'srjower, 
Portugal  became  again  the  object  of 
a  French  and  Spanish  intrigue  of  the 
most  extraordinary  kind.  About  the 
period  of  the  Egyptian  expedition, 
when  French  affairs  were  declining 
every  where,  and  Suwarrow  threat- 
ened a  march  to  Paris,  there  appears 
to  have  been  some  intention  on  the 
part  of  the  Spanish  government,  cen- 
tred in  the  person  of  Godoy,  to  make 
common  cause  with  the  victorious 
allies.  The  old  monarchy  hated  the 
young  Republic ;  the  Spanish  Bour- 
bons equally  hated  the  French  Jaco- 
bins ;  and  there  was  a  lure  for  the 
nation's  vanity,  in  the  recovery  of  the 
national  honours,  which  had  been  a 
little  tarnished  by  the  French  victo- 
ries among  the  Pyrenees  in  the  com- 
mencement of  the  war. 

But  Bonaparte  came  back  from 
Egypt,  the  tide  turned,  the  triumph 
was  all  on  the  side  of  the  obnoxious 
Republic ;  and  the  Spanish  cabinet, 
rejoicing  that  it  had  not  yet  plunged 
into  open  hostility  with  its  formi- 
dable and  vindictive  neighbour,  in- 
stantly laid  aside  all  its  preparations 
for  war,  and  laboured,  by  the  most 
humiliating  subserviency,  to  win  the 
favouritism  of  France.  This  was 
suffered  for  a  while.  Napoleon,  now 
First  Consul,  was  satisfied  to  appear 
a  dupe,  and  Spain  paid  the  price  of 
this  fancied  triumph  of  subtlety,  by 
being  robbed,  beaten,  and  degraded 
in  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  She 
had  given  herself,  hand  and  foot,  into 
the  grasp  of  France,  and  France 


treated  her  as  she  has  always  treated 
the  submissive.  But  deep  as  the 
veil  of  Napoleon's  hypocrisy  was,  it 
was  not  deep  enough  to  conceal  his 
perfect  knowledge  and  perfect  me- 
mory of  the  projected  alliance. 
Godoy,  conscious  that  when  the  vi- 
sitation came,  it  must  chiefly  fall 
upon  his  own  head,  now  endeavoured 
personally  to  conciliate  Napoleon,  by 
a  project  of  seizing  on  Portugal,  al- 
ways obnoxious  as  this  little  country 
was  to  France,  from  its  close  con- 
nexion with  England.  Napoleon  had 
already  conceived  bolder  views;  but, 
for  the  purpose  of  blinding  the  Spa- 
nish minister  to  the  ruin  that  he  was 
hourly  gathering  round  Spain,  he 
adopted  his  profligate  and  treache- 
rous design  in  its  full  extent,  and 
ordered  an  army  to  march  for  the 
seizure  of  Portugal.  In  the  partition 
of  the  conquest,  Godoy  was  to  be 
put  in  possession  of  the  Alentejo,  one 
of  the  most  valuable  of  the  Portu- 

§uese  provinces,  with  the  title  of 
overeign  Prince;  and  he  was  thus 
to  be  secured  from  the  possible  re- 
sults of  his  growing  unpopularity  in 
Spain. 

It  was  now  that  Napoleon  began 
to  make  himself  felt.  His  army  for 
the  Portuguese  invasion  was  stipu- 
lated at  20,000  men ;  it  amounted  to 
40,000.  Its  line  of  march  through 
the  Spanish  territory  was  marked 
out  by  the  secret  treaty.  It  moved 
where  it  pleased,  in  scorn  of  the 
Spanish  remonstrances;  and  when  at 
length  the  Spanish  cabinet  began  to 
tremble  for  the  consequences  of  its 
own  folly,  Napoleon  suddenly  in- 
volved it  in  the  disputes  of  the  royal 
family,  plunged  it  into  such  an  abyss 
of  perplexity,  fear,  treachery,  and 
folly,  that  it  instantly  abandoned  the 
government,  and  surrendered  Spain 
entire  into  his  unhallowed  hands. 

The  history  of  that  most  memo- 
rable of  modern  wars,  has  been  al- 
ready written  in  the  brightest  page 
of  our  national  glory.  Napoleon 
there  received  the  retribution  of  his 
long  career  of  treachery  and  blood. 
The  invasion  of  the  Peninsula  is  the 
true  date  of  his  downfall.  But  while 
his  main  battle  was  turned  on  Spain, 
Portugal  was  not  forgotten.  Its 
seizure  had  now  become  only  a  part 
of  his  grand  scheme  of  ambition, 
but  it  was  instantly  and  indefatigably 
pursued.  The  troops  which  had  ori- 


1333.] 


The  Portuguese  War. 


g  nally  been  directed  towards  that 
quarter,  but  called  off  for  the  moment 
by  the  pressing  necessity  of  over- 
whelming Spain  at  once,  were  now 
poured  back  upon  its  frontier,  and 
put  under  the  command  of  Soult, 
the  most  sagacious  and  successful 
officer  of  the  army. 

But  tyranny  has  its  fears  like 
meaner  guilt,  and  some  expressions 
of  Soult  awoke  the  jealousy  of  Na- 
poleon, now  Emperor.  It  was  ru- 
moured in  Paris,  that  Soult  might 
a yail  himself  of  his  power,  to  resist 
the  Imperial  plans  of  subjugation,  or 
even  make  himself  independent. 
The  rumour  was  probably  untrue, 
and  only  one  of  the  thousand  in- 
stances of  that  perpetual  suspicion 
which  haunts  the  usurper.  But  the 
command  of  the  force  destined  to 
seize  Lisbon  was  suddenly  assigned 
to  Junot,  a  bold  soldier,  but  too  in- 
dolent for  suspicion,  and  too  amply 
satisfied  with  dependence  on  his 
master,  to  think  of  crowns  and  scep- 
tres five  hundred  miles  from  the 
Parisian  theatres.  Junot  now  march- 
ed direct  on  the  capital.  This  move- 
ment had  been  long  foreseen  by  the 
British  cabinet,  and  the  Portuguese 
monarch  had  been  sedulously  sup- 
plied with  proofs  of  the  determina- 
tion of  Napoleon  to  seize  and  sub- 
vert his  dynasty.  But  nothing  could 
overcome  the  habitual  apathy  of  the 
Portuguese  court;  the  King  was  not 
to  be  persuaded  by  any  thing  short 
of  the  sight  of  the  French  army,  that 
a  hostile  force  would  ever  have  the 
audacity  to  march  in  at  the  unde- 
fended avenues  of  his  city,  or  seize 
his  ungarrisoned  castles.  Lord  Ro- 
bart  Fitzgerald  was  the  British  envoy 
ai,  Lisbon  at  the  time.  This  minister 
has  derived  an  unfortunate  celebri- 
ty from  his  being  the  brother  of 
the  late  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald, 
the  miserable  rebel,  who,  in  viola- 
tion of  his  duty  as  a  subject,  and  of 
his  oath  as  a  soldier,  attempted  to 
revolutionize  Ireland  a  la  Franpaise 
—the  most  impotent  attempt  of  the 
r  tost  impotent  mind;  a  Jacobin  baga* 
tile,  which  even  its  chance  of  mas- 
sacre could  not  render  an  object  of 
dansideration  in  the  eyes  of  any  man 
of  common  thought;  but  which 
brought  to  a  speedy  and  disgraceful 
fate,  this  contemptible  compound  of 
fashionable  absurdity  and  giddy 
t'-eason, 


The  Envoy  had,  from  ill  health,  or 
some  other  reason,  returned  to  Eng- 
land, leaving  Lord  Strangford,  the 
Secretary  of  the  Embassy,  to  transact 
affairs  in  bis  absence.  No  crisis  could 
have  been  more  disastrous  for  the 
one,  or  more  lucky  for  the  other. 
In  mentioning  Lord  Strangford,  it  is 
but  just  to  the  honour  of  litera- 
ture, and  the  memory  of  a  good  King, 
to  say,  that  to  his  literary  efforts  he 
was  indebted  for  the  commencement 
of  a  career,  which  lie  has  since  fol- 
lowed with  distinction.  At  an  early 
age  he  had  written  poetry,  and  among 
the  rest,  some  sonnets  purporting  to 
be  translations  of  Camoens,  but 
which  were  in  fact  but  pretty  para- 
phrases of  the  Portuguese  poet.  But 
they  were  poetry, — were  on  graceful 
subjects,  gracefully  expressed — were 
pleasing  and  popular,  and  in  the 
course  of  their  popularity  they 
reached  Windsor  Castle.  Diplomacy, 
or  the  army,  are  the  usual  roads  of 
the  nobility  who  pursue  public  em- 
ployment, and  the  coincidence  of 
those  Portuguese  poems  with  a  va- 
cancy for  a  Secretary  of  Legation 
at  Lisbon,  induced  the  good-natured 
King,  George  the  Third,  to  fix  upon 
the  young  poet  for  the  appointment. 
Such  at  least  was  the  story  of  the 
day. 

The  absence  of  the  envoy  naturally 
made  his  secretary  the  instrument  of 
all  the  communications  between  the 
British  government,  now  anxiously 
labouring  to  awake  the  Portuguese 
to  its  danger;  and  the  Portuguese,  al- 
ternately frightened  and  rash,  doubt- 
ing every  thing,  and  daring  every 
thing.  The  impossibility  of  defend- 
ing the  country  by  its  native  force 
was  strongly  urged  by  the  British 
agent,  and  the  project  of  carrying  off 
the  whole  government  to  America 
was  proposed  again,  as  the  only  hope 
of  preserving  the  King  from  a  French 
prison,  and  the  country  from  reme- 
diless slavery.  The  tardiness  of  the 
Portuguese  government,  on  this  oc- 
casion, was  one  of  the  most  extraordi- 
nary instances  of  the  inaptitude  of 
understanding  that  results  from  long 
neglect  of  its  exercise.  At  length 
Napoleon,  in  a  burst  of  that  arrogance 
which  so  often  overthrows  the  sub- 
tlest contrivances  of  the  proud,  pro- 
claimed that  "  The  dynasty  of  the 
house  of  Braganza  had  ceased  to 
reign,"  The  secretary,  armed  with 


The  Portuguese  War, 


[Jan. 


this  formidable  auxiliary  to  his  ad- 
vice, hastened  to  the  palace,  where 
it  produced  instant  alarm,  and  the 
order  was  given  to.  prepare  for  the 
voyage  to  the  Brazils.  But  the  na- 
tional spirit  was  not  yet  exorcised 
from  those  fluctuating  and  somno- 
lent councils.  The  French  were 
not  come,  the  palace  was  not  fired, 
nor  Lisbon  paying  a  forced  loan  to 
Napoleon's  Field-Marshal ;  and  satis- 
fied with  this,  the  preparations  paused 
again.  Napoleon's  avidity  was  the 
notorious  cause  of  his  final  ruin.  But 
we  must  have  a  deeper  knowledge  of 
the  history  of  his  vivid  and  triumph- 
ant career,  to  know  how  often  he 
who  overreached  all  others  over- 
reached himself;  how  often  he  mar- 
red his;'own  successes  by  furious  rash- 
ness and  violent  cupidity,  and  how 
keenly  he  paid  the  penalty  of  grasp- 
ing at  all  things,  with  a  contempt 
alike  of  the  common  decorums  even 
of  triumph,  and  an  insulting  confi- 
dence in  his  own  fortune.  He  would 
have  been  master  of  Portugal  and  its 
monarch,  if  he  had  kept  every  soldier 
of  France,  for  a  year  to  come,  a  hun- 
dred miles  from  its  frontier.  He 
threw  his  troops  into  the  country, 
and  from  that  moment  it  was  his  no 
longer;  he  seized  the  capital,  and 
found  that  the  only  result  was  the 
escape  of  the  King. 

At  length  the  news  was  brought 
that  the  enemy  were  not  only  in 
Portugal,  but  hurrying  on  at  full 
speed ;  and  that  the  next  twenty-four 
hours  would  see  Junot  in  Lisbon. 
The  court  were  now  fully  roused  at 
last.  Orders  were  given  for  convey- 
ing the  royal  family,  the  court,  and 
all  their  property,  on  board  the  fleet 
in  the  Tagus.  On  the  29th  of  No- 
vember 1807  the  embarkation  was 
effected,  with  all  the  tumult,  loss,  and 
misery  that  belong  to  excessive 
haste  and  a  fugitive  throne.  But  it 
was  effected ;  another  day  would  have 
made  the  difference  to  the  King  of 
Portugal  between  sovereignty  and  a 
dungeon.  The  French  dragoons  ar- 
rived while  the  fleet  were  still  with- 
in the  Tagus,  and  the  last  look  of 
the  King  shewed  him  the  French  flag 
waving  on  the  hills  above  Lisbon. 
But  he  was  escorted  by  the  British 
fleet ;  and  Junot,  outrageously  disap- 
pointed, was  forced  to  be  content 
with  having  driven  a  dynasty  from 
the  Old  World  to  the  New.  ' 

\ 


On  the  17th  of  January  the  first 
intelligence  was  brought  to  Rio  de 
Janeiro  that  the  King  and  royal  fa- 
mily had  left  Europe,  and  were  at 
hand.  The  Brazilians  were  delight- 
ed with  the  prospect.  They  saw  in 
this  arrival  the  commencement  of 
freedom  of  trade,  of  general  opu- 
lence, of  public  improvements,  and, 
above  all,  the  high  gratification  of 
their  pride  in  becoming  a  kingdom. 
From  the  first  report  of  the  good 
news,  the  whole  sea-coast  was  in  a 
state  of  excitement  bordering  on 
frenzy.  Every  hand  was  busy  in 
preparation,  every  eye  was  turned  to 
the  telegraph  which  was  to  announce 
the  first  symptom  of  the  royal  fleet 
on  the  horizon  ;  houses  were  furnish- 
ed for  the  illustrious  guests,  palaces 
were  cleared  of  the  murkiness  of  a 
century ;  the  masters  of  such  man- 
sions as  were  likely  to  be  required 
for  the  accommodation  of  the  court, 
were  called  on  to  surrender  them, 
which  they  are  said  to  have  done 
without  a  murmur.  Such  was  the 
eager  loyalty  of  the  time ;  all  Brazil 
was  in  a  ferment  with  anxiety,  expec- 
tation, and  rejoicing,  that  at  last  they 
were  to  see  their  monarch  among 
them. 

The  royal  squadron  followed  the 
intelligence  in  a  few  days.  Its  pas- 
sage had  been  rapid,  and  on  the  17th 
of  January  1808,  it  was  signalled  as 
off  the  coast.  But  the  public  disap- 
pointment was  proportionably  great, 
on  learning  that  this  arrival  was  con- 
fined to  a  single  ship,  containing 
some  of  the  ladies  of  the  court.  The 
fleet  had  been  dispersed  in  a  storm 
a  month  before;  and  as  the  dispersion 
was  complete,  fears  began  to  be  en- 
tertained for  the  safety  of  the  King. 
But  the  Brazilians  were  resolved  to 
have  a  fete  at  all  risks.  The  day  on 
which  this  single  vessel  appeared  was 
the  feast-day  of  St  Sebastian,  the 
usual  illumination  of  one  day  was 
prolonged  to  three,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  churches  rang  with  suppli- 
cations and  ceremonies  for  the  royal 
safety.  This  suspense  continued  an 
entire  month.  At  its  close  the  pub- 
lic fears  were  appeased  by  an  ex- 
press from  Bahia,  announcing  that 
the  fleet  had  reached  that  port  in 
safety,  and  all  was  exultation  once 
more. 

The  Sovereign,  whom  I  have 
hitherto  called  King,  was  nominally 


,8S3.] 


The  Portuguese  War. 


but  Prince  Regent  until  the  year 
18 10,  his  mother,  the  Queen  Donna 
Maria,  dying  in  that  year,  and  the 
Prince  even  then  deferring  the  pro- 
clanation  of  his  accession  to  the 
throne  till  the  year  of  mourning  was 
at  a  close.  He  arrived  in  his  South 
American  empire  evidently  willing 
to  conciliate  the  people.  His  first 
act  in  landing  at  Bahia  was  to  issue 
a  decree  worthy  of  a  King.  It  was 
a  declaration  freeing  the  Brazils  from 
all  the  fetters  of  the  exclusive  Por- 
tuguese system,  and  opening  to  them 
the  commerce  of  all  nations.  The 
decree  was  received  with  universal 
rejoicing.  The  Regent  then  re-em- 
baiked  for  Rio  de  Janeiro,  to  the 
great  sorrow  of  the  Bahians.  There 
he  arrived  on  the  7th  of  March  1808, 
and  was  received  with  all  the  plau- 
dits and  honours  that  could  be  heap- 
ed on  a  popular  monarch  by  a  grate- 
ful and  zealous  people.  The  arrival 
of  the  court  was  a  matter  of  eminent 
importance  to  the  prosperity  of  Rio  ; 
it  brought  a  conflux  of  the  Portu- 
guese nobility,  who,  of  course,  quick- 
ened expenditure  in  every  direction; 
the  court  festivities  not  only  enliven- 
ed the  people,  but  excited  their  in- 
dustry ;  foreigners  began  to  visit  the 
port,  and  before  the  expiration  of  a 
few  months,  several  opulent  and 
active  foreign  establishments  were 
formed  in  the  capital.  The  govern- 
ment seconded  those  favourable  inci- 
dents with  praiseworthy  assiduity. 
Early  in  the  same  year  Dom  John 
proclaimed  the  right  of  every  Bra- 
zilian to  exercise  trade,  profession, 
and  pursuit,  according  to  his  free 
will.  The  old  restrictions  which  the 
je:ilousy  of  the  parent  state  had,  for 
nearly  three  centuries,  laid  upon  the 
activity  of  this  great  province,  were 
thus  totally  abolished.  In  the  Ian 
guage  of  the  decree,  "  The  govern- 
ment, desirous  of  increasing  the 
wealth  and  prosperity  of  the  Brazi- 
lian people  by  manufactures,  agri- 
culture, and  arts,  and  thus  increa- 
ingthe  number  of  productive  hands, 
ind  diminishing  the  amount  of  that 
vi  3e  and  misery  which  result  from 
id  eness  and  poverty,  have  now  fully 
revoked  every  prohibition  which  still 
exists,  and  hereby  encourage  and  in- 
vice  all  faithful  Brazilians  to  engage 
in  every  kind  of  manufacture  to 
which  they  are  inclined,  on  a  large 


sin 
ar. 


or  limited  scale,  without  reservation 
or  exception."  The  next  step  was 
one  of  extraordinary  daring  for  Por- 
tuguese legislation.  It  was  the  esta- 
blishment of  a  newspaper.  The  forty- 
first  birthday  of  the  Prince  Regent 
was  made  memorable  in  all  the 
future  records  of  Brazilian  literature 
by  the  appearance  of  a  royal  gazette, 
published  at  a  royal  printing  office  ! 
The  spirit  spread,  and  in  a  short 
period  newspapers  were  propagated 
throughout  the  entire  country. 

The  government,  encouraged  by 
the  popularity  with  which  its  new 
measures  were  hailed  on  all  sides, 
now  pursued  its  manly  and  wise  pro- 
gress with  double  activity.  It  had 
actually  to  lay  the  foundations  of  the 
whole  system  of  public  prosperity, 
for  hitherto  this  magnificent  territory 
had  known  nothing  of  civilized  rule 
but  its  monopolies,  privations,  and 
oppressions.  The  coarsest  manufac- 
ture had  been  forbidden;  the  attempt 
to  print  a  page  of  any  thing,  much 
more  a  newspaper  page,  would  have 
sentenced  the  unlucky  innovator  to 
the  mines.  But  now  all  the  privi- 
leges of  rational  freedom,  which 
amount,  in  their  highest  and  happiest 
state,  simply  to  the  permission  to 
every  man  to  follow  the  bent  of  his 
own  abilities  without  injury  to  others, 
and  with  protection  in  the  fruits  of 
his  industry,  were  accorded  to  the 
population.  A  national  bank  was 
next  formed,  an  essential  expedient 
to  quicken  and  direct  the  national 
industry.  A  royal  treasury  was  then 
established,  with  a  council  of  finance 
to  regulate  the  public  expenditure. 
Then  followed  royal  schools  of  medi- 
cine, lazarettoes,  royal  powder  ma- 
nufactories, commissions  of  justice, 
ordinances  for  the  Indians,  &c.  Vacci- 
nation was  introduced  soon  after,  a 
great  blessing  in  a  country  where 
the  small-pox  still  amounts  to  a 
frightful  pestilence.  In  the  rear  of 
those  important  and  necessary  pro- 
visions followed  the  arts  of  enjoy- 
ment. In  1813  the  Theatre  of  St 
John,  so  called  in  compliment  to  the 
Prince,  was  opened  on  the  birthday 
of  his  son  Dom  Pedro.  The  higher  do- 
native of  a  public  Library  was  given 
in  the  next  year  to  Rio.  The  royal 
library  having  been  saved  from  the 
grasp  of  the  French,  and  conveyed 
with  the  fleet,  it  was  now  put  under 


The  Portuguese  War. 


[Jan. 


the  care  of  two  learned  Portuguese, 
"  and  opened  to  the  public.  A  new 
Treasury  and  Mint  were  built.  Fo- 
reigners were  invited  to  reside  in  the 
cities.  Indian  villages  were  raised. 
And  the  whole  fabric  of  constitution- 
al and  patriotic  activity  was  consum- 
mated by  a  royal  decree  of  the  16th 
of  November  1815,  declaring  Brazil 
to  be  elevated  to  the  dignity  of  a 
kingdom  ;  thenceforth  to  form  with 
the  European  dominions  of  the  mo- 
narch, the  "  United  Kingdoms  of 
Portugal,  Algarves,  and  Brazil."  The 
proclamation  was  received  with  a 
transport  of  national  joy.  All  the 
towns  were  illuminated.  Deputa- 
tions and  addresses  poured  in  upon 
the  palace,  thanksgivings  were  offer- 
ed up  in  all  the  churches,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  tumult  of  festivity  and 
gratitude  the  national  constitution 
was  born.  On  the  5th  of  January  1818, 
the  Prince  Regent,  Dom  John,  was 
proclaimed  and  crowned  first  King 
of  Brazil,  or,  in  the  ancient  phrase  of 
the  Portuguese  constitutions,"Royal, 
royal,  royal,  the  very  high  and 
powerful  Senhor,  King  Dom  John 
the  Sixth,  our  Lord." 

Dom  Pedro,  whose  reverses,  acti- 
vity, eccentricity,  and  present  enter- 
prise, now  occupy  so  considerable  a 
space  in  the  eyes  of  Europe,  was 
born  m  Lisbon,  on  the  12th  of  Octo- 
ber 1798,  the  second  son  of  Dom  John 
VI.,  and  of  Carlotta  Joaquina,  daugh- 
ter of  Charles  IV.  of  Spain.  By  the 
early  death  of  his  brother,  Dom  An- 
tonio, he  became  heir-presumptive  to 
the  throne.  His  frame  was  feeble, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  of  a  sickly  tem- 
perament. In  the  first  alarm  of  the 
Portuguese  court,  it  had  been  intend- 
ed to  send  the  young  heir  to  Brazil, 
for  the  purpose  of  securing  him  from 
French  hands.  But  the  rapid  ad- 
vance of  Junot's  troops  made  a  ge- 
neral movement  necessary,  and  the 
Prince  was  embarked  along  with  the 
court.  He  was  at  this  time  ten  years 
old,  had  acquired  some  education, 
and  exhibited  considerable  intelli- 
gence. His  quickness  of  mind  and 
body  on  the  voyage  gave  favourable 
symptoms  of  his  future  career.  He 
occupied  himself  much  with  the 
working  and  machinery  of  the  ship  ; 
and,  when  not  thus  engaged,  was 
often  employed  in  reading  Virgil  at 
the  foot  of  the  mainmast,  comparing 


the  voyage  of  ./Eneas  with  his  own. 
The  fleet  had  put  to  sea  in  too  much 
haste  to  provide  the  due  accommo- 
dations for  its  multitude  of  passen- 
gers. Among  other  things,  the  stock 
of  royal  linen  ran  low,  and  the  young 
Prince  landed  in  shirts  made  of  the 
sheets  of  his  own  bed.  On  the  death 
of  his  tutor,  which  occurred  at  an 
early  period  after  his  arrival,  the 
young  Prince  considered  his  educa- 
tion complete,  and  thenceforth  pur- 
sued knowledge  in  his  own  way.  He 
had  a  natural  dexterity  of  hand,  and 
became  a  turner,  made  a  billiard 
table,  a  model  of  a  man-of-war,  and 
other  ingenious  things.  He  became 
a  first-rate  billiard  player,  and,  by  a 
better  application  of  his  tastes,  an 
excellent  musician,  a  performer  on 
several  instruments,  and  a  clever 
musical  composer.  His  feebleness  of 
frame  had  now  disappeared,  and  he 
exhibited  himself  as  a  capital  horse- 
man, a  daring  rider  through  the  fo- 
rests and  precipices  of  his  untamed 
country,  and  a  charioteer  of  the  high- 
est breed  of  Jehu,  distinguished  for 
"  driving  furiously." 

The  time  was  now  come  when  he 
must  undergo  the  common  fate  of 
princes,  and  marry  a  wife  of  the  am- 
bassador's choosing.  The  bride  se- 
lected was  the  Archduchess  Leo- 
poldina,  daughter  of  the  Emperor 
Francis  the  First,  and  sister  of  Maria 
Louisa,  the  Queen  of  Napoleon.  The 
Marquis  of  Marialva  had  the  honour 
to  be  the  official  lover  and  husband 
on  the  occasion.  This  marriage  by 
proxy  was  celebrated  on  the  13th  of 
May  1817;  an  auspicious  day  in  the 
royal  kalendar,  as  the  anniversary  of 
his  father's  birth,  and  his  grandmo- 
ther's accession.  The  Austrian  prin- 
cess was  received  at  Rio  with  great 
popularity;  her  florid  face  and  light 
hair  looked  captivating  in  the  eyes 
of  the  Brazilians ;  and  her  honest  and 
good-humoured  manners,  which  gave 
at  once  curious  evidence  of  the  rus- 
ticity of  even  the  highest  German 
life,  and  of  her  genuine  good-nature, 
made  her  instantly  and  universally 
popular. 

But  other  thoughts  than  marrying 
and  giving  in  marriage  were  soon  to 
try  the  wisdom  of  the  government, 
and  the  energy  of  the  Prince.  Oporto, 
the  headquarters  of  liberal  ism  in  Por- 
tugal, raised  a  riot,  which  it  called  a 


1333.] 


The  Portuguese  War. 


national  movement,  and  constructed 
a  Jacobin  theory,  which  it  called  a 
constitution.  On  the  arrival  of  the 
intelligence  in  Rio,  two  parties  were 
formed  ; — a  party  for  change,  at  the 
head  of  which  was  the  Prince;  and 
a  party  for  keeping  things  in  their 
eld  position,  at  the  head  of  which 
T/ere  the  ministers  and  the  King.  The 
Prince  was  speedily  ejected  from  the 
Council  of  State ;  but  this  affront  he 
was  not  disposed  to  bear  meekly. 
He  rushed  into  the  Council  Cham- 
ber, attacked  the  ministers  in  an  in- 
dignant harangue,  and  having  threat- 
( ned  them  with  the  vengeance  of  a 
deceived  people,  and  an  angry  pos- 
terity, rushed  out  again.  The  old 
King  was  an  honest  and  harmless 
man,  but  he  was  not  born  a  hero. 
This  explosion  of  his  son's  politics 
lerrified  him,  and  the  next  act  of  his 
Council  was  to  promise  the  Brazilians 
:i  constitution,  accompanied  by  the 
•viser  expedient  of  sending  his  too 
onergetic  son  to  talk  over  the  subject 
vith  the  philosophers  of  Oporto. 

The  man  of  the  south  always  lives 
•  n  a  state  of  conspiracy ;  and  it  is  next 
to  impossible  to  discover  how  far  the 
:nost  striking  catastrophes  are  due 
to  the  course  of  things,  or  to  private 
treason.  The  Brazilian  is  the  genuine 
descendant  of  the  Portuguese.  While 
the  Council  were  trembling  at  the 
prospect  of  being  called  on  to  per- 
form their  promise,  and  the  Prince 
was  probably  contemplating  with 
equal  dislike  a  voyage  across  the  At- 
lantic, which  was  palpably  but  a  con- 
trivance to  expel  him  from  the  seat 
of  government  for  the  time,  on  the 
25th  of  February  1821,  the  capital 
was  thrown  into  sudden  alarm  by  an 
insurrection  of  the  troops.  A  brigade 
of  Portuguese  infantry,  and  guns, 
which  had  been  brought  to  the  Bra- 
zils four  years  before,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  suppressing  the  insurrection- 
ary movements  at  Pernambuco,  and 
had  since  been  suffered  to  idle  away 
its  time  in  the  capital,  had  taken  up 
arms,  and  was  proceeding  to  take  the 
law  into  its  own  hands.  Robbery 
and  the  new  constitution  were  the 
stimulants,  and  these  legislators  pro- 
ceeded to  define  the  rights  of  liberty 
and  property  bayonet  in  hand.  All 
soldiers,  but  the  British,  consider 
themselves  as  the  supreme  race  of 
the  nation  ;  and  the  Portuguese  brig- 


ade were  in  the  habit  of  treating  the 
Brazilians  with  consummate  scorn. 
The  native  troops  shared  the  con- 
tumely ;  and  it  was  even  carried  so 
far,  that  they  demanded  that  every 
Brazilian  above  the  rank  of  captain 
should  be  dismissed,  and  his  commis- 
sion given  to  a  Portuguese  !  As  they 
now  spread  through  the  streets,  with 
arms  in  their  hands,  and  ready  for 
any  excess,  the  populace  were  ra- 
pidly wrought  into  equal  irritation ; 
and  to  avoid  a  general  massacre,  the 
Council  hurried  together. 

The  decisions  of  men  in  a  hurry 
are  always  foolish,  and  the  Council 
established  the  maxim.  They  offered 
to  concede  every  thing  to  any  body, 
public  or  private,  that  would  ask  any 
thing.  The  Prince  left  them  no  op- 
portunity to  retrace  their  steps.  Ri- 
ding to  the  square  where  the  insur- 
gent troops  were  drawn  up,  he  first 
informed  them  of  the  King's  submis- 
sion, and  then  arranged  a  deputation 
of  the  soldiers  and  populace  to  wait 
upon  himself,  and  demand  the  dis- 
missal of  the  ministers,  and  the  pro- 
clamation of  the  new  form  of  govern- 
ment. Armed  with  the  will  of  the 
populace,  he  returned  to  the  King, 
and,  having  obtained  all  that  was  re- 
quisite there,  appeared  at  a  balcony 
in  the  square,  with  the  list  of  the  new 
ministry  in  his  hand.  He  then  swore 
as  follows  to  the  insurgents  : — "  I 
swear,  in  the  name  of  the  King,  my 
father  and  lord,  veneration  and  re- 
spect for  our  holy  religion,  and  to 
observe,  keep,  and  support  for  ever, 
the  constitution,  as  it  is  established 
by  the  Cortes  in  Portugal."  This 
triumph  of  liberty  by  the  pike  and 
musket  was,  of  course,  hailed  with 
prodigious  acclamations.  The  next 
demand  was,  that  the  old  King  should 
appear  before  his  loving  people.  The 
King  dared  not  refuse,  and  he  got 
into  his  carriage  to  visit  the  square 
where  the  troops  were  still  drawn 
up.  But  another  specimen  of  popu- 
lar ardour  was  still  to  teach  him  the 
spirit  of  the  time.  The  mob  stopped 
the  carriage,  and,  whether  for  the 
purpose  of  doing  him  peculiar  ho- 
nour, or  of  simply  indulging  their 
newly-discovered  faculty  of  doing 
what  they  pleased,  they  insisted  on 
drawing  the  vehicle.  The  old  King, 
in  the  midst  of  the  contention,  was 
evidently  alarmed  for  his  personal 


The  Portuguese  War. 


8 

safety,  and  probably  with  no  slight 
reason  ;  he  fell  back  in  the  carriage, 
and  nearly  fainted.  In  the  language 
of  the  writer  who  has  furnished  those 
details,  "  the  horrors  of  the  French 
Revolution  were  before  his  eyes,  and 
he  expected  that  the  fate  of  the  un- 
fortunate monarch,  who  resembled 
himself  in  irresolution  and  goodness 
of  heart,  would  be  his  own."  This 
grand  revolution  was  rounded  with 
an  opera!  Such  are  the  weighty 
movements  of  foreign  freedom.  The 
birth  of  the  new  constitution  would 
have  been  nothing  without  a  ballet. 
At  this  opera  the  populace  command- 
ed the  King  to  make  his  appearance. 
But  even  the  popular  command  can- 
not make  the  sick  well.  The  old 
Monarch  was  in  his  bed,  sick  with 
his  late  alarm,  sick  with  disgust,  and 
probably  to  the  full  as  sick  of  the  li- 
berty which,  beginning  by  popular 
insurrection,  threatened  to  close  in 
royal  massacre.  From  that  bed  we 
may  date  the  resolution  which  so 
soon  led  him,  by  an  extraordinary 
effort  of  decision,  to  abandon  the 
Brazils  to  their  orators  and  philoso- 
phers. On  the  7th  of  March  follow- 
ing, a  proclamation  appeared,  an- 
nouncing the  royal  determination  to 
embark  immediately  for  Portugal, 
there  to  hold  the  Cortes. 

It  is  difficult  to  ascertain  who  was 
the  chief  director  in  those  popular 
movements ;  but  it  seems  a  striking 
circumstance  that  the  King's  an- 
nouncement of  his  thus  leaving  the 
Brazils  to  struggle  for  themselves, 
produced  no  tumult  of  any  kind. 
Yet  no  measure  was  more  likely  to 
have  roused  the  people  to  violence, 
or  would  have  more  unquestionably 
roused  them  a  few  months  before. 
By  the  return  of  the  royal  family  to 
Lisbon,  the  Brazils  must  become 
again  a  subordinate  government, — 
their  deputies  must  attend  the  Portu- 
guese Cortes, — their  country  must 
lose  the  rank  of  the  seat  of  the  mo- 
narchy, and  their  capital  the  advan- 
tage of  the  large  expenditure  of  the 
court  and  nobles.  But  the  populace, 
hitherto  so  turbulent,  were  perfectly 
tranquil  on  the  occasion.  It  was  per- 
fectly clear,  that  whoever  had  pulled 
the  strings  of  the  puppets  before, 
now  pulled  them  no  longer,  or  were 
pleased  to  let  the  puppets  remain  in 
a  state  of  quiescence.  However,  the 


[Jan, 


natural  feeling  began  at  last  to  make 
its  way.  A  meeting  of  the  electors 
of  the  deputies  to  the  Cortes  had 
been  summoned  to  the  Exchange,  to 
take  cognisance  of  a  plan  of  the  con- 
stitution proposed  for  the  future  di- 
rection of  the  Brazils,  in  the  absence 
of  the  King.  This  assembly  rapidly 
proceeded  from  the  dull  routine  of 
discussing  principles  of  government 
to  the  business  that  came  home  to 
men's  hearts  and  bosoms,  the  depart- 
ure of  the  Royal  Family.  It  became 
at  length  a  matter  of  discussion  whe- 
ther the  money  which  the  King  was 
about  to  take  with  him  should  be 
suffered  to  go  out  of  the  country. 
One  orator  stated  that  the  King  was 
about  to  carry  off  the  funds  of  some 
of  the  charitable  institutions;  another 
moved  that  measures  should  be  in- 
stantly adopted  to  prevent  the  sail- 
ing of  the  squadron  until  they  were 
searched  ;  and  orders  were  actually 
sent  to  the  forts  commanding  the 
bay  to  fire  on  any  ship  of  the  squa- 
dron which  attempted  to  sail.  It  was 
clear  that,if  this  spirit  of  oratory  were 
allowed  to  spread  its  wings  even  so 
far  as  the  next  street,  a  rising  of  the 
populace  would  be  the  next  thing, 
and  the  King  and  his  ships  would 
have  put  off  their  voyage  together 
sine  die.  But  though  the  national 
feeling  was  strong  for  detaining  the 
King,  there  was  a  private  and  per- 
sonal feeling,  equally  strong,  for  get- 
ting rid  of  him  as  fast  as  possible. 
And  the  distinction  was,  that  the 
national  feeling  waited  for  a  leader, 
and  was  therefore  ineffective  ;  while 
the  personal  feeling  waited  for  no- 
thing but  the  first  opportunity  of 
gaining  its  point.  The  debates  of  the 
assembly  at  the  Exchange  had  awa- 
kened its  jealousy,  and  a  determina- 
tion was  adopted  to  give  those  em- 
barrassing debaters  an  early  lesson, 
which  should  teach  them  the  hazard 
of  impeding  the  will  of  their  supe- 
riors. The  sitting  had  been  prolonged 
on  this  occasion  till  midnight,  and  the 
hall  was  still  crowded/when  the  tramp 
of  soldiery  was  heard,  and  a  whole 
Portuguese  regiment,  without  farther 
question  or  explanation,  poured  in- 
to the  hall.  To  the  astonishment  and 
horror  of  every  body,  those  mis- 
creants instantly  levelled  their  mus- 
kets, and  began  a  regular  fire  upon 
the  unarmed  electors.  A  scene  of 


1833.] 


The  Portuguese  War. 


horrid  carnage  followed.  Those  who 
W'±re  not  killed  by  the  fire,  were 
charged  with  the  bayonet.  As  resist- 
aree  was  impossible,  and  the  doors 
were  blocked  up,  there  was  a  gene- 
ral attempt  to  escape  by  the  win- 
dows. The  firing  was  mercilessly 
and  wickedly  continued  while  this 
desperate  attempt  was  made,  for  few 
could  even  thus  escape,  as  the  win- 
dows were  high;  and  some  who  leap- 
ed down  were  mutilated  or  killed  by 
the  fall,  and  some  who  reached  the 
ground  comparatively  unhurt,  were 
so  much  under  the  impression  of  be- 
irg  still  pursued,  that  they  ran  into 
tie  sea  and  were  drowned.  When  all 
were  either  driven  out  or  dead,  the 
murderers  proceeded  at  their  ease 
tc  plunder  the  corpses.  They  carried 
o  F  their  watches,  money,  and  every 
thing  else  worth  carrying,  then  strip- 
ped the  room  of  its  plate  and  rich 
ornaments,  and  having  done  their 
work  completely,  they  left  the  spot. 
Thus  closed  the  session  of  an  as- 
sombly  lawfully  constituted,  called 
together  by  the  King's  authority,  and 
convened  by  the  Ouvidor,  or  High 
Sheriff.  As  the  details  of  this  most 
atrocious  affair  transpired,  they  pro- 
duced additional  horror.  Individuals 
were  slain  who  had  no  share  in  the 
deliberations  of  the  assembly,  be 
tliose  wise  or  foolish.  One  was  a 
clerk  in  an  English  mercantile  house. 
He  happened  to  be  near  the  door, 
and  standing  up  on  hearing  the  bus- 
tie,  saw  the  muzzle  of  a  musket 
pushed  close  to  his  breast.  In  the 
rext  moment  the  musket  was  dis- 
charged through  his  heart.  Another 
v/as  a  young  man,  who,  tired  with 
the  length  of  the  sitting,  had  fallen 
2 sleep.  As  he  was  stretched  upon 
one  of  the  benches,  he  was  fearfully 
awoke  by  the  thrust  of  a  bayonet, 
Avhich  was  driven  through  his  back 
iato  the  bench  on  which  he  lay,  and 
which  pinned  the  unfortunate  man 
to  it.  About  thirty  persons  of  a  cer- 
tain respectability  were  found  dying 
or  dead  within  the  hall;  others  dis- 
appeared and  were  heard  of  no  more, 
probably  being  drowned;  and  many 
others  were  hurt  in  various  ways. 

The  massacre  had  its  intended  ef- 
i'ect.  It  completely  frightened  the 
people.  There  was  now  no  further 
debating  on  the  royal  departure;  that 
point,  at  least,  was  fully  secured. 


The  fleet  was  now  ordered  to  be  in 
instant  readiness,  and  the  King  em- 
barked on  the  24th  of  May,  with 
many  of  the  nobles  and  moneyed 
men.  They  were  wearied  of  the  per- 
petual fluctuations  of  their  revolu- 
tionary fellow-subjects;  still  more 
fearful  of  the  insecurity  of  property, 
which  is  involved  in  all  experiments 
on  constitutions  ;  and  probably  still 
more  reluctant  to  exchange  the  old 
quiet  government  of  their  peaceable 
King,  for  the  irregular  activity  of  his 
successor.  Dom  Pedro  was  left  be- 
hind as  Prince  Regent,  with  a  coun- 
cil of  three  ministers,  and,  in  case  of 
his  death,  succession  in  the  Regency 
to  the  Princess  Leopoldina.  There 
was  now  no  farther  question  of  the 
money  carried  on  board,  though  it 
was  accounted  at  fifty  millions  of 
crusadoes,  (thecrusado  is  about  half- 
a- crown,)  a  formidable  deduction 
from  the  circulating  coin  of  the  new 
state.  The  massacre  had  settled  all. 
To  whom  the  ultimate  guilt  of  this 
spurious  exhibition  of  power  was  to 
be  attributed,  has  never  been  ascer- 
tained ;  it  was  charged  on  the  mere 
spontaneous  wickedness  of  a  pam- 
pered soldiery,  glad  to  take  the  op- 
portunity of  safe  robbery  and  mur- 
der. The  popular  feeling  denounced 
the  Conde  de  Arios,  the  late  Gover- 
nor of  Pernambuco.  Others  charged 
the  Prince  Regent.  But  no  satisfac- 
tory evidence  was  offered,  and  all 
that  can  be  now  said  of  it  is,  that  it 
precipitated  the  King's  departure. 
Yet  though  the  popular  voice  was 
frightened  into  silence,  the  national 
disgust  and  abhorrence  have  never 
subsided.  The  hall  was  never  en- 
tered afterwards  by  the  merchants, 
for  whom  it  had  been  built,  by 
whom  voluntarily  furnished,  and  with 
whom  this  new  Exchange  had  been 
a  most  favourite  resort.  The  smell 
of  murder  and  treachery  was  in  it, 
and  they  could  notbe  prevailed  upon 
to  enter  its  polluted  walls.  For  some 
time  it  had  remained  in  the  same 
condition  as  on  the  night  of  the  mas- 
sacre, the  walls  and  floors  marked 
with  bullets  and  blood.  At  length,  to 
remove  the  palpable  evidence  of  a 
fact  which  was  equally  a  disgrace  to 
the  government,  and  an  insult  to  the 
people,  the  hall  was  repaired  and  put 
into  the  same  order  as  on  its  open- 
ing. Still  the  merchants  would  not 


10 

enter  it ;  and  after  being  left  in  this 
state  of  contemptuous  desertion  and 
disgust  for  some  years,  it  was  finally 
converted  into  a  store-house  for  lum- 
ber. The  building  was  suffered  to  go 
to  decay,  and  the  vaults  and  offices 
were  tenanted  bybeggars  and  negroes. 

The  departure  of  the  King  was  the 
signal  for  a  total  change  of  measures. 
The  popular  outcry  which  had  been 
so  summarily  extinguished,  was  again 
as  summarily  raised,  and  a  demand 
was  made  of  total  independence. 
The  Cortes  of  the  mother  country 
felt  this  demand  as  an  act  of  rebel- 
lion, and  orders  were  haughtily  is- 
sued to  break  up  the  government, 
put  the  country  into  the  hands  of  a 
provisional  government  more  ame- 
nable to  the  will  of  Portugal,  and,  as 
an  essential  measure,  to  send  the 
Prince  Regent,  without  delay,  to 
Europe,  "  to  travel  for  his  improve- 
ment," the  well  understood  phrase 
for  royal  disgrace  and  exile. 

The  Prince's  situation  had  now 
become  one  of  delicacy.  Open  re- 
sistance to  the  decree  must  have  been 
followed  by  his  denouncement  as  a 
revolter.  Acquiescence  must  have 
closed  his  career  as  the  sovereign  of 
a  great  empire.  But  he  was  soon 
extricated  from  the  dilemma.  The 
frigate  was  scarcely  ordered  to  be 
ready  for  sea,  and  the  Prince  had 
scarcely  announced  his  "  dutiful  sub- 
mission to  the  will  of  his  illustrious 
father,"  when  an  uproar  arose  from 
one  end  of  the  Brazils  to  the  other. 
Newspapers,  now  for  the  first  time 
called  into  activity,  popular  meet- 
ings, provincial  riots,  the  general 
convulsion  of  men  and  things,  com- 
manded the  refusal  of  the  ordinance 
of  the  Cortes,  the  creation  of  a  so- 
vereignty, and  the  stay  of  the  Prince 
in  the  country.  The  newspapers  led 
the  way.  The  Despertador  Bra- 
zilieuse  (Brazilian  Awakener)  was 
filled  with  eloquent  diatribes  on  the 
subject.  It  pronounced  the  measures 
of  the  Cortes,  "illegal,  impious,  and 
impolitic.  Illegal— because  decreed 
without  the  co-operation  of  the  Bra- 
zilian representatives,  and  conse- 
quently without  any  manifestation 
of  the  national  will.  Impious — as 
shewing  the  contemptuous  indiffer- 
ence with  which  the  Cortes  disposed 
of  their  existence,  as  if  they  were  a 
band  of  miserable  slaves,  erected  to 


The  Portuguese  War. 


[Jan. 


be  subject  to  the  caprice,  and  aban- 
doned to  the  will  of  their  masters ; 
and  not  a  coequal  kingdom  as  they 
were,  more  powerful,  and  possessing 
more  resources,  than  Portugal  her- 
self. Impolitic — because  it  was  pre- 
cisely at  the  moment  when  their 
union  was  likely  to  be  most  advan- 
tageous to  the  mother  country,  that 
she  chose  to  fill  them  with  disgust, 
and  to  render  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  their  separation  a"  matter  of 
both  justice  and  necessity."  This 
strong  language  was  echoed  by  all 
voices.  A  still  more  direct  denial  of 
the  authority  of  the  Cortes  was 
couched  in  the  address  of  one  of  the 
Andrada  family,  men  distinguished 
for  their  abilities,  and  their  succes- 
sive high  employments  under  the 
crown.  "  How  dare  those  Deputies 
of  Portugal,"  says  this  bold  manifes- 
to, "  without  waiting  for  the  concur- 
rence of  the  Deputies  of  Brazil,  le- 
gislate on  a  matter,  involving  the 
most  sacred  interests  of  the  entire 
kingdom  ?  How  dare  they  deprive 
Brazil  of  her  Privy  Council,  her  Court 
of  Conscience,  her  Board  of  Com- 
merce, her  Court  of  Requests,  and  so 
many  other  institutions,  just  esta- 
blished among  us,  and  which  pro- 
mised us  such  future  benefits  ?  Where 
now  must  the  people  apply  for  jus- 
tice in  their  civil  and  judicial  con- 
cerns ?  Must  they  once  more,  after 
enjoying  for  twelve  years  the  advan- 
tages of  speedy  justice,  seek  it  in  a 
foreign  land,  across  two  thousand 
leagues  of  ocean,  among  the  procras- 
tinations and  corruptions  of  Lisbon 
tribunals,  where  the  oppressed  suitor 
is  abandoned  by  hope  and  life  ?"  But 
the  more  pungent  part  of  the  address 
was  an  appeal  to  the  Prince,  to  know 
whether  he  would  allow  himself"  to 
be  led  about  like  a  schoolboy,  sur- 
rounded by  masters  and  spies."  The 
Camera  presented  an  address  ex- 
pressed in  the  same  terms,  which  was 
readily  answered,  "that  since  the 
Prince's  remaining  seemed  to  be  the 

feneral  wish  and  for  the  general  good, 
e  would  remain."  The  declaration 
was  received  with  great  popular  tri- 
umph. The  usual  exhibition  of  an 
opera  commemorated  the  day,  the 
Prince  and  Princess  appeared  in  their 
box,  to  receive  the  homage  of  the 
audience;  and  the  national  hymn, 
written  and  composed  by  the  Prince 


1833.] 


The  Portuguese  War. 


II 


himself,  was  sung  with  extravagant 
applause. 

But  this  determination  was  in  im- 
mediate hazard  of  being  roughly 
changed.  The  Portuguese  battalions, 
uhich  felt  themselves  still  strangers 
in  the  land,  murmured  loudly  against 
^hat  they  termed  rebellion  to  the 
authority  of  their  country,  and  threat- 
eied  to  seize  the  Prince's  person, 
a  id  carry  him  on  board.  They  assem- 
bled round  the  theatre  for  the  pur- 
pose of  their  seizure,  but  the  Prince 
escaped.  They  next  took  post  up- 
on a  hill,  with  their  guns  pointed 
down  on  the  city.  A  civil  war 
was  all  but  begun.  Yet  the  disci- 
pline of  the  Portuguese  was  baffled 
ty  the  rude  zeal  of  the  people.  The 
popular  force  continued  to  pour  in 
c  uring  the  entire  night, — arms  and 
ammunition  were  brought  from  con-, 
siderable  distances  on  mules  and 
1  orses,  and  by  daybreak  the  Portu- 
guese battalions  were  astonished  to 
find  themselves  besieged  by  five 
thousand  suddenly  armed  soldiers, 
hourly  increased  by  the  population 
from  the  neighbouring  districts.  The 
battalions  soon  made  another  and  not 
"ess  formidable  discovery,  that  in 
iheir  preparations  for  war,  they  had 
forgot  the  essential  of  provisions, 
and  that  if  they  remained  but  a  little 
i'onger  in  their  position,  they  must 
be  starved.  They  had  now  no  re- 
source but  to  surrender,  which  they 
lid,  with  the  Prince's  stipulation 
that  they  should  be  sent  to  Europe. 
But  the  transports  not  being  ready, 
the  troops  were  suffered  to  encamp 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bay,  un- 
til preparation  was  made  for  them 
to  put  to  sea.  But  yet  when  the 
time  arrived,  the  troops  again  refu- 
sed to  move.  Dom  Pedro  now  acted 
with  the  necessary  promptitude.  He 
ordered  a  division  of  Brazilians  into 
their  rear,  to  prevent  their  march  on 
the  city,  and  at  the  same  time  moor- 
ed two  frigates  in  their  front.  Going 
on  board  one  of  them,  he  declared  to 
the  commander  of  the  Portuguese, 
that  he  gave  him  but  till  the  next 
day  to  make  up  his  mind  on  the  sub- 
ject; and  that  if  he  was  not  ready  to 
embark  at  that  time,  he  would  order 
a  general  assault  by  sea  and  land. 
Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he 
displayed  himself  on  the  quarter- 
deck, with  a  lighted  match  in  his 


hand,  declaring  that  if  it  were  neces- 
sary, he  would  fire  the  first  gun. 
Within  the  stated  time,  the  Portu- 
guese were  all  embarked,  and  sailing 
out  of  the  harbour.  In  the  entire  of 
those  anxious  transactions,  Dom 
Pedro  had  continued  to  raise  his  es- 
timation among  the  people.  No  ex- 
cellence in  a  King  will  compensate 
for  the  want  of  energy.  The  public 
instinctively  connect  decision  with 
power;  and  the  monarch  who  exhi- 
bits himself  fluctuating,  or  fearful, 
unequal  to  casualties,  or  apprehen- 
sive of  results,  instantly  falls  from 
his  high  estate  in  the  general  mind. 
By  the  mere  fact  of  his  being  a  mo- 
narch, he  is  prohibited  from  the  irre- 
solution which  might  be  pardonable 
in  an  inferior  grade ;  he  is  placed  on 
the  throne,  for  the  express  purpose 
of  command.  Dom  John,  with  all  the 
qualities  of  a  paternal  sovereign,  had 
rapidly  forfeited  the  public  respect 
by  his  indolence,  timidity,  and  inde- 
cision. Dom  Pedro  threw  a  veil 
over  all  his  unpopular  qualities,  or 
rather  eclipsed  them,  by  the  new 
lustre  of  his  one  great  quality  for  a 
troubled  throne — decision.  During 
the  struggle  with  the  turbulent 
troops  he  was  every  where,  he  ha- 
zarded his  ease,  his  throne,  and  his 
life,  hourly;  and  by  his  conduct  in 
this  trying  time,  he  shewed  the  peo- 
ple that  he  possessed  all  the  title  to 
their  obedience  that  could  be  deser- 
ved by  personal  intrepidity. 

But  when  he  had  thus  gained  the 
steps  of  Empire,  he  was  soon  com- 
pelled to  learn,  that  even  the  most 
successful  ambition  has  its  penalties. 
The  new  spirit  of  independence 
which  had  lifted  him  to  supreme 
power,  suddenly  began  to  spread 
through  the  provinces,  and  Maran- 
hao,  the  Minas  Geraes,  and  several 
other  of  the  chief  divisions  of  this 
enormous  empire,  each  equal  to  an 
European  kingdom,  began  to  claim 
the  right  of  separate  legislation. 
The  policy  of  the  Portuguese  Cortes 
promoted  those  divisions,  with  the 
idea  of  keeping  the  revolted  govern- 
ment in  check.  The  standard  of  in- 
dependence was  actually  hoisted  in 
the  great  province  of  Minas  Geraes, 
and  a  provisional  government  ap- 
pointed. As  this  was  the  province 
of  the  principal  gold  mines,  and  one 
of  the  most  powerful,  populous,  and 


12 

intelligent  of  the  empire,  Dom  Pedro 
resolved  on  striking  at  rebellion 
there,  without  delay.  Leaving  the 
government  of  Rio  de  Janeiro  to  his 
friend,  Andrada,  and  ordering  troops 
to  march  on  all  sides  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Villa  Rica,  the  capital  of  the 
insurgent  province,  he  took  the 
manly  resolution  of  setting  out  in 
person,  and  actually  preceding  the 
troops  to  the  centre  of  insurrection. 
The  daring  nature  of  this  action  was 
the  source  of  its  success.  The  in- 
surgent army  had  marched  out  to 
fight  the  troops  whom  they  expected 
to  meet  on  the  road  to  their  capital. 
They  met  only  the  Prince,  and  whe- 
ther astonished,  or  corrupted,  or 
captivated,  they  received  this  soli- 
tary opponent  with  shouts, put  them- 
selves under  his  command,  and 
marched  back  to  Villa  Rica.  Insur- 
rection hid  its  head  at  his  approach, 
or  rather  was  turned  into  sudden 
loyalty,  for  the  independents  joined 
the  deputation  which  came  forth  to 
welcome  the  sovereign.  Dom  Pedro 
had  the  good  sense  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  submission,  declared  him- 
self, so  far  from  hostile  to  indepen- 
dence, that  he  was  its  warmest  advo- 
cate, congratulated  them  on  having, 
like  himself,  burst  asunder  all  fetters, 
and  gave  a  huzza  for  the  constitu- 
tion, religion,  honest  men,  and  the 
men  of  the  Minas.  No  punishment 
was  inflicted,  except  the  politic  sus- 
pension of  a  few  of  the  leaders  from 
public  employment.  He  then  turn- 
ed his  horse's  head,  galloped  back  to 
Rio  ;  on  his  arrival  went  instantly  to 
the  Opera,  announced  there  to  the 
shouting  multitude  the  submission  of 
the  province,  and  thus  showily  closed 
a  campaign  of  thirty  days,  during 
which  he  had  accomplished  a  jour- 
ney of  a  thousand  miles,  through 
forest,  mountain,  furious  river,  and 
trackless  wilderness,  continually  in 
peril,  and  accomplished  the  still 
more  hazardous  object  of  appeasing 
and  reconciling  a  remarkably  daring, 
turbulent,  and  headstrong  portion  of 
his  people. 

His  popularity  was  now  unbound- 
ed, and  it  was  dexterously  made  a 
ground  for  a  new  advance  in  power. 
The  13th  of  May,  the  anniversary  of 
his  father's  birth,  was  singularly 
chosen  to  consummate  the  usurpa- 
tion of  the  sonj  but  it  was  a  holiday, 


The  Portuguese  War. 


[Jan. 


and  that  was  enough  for  the  Brazi- 
lians. On  that  day,  a  deputation 
of  the  Camera  waited  on  him  with 
the  proposal  of  the  title  of  "  Con- 
stitutional Prince  Regent,  and  Per- 
petual Defender  of  Brazil."  The 
next  invitation  was,  to  call  a  gene- 
ral council  to  deliberate  on  the  af- 
fairs of  the  kingdom.  This  was  equi- 
valent to  a  declaration  of  independ- 
ence ;  and  the  actual  declaration  was 
soon  to  follow. 

The  Portuguese  Cortes,  like  all 
the  modern  makers  of  European 
constitutions,  were  Jacobins,  and, 
of  course,  at  once  blunderers,  im- 
postors, and  tyrants.  With  the  Ja- 
cobin, in  all  countries,  personal  cu- 
pidity is  the  sole  impulse,  and  the 
extinction  of  every  man  and  thing 
above  himself  the  sole  object  of  his 
.success.  Generally  flung  out  of  the 
natural  and  honest  ways  of  acquiring 
character,  he  is  poor  and  character- 
less; and  he  knows,  or  will  adopt  no 
better  way  of  balancing  his  ill  luck, 
than  by  sinking  every  honester  and 
better  man  to  his  own  level.  Uni- 
versally a  personal  profligate,  heart- 
less in  his  private  intercourse  with 
society,  without  allegiance  to  God, 
or  fidelity  to  man,  he  becomes  an 
advocate  for  every  extravagant  claim 
of  popular  passion ;  is  a  clamourer 
for  the  independence  of  all  religions, 
in  all  their  forms,  which  all,  in  all 
their  forms,  he  equally  despises ;  de- 
votes himself  to  the  cause  of  license 
in  every  laud,  under  the  insulted 
name  of  liberty ;  and  with  every  ele- 
ment of  scorn  for  all  human  rights, 
interests,  and  feelings,  utterly  con- 
temptuous of  human  nature,  and 
looking  on  the  people  but  as  a  tool — 
fraudulent  in  all  his  dealings,  and 
false  in  all  his  protestations,  he  pro- 
claims himself  the  champion  of  po- 
pular rights  throughout  all  nations. 

The  Portuguese  Cortes  acted  in 
the  full  spirit  of  this  character.  The 
slightest  claim  to  equality  of  privi- 
leges was  scoffed  at.  The  Brazilians 
were  pronounced  rebels,  troops  were 
sent  to  coerce  them ;  and  while  the 
rabble  of  Portugal  were  giving  Jaw 
to  the  throne,  the  halls  of  the  Cortes 
resounded  with  the  bitterest  taunts 
of  the  members  against  the  fair 
claims  of  Brazil,  seconded  or  dic- 
tated by  the  most  furious  clamours 
of  the  mob,  which  were  suffered  to 


1833.1 


The  Portuguese  War. 


crowd  their  avenues  and  galleries. 
The  few  Brazilian  deputies  vainly 
attempted  to  reason  ;  they  were  put 
down  by  uproar.    The  Brazils,  a  ter- 
ritory as  large  as  Europe,  and  hourly 
rising  in  wealth,  population,  and  ge- 
neral acquirement— an  empire,whose 
smallest  province  was  larger  than 
the  whole  of  Portugal — were  treated 
as  the  toy,  the  slave,  or  the  victim  of 
tie  rabble  legislation  of  Lisbon ;  and 
orders  were  sent  out  commanding 
the  Prince's  return  to  Europe  within 
four  months;  and  denouncing  all  the 
military  who  continued  to  obey  him, 
as  traitors  to  Portugal.  But  this  act  of 
violence  was  equally  an  act  of  folly. 
The  blow  was  too  late.    The  Prince, 
on  receiving  the  dispatches,  virtually 
consigning  him  to  a  dungeon,  de- 
cided at  once  on  resistance.    After 
contemplating  them  seriously  for  a 
time,  he  drew  the  natural  conclusion, 
that  on  his  decision  turned  the  ques- 
tion of  personal  sovereignty  or  chains. 
He  exclaimed,  "  Independence    or 
Death!"  The  exclamation  was  caught 
like  a  Roman  omen — was  repeated 
on  all  sides ;  and  from  that  moment 
the  Brazils  were  free.     The  town  of 
Piranga,  where  this  event  occurred, 
is  still  commemorated  as  the  cradle 
of  Brazilian  independence. 

The  next  and  natural  step  was  the 
formation  of  a  legislature.    By  the 
advice  of  the  Council,  a  general  as- 
sembly of    Deputies    from  all  the 
provinces  was  called,  to  assume  the 
functions  of  a  Parliament.     And  the 
first  act  of  the  nation,  thus  establish- 
ed in  its  independence,  was  to  shew 
its  gratitude  by  proclaiming  Dom 
Pedro  its  sovereign.     On  the  22d  of 
October,  he  was  publicly  shewn  to ' 
the  soldiery  and  the  people,  in  the 
Campo  de  Santa  Anna,  as  "  Consti- 
tutional  Emperor,  with  the  unani- 
mous acclamation  of  the  people.'* 
The  tinge  of  republicanism  thrown 
over  this  high  acknowledgment,  was 
destined  to  colour  the  whole  future 
history  of  this^brief  sovereignty ;  but, 
for  the  time,  all  was    confidence, 
triumph,  and  perhaps  sincerity;  and 
whether  with  the   tacit  object    of 
marking  the  popular  influence   on 
the  occasion,  or  in  the  mere  captiva- 
tion  of  a  sounding  title,  the  Saint  lost 
her    rights,    and    the    Square    was 
thenceforth  named  the  Campo  d'Ac- 
clamacao. 
The  Portuguese  garrison  and  fleet 


13 

at  Bahia  now  became  the  points  of 
public  attention.     Dom   Pedro  dis- 
played his  habitual  activity  on  this  oc- 
casion, collected  troops,  engineers, 
andammunition  from  all  quarters,and 
made  a  still  more  important  acces- 
sion in  the  person  of  Lord  Cochrane, 
whom  he  put  at  the  head  of  the 
Imperial   fleet,    and    instantly   dis- 
patched to  Rio.     The  enemy's  fleet 
was  strong,  amounting  to  thirteen 
ships,    with    398    guns,    .while   the 
Brazilian  amounted  only  to  seven, 
with  250  guns.   But  their  comman- 
der's name  was  a  tower  of  strength ; 
he  found  the  Portuguese  hauled  out 
in  order  of  battle,  and  instantly  at- 
tacked them.      But  his  ships  were 
worked  by  inexperienced  Brazilians, 
and  by  Portuguese,  who  could  not  be 
relied  on.    He  yet  forced  the  Portu- 
guese line,  but  he  found  himself  so 
ill  seconded,  that  after  some  firing 
he  was  forced  to  retire.    On  return- 
ing the  next  day  to  the  attack,  he 
found  that  the  enemy  had  been  fright- 
ened under  the  guns  of  their  shore 
batteries;    he    therefore   blockaded 
them,  and  urged  the  blockade  with 
such    vigilance,   that    the    garrison 
were  speedily  on  the  verge  of  famine. 
But  a  blockade  was  not  sufficient  em- 
ployment for  the  stirring  spirit  of  this 
officer.     He  determined  to  enter  the 
harbour,  and  surprise  the  fleet.  The 
English  commodore  in  the  Bay,  well 
acquainted   with  the   style   of  the 
gallant  blockader,  advised  the  Por- 
tuguese Admiral  to  take  some  pre- 
cautions against  a  night  attack.   But 
the  Portuguese  thought  himself  safe, 
and,  like  a  true  son  of  the  south,  left 
the  rest  to  fortune.     He  was  dining 
on  shore  with  the  General,  when  a 
fire  from  the  bay  at  ten  at  night  told 
him  that  the  Englishman  was  not 
mistaken ;    Lord  Cochrane  had  at- 
tacked the  fleet  at  anchor.    Under 
coyer  of  the  night,  he  had  hove  his 
ship  into  the  midst  of  the  fleet,  and 
was  already  alongside  of  the  Admi- 
ral's vessel.     The  wind  had  brought 
him  thus  far,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
more  his  boarders  would  have  been 
upon  the  deck  of  the  Portuguese. 
But  by  one  of  the  changes  common 
in  that  climate,    the    breeze    died 
away  at  the  moment,  and  the  assail- 
ant Jound  himself  powerless  in  the 
midst  of  the  enemy's  fleet,  and,  what 
was  of  much  more  importance,  under 
the  guns  of  their  batteries.    There 


The  Portuguese  War. 


14 

was  now  no  resource  but  to  escape 
as  silently  as  he  could,  and  this  re- 
luctant alternative  was  carried  into 
execution  with  admirable  presence 
of  mind ;  knowing  that  the  concus- 
sions of  a  single  shot  might  extin- 
guish the  remnant  of  the  breeze,  not 
a  shot  was  fired;  he  dexterously 
availed  himself  of  that  remnant,  and 
unmolested,  made  his  way  back  to 
his  station  off  the  harbour.  The 
attack  on  Bahia  on  the  land  side  was 
next  attempted;  but,  after  a  long 
conflict,  the  Brazilians  were  re- 
pulsed. The  indefatigable  spirit  of 
the  Brazilian  Admiral  was  again  dis- 
played in  the  preparations  for  a 
second  attack.  But  an  accident,  by 
which  his  ship  was  set  on  fire,  and 
in  consequence  of  which  many  of 
his  crew  were  drowned,  postponed 
this  enterprise.  It  however  soon  be- 
came unnecessary.  The  Portuguese 
General,  exhausted  with  perpetual 
alarms,  and  hopeless  of  succours 
from  home,  determined  to  abandon 
the  place.  In  1823,  he  sailed  out 
of  the  harbour  of  Bahia,  with  a  fleet 
of  thirteen  ships  of  war,  convoying 
thirty-two  sail  of  transports  freighted 
with  all  his  troops,  stores,  and  public 
and  private  property.  Lord  Cochrane 
was  instantly  on  the  alert,  put  to  sea, 
hunted  them  across  the  equator, 
took  one  half  of  their  transports, 
totally  dispersed  the  rest,  and  then 
returned  to  capture  the  few  Portu- 
guese who  were  left  behind  in  the 
country  garrisons.  They  speedily 
surrendered,  were  sent  to  Europe, 
and  the  new  empire  was  finally  freed 
from  the  stain  of  a  foreign  army.  All 
was  now  calm,  and  the  rites  of  the 
civil  dignity  had  time  to  be  solem- 
nized. The  1st  of  December  1823, 
the  anniversary  of  the  deliverance 
of  Portugal,  under  the  Braganzas, 
from  the  yoke  of  Spain,  was  chosen 
to  set  the  seal  to  the  final  indepen- 
dence of  the  empire.  On  this  day, 
Dom  Pedro  was  crowned. 

In  the  wrath  of  the  Portuguese  at 
this  assumption  of  power,  some  of 
Dom  Pedro's  letters  to  his  father 
during  the  Regency  were  shewn, 
and  severally  commented  upon,  as 
involving  treachery  and  even  per- 
jury. "  I  supplicate  your  Majesty," 
says  one  of  these  letters,  "  by  all  that 
is  sacred  in  the  world,  to  dispense 
with  the  painful  functions  which 
you  have  assigned  to  me,  which  will 


[Jan. 


end  by  killing  me.  Frightful  pic- 
tures surround  me  constantly ;  I 
have  them  always  before  me.  I 
conjure  your  Majesty  to  let  me  as 
soon  as  possible  go  to  kiss  your 
royal  hand,  and  sit  on  the  steps  of 
your  throne.  I  seek  only  to  procure 
a  happy  tranquillity."  Another  letter 
is  thus  expressed.  "  They  wish,  and 
they  say  they  wish,  to  proclaim  me 
Emperor.  I  protest  to  your  Majesty, 
1  will  never  be  perjured;  I  will  never 
be  false  to  you.  If  they  ever  com- 
mit this  folly,  it  shall  not  be  till  after 
they  have'cut  me  into  pieces,  me  and 
all  the  Portuguese ;  a  solemn  oath, 
which  I  have  written  here  with  my 
blood,  in  the  following  words :  *  I 
swear  to  be  always  faithful  to  your 
Majesty  and  the  Portuguese  nation 
and  constitution.' " 

But  before  we  charge  any  man 
with  so  heavy  a  crime  as  perjury,  we 
should  consider  the  circumstances. 
These  letters  were  written  in  Sep- 
tember 1821.  The  coronation  did 
not  take  place  until  December  1823. 
During  this  period,  the  authority  of 
the  Cortes  had  continued  to  grow 
more  imperious,  until  the  throne 
was  absolutely  a  cypher,  and  the  old 
King  little  better  than  a  prisoner. 
Two  years  of  this  progress  might 
justly  make  a  very  serious  difference 
in  any  man's  contemplations :  during 
all  this  time,  too,  the  fury  of  the 
Portuguese  mob,  who  were  the  actual 
masters  of  both  King  and  Cortes, 
was  boundless  against  the  people 
and  government  of  the  Brazils. 
The  latter  dispatches  of  the  Cortes 
were  equivalent  to  an  actual  sen- 
tence of  exile,  or  the  dungeon,  which 
would  have  been  not  far  from  an 
equivalent  to  death  at  any  time  in 
Portugal.  A  prince  and  father 
might  well  have  weighed  probabili- 
ties before  he  threw  himself  and  his 
children  into  the  hands  of  a  rabble 
of  furious  zealots  or  brutal  assassins. 
In  the  alternative  of  security  in 
Brazil,  or  insult  and  possible  death 
in  Portugal,  there  could  be  no  doubt 
in  the  mind  of  any  rational  man. 
No  pledges  could  bind  him  to  de- 
liver himself,  much  more  his  family, 
to  popular  ferocity;  and  if  the  breach 
of  faith  existed  at  all,  it  must  be  laid 
to  the  charge  of  those  who  rendered 
compliance  with  its  conditions  to- 
tally impossible. 

The  death  of  the  Empress,  in  the 


18(13.] 


The  Portuguese  War. 


next  year,  was  a  source  of  great  pub- 
lic sorrow.  She  died  in  child-birth, 
after  having  been  the  mother  of  six 
children,  two  sons  and  four  daugh- 
ters, the  eldest  of  whom,  a  son,  died 
at  an  early  age,  and  the  youngest, 
Dom  Pedro  d' Alcantara,  born  De- 
cember 2,  1825,  is  the  heir.  Donna 
Maria  da  Gloria,  of  whom  we  have 
heard  so  much  as  the  intended 
Queen  of  Portugal,  was  born  April 
4,  1819. 

The  habits  of  the  late  Empress 
were  unfortunately  but  ill  adapted 
to  secure  the  affections  of  a  royal 
husband,  peculiarly  among  the  loose 
ar  d  capricious  moralities  of  a  south- 
ern race.  When  she  first  appeared, 
she  attracted  general  admiration  by 
hor  fairness  of  complexion,  and  her 
blonde  hair,  which  were  novelties  in 
tie  eyes  of  the  sallow  Brazilians. 
But  after  a  short  period,  whether 
from  natural  indolence,  displeasure 
at  her  husband's  coldness,  or  possi- 
bly through  some  growing  fantasy 
of  mind,  she  began  utterly  to  neglect 
h-3r  appearance.  In  a  country  where 
every  woman  spends  half  her  income 
on  the  decoration  of  her  feet  and 
legs,  which  are  remarkably  delicate, 
this  honest  daughter  of  Austria  al- 
ways appeared  in  clumsy  boots; 
where  half  the  day  is  spent  in 
curling  and  braiding  the  hair,  she 
appeared  with  her  locks  hanging 
loose  down  her  shoulders;  instead 
of  the  basquinas  and  mantillas,  the 
most  graceful  of  all  dresses,  and 
without  which  a  Portuguese  lady 
would  as  soon  appear  as  without  her 
head,  the  Empress  was  wrapped  up 
in  a  man's  great-coat;  and  to  com- 
\  lete  the  whole  absurdity,  she  rode 
c  stride,  a  custom  common  among 
tie  peasantry  in  the  provinces,  and 
for  that  reason  the  more  abhorred 
in  the  capital.  And  all  those  gross 
rnd  repulsive  habits  were  displayed 
iu  association  with  Dom  Pedro,  a 
man  proverbially  and  punctiliously 
retentive  to  appearances,  delicate  in 
his  tastes,  and  refined  and  shewy  in 
ivery  thing  that  related  to  costume. 
The  unfortunate  result  was,  that;  the 
Emperor  soon  found  others  more 
attentive  to  their  equipment  and  his 
tastes,  and  the  Empress  was  left 
;ilone.  But  her  general  kindness  of 
heart,  her  affability,  and  her  charity, 
nade  her  popular ;  and  though  she 


15 

must  have  been  the  most  repel- 
lent of  all  spouses,  she  perhaps  an- 
swered all  the  general  purposes  of  a 
Queen. 

Her  illness  excited  all  the  resour- 
ces of  Brazilian  piety,  such  as  piety 
is  in  the  lands  of  Popery.  Masses, 
processions  of  images,  and  visita- 
tions of  shrines,  were  adopted  with- 
out number.  But  among  the  rest 
was  one  honour,  conspicuous  above 
every  thing  of  human  homage.  The 
unfortunate  Empress  was  visited,  as 
was  announced  in  the  public  docu- 
ment, "  by  the  wonder-working  and 
all-glorious  image  of  the  Virgin, 
Nossa  Senhora  da  Gloria."  As  the 
Empress  had  paid  particular  atten- 
tions to  the  saint,  the  saint  rightly 
judged  that  this  was  the  true  time 
to  shew  her  sense  of  those  atten- 
tions. The  image  accordingly  came 
to  her  bedside.  "  The  people,"  says 
the  historian  of  this  event,  "  could 
not  see,  without  the  strongest  emo- 
tions of  piety,  her  image,  which  had 
never  condescended  to  issue  from 
the  temple  before,  on  this  occasion, 
for  the  first  time,  and  even  under  a 
heavy  shower  of  rain,  visiting  the 
Princess,  who  had  never  failed  on 
Sundays  to  be  found  at  the  foot  of  her 
altar."  The  condescension  was  un- 
happily useless,  for  after  a  short  ill- 
pess,  borne  with  great  fortitude,  the 
poor  Empress  died,  December  the 
llth,  at  the  age  of  29. 

The  return  of  Dom  John  the  Sixth 
to  his  native  throne  was  hailed  with 
national  exultation ;  and  for  a  month 
he  felt  himself  entitled  to  rejoice  in 
the  royal  spirit  of  enterprise  which 
had  led  him  to  cross  the  seas.  But 
with  the  month  the  self-congratula- 
tion approached  its  end.  He  found 
that  he  had  left  only  one  shape  of 
disturbance  for  another ;  "  that  riot 
in  Portugal  was  as  turbulent  as  riot 
in  the  remotest  shore  of  the  Atlantic; 
and  that  wherever  be  turned  his 
steps,  he  must  prepare  to  face  the 
new  philosophy  of  revolution.  Pa- 
triotism is  a  high  name.  But  true 
patriotism  is  not  to  be  learned  but 
in  the  school  of  honesty,  honour,  and 
the  domestic  virtues.  The  larger 
portion  of  foreign  patriotism  has  been 
trained  in  another  institute.  Vol- 
taire has  been  the  legislator,  infi- 
delity the  religion,  and  the  deepest 


1G 


The  Portuguese  War. 


[Jan. 


personal  corruption  the  morality. 
Jacobinism,  like  the  plague  in  Tur- 
key, never  dies.  It  shifts  its  quar- 
ters, it  may  shift  its  disguise ;  it  may 
at  one  time  flourish  under  the  grand 
pretence  of  national  rights,  at  an- 
other it  may  be  the  petitioner 
against  national  injuries,  it  may  be 
the  reclaimer  of  ancient  privileges, 
or  the  ostentatious  creator  of  new 
freedom,  but  in  all  the  robes  of  the 
masquerade  the  masquer  is  the  same. 
Its  motto  is  subversion.  Its  success 
is  overthrow.  Its  principle  is  a  hatred 
of  all  the  existing  forms,  properties, 
and  classifications,  of  men  and  things. 
It  not  merely  refuses  the  aid  of  ex- 
perience, it  disclaims  experience; 
its  province  is  the  untried,  the  haz- 
ardous, and  the  desperate — projects 
endeared  by  their  mere  extravagance, 
and  triumphs  the  more  congenial  for 
their  being  deeper  dyed  in  plun- 
der, profligacy,  and  blood.  The 
inveterate  activity  of  this  pernicious 
agent  was  let  loose  on  the  Penin- 
sula. The  copies  of  Voltaire,  Rous- 
seau, Diderot,  and  the  whole  host  of 
the  guilty  literature  of  France, 
poured  into  Spain  and  Portugal, 
amounted  to  hundreds  of  thousands. 
The  general  fretfulness  of  the  popu- 
lar mind  in  every  state  of  the  Con- 
tinent infected  the  multitude,  and 
under  the  symbols  and  name  of 
Freemasonry,  every  town  of  the 
Peninsula  had  its  Jacobin  club. 
From  the  Pyrenees  to  the  Straits  of 
Gibraltar,  all  was  ramified  with  con- 
spiracy against  the  throne,  the  pro- 
perty of  the  higher  orders,  and  the 
ancient  government  of  the  nation. 

At  last  the  insurrection  broke  out 
in  Spain.  The  King,  relying  on  his 
army  alone,  was  deserted  by  his 
army,  and  made  prisoner.  The  go- 
vernment was  broken  down.  The 
insurgents  were  masters  of  the  king- 
dom. Never  was  a  conquest  more 
easily  achieved,  or  more  wretchedly 
sustained.  The  new  dynasty  of 
Jacobinism  was  instantly  found  in- 
competent  to  the  simplest  duties  of 
sovereignty.  Their  power  was  in 
harangues ;  their  wisdom  in  exposing 
the  nation  to  domestic  feud  and 
foreign  hostility;  their  policy  in 
stripping  the  throne,  until  they 
raised  first  the  suspicion,  and  next 
the  scorn,  of  every  throne  of  Europe 
against  their  feeble  presumption. 
The  friendly  Powers  remonstrated, 


advised,  implored  in  vain.  Modera- 
tion was  an  offence  to  the  dignity 
of  this  mountebank  government- 
They  refused  all  compromise,  defied 
Europe,  invoked  the  tutelar  genius 
of  Revolution  throughout  the  world 
— and  fled  at  the  first  shot ;  swore 
to  bury  themselves  under  the  ruins 
of  their  constitution,  and  at  the  first 
wave  of  a  French  banner,  scattered 
themselves,  with  a  contemptible 
love  of  life,  through  every  hiding- 
place  of  the  globe. 

Jacobinism  had  been  not  less  active 
in  Portugal,  but  its  chief  force  had 
been  exerted  in  Spain.  The  grand 
experiment  of  the  new  order  of  over- 
throw was  to  be  made  there;  and 
Portugal  was  thus  saved  from  the 
direct  convulsion.  But  if  it  was  not 
within  the  actual  crater  of  the  vol- 
cano, it  was  fully  within  the  range  of 
its  clouds  and  ashes.  Masonic  clubs 
were  established  every  where  in 
Portugal.  The  populace  were  every 
where  stimulated  to  suspect  the 
King,  insult  the  authorities,  and  de- 
preciate the  ancient  forms  of  govern- 
ment. The  King  was  intimidated 
into  a  change  of  ministry,  and  his 
new  ministers  were  dictated  to  him 
by  the  masonic  lodges ;  extravagant 
innovation  was  running  the  round 
of  the  kingdom,  and  the  kingdom 
must  have  soon  sunk  into  anarchy 
or  a  republic.  The  danger  was  ex- 
cessive, and  its  excess  roused  the 
higher  ranks  from  the  habitual  indo- 
lence of  the  foreign  nobility.  A 
strong  party  was  formed,  with  the 
Queen  at  its  head,  for  the  protection 
of  the  throne  and  constitution ;  but 
the  innovators  were  already  in  pos- 
session of  the  whole  power  of  the 
state,  the  King,  and  the  kingdom. 

It  is  a  characteristic  of  the  hasty 
revolutions  of  the  Peninsula,  that 
they  have  been  exclusively  the  work 
of  the  army.  Disbanded  troops  are 
bad  legislators,  and  ill-paid  armies 
are  worse.  The  war  had  impover- 
ished the  finances  of  the  Peninsula ; 
the  soldiery  took  the  law  into  their 
own  hands  ;  and  the  Spanish  army  in 
the  Isle  of  Leon  hoisted  the  standard 
of  revolt  in  1820.  A  regiment  in  Opor- 
to followed  its  example  in  August  of 
the  same  year.  They  demanded  a 
Cortes.  They  were  seconded  by  the 
sudden  outcry  of  Jacobinism  through- 
out the  Peninsula  and  Europe,  the 
populace  were  told  to  expect  release 


1833.] 


The  Portuguese  War. 


from  all  burdens — a  golden  age — and 
they  gladly  echoed  the  cry.  The 
King  was  terrified  by  the  uproar,  and 
the  Cortes  were  established,  with 
the  code  of  Cadiz  of  1812,  totally 
hostile  as  it  was  to  the  ancient  in- 
Bt  tutions,  and  breathing  the  spirit  of 
republicanism  in  every  line  for  their 
acknowledged  model.  The  Cortes 
continued  its  control  for  nearly 
three  years.  Its  folly  had  long  sign- 
ed its  fate.  The  Queen  and  the 
nobles  saw  that  it  was  sinking ;  and 
they  determined  that  it  should  sink 
thoroughly.  The  eldest  son  of  the 
throne  was  in  Rio  de  Janeiro;  they 
put  the  second,  Dom  Miguel,  at  the 
head  of  a  small  body  of  troops  on 
the  27th  of  May  1823,  at  Villa  Franca, 
some  miles  from  Lisbon.  There  he 
published  a  proclamation,  declaring 
the  uselessness  of  the  Cortes ;  and 
there  he  was  joined  by  the  King. 
The  nation,  weary  of  the  burlesque 
of  liberty,  received  the  proclamation 
with  a  burst  of  joy,  and  the  King 
was  once  more  a  Sovereign.  The 
Cortes  followed  the  example  of  their 
brothers  of  Spain,  swore  to  shed  the 
la^t  drop  of  their  blood  for  liberty, 
and  ran  away  with  the  oath  on  their 
lips.  Some  fled  outright ;  about  sixty 
signed  a  protest,  and  fled  after  them. 
The  rest  made  their  submission. 
Dom  Miguel,  then  a  boy,  was  ap- 
pointed Generalissimo  by  the  King 
in  sign  of  royal  approbation. 

But  the  measure  was  imperfect. 
The  King,  still  alarmed  by  the  me- 
naces of  the  defeated  revolutionists, 
took  the  measure  of  appointing  a 
minister  hostile  to  the  Queen's  party. 
This  was  felt  to  be  an  insult,  and  the 
same  daring  experiment  offeree  was 
again  tried.  On  the  30th  of  April, 
Dom  Miguel,  as  commander-m-chief, 
ordered  a  body  of  troops  to  parade 
in  one  of  the  squares  of  Lisbon,  and 
sent  detachments  to  arrest  the  mi- 
nisters, Pamplona,  Palmela,  the 
head  of  the  police,  of  the  customs, 
and  some  other  obnoxious  heads  of 
departments.  But  the  alarm  had 
rapidly  spread, the  palace  was  roused, 
tho  ambassadors  of  the  foreign  Pow- 
ers hastened  to  protect  the  King 
from  what  they  conceived  to  be  a 
revolution.  The  troops  were  sent 
to  their  quarters,  and  Lisbon  re- 
mained in  a  state  of  formidable  ex- 
citement. The  excitement  rapidly 
increased,  until  John  the  Sixth  con- 

VOL,  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIII. 


17 

ceived  that  his  life  was  in  danger. 
The  French  ambassador  then  pro- 
posed that  he  should  retire  on  board 
the  French  fleet  until  the  distur- 
bance was  appeased.  The  offer  was 
curiously  characteristic  of  the  land 
of  compliment ;  there  was  no  French 
fleet  in  the  Tagus.  A  letter  was  dis- 
patched to  their  squadron  in  Cadiz. 
But  in  the  mean  time  the  British 
ambassador  had  offered  the  King  an 
asylum  in  Windsor  Castle.  The 
King  went  on  board,  and  published 
an  edict,  censuring  the  late  transac- 
tions. Dom  Miguel,  on  the  10th,  was 
admitted  to  the  royal  presence  for 
the  purpose  of  vindicating  himself; 
and,  in  pursuance  of  the  order  for 
his  appearance,  he  was  not  suffered 
to  reland.  A  letter  was  published, 
as  written  by  him,  and  evidently 
dictated  under  duresse,  apologizing 
for  his  errors  as  those  of  youth; 
and  "  fearing  that  his  presence  in 
Portugal  might  afford  a  pretext  to 
evil-minded  persons  to  renew  dis- 
turbances and  intrigues,  very  fo- 
reign to  the  pure  sentiments  which 
he  had  just  uttered,  requesting  his 
Majesty's  permission  to  travel  for 
some  time  in  Europe,"  &c.  This 
letter  was  dated  the  12th,  and  on  the 
same  day  the  Prince  was  sent  on 
board  a  frigate  for  Brest,  thence  to 
be  transmitted  into  the  care  or  cus- 
tody of  Prince  Metternich  at  Vienna. 
During  his  absence  a  Court  of  En- 
quiry was  formed  for  the  express 
purpose  of  investigating  the  guilt  of 
all  persons  concerned  under  the 
orders  of  Dom  Miguel.  The  commis- 
sion was  busily  employed  during  a 
year  and  a  half.  No  evidence  could 
be  procured  of  any  culpability  in  the 
Prince,  beyond  that  of  the  forcible 
arrest  of  the  ministers.  And  at  the 
end  of  that  time,  the  King,  wearied 
with  the  uselessness  of  the  proceed- 
ing, or  alarmed  at  the  open  expres- 
sions of  the  public  disgust,  dissolved 
the  tribunal. 

At  Vienna,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
whatever,  that  the  Portuguese  Prince 
was  a  prisoner.  He  was  treated  by 
the  court  with  great  civility;  but  he 
was  not  suffered  to  have  any  corre- 
spondence with  his  country.  All 
Portuguese  were  prohibited  from 
approaching  him.  Though  constantly 
about  the  person  of  the  Emperor,  he 
was  not  suffered  to  go  with  him  on 
his  Italian  tour,  notoriously  from  the 


18 


The  Portuguese  War. 


[Jan. 


facility  of  escape  from  the  Italian 
ports,  but  was  sent  to  travel  in  Hun- 
gary. The  fact  of  duresse  is  confirm- 
ed by  the  subsequent  acknowledg- 
ment of  a  stipulation  on  the  part  of 
Austria,  "  not  to  let  loose  Dom  Mi- 
guel, to  oppose  in  Portugal  the  exe- 
cution of  his  brother's  decrees." 

In  the  mean  time,  the  old  King 
John  the  Sixth  had  died,  and  the 
crown  had  been  offered  to  Dom 
Pedro,  on  condition,  of  course,  of 
his  returning  from  Brazil,  and  an- 
swered by  the  following  Imperial 
declaration,  at  the  opening  of  the 
Brazilian  Chambers  :— 

«  On  the  24th  of  last  April,  the 
anniversary  of  the  embarkation  of 
my  father  and  lord,  Dom  John  the 
Sixth,  for  Portugal,  I  received  the 
melancholy  and  unexpected  news  of 
his  death.  The  keenest  grief  seized 
upon  my  heart.  The  plan  which  it 
was  incumbent  on  me  to  follow,  on 
finding  myself,  when  I  least  expected 
it,  the  legitimate  King  of  Portugal, 
Algarves,  and  the  dominions  thereof, 
rushed  to  my  mind.  Grief  and  duty 
alternately  swayed  my  breast;  but 
laying  every  thing  aside,  I  looked 
to  the  interests  of  Brazil.  I  clung 
to  my  word.  I  wished  to  uphold 
my  own  honour,  and  deliberated 
within  myself  what  could  promote 
the  happiness  of  Portugal;  what  it 
would  be  indecorous  for  me  not  to 
do.  How  great  must  have  been  the 
agony  that  tortured  my  heart,  on  seek- 
ing out  the  means  of  promoting  the 
happiness  of  the  Portuguese  nation, 
without  offending  Brazil,  and  of  sepa- 
rating them  (notwithstanding  that 
they  are  already  separate),  in  such 
manner  as  that  they  may  never  again 
be  united  !  I  confirmed  in  Portugal 
the  regency  which  my  father  had 
appointed.  I  proclaimed  an  amnesty. 
I  bestowed  a  constitution.  I  dedi- 
cated and  yielded  up  all  the  indis- 
putable and  inalienable  rights  which 
I  held  to  the  crown  of  the  Portu- 
guese monarchy,  and  the  sovereignty 
of  these  kingdoms,  in  favour  of  my 
much  beloved  and  esteemed  daugh- 
ter and  Princess,  Donna  Maria  da 
Gloria,  now  Queen  of  Portugal,  Ma- 
ria the  Second.  This  I  felt  bound  to 
do  for  my  own  honour  and  that  of 
Brazil.  Let  those  still  incredulous 
Brazilians,  therefore,  know  (as  they 
already  ought  to  have  known)  that 
the  interest  of  Brazil,  and  the  love 


of  her  independence,  are  so  strong 
in  me,  that  I  abdicated  the  crown  of 
the  Portuguese  monarchy,  which,  by 
indisputable  right  belonged  to  me, 
only  because  it  might  hereafter  im- 
plicate the  interests  of  Brazil,  of 
which  country  I  am  the  perpetual 
defender." 

The  constitution  to  which  the 
speech  alludes,  was  the  memorable 
one  so  unaccountably  taken  charge  of 
by  the  British  minister,  Sir  Charles 
Stuart,  and  which  Dom  Pedro  had 
compiled  within  a  week ;  one  half,  as 
is  alleged,  copied  from  the  French 
constitution  of  1791,  and  the  other 
half  from  the  new  Brazilian  code. 
Why  the  Brazilian  Emperor  should 
have  promulgated  a  republican  con- 
stitution is  not  to  be  reasoned  upon. 
According  to  some,  it  was  to  secure 
popularity  with  the  Brazilians,  who 
are  all  amateurs  in  legislation;  ac- 
cording to  others,  it  was  from  an 
ambition  of  making  a  government 
on  his  own  plan.  But  in  Portugal  it 
was  received  with  infinite  disgust  by 
the  whole  influential  part  of  the  com- 
munity. The  pride  of  the  nation  was 
equally  irritated  by  the  rejection  of 
its  crown,  and  by  its  [disposal.  The 
ancient  sovereignty  of  Portugal 
seemed  thrown  into  contempt  by  its 
being  thus  summarily  given  to  a 
child.  The  men  of  property  were 
alarmed  by  the  revolutionary  turn 
of  the  charter.  The  patriots  felt  that 
the  long  minority  of  the  little  Prin- 
cess would  virtually  render  Portugal 
but  a  viceroyalty  in  the  hands  of  the 
Regents  appointed  by  Dom  Pedro, 
and  the  kingdom  but  a  province  of 
Brazil.  The  spirit  of  insubordina- 
tion rapidly  spread;  it  grew  too 
strong  to  be  checked  by  the  feeble 

government  of  the  Infanta,  who  had 
een  appointed  to  the  Regency  on 
the  death  of  the  King;  and  in  the 
month  of  September  1826,  a  regi- 
ment quartered  at  Braganza,  under 
the  Viscount  de  Monte  Alegre,  pro- 
claimed Dom  Miguel,  and  marched 
to  the  Spanish  frontier,  where  they 
were  joined  by  a  number  of  soldiery 
and  some  civil  functionaries.  At 
the  same  moment,  in  the  Alentejo, 
nearly  all  the  regiments  proclaimed 
Dom  Miguel,  and  protested  against 
the  charter.  The  insurrection  be- 
came general,  and  the  Regency  was 
on  the  point  of  being  forcibly  ex- 
tinguished. In  this  emergency  the 


1633.] 


The  Portuguese  War. 


British  Cabinet  interposed.  The  arm- 
ing and  recruiting  of  the  insurgents 
in  Spain,  gave  Mr  Canning  a  ground 
for  asserting  that  Portugal  was  in- 
vr.ded  by  a  hostile  force. 

The  British  troops  sent  hastily  to 
Lisbon  repelled  the  danger  for  the 
time.  The  insurgents  retired  into 
Spain,  where  they  were  disarmed  by 
the  government,  and  the  Princess 
Regent  was  once  more  in  safety. 
B  1 1  it  was  obvious  that  this  state  of 
things  could  not  continue.  British 
tr  )ops  could  not  keep  perpetual  gar- 
rison in  Portugal ;  the  national  feel- 
ing could  not  be  continually  coerced. 
Tie  Infanta's  government  must 
finally  give  way  ;  and  for  the  double 
purpose  of  tranquillizing  the  public 
mind,  and  ensuring  the  connexion 
ol  Portugal  and  Brazil,  another  ex- 
pedient was  resorted  to,  the  marriage 
of  Dom  Miguel  with  his  niece,  the 
daughter  of  Dom  Pedro;  a  disgusting 
and  criminal  alliance,  but  of  which 
there  had  been  examples  in  the 
rcyal  line,  the  late  King  himself  ha- 
ving been  the  offspring  of  Queen 
Maria  the  First,  by  her  uncle  Dom 
Pedro. 

Dom  Miguel  had  now  been  three 
years  and  a  half  under  Austrian  sur- 
veillance. He  was  now  twenty-five 
years  old,  and  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  keep  him  a  prisoner  any 
longer,  with  out  bringing  down  strong 
E  uropean  animadversion.  The  Em- 
peror of  Brazil,  on  the  3d  of  July 
lc>27,  had  also  issued  a  decree,  in 
which,  after  pronouncing  an  eulo- 
gium  on  "the  good  qualities,  acti- 
vity, and  firmness  of  character"  ex- 
hibited by  the  Prince,  he  appoint- 
ed him  "  his  lieutenant,  with  full 
p  )wers  to  govern  in  conformity  to 
tl  e  provisions  of  the  charter."  This 
decree  was  communicated  to  the 
British  court  and  the  Austrian.  On 
tie  6th  of  October  Prince  Metter- 
nich  communicated  to  Dom  Miguel 
the  intelligence  that  he  might  return 
t<»  his  own  country,  with  a  proviso 
that  he  should  not  return  through 
S  pain.  Dom  Miguel  insisted  on  his 
sailing  in  no  other  than  a  Portuguese 
v  essel,  as  his  country  would  feel  it- 
self offended  by  his  returning  under 
any  other  flag.  Prince  Metternich 
expressed  some  displeasure  at  this 
determination,  and  informed  his  pri- 
soner that  if  any  farther  obstructions 
arose,  "  he  must  await  at  Vienna  the 


19 

orders  of  Dom  Pedro."  After  this 
specimen  of  his  free-will,  the  oath 
to  the  charter  was  administered  to 
him,  and  the  civil  contract  of  his 
espousals  with  Donna  Maria  was 
celebrated. 

He  was  now  let  loose ;  he  came  to 
London,  as  we  all  recollect ;  was  re- 
ceived graciously  by  the  late  King, 
and,  if  we  are  to  believe  general  re- 
port, distinctly  pledged  himself  to 
his  Majesty  and  his  ministers,  to  the 
observance  of  the  charter.  He  reach- 
ed Lisbon  on  the  22d  of  February 
1828.  The  national  outcry  was  in- 
stantly and  unequivocally  raised  for 
his  assumption  .of  the  throne. 

The  dispatches  of  the  British  am- 
bassador, Sir  Frederick  Lamb,  give 
full  testimony  on  this  point.  It  is 
first  stated,  that  "  on  the  days  im- 
mediately succeeding  the  landing  of 
the  Prince,  cries  of  "  Long  live  Dom 
Miguel  the  First,  were  heard."  The 
second  dispatch,  March  1st,  states, 
that  "  his  Royal  Highness  was  inces- 
santly assailed  with  recommenda- 
tions to  declare  himself  King,  and 
reign  without  the  Chambers ;  further 
saying,  that  it  depended  entirely 
his  will  to  do  so,  as  the  Chambers 
would  offer  no  opposition,  and  the 
measure  would  be  popular  with  the 
great  majority  of  the  country."  The 
public  feeling  on  this  subject  conti- 
nued to  increase.  The  novel  consti- 
tution of  Dom  Pedro  was  so  hostile 
to  the  habits  of  the  country,  that  it 
was  received  with  universal  displea- 
sure. In  the  ambassador's  dispatch 
of  March  23d,  he  distinctly  says, 
that  "  no  party  of  any  consequence 
appeared  to  attach  the  least  value  to 
the  charter."  The  national  feeling 
being  thus  declared,  and  the  whole 
kingdom  being  in  a  state  of  angry 
ferment,  Dom  Miguel,  as  Regent  of 
Portugal,  convened  the  Cortes,  by 
decree  of  May  6th,  1828,  "  for  the 
purpose  of  deciding  on  the  applica- 
tion of  certain  weighty  points  of 
law,  and  thus  re-establishing  public 
order."  The  mayors  and  municipa- 
lities were  directed  to  proceed  to 
the  election  of  delegates,  &c.,"  accor- 
ding to  the  form  already  fixed  in  the 
previous  elections,"  and  thus  to  re- 
new the  Cortes.  The  Cortes  met,  and 
their  "  public  and  solemn  award" 
was  as  follows  : — 

"  The  national  opinion,  declared 
at  various  periods,  and  according  to 


The  Portuguese  War. 


20 

divers  events  in  our  history,  excludes 
from  the  right  of  succession  to  the 
crown  of  Portugal,  the  actual  first- 
born of  the  distinguished  House  of 
Braganza,  and  in  his  person,  as  in 
law  obviously  acknowledged,  all  his 
descendants.  A  foreigner  through 
choice  and  preference  of  his  own,  a 
foreigner  by  treaties,  the  laws  of 
Lisbon  exclude  him,  in  accordance 
with  those  of  Lamego.  Deprived  of 
present,  future,  and,  morally  speak- 
ing, all  possible  residence  in  this 
kingdom,  he  was,  in  like  manner, 
excluded  by  the  letters  patent  of 
1642."  The  document  closes  with 
declaring,  that  "  the  laws,  with  all 
the  Portuguese  who  love  and  respect 
them,  award  to  the  second  son  the 
succession  to  the  crown,  from  which 
the  laws  themselves  had  so  justly 
excluded  the  first." 

In  pursuance  of  this  award,  the 
Three  Orders  of  the  State  signed  the 
following  declaration,  July  11,  1828. 

"  The  Three  Estates  of  the  Realm 
finding  that  the  most  clear  and  per- 
emptory laws  excluded  from  the 
crown  of  Portugal,  previously  to 
the  10th  of  March  1826  (the  time  of 
the  late  King's  death),  Dom  Pedro 
and  his  descendants,  and  for  this 
same  reason  called  in  the  person  of 
Dom  Miguel  and  his  descendants, 
the  second  line  thereto;  and  that 
every  thing  that  is  alleged  or  may  be 
alleged  to  the  contrary  is  of  no  mo- 
ment, they  unanimously  acknowled- 
ged and  declared  in  their  several  re- 
solutions, and  in  this  general  one  also 
do  acknowledge  and  declare,  that  to 
the  King,  our  Lord,  Senhor  Dom 
Miguel,  the  first  of  that  name,  from 
the  10th  of  March  1826,  the  afore- 
said crown  of  Portugal  has  justly 
belonged.  Wherefore  all  that  Sen- 
hor Dom  Pedro,  in  his  character  of 
King  of  Portugal,  which  did  not  be- 
long to  him,  has  done  and  enacted, 
ought  to  be  reputed  and  declared 
void,  and  particularly  what  is  called 
the  Constitutional  Charter  of  the 
Portuguese  Monarchy,  dated  the 
29th  of  April,  in  the  year  1826.  And 
in  order  that  the  same  may  appear, 
this  present  act  and  resolution  has 
been  drawn  up  and  signed  by  all  the 
persons  assisting  at  the  Cortes,  on 
account  of  the  Three  Estates  of  the 
Realm." 

This  document  is  unanswerable  as 
a  proof  of  the  national  opinion,  The 


[Jan. 


palpable  fact  is,  that  the  Portuguese, 
looking  upon  Dom  Pedro  as  for  life 
the  monarch  of  a  distant  land,  and 
equally  convinced  that  any  govern- 
ment delegated  from  him  to  his 
daughter,  who  was  still  a  child,  as  to 
a  regency,  would  be  nothing  less 
than  turning  their  kingdom  into  a 
dependency  on  the  government  of 
the  Emperor  of  Brazil,  determined 
that  the  ancient  honours  of  Portugal 
should  not  be  humiliated,  and  thus 
determined  that  they  would  have  a 
king  of  their  own.  Dom  Pedro  had 
already  in  the  most  express  manner 
declared  the  separation  of  Brazil 
from  Portugal,  and  his  resolution  to 
resist  by  the  sword  any  attempt  to 
renew  its  dependence  on  the  mother 
country.  His  proclamation  to  the 
Brazilians  on  the  10th  of  June  1824, 
two  years  before  the  death  of  his 
father,'was  "  to  arms,  Brazilians.  In- 
dependence or  Death  is  our  watch- 
word." This  was  followed  by  a  de- 
claration, that  he  had  identified  him- 
self with  the  Brazilians,  and  was 
resolved  to  share  their  fate,  "  what- 
ever it  might  be."  No  man  could 
have  more  utterly  cut  down  the 
bridge  between  himself  and  the  suc- 
cession. His  sitting  on  the  throne  of 
Brazil  was  in  fact  a  rebellion,  which 
extinguished  all  civil  rights  in  Portu- 
gal. 

As  the  Cortes  of  Lamego  has  been 
adverted  to  on  both  sides  for  the 
Portuguese  law  of  succession,  its 
history  is  worth  stating. 

Don  Alonzo  Henriquez,  the  first 
monarch,  was  proclaimed  King  by 
the  army  and  people,  and  the  choice 
being  referred  for  confirmation  to 
the  great  authority  of  the  time,  the 
Pope,  was  by  him  confirmed.  The 
Pope,  was  the  celebrated  Innocent 
the  Third,  the  general  distributor  of 
European  crowns.  The  election  was 
made  at  a  period  still  memorable  in 
Portuguese  history,  the  vigil  of  the 
famous  fight  of  Ourique,  in  which  the 
Moorish  invaders  were  totally  de- 
feated. This  event  was  nearly  half  a 
century  previous  to  the  memorable 
meeting  at  which  the  law  of  royal 
succession  was  finally  settled.  The 
Cortes  of  Lamego,  summoned  in 
1 148,  declared  the  crown  to  be  here- 
ditary in  the  line  of  Don  Alonzo ;  the 
crown  to  descend  by  primogeniture ; 
females  to  inherit,  on  condition  of 
their  marrying  subjects  of  Portugal, 


1 333.] 


The  Portuguese  War. 


but  with  a  perfect  and  perpetual  ex- 
c  usion  of  all  foreigners  from  the 
throne. 

From  the  original  possessor  the 
crown  descended  through  eight 
princes  of  his  line,  the  last  of  them, 
Ferdinand  the  First,  leaving  no  chil- 
dren. The  law  of  the  Cortes  of  La- 
in ego  had  not  sufficiently  provided 
for  this  case,  and  the  three  estates  of 
the  realm,  the  Cortes,  were  summon- 
ed to  meet  at  Coimbra  in  1383,  to 
deliberate  on  the  new  emergency. 
Tiie  first  process  was  to  prove  the 
throne  vacant,  which  was  done  in  the 
usual  forms  by  the  Chancellor  Joao 
das  Regras.  The  next  was  to  pro- 
vide a  possessor,  which  was  done  by 
proposing  that  the  sceptre  should  be 
given  to  the  Grand  Master  of  Aviz, 
fo;  his  gallant  services  in  the  war 
against  the  Spaniards,  as  well  as  in 
consequence  of  his  royal  blood.  The 
act  set  forth,  that,  "  Seeing  that  the 
kingdoms,  as  well  as  the  government 
and  defence  thereof,  have  become 
vacated  and  bereft,  after  the  death 
of  King  Ferdinand,  the  last  in  pos- 
session, and  being  without  king, 
ruler,  or  any  other  defender  what- 
ever, who  can  or  ought  by  right  to 
inherit  the  same,  we  all  agreeing 
in  our  love  and  deliberation,  &c.,  in 
the  name  of  the  Holy  and  Undivided 
Trinity,  do  hereby  name,  elect,  and 
rereive  in  the  best  and  most  valid 
manner  provided  by  law,  the  afore- 
said Grand  Master,  and  solemnly 
professed  of  the  Cistercian  Order  of 
Aviz,  Senhor  Dom  Joao,  first  of  the 
name  among  those  of  Portugal,  and 
illegitimate  son  of  Peter  the  First,  as 
our  King  and  Lord,  as  well  as  of  the 
aforesaid  kingdoms  of  Portugal  and 
Al^arves.  And  we  grant  unto  him 
that  he  should  call  himself  King,  as 
also  that  he  may  be  able  to  do  and 
command  for  our  government  and 
defence,  as  well  as  for  that  of  the 
aforesaid  kingdoms,  all  those  things, 
and  each  one  of  them,  touching  the 
office  of  King,"  &c.  &c. 

]»y  this  prince  a  connexion  was 
formed  with  our  country.  Dom  Joao, 
after  he  was  released  from  his  vows 
of  oelibacy  as  Grand  Master,  marry- 
ing Philippa,  the  daughter  of  the 
Duke  of  Lancaster,  an  undisputed 
though  varied  succession  followed. 
The,  Prince  Duarte,  his  son,  ascended 
the  throne  at  his  death  ;  then  Alonzo 
the  Fifth  ;  then  John  the  Second, 


who,  dying  childless,  left  the  crown 
to  Emanuel  Duke  de  Beja,  son  of 
Edward  the  First,  notwithstanding 
the  competitorship  and  nearer  claim 
of  the  Emperor  Maximilian,  in  1495. 
The  crown  now  descended  to  his 
son,  John  the  Third ;  and  from  him 
to  Sebastian,  the  grandson  of  the 
late  monarch.  The  crown  next  fell 
into  the  possession  of  Cardinal  Hen- 
ry, son  of  Emanuel.  Then  began 
the  evil  days  of  Portugal.  On  the 
death  of  Henry  a  crowd  of  compe- 
titors started  up ;  amonff  whom  was 
the  relentless  and  bloody  Philip  the 
Second  of  Spain.  Before  the  master 
of  the  New  World,  and  perhaps  the 
most  powerful  sovereign  of  the  Old, 
all  opposition  hid  its  diminished 
head.  Philip  seized  on  the  Portu- 
guese crown,  and  held  the  people  in 
merciless  thraldom. 

The  Spaniards  profess  an  ancient 
scorn  of  the  Portuguese,  which  the 
Portuguese  have  returned  by  an  an- 
cient hate.  The  antipathy  of  the 
master  and  the  subject  was  felt  in 
perpetual  quarrels,  but  it  was  not 
till  after  the  lapse  of  more  than  half 
a  century  that  the  chain  was  broken. 
The  eyes  of  the  nation  had  long  been 
fixed  on  the  Duke  of  Braganza,  a 
brave  and  popular  nobleman;  the 
public  irritation  was  roused  into  fury 
by  the  extortions  of  a  tyrannical  and 
insolent  Viceroy,  Vasconcellos ;  a 
meeting  was  held  of  noblemen,  in 
which  it  was  determined  to  shake  off 
the  intolerable  yoke  of  Spain.  The 
determination  was  promptly  execu- 
ted ;  the  palace  guards  were  surpri- 
sed and  disarmed ;  the  Viceroy  was 
thrown  out  of  his  chamber  window; 
the  Spanish  authority  was  declared 
to  be  at  an  end,  and  John  Duke  of 
Braganza  was  proclaimed  King. 

To  confirm  this  fortunate  revolu- 
tion by  a  public  act,  the  three  estates 
were  summoned  to  Lisbon  in  1641. 
The  perils  of  a  contested  succession 
had  been  bitterly  felt  in  the  sixty-one 
years  of  suffering  from  which  they 
had  but  just  escaped;  and  the  first 
object  of  the  Cortes  was  to  state,  with 
a  clearness  which  should  preclude 
all  future  doubts,  the  law  of  succes- 
sion. The  form  of  this  proceeding 
was  by  petition  of  each  of  the  three 
estates  to  the  throne.  That  of  the 
People  prayed,  that  "  Resolutions 
might  be  passed  confirming  those  of 
the  Cortes  of  Lamego,  enacted  by 


The  Portuguese  War. 


22 

the  glorious  King  Alonzo  Henriquez, 
the  founder  of  the  monarchy ;  and 
that  it  should  be  so  ordained,  that 
the  throne  may  never  again  be  inhe- 
rited by  any  foreign  king  or  prince 
whatsoever;  so  that  the  sovereign 
who  is  to  be  such  over  this  kingdom 
of  Portugal,  be  a  natural  and  legiti- 
mate Portuguese  born  in  the  king- 
dom, and  held  bound  to  abide  and 
dwell  personally  therein,"  &c.  &c. 

The  petition  of  the  Nobility  prayed, 
that  "  a  law  be  passed,  ordaining  that 
the  succession  of  this  kingdom  shall 
not  at  any  time  come  to  a  foreign 
prince,  nor  to  his  children,  notwith- 
standing they  may  be  next  of  kin  to 
the  last  King  in  possession.  Further, 
that  when  it  happens  that  the  sove- 
reign of  these  realms  succeeds  to  any 
larger  kingdom  or  lordship,  he  shall 
always  be  bound  to  reside  in  this  ;  and 
having  two  or  more  male  children, 
that  the  eldest  shall  succeed  to  the 
foreign  kingdom,  and  the  second  to 
this  one  of  Portugal." 

The  third  estate,  the  Clergy,  adopt- 
ed the  same  sentiments,  declaring 
that  "  experience  having  shewn  the 
injuries  which  result  to  kingdoms 
from  princes,  who  are  not  natural 
born,  succeeding  thereto,  they  sub- 
mitted to  the  King  the  expediency 
and  fitness  of  putting  an  end  to  those 
grievances,"  &c.  &c.  The  King,  John 
the  Fourth,  immediately  acquiesced 
in  those  petitions ;  his  answers  con- 
firming their  requests  were  embodied 
into  letters  patent,  and  the  law  of 
the  Cortes  of  Lamego,  thus  rein- 
forced, became  once  more  the  law  of 
the  land,  by  decree  of  the  12th  of 
September  1642,  signed  by  the  King. 

The  state  of  the  question  having 
been  thus  given  from  acknowledged 
documents,  the  conclusion  is  inevi- 
table, that  whoever  may  have  the 
right  to  the  Portuguese  throne,  Dom 
Pedro  and  his  descendants  have  none. 
His  right  is  nullified  by  the  ancient 
laws,  by  his  own  direct  acts,  and  by 
the  national  opinion.  If  he  cannot 
govern  Portugal  in  his  own  person, 
he  cannot  govern  it  by  a  delegated 
authority,  let  the  name  be  Donna 
Maria,  Count  Palmela,  or  what  it 
will.  At  this  moment  there  is  not 
the  slightest  evidence  that  he  has 
any  valid  portion  of  the  national  will 
on  his  side.  He  has  been  a  twelve- 
mouth  in  Europe,  and  not  a  single 
province  of  Portugal  has  declared  in 


[Jan. 


his  favour ;  he  has  been  nearly  three 
months  in  Portugal,  and  notwith- 
standing proclamations,  and  the 
lavish  distribution  of  money,  no  por- 
tion of  the  people  have  joined  him ; 
no  man  of  rank  has  come  over  to 
his  side  ;  he  has  seized  on  a  single 
strong  position,  and  in  that  he  is 
besieged.  In  that  position,  too,  he  is 
sustained  altogether  by  foreign  suc- 
cours, for  if  he  were  left  to  his  Por- 
tuguese resources,  he  must  surren- 
der within  a  week.  His  provisions, 
his  ammunition,  his  arms,  his  troops, 
come  from  foreign  countries.  His 
recruits  Poles,  Swiss,  French,  Eng- 
lish— every  thing  but  Portuguese  ; 
while  his  adversary  is  surrounded 
by  all  the  influential  classes,  traverses 
the  provinces  with  a  couple  of 
grooms,  is  every  where  received 
with  triumphal  arches,  feasts,  and 
congratulations ;  and  fights  his  com- 
petitor's foreign  brigades,  at  the  head 
of  a  native  militia.  This  settles  the 
question  of  public  opinion ;  and  if 
Dom  Pedro  is  to  be  made  Regent  of 
Portugal,  it  must  be  by  the  bayonet. 
The  personal  merits  of  the  com- 
petitors can  be  a  matter  of  but  little 
import  to  us.  They  are,  probably, 
nearly  on  a  par  for  good  and  evil. 
The  brothers  are  both  brave,  and 
possibly  both  disposed  to  use  their 
authority  as  men  born  under  arbi- 
trary governments  are  in  the  habit 
of  doing.  Dom  Pedro  has  been  al- 
ready expelled  from  a  throne  for  al- 
leged unconstitutional  and  arbitrary 
conduct.  Dom  Miguel  has,  at  least, 
the  advantage  of  him  in  this  point, 
for  he  has  not  been  so  expelled  ;  and 
the  nation  even  plunge  into  foreign 
war  to  keep  him  on  the  throne.  He 
has  been  called  a  tyrant;  but  it  is 
clear  that  he  has  not  yet  earned  the 
odium  of  his  country.  That  there 
may  be  men  in  Portugal  who  love 
the  charter,  and  hate  the  King, — that 
there  may  be  real  lovers  of  liberty, 
who  prefer  the  constitution  of  Dom 
Pedro  to  the  ancient  forms  of  go- 
vernment,— that  there  are  many  Vol- 
tairists,  French  agents,  avowed  athe- 
ists, and  conscious  Jacobins,  who 
would  prefer  any  change  that  gave 
them  a  chance  of  general  rapine  or 
revenge, — that  Dom  Miguel  may  have 
imprisoned  open  repugnants  to  his 
authority,  or  hanged  soldiers  muti- 
nying under  arms,  may  all  be  true  ; 
but  as  neither  the  attachment  of  the 


J833.J 


The  Portuguese  War. 


one  to  the  charter,  nor  the  corrup- 
tions of  the  other,  can  prove  that  the 
rule  of  Dom  Pedro  is  the  national 
wish,  so  neither  the  imprisonment, 
nor  even  the  death,  of  the  indivi- 
duals in  question,  can  stigmatize  the 
government  with  the  name  of  ty- 
i  anny.  Unquestionably  his  reign  has 
not  exhibited  any  of  those  sweeping 
executions,  that  love  for  indiscrimi- 
rate  vengeance,  that  passion  for  a 
f  erce  and  bloody  exercise  of  power, 
which  deserves  the  name  of  tyranny. 
There  has  been  no  one  instance  of 
the  death  of  a  man  of  rank  or  for- 
tune on  the  scaffold, — there  has  been 
ro  death,  even  of  the  lowest  order, 
so  far  as  we  have  heard,  without  a 
trial, — there  has  been  no  arbitrary 
c  onfiscation,  certainly  there  has  been 
EO  systematic  public  plunder,  vic- 
Lmce,  or  vindictiveness.  And  yet  the 
throne  has  been  perpetually  in  a  si- 
tiation  which  might  have  offered 
s  :rong  temptations  to  severity.  Sur- 
rounded with  incentives  to  the  most 
violent  exercise  of  power;  party, 
whether  right  or  wrong,  busy,  for 
the  last  four  years,  against  the  pos- 
S3ssor  of  the  throne ;  conspiracy  in- 
cessantly sowed  in  the  provinces ; 
correspondence  with  foreign  and 
hostile  courts  sedulously  sustained; 
a  rival  sovereign  going  the  rounds  of 
E  urope,  and  canvassing  commisera- 
tion from  every  people ;  Dom  Pedro 
holding  an  integral  portion  of  the 
r-ialm  in  actual  possession,  and  fit- 
ting out  from  it  an  expedition  against 
the  royal  authority ;  attempts  of  all 
kinds  made  to  rouse  the  populace  to 
r  ivolt,  to  corrupt  the  army,  to  shake 
the  credit  of  the  throne  with  foreign 
powers,  and,  finally,  to  drive  its  pos- 
sessor to  the  last  extremities  of  per- 
BI  >nal  disgrace  and  ruin ; — if  personal 
vengeance  could  be  justified,  it  might 
srek  its  justification  in  circumstances 
li  \.e  these.  Yet  this  vengeance  has 
n-iver  been  detected.  We  in  vain  at 
tl  is  moment  ask  if  there  is  on  record 
a  single  authentic  charge  of  cruelty 
against  the  possessor  of  the  Portu- 
g  lese  throne.  The  English  news- 
p  ipers,  undoubtedly,  have  decided 
p  herwise.  There  is  not  a  Radical 
journal,  from  the  Land's  End  to  the 
Orkneys,  that  has  not  sat  in  judg- 
n  ent  on  him,  and  summarily  pro- 
nounced him  to  be  a  monster.  The 
Radical  orators  in  the  House,  the 
echoes  of  the  Radical  journals,  and 


23 

who  dare  not  be  any  thing  else,  have 
followed  this  high  authority,  and 
blackened  him  with  the  most  sulky 
physiognomy  of  despotism.  But  if 
we  demand  the  facts  for  our  own 
guidance,  we  still  are  answered  by 
mere  declamation. 

The  charge  against  Dom  Miguel 
of  having  violated  his  oath,  a  charge 
which  has  earned  for  him  the  angry 
animadversions  of  the  successive  Fo- 
reign Secretaries,  Lords  Aberdeen 
and  Palmerston,  is  of  a  more  serious 
quality.  Our  business  is  not  to  vin- 
dicate him  ;  but  let  us  know  the  ex- 
act state  of  the  case,  before  we  fasten 
upon  a  prince  the  charge  of  perjury 
more  than  upon  any  other  man.  The 
only  known  and  formal  declaration 
on  the  point  is  his  oath  to  the  charter 
taken  at  Vienna.  That  oath  was,  un- 
questionably, taken  under  circum- 
stances in  which  no  oath  should  be 
demanded  of  any  individual.  The 
Prince  was  not  a  free  agent — he  was 
under  duresse.  He  had  been  sent  a 
prisoner  to  Vienna — he  had  been 
kept  there  in  surveillance  for  three 
years  and  a  half — he  might  have  been 
kept  there  during  his  life,  if  it  had 
answered  the  policy  of  Austria.  At 
the  end  of  the  three  years  and  a  half 
an  oath  was  tendered  to  him,  noto- 
riously opposed  to  all  his  opinions. 
Who  can  tell  but  the  refusal  of  that 
oath  would  have  been  the  sentence 
of  his  exile  or  imprisonment  ?  Who 
is  there  now  to  tell  us  the  distinct 
features  which  might  have  made  an 
oath  of  that  nature  no  more  valid 
than  an  oath  extorted  by  the  pistol 
of  a  highwayman  ?  All  is  cloudy  still. 
On  this  point  we  have  no  materials 
for  decision.  Common  justice  must 
wait  for  clearer  information  than  any 
that  has  reached  the  world. 

Dom  Miguel's  presumed  pledges 
to  our  King  and  his  Ministers,  have 
not  yet  been  presented  to  the  public 
knowledge  with  even  the  feeble  and 
imperfect  formality  of  the  Vienna 
oath.  Whether  they  were  delivered 
as  promise,  opinion,  or  conjecture ; 
whether  they  were  solemnly  given, 
or  simply  expressed  in  the  laxity  of 
conversation,  or  extorted  in  the  shape 
of  hopes  or  fears,  remains  to  be  told* 
This  only  is  certain,  that  at  the  time 
of  Dom  Miguel's  brief  sojourn  in  this 
country,  the  late  King  was  unfortu- 
nately in  a  state  of  health  which 
nearly  precluded  all  public  business  j 


24  The  Portuguese  War. 

and  of  the  Foreign  Secretary  it  is 


[Jan. 


enough  to  say,  that  he  was  Lord 
Dudley,  a  nobleman  whose  condi- 
tion of  mind  then  was  nearly  as  ec- 
centric as  it  is  now.  With  a  Sove- 
reign racked  by  pain,  and  a  minister 
proverbial  for  the  ramblings  of  his 
mind,  we  must  require  more  evi- 
dence than  has  hitherto  transpired, 
to  decide  that  any  pledge  was  given 
which  could  convict  the  giver  of  a 
deliberate  intention  to  deceive. 

But  let  us  suppose  that  he  did  in- 
tend to  deceive — that  he  was  dipped 
in  the  deepest  stain  of  tergiversation 
— what  is  that  to  the  English  people  ? 
Where  have  we  acquired  the  right  of 
bringing  foreign  princes  into  judg- 
ment, let  their  veracity  be  what  it 
may  ?     The  point  is  altogether  per- 
sonal.    It  involves  no  breach  of  na- 
tional treaty,  it  has   perfected  no 
national  offence.  It  may  be  a  matter 
for  the  Portuguese  nation  to  consi- 
der. But  it  is  evident  that  they  have 
not  considered  it  to  be  worth  their 
attention ;  and  what  right  have  we  to 
declare  to  Portugal  that  she  shall  not 
have  a  King  according  to  her  own 
choice,  because  he  broke  his  oath  to 
his  Austrian  jailer,  or  beguiled  the 
wandering  intellects  of  an  English 
Secretary  ?  To  put  the  extreme  case — 
if  Dom  Miguel  were  personally  guilty 
of  every  crime  that  could  degrade 
the    human    character,   we    might 
scorn  and  hate  the  individual,  we 
might  pronounce  him  unfit  to   sit 
upon  a  throne,  if  we  will,  but  the 
arbitration  does  not  rest  with  us.  The 
Portuguese  nation,  fully  acquainted 
with  the  man  and  the  character,  have 
chosen  him  for  their  monarch.    And 
which  among  our  most  red-hot  set- 
tlers of  nations,  will  venture  to  say 
that  they  must  wait  for  the  approba- 
tion of  England  on  the  matter  ?  if 
they  have  chosen  ill,  the  ill  be  on 
them.     But  the  choice  can  be  no 
more  an  affair  of  ours  than  the  cala- 
mity.   The  Portuguese  have  shewn 
that  their  choice  was  spontaneous; 
they  have  since  shewn  that  they  ad- 
here to  their'choice ;  they  are  at  this 
hour  holding  out  defiance  to  the  two 
most  powerful  nations  of  Europe, 
England  and  France,  in  assertion  of 
their  choice;    and  in  the  name  of 
justice,  freedom,  and  common  sense, 
what  right  have  we  to  say  that  they 
shall  not  have  the  King  whom  they 
have  chosen  ?    In  these  remarks  we 


have  no  idea  of  charging  the  English 
councils  with  any  factious  and  inter- 
meddling ambition.  They  may  have 
been  involved  in  the  dispute  by  the 
original  weakness  of  Mr  Canning's 
intervention-policy,  and  by  the  new 
system  of  flattering  the  French  go- 
vernment. We  speak  of  the  whole 
transaction,  not  in  the  spirit  of  party, 
but  in  the  common  sense  of  every- 
day life.  With  the  Portuguese  choice 
of  the  sitter  on  the  throne,  England 
has  unquestionably  no  right  what- 
ever to  interfere. 

But  in  one  point  we  must  beware 
lest  we  are,  however  unconsciously, 
drawing  a  degree  of  guilt  upon  our- 
selves; and  that  point  is,  the  present 
practice  of  raising  soldiers  for  the 
Portuguese  contest.  No  man  has  a 
right  to  shed  the  blood  of  man  but 
in  self-defence,  or  for  the  protection 
of  the  weak,  and  this  latter  only  in 
extreme  cases.  The  soldier  fighting 
for  his  country,  fights  virtually  in 
self-defence.  But  who  can  place  the 
recruits  that  are  going  off  daily  to 
fight  in  Portugal,  in  the  list  of  self- 
defenders  ?  We  are  not  at  war  with 
Portugal  as  a  nation,  yet  do  we  not 
sanction,  by  this  winking  at  the  act, 
the  crime  of  men  going  to  shoot  Por- 
tuguese for  their  pay  ?  The  same 
rule  which  now  leads  the  British  re- 
cruit to  fight  in  Portugal,  would 
sanction  murder  on  the  high-road. 
The  highwayman  shoots  men  for 
what  he  can  get  by  it.  What  per- 
sonal feeling  can  the  British  half-pay 
officer,  or  the  common  soldier,  have 
in  the  quarrel  between  two  Portu- 
guese princes  ?  His  feeling  is,  noto- 
riously and  simply,  a  desire  to  be 
employed,  to  get  pay  and  promotion, 
and  for  that  purpose  he  sheds  the 
blood  of  Portuguese  officers  and  sol- 
diers ;  strangers,  whom  he  would 
never  meet  but  for  thus  seeking 
their  blood  ;  and  with  whom  he  has 
no  more  national  or  personal  quar- 
rel than  with  the  man  in  the  moon. 
Beyond  all  doubt,  this  act  of  utterly 
unprovoked  and  unnecessary  aggres- 
sion in  the  individual,  is  murder — 
murder  in  the  eyes  of  God  and  man. 
In  this  statement,  we  advocate  the 
cause,  no  more  of  Dom  Miguel  than 
of  Dom  Pedro.  Embarking  in  the 
service  of  either,  the  British  officer 
would  be  equally  criminal.  Our 
government  may  not  be  able  to  pre- 
vent the  entering  of  private  and  m^ 


1833] 


The  Portuguese  War. 


litary  persons  into  the  quarrels  of 
foreign  countries.  But  over  its  half- 
p  ty  list  it  has  a  hold  ;  and  if  it  shall 
suffer  a  single  individual  to  raise 
men  in  this  country  for  either  of  the 
parties,  it,  beyond  all  controversy, 
puts  itself  into  a  position  of  bellige- 
rency. On  this  head  we  shall  re- 
joice to  see  our  policy  retracted.  If 
the  Portuguese  princes  will  continue 
to  present  to  Europe  a  spectacle  un- 
precedented amon^  all  the  frightful, 
disgusting,  and  guilty  spectacles  of 
later  times,  two  brothers  seeking 
each  other's  blood ;  let  the  British 
tike  the  only  part  suitable  to  a  wise 
and  moral  people ;  let  the  British  na- 
t  on  distinctly  refuse  to  be  an  ac- 
complice in  this  hideous  exhibition  ; 
or,  if  we  must  exert  our  power,  let 
us  exert  it  to  conciliate  and  appease, 
End  put  forth  our  intervention  to  stop 
r  contest  which  outrages  every  pub- 
lic interest,  every  principle  of  huma- 
nity, and  every  command  of  religion. 
The  exact  state  of  the  question  is 
this.  Before  the  death  of  the  late 
King  John  the"  Sixth,  Dom  Pedro  had, 
by  an  act  of  direct  revolt,  declared 
Brazil  independent  of  Portugal,  and 
himself  Emperor.  On  the  death  of 
the  late  King,  in  1826,  the  Portu- 
guese nation,  notwithstanding  the 
revolt,  offered  their  crown  to  Dom 
Pedro,  on  condition  of  his  returning 
io  Portugal,  which,  by  the  ancient 
laws,  was  essential  to  his  possession 
of  the  throne.  The  throne  then,  by 
those  laws,  came  to  the  second  son 
of  the  late  King,  but  that  son  was  a 
prisoner  in  Austria.  A  regency  was 
appointed  in  this  emergency,  by  the 
influence  of  Dom  Pedro,  at  the  head 
of  which  was  his  sister,  the  Infanta, 
which  regency  was  suffered  only  in 
consequence  of  the  annexed  condi- 
tion, that  on  the  second  son's  arri- 
ving at  the  age  of  twenty-five  that 
son  should  assume  the  regency;  a 
provision  which  notoriously  pointed 
out  Dom  Miguel,  he  being  twenty- 
three  at  the  time,  but  incapable  of 
the  throne  by  reason  of  his  being  in 
captivity.  But  even  with  this  proviso 
the  national  discontent  grew  so  vio- 
lent, that  it  produced  the  insurrec- 
tion and  invasion,  which  were  put 
down  only  by  the  British  troops  sent 
out  by  Mr  Canning,  on  the  pretext 
that,  as  coming  from  Spain,  they  con- 
stituted a  Spanish  invasion.  It  was 
thus  found  necessary  to  release  Dom 
Miguel,  and  appoint  him  Regent  in 


25 

order  to  quiet  the  public  tumults,  and 
preserve  any  shew  of  dependence  on 
Dom  Pedro.  But  with  this  nominal 
Sovereign  the  Portuguese  nation 
were  not  content.  They  considered 
a  regency  to  be  an  acknowledgment 
of  dependence  on  a  power  which 
had  constituted  itself  altogether  a 
separate  and  foreign  state.  With  a 
perfectly  justifiable  national  feeling, 
they  refused  to  suffer  the  colony  to 
become  the  disposer  of  the  parent 
state;  and  they,  in  1828,  proclaimed 
Dom  Miguel  king,  for  the  mere  ob- 
ject of  national  independence,  and  in 
undoubted  consistency  with  the  spirit 
of  their  whole  code  of  laws  referring 
to  the  throne.  Dom  Pedro  now, 
for  the  purpose  of  shaking  Dom  Mi- 
guel's succession,  transferred  to  his 
daughter,  Donna  Maria,  a  right  which 
existed  no  longer,  he  having  already 
alienated  it  from  himself,  and  set  her 
up  as  a  rival  to  the  prince  of  the  na- 
tional choice.  The  Portuguese  na- 
tion, still  considering  that  the  go- 
vernment of  a  child  must  be  but  a 
contrivance  for  keeping  the  country 
under  the  jurisdiction  of  the  father, 
and  being  justified  by  the  laws  of 
the  Cortes,  rejecting  the  foreign  King 
and  his  descendants,  refused  to  re- 
ceive her  as  their  Queen;  and  have 
armed  in  defence  of  the  sovereign 
whom  they  chose,  certainly  without 
any  intervention  of  foreign  aid,  for 
whom  they  are  now  fighting,  and 
whom  they  have  hitherto  shewn  no 
tendency  whatever,  under  all  their 
temptations,  to  abjure. 

It  is  evident  that  Dom  Pedro,  with- 
out his  foreign  brigades,  and  his  fo- 
reign money,  could  not  stay  an  hour 
in  Portugal ;  it  is  equally  clear  that 
Dom  Miguel  is  fighting  with  no  other 
strength  than  the  force  of  the  coun- 
try. It  is  equally  clear  that  a  con- 
tinuance of  the  struggle  can  only 
alienate  Portugal  from  England,  dis- 
turb Spain  with  fears  of  revolution 
abetted  by  England,  and,  as  the  re- 
sult, make  them  both  listen  to  the  first 
overtures  from  Austria  and  Russia 
as  conservatives  of  the  old  European 
system,  in  case  of  that  war  which 
now  seems  to  menace  Europe.  The 
character  of  the  individuals  is  com- 
paratively unimportant  to  the  ques- 
tion. The  only  point  for  England  to 
consider  is,  whether  she  can  have  any 
right  to  dictate  the  choice  of  a  Sovei 
reign  to  an  independent  nation. 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Jan. 


TOM  CRINGLE'S  LOG. 
CHAP.  XVII. 


SCENES  IN  CUBA. 


Ariel. 


Safely  in  harbour 


Is  the  King's  ship.— In  the  deep  nook  where  once 
Thou  calledst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still  vexed  Bermoothes— there  she's  hid. 

The  Tempest. 


THE  spirit  had  indeed  fled— the 
ethereal  essence  had  departed — and 
the  poor  wasted  and  blood-stained 
husk  which  lay  before  us,  could  no 
longer  be  moved  by  our  sorrows,  or 
gratified  by  our  sympathy.  Yet  I 
stood  riveted  to  the  spot,  until  I  was 
aroused  by  the  deep-toned  voice  of 
Padre  Carera,  who,  lifting  up  his 
hands  towards  heaven,  addressed  the 
Almighty  in  extempore  prayer,  be- 
seeching his  mercy  to  our  erring 
sister  who  had  just  departed.  The 
unusualness  of  this  startled  me.— • 
"  As  the  tree  falls,  so  must  it  lie,"  had 
been  the  creed  of  my  forefathers,  and 
was  mine  ;  but  now  for  the  first  time 
I  heard  a  clergyman  wrestling  in  men- 
tal agony,  and  interceding  with  the 
God  who  hath  said,  "  Repent  before 
the  night  cometh  in  which  no  man 
can  work,"  for  a  sinful  creature, 
whose  worn-out  frame  was  now  as  a 
clod  of  the  valley.  But  I  had  little 
time  for  consideration,  as  presently 
all  the  negro  servants  of  the  establish- 
ment set  up  a  loud  howl,  as  if  they 
had  lost  their  nearest  and  dearest. 
"  Oh,  our  poor  dear  young  mistress 
is  dead !  She  has  gone  to  the  bosom  of 
theVirgin ! — She  is  gone  to  be  happy!" 
— "  Then  why  the  deuce  make  such 
a  yelling  ?"  quoth  Bang  in  the  other 
room,  when  this  had  been  translated 
to  him.  Glad  to  leave  the  chamber 
of  death,  I  entered  the  large  hall, 
where  I  had  left  our  friend. 

"  I  say,  Tom — awful  work.  Hear 
how  the  rain  pours,  and — murder — 
such  a  flash  !  Why,  in  Jamaica,  we 
don't  startle  greatly  at  lightning,  but 
absolutely  I  heard  it  hiss — there, 
again" — the  noise  of  the  thunder 
stopped  further  colloquy,  and  the 
wind  now  burst  down  the  valley  with 
a  loud  roar. 

Don  Ricardo  joined  us.  "  My  good 
friends— we  are  in  a  scrape  here — 
what  is  to  be  done  ? — a  melancholy 


affair  altogether."— Bang's  curiosity 
here  fairly  got  the  better  of  him. 

"  I  say,  Don  Ricardibus—Ao — beg 
pardon,  though — do  give  over  this 
humbugging  outlandish  lingo  of 
yours — speak  like  a  Christian,  in 
your  mother  tongue,  and  leave  off 
yourSpanish,which  w0?0,since  I  know 
it  is  all  a  Jam,  seems  to  sit  as  strangely 
on  you  as  my  grandmother's  toupee 
would  on  Tom  Cringle's  Mary." 

"  Now  do  pray,  Mr  Bang,"  said  I, 
when  Don  Ricardo  broke  in — 

"  Why,  Mr  Bang,  I  am,  as  you  now 
know,  a  Scotchman." 

"  How  do  I  know  any  such  thing 
— that  is,  for  a  certainty — while  you 
keep  cruising  amongst  so  many  lin- 
goes, as  Tom  there  says  ?" 

"  The  docken,  man,"  said  I.— Don 
Ricardo  smiled. 

"  I  am  a  Scotchman,  my  dear  sirj 
and  the  same  person  who  in  his  youth 
was  neither  more  nor  less  than  wee 
Richy  Cloche,  in  the  long  town  of 
Kirkaldy,  is  in  his  old  age  Don  Hi- 
cardo  Campana  of  St  Jago  de  Cuba. 
But  more  of  this  anon, — at  present 
we  are  in  the  house  of  mourning,  and 
alas  the  day !  that  it  should  be  so." 

By  this  time  the  storm  had  increa- 
sed most  fearfully,  and  as  Don  Ri- 
cardo, Aaron,  and  myself,  sat  in  the 
dark  damp  corner  of  the  large 
gloomy  hall,  we  could  scarcely  see 
each  other,  for  the  lightning  had  now 
ceased,  and  the  darkness  was  so  thick, 
that  had  it  not  been  for  the  light  from 
the  large  funeral  wax  tapers,  which 
had  been  instantly  lit  upon  poor 
Maria's  death,  in  the  room  where 
she  lay,  that  streamed  through  the 
open  door,  we  should  have  been  un- 
able to  see  our  very  fingers  before 
us. 

"  What  is  that?"  said  Campana; 
"  heard  you  nothing,  gentlemen  ?" 

In  the  lulls  of  the  rain  and  the 
blast,  the  same  long  low  cry  was 


18(3.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


27 


heird,  which  had  startled  me  by 
Maria's  bedside,  and  occasioned  the 
sulden  and  fatal  exertion  which  had 
been  the  cause  of  the  bursting  out 
afresh  of  the  bloodvessel. 

'•'  Why,"  said  I,  "  it  is  little  more 
tlnin  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
yet,  dark  as  it  is;  let  us  sally  out,  Mi- 
Bang,  for  I  verily  believe  that  the 
hello  we  have  heard  is  my  Captain's 
vcice,  and,  if  I  conjecture  rightly,  he 
mast  have  arrived  at  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  probably  with  the  Doc- 
tor." 

"  Why,  Tom,"  quoth  Aaron,  "  it  is 
only  three  in  the  afternoon,  as  you 
say,  although  by  the  sky  I  could  al- 
most vouch  for  its  being  midnight, 
— but  I  don't  like  that  shouting — Did 
you  ever  read  of  a  water-kelpie,  Don 
Kichy  ?" 

"Poo,  poo,  nonsense,"  said  the 
Don ;  "  Mr  Cringle  is,  I  fear,  right 
enough."  At  this  moment  the  wind 
thundered  at  the  door  and  window- 
shutters,  and  howled  amongst  the 
naighbouring  trees  and  round  the 
roof,  as  if  it  would  have  blown  the 
house  down  upon  our  devoted  heads. 
The  cry  was  again  heard,  during  a 
momentary  pause. 

"Zounds!"  said  Bang,  "it  is  the 
skipper's  voice,  as  sure  as  fate — he 
must  be  in  danger — let  us  go  and  see, 
Tom." 

"  Take  me  with  you,"  said  Cam- 
pana, — the  foremost  always  when  any 
g  ood  deed  was  to  be  done, — and,  in 
place  of  clapping  on  his  great-coat  to 
meet  the  storm,  to  our  unutterable 
surprise,  he  began  to  disrobe  himself, 
j  11  to  his  trowsers  and  large  straw 
hat.  He  then  called  one  of  the  ser- 
vants, "  trae  me  un  lasso.'"  The  lasso, 
i.  long  thong  of  plaited  hide,  was 
iorthwith  brought;  he  coiled  it  up 
in  his  left  hand.  "  Now,  Pedro,"  said 
he  to  the  negro  servant  who  had 
i  etched  it,  (a  tall  strapping  fellow,) 
'  •  you  and  Caspar  follow  me.  Gen- 
ilemen,  are  you  ready?"  Caspar 
appeared,  properly  accoutred,  with 
i  long  pole  in  one  hand  and  a  thong 
dmilar  to  Don  Ricardo's  in  the  other, 
ic  as  well  as  his  comrade  being  stark 
laked  all  to  their  waistcloths.  "  Ah, 
•veil  done,  my  sons,"  said  Don  Ri- 
eardo,  as  both  the  negroes  prepared 
co  follow  their  master.  So  off  we 
started  to  the  door,  although  we 
beard  the  tormenta  raging  without 
with  appalling  fury.  Bang  undid  the 


latch,  and  the  next  moment  he  was 
flat  on  his  back,  the  large  leaf  having 
flown  open  with  tremendous  vio- 
lence, capsizing  him  like  an  infant. 

The  Padre  from  the  inner  chamber 
came  to  our  assistance,  and  by  our 
joint  exertions  we  at  length  got  the 
door  to  again  and  barricaded,  after 
which  we  made  our  exit  from  the 
lee-side  of  the  house  by  a  window. 
Under  other  circumstances,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  refrain  from 
laughing  at  the  appearance  we  made. 
We  were  all  drenched  in  an  instant 
after  we  left  the  shelter  of  the  house, 
and  there  was  old  Campana,  naked 
to  the  waist,  with  his  large  sombrero 
and  long  pigtail  hanging  down  his 
back,  like  a  mandarin  of  twenty 
buttons.  Next  followed  his  two 
black  assistants,  naked  as  I  have  de- 
scribed them,  all  three  with  their  coils 
of  rope  in  their  hands,  like  a  hang- 
man and  his  deputies;  then  advanced 
friend  Bang  and  myself,  without  our 
coats  or  hats,  with  handkerchiefs 
tied  round  our  heads,  and  our  bodies 
bent  down  so  as  to  stem  the  gale  as 
strongly  as  we  could. 

But  the  planting  attorney,  a  great 
schemer,  a  kind  of  Will  Wimble  in 
his  way,  had  thought  fit,  of  all  things 
in  the  world,  to  bring  his  umbrella, 
which  the  wind,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  [reversed  most  unceremo- 
niously the  moment  he  attempted  to 
hoist  it,  and  tore  it  from  the  staff,  so 
that,  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
he  had  to  clutch  the  flying  red  silk  and 
thrust  his  head  through  the  centre, 
where  the  stick  had  stood,  as  if  he 
had  been  some  curious  flower.  As 
we  turned  the  corner  of  the  house, 
the  full  force  of  the  storm  met  us 
right  in  the  teeth,  when  flap  flew  Don 
Ricardo's  hat  past  us ;  but  the  two 
blackamoors  had  taken  the  precau- 
tion to  strap  each  of  theirs  down 
with  a  strong  grass  lanyard.  We  con- 
tinued to  work  to  windward,  while 
every  now  and  then  the  hollo  came 
past  us  on  the  gale  louder  and  loud- 
er, until  it  guided  us  to  the  fording 
which  we  had  crossed  on  our  first 
arrival.  We  stopped  there ; — the  red 
torrent  was  rushing  tumultuously 
past  us,  but  we  saw  nothing  save  a 
few  wet  and  shivering  negroes  on  the 
opposite  side,  who  had  sheltered 
themselves  under  a  cliff,  and  were 
busily  employed  in  attempting  to 
light  a  fire.  The  holloing  continued, 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


28 

"  Why,  what  can  be  wrong  ?"  at 
length  said  Don  Ricardo,  and  he 
shouted  to  the  people  on  the  oppo- 
site side. 

He  might  as  well  have  spared  his 
breath,  for,  although  they  saw  his 
gestures  and  the  motion  of  his  lips, 
they  no  more  heard  him  than  we  did 
them,  as  they  very  considerately  in 
return  made  mouths  at  us,  bellowing 
no  doubt  that  they  could  not  hear  us. 

"  Don  Ricardo — Don  Ricardo  !"  at 
this  crisis  sung  out  Caspar,  who  had 
clambered  up  the  rock,  to  have  a  peep 
about  him, — "  Ave  Maria — Alia  son 
dos  pobres,  gue  peresquen  pronto,  si 
nosotros  no  pueden  ayudarlos." 

"  Whereabout  ?"  said  Campana — 
"  whereabouts  ?  speak,  man,  speak." 

"  Down  in  the  valley — about  a 
quarter  of  a  league,  I  see  two  men  on 
a  large  rock,  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream ;  the  wind  is  in  that  direction, 
it  must  be  them  we  heard." 

"  God  be  gracious  to  us !  true 
enough — true  enough, — let  us  go  to 
them  then — my  children."  And  we 
again  all  cantered  off  after  the  excel- 
lent Don  Ricardo.  But  before  we 
could  reach  the  spot,  we  had  to  make 
a  detour,  and  come  down  upon  it 
from  the  precipitous  brow  of  the 
beetling  cliff  above,  for  there  was  no 
beach  nor  shore  to  the  swollen  river, 
which  was  here  very  deep,  and  sur- 
ged, rushing  under  the  hollow  bank 
with  comparatively  little  noise,  which 
was  the  reason  why  we  heard  the 
cries  so  distinctly. 

The  unfortunates  who  were  in 
peril,  whoever  they  might  be,  seemed 
to  comprehend  our  motions,  for  one 
of  them  held  out  a  white  handker- 
chief, which  I  immediately  answer- 
ed by  a  similar  signal,  when  the 
shouting  ceased,  until,  guided  by 
the  negroes,  we  reached  the  verge 
of  the  cliff,  and  looked  down  from 
the  red  crumbling  bank  on  the  foam- 
ing water,  as  it  swept  past  beneath. 
It  was  here  about  thirty  yards  broad, 
divided  by  a  rocky  wedgelike  islet, 
on  which  grew  a  profusion  of  dark 
bushes  and  one  large  tree,  whose  top- 
most branches  were  on  a  level  with 
us  where  we  stood.  This  tree  was 
divided,  about  twelve  feet  from  the 
root,  into  two  limbs,  in  the  fork  of 
which  sat,  like  a  big  monkey,  no  less 
apersonage  than  Captain  N him- 
self, wet  and  dripping,  with  his  clothes 
besmeared  with  mud,  and  shivering 


[Jan. 


with  cold.  At  the  foot  of  the  tree  sat 
in  rueful  mood,  a  small  antique  beau 
of  an  old  man  in  a  coat  which  had 
once  been  blue  silk,  wearing  breeches 
the  original  colour  of  which  no  man 
could  tell,  and  without  his  wig,  his 
clear  bald  pate  shining  amidst  the 
surrounding  desolation  like  an  os- 
trich's egg.  Beside  these  worthies 
stood  two  trembling  way-worn  mules 
with  drooping  heads,  their  long  ears 
hanging  down  most  disconsolately. 
The  moment  we  came  in  sight,  the 
skipper  hailed  us. 

"  Why,  I  am  hoarse  with  bawling, 
Don  Ricardo,  but  here  am  I  and  el 
Doctor  Pavo  Heal,  in  as  sorry  a 
plight  as  any  two  gentlemen  need 
be.  On  attempting  the  ford  two 
hours  ago,  blockheads  as  we  were 
— beg  pardon,  Don  Pavo" — the  Doc- 
tor bowed,  and  grinned  like  a  ba- 
boon— "  we  had  nearly  been  drown- 
ed; indeed,  we  should  have  been 
drowned  entirely,had  we  not  brought 
up  on  this  island  of  Barataria  here. 
— But  how  is  the  young  lady  ?  tell 
me  that,"  said  the  excellent-hearted 
fellow,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  own 
danger. 

"  Mind  yourself,  my  beautiful 
child,"  cried  Bang.  "  How  are  we 
to  get  you  on  terra  firma  ?" 

"  Poo— in  the  easiest  way  possi- 
ble," rejoined  he,  with  true  seaman- 
like  self-possession.  "  I  see  you  have 
ropes — Tom  Cringle,  heave  me  the 
end  of  the  line  which  Don  Ricardo 
carries,  will  you  ?" 

"  No,  no — I  can  do  that  myself," 
said  Don  Ricardo,  and  with  a  swing 
he  hove  the  leathern  noose  at  the 
skipper,  and  whipped  it  over  his 
neck  in  a  twinkling.  The  Scotch 
Spaniard,!  saw,  was  pluming  himself 
on  his  skill,  but  N— —  was  up  to 
him,  for  in  an  instant  he  dropped 
out  of  it,while  in  slipping  through  he 
let  it  fall  over  a  broken  limb  of  the 
tree. 

"  Such  an  eel — such  an  eel  I" 
shouted  the  attendant  negroes,  both 
expert  hands  with  the  lasso  them- 
selves. 

"  Now,  Don  Ricardo,  since  I  am 
not  to  be  had,  make  your  end  of  the 
thong  fast  round  that  large  stone 
there."  Campana  did  so.  "  Ah, 
that  will  do."  And  so  saying,  the 
skipper  warped  himself  to  the  top  of 
the  cliff  with  great  agility.  He  was 
no  sooner  in  safety  himself,  however, 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


than  the  idea  of  having  left  the  poor 
doctor  in  peril  flashed  on  him. 

"  I  must  return — I  must  return  ! 
If  :he  river  rises,  the  body  will  be 
drowned  out  and  out." 

And  notwithstanding  our  entreat- 
ies, he  did  return  as  he  came,  and 
descending  the  tree,  began  apparent- 
ly to  argue  with  the  little  Medico, 
and  to  endeavour  to  persuade  him  to 
ascend,  and  make  his  escape  as  the 
Captain  himself  had  done ;  but  it 
would  not  do.  Pavo  Real — as  brave 
a  little  man  as  ever  was  seen— made 
many  salams  and  obeisances,  but 
move  he  would  not.  He  shook  his 
head  repeatedly,  in  a  very  solemn 
way,  as  if  he  had  said, "  My  very  ex- 
cel lent  friends,  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you,  but  it  is  impossible ;  my  dignity 
would  be  compromised  by  such  a 
proceeding." 

Presently  N appeared  to  wax 

very  emphatic,  and  pointed  to  a  pin- 
nacle of  limestone  rock,  which  had 
stood  out  like  a  small  steeple  above 
the  surface  of  the  flashing,  dark  red 
eddies,  when  we  first  arrived  on  the 
spot,  but  now  only  stopped  the  water 
with  a  loud  gurgle,  the  top  rising  and 
disappearing  as  the  stream  surged 
past,  like  a  buoy  jangling  in  a  tide- 
way. The  small  man  shook  his  head, 
but  the  water  now  rose  so  rapidly, 
that  there  was  scarcely  dry  standing 
room  for  the  two  poor  devils  of 
mules,  while  the  Doctor  and  the  skip- 
per had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  find- 
ing a  footing  for  themselves. 

Time  and  circumstances  began  to 
press,  and  N ,  after  another  un- 
availing attempt  to  persuade  the 
Doctor,  began  apparently  to  rouse 
himself,  and  muster  his  energies. 
He  first  drove  the  mules  forcibly 
into  the  stream  at  the  side  opposite 
where  we  stood,  which  was  the  deep- 
est water,  and  least  broken  by  rocks 
and  stones,  and  we  had  the  pleasure 
to  see  them  scramble  out  safe  and 
sound ;  he  then  put  his  hand  to  his 
mouth,  and  hailed  us  to  throw  him  a 
rope— it  was  done — he  caught  it,  and 
then  by  a  significant  gesture  to  Cam- 
pana,  gave  him  to  understand  that 
now  was  the  time.  The  Don,  com- 
prehending him,  hove  his  noose  with 
great  precision,  right  over  the  little 
doctor's  head,  and  before  he  reco- 
vered from  his  surprise,  the  Captain 
slipped  it  under  his  arms,  and  signed 
to  haul  taught,  while  the  Medico 


29 

kicked,  and  spurred,  and  backed  like 
a  restive  horse.  At  one  and  the 

same  moment,  N made  fast  a  guy 

round  his  waist,  and  we  hoisted  away, 
while  he  hauled  on  the  other  line, 
so  that  we  landed  the  Lilliputian 
Esculapius  safe  on  the  top  of  the 
bank,  with  the  wind  nearly  out  of  his 
body  from  his  violent  exertions,  and 
the  running  of  the  noose. 

It  was  no xv  the  work  of  a  moment 
for  the  Captain  to  ascend  the  tree 
and  again  warp  himself  ashore,  when 
he  set  himself  to  apologize  with  all 
his  might  and  main,  pleading  strong 
necessity ;  and  having  succeeded  in 
pacifying  the  offended  dignity  of  the 
Doctor,  we  turned  towards  the 
house. 

"  Look  out  there,"  sung  out  Cam- 

?ana  sharply.  Time  indeed,  thought 
t  for  right  a-head  of  us,  as  if  an  invi- 
sible gigantic  ploughshare  had.passed 
over  the  woods,  a  valley  or  chasm 
was  suddenly  opened  down  the  hill- 
side with  a  noise  like  thunder,  and 
branches  and  whole  limbs  of  trees 
were  instantly  torn  away,  and  tossed 
into  the  air  like  straws.  <f  Down  on 
your  noses,  my  fine  fellows,"  cried 
the  skipper.  We  were  all  flat  in  an  in- 
stant except  the  Medico,the  stubborn 
little  brute,  who  stood  until  the  tor- 
nado reached  him,  when  in  a  twink- 
ling he  was  cast  on  his  back,  with 
a  violence,  as  I  thought,  to  have  dri- 
ven his  breath  for  ever  and  aye  out 
of  his  body.  While  we  lay  we  heard 
all  kinds  of  things  hurtle  past  us 
through  the  air,  pieces  of  timber, 
branches  of  trees,  coffee  bushes,  and 
even  stones.  Presently  it  lulled 
again,  and  we  got  upright  to  look 
round  us. 

"  How  will  the  old  house  stand  all 
this,Don  Ricardo?"  said  the  drench- 
ed skipper.  He  had  to  shout  to  be 
heard.  The  Don  was  too  busy  to  an- 
swer, but  once  more  strode  on  to- 
wards the  dwelling,  as  if  he  expect- 
ed something  even  worse  than  we 
had  experienced  to  be  still  awaiting 
us.  By  the  time  we  reached  it,  it 
was  full  of  negroes,  men,  women, 
and  children,  whose  huts  had  al- 
ready been  destroyed,  poor,  drench- 
ed, miserable  devils,  with  scarcely 
any  clothing;  and  to  crown  our  com- 
fort, we  found  the  roof  leaking  in 
many  places.  By  this  time  the  night 
began  to  fall,  and  our  prospects  were 
far  from  flattering.  The  rain  had 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


80 

entirely  ceased,  nor  was  there  any 
lightning,  but  the  storm  was  most 
tremendous,  blowing  in  gusts,  and 
veering  round  from  east  to  north 
with  the  speed  of  thought.  The  force 
of  the  gale,  however,  gradually  de- 
clined, until  the  wind  subsided  alto- 
gether, and  every  thing  was  still. 
The  low  murmured  conversation  of 
the  poor  negroes  who  environed 
us,  was  heard  distinctly;  the  hard 
breathing  of  the  sleeping  children 
could  even  be  distinguished.  But  I 
was  by  no  means  sure  that  the  hur- 
ricane was  over,  and  Don  Ricardo 
and  the  rest  seemed  to  think  as  I  did, 
for  there  was  not  a  word  interchan- 
ged between  us  for  some  time. 

"  Do  you  hear  that  ?"  atlengthsaid 
Aaron  Bang,  as  a  low  moaning  sound 
rose  wailing  into  the  night  air.  It 
approached  and  grew  louder. 

"  The  voice  of  the  approaching 
tempest  amongst  the  higher  branches 
of  the  trees,"  said  the  Captain.  The 
rushing  noise  overhead  increased, 
but  still  all  was  so  calm  where  we 
sat,  that  you  could  have  heard  a  pin 
drop.  Poo,  thought  I,  it  has  passed 
over  us  after  all — no  fear  now,  when 
one  reflects  how  completely  shelter- 
ed we  are.  Suddenly,  however,  the 
lights  in  the  room  where  the  body 
lay  were  blown  out,  and  the  roof 
groaned  and  creaked  as  it  had  been 
the  bulkheads  of  a  ship  in  a  tem- 
pestuous sea. 

"  We  shall  have  to  cut  and  run 
from  this  anchorage  presently,  after 
all,"  said  I;  "  the  house  will  never 
hold  on  till  morning." 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of 
my  mouth,  when,  as  if  a  thunderbolt 
had  struck  it,  one  of  the  windows  in 
the  hall  was  driven  in  with  a  roar, 
as  if  the  Falls  of  Niagara  had  been 
pouring  overhead,  and  the  tempest 
having  thus  forced  an  entrance,  the 
roof  of  that  part  of  the  house  where 
we  sat  was  blown  up,  as  if  by  gun- 
powder— ay,  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye;  and  there  we  were  with  the  bare 
walls,  and  the  angry  heaven  over- 
head, and  the  rain  descending  in 
bucketsful.  Fortunately,  two  large 
joists  or  couples,  being  deeply  em- 
bedded in  the  substance  of  the  walls, 
remained,  when  the  rafters  and  ridge- 
pole were  torn  away,  or  we  must 
have  been  crushed  in  the  ruins. 

There  was  again  a  deathlike  lull, 
the  wind  fell  to  a  small  melancholy 


[Jan. 


sough  amongst  the  tree-tops,  but  as 
before,  where  we  sat,  there  was  not  a 
breath  stirring.  So  complete  was  the 
calm  now,  that  after  a  light  had  been 
struck,  and  placed  on  the  floor  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  shewing  the  sur- 
rounding group  of  shivering  half- 
naked  savages,  with  fearful  distinct- 
ness, the  flame  shot  up  straight  as 
an  arrow,  clear  and  bright,  although 
we  heard  the  distant  roar  of  the 
storm  as  it  rushed  over  the  moun- 
tain above  us. 

This  unexpected  stillness  frighten- 
ed the  women  more  than  the  fierce- 
ness of  the  gale  at  the  loudest  had 
done. 

"  We  must  go  forth,"  said  Sehora 
Campana ;  "  the  elements  are  only 
gathering  themselves  for  a  more 
dreadful  hurricane  than  what  we 
have  already  experienced.  We  must 
go  forth  to  the  little  chapel  in  the 
wood,  or  the  next  burst  may,  and  will, 
bury  us  under  the  walls ;"  and  she 
moved  towards  Maria's  room,  where, 
by  this  time,  lights  had  again  been 
placed.  "  We  must  move  the  body," 
we  could  hear  her  say ;  "  we  must 
all  proceed  to  the  chapel ;  in  a  few 
minutes  the  storm  will  be  raging 
again  as  loud  as  ever." 

"  And  my  wife  is  very  right,"  said 
Don  Ricardo ;  "  so,  Gaspar,  call  the 
other  people ;  have  some  mats,  and 
quatres,  and  mattresses  carried  down 
to  the  chapel,  and  we  shall  all  re- 
move, for,  with  half  of  the  roof  gone, 
it  is  but  tempting  the  Almighty  to  re- 
main here  longer." 

The  word  was  passed,  and  we 
were  soon  under  weigh,  four  negroes 
leading  the  van,  carrying  the  un- 
coffined  body  of  the  poor  girl  on  a 
sofa;  while  two  servants,  with  large 
splinters  of  a  sort  of  resinous  wood 
for  flambeaux,  walked  by  the  side  of 
it.  Next  followed  the  women  of  the 
family,  covered  up  with  all  the  cloaks 
and  spare  garments  that  could  be 
collected;  then  Don  Picador  Can- 
grejo,  with  Ricardo  Campana,  the 
skipper,  Aaron  Bang,  and  myself; 
the  procession  being  closed  by  the 
household  negroes,  with  more  lights, 
which  all  burned  steadily  and  clear. 

We  descended  through  a  magnifi- 
cent natural  avenue  of  lofty  trees 
(whose  brown  moss-grown  trunks 
and  fantastic  boughs  were  strongly 
lit  up  by  the  blaze  of  the  resinous 
torches ;  and  the  fresh  white  splinter- 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


marks  where  the  branches  had  been 
torn  off  by  the  storm,  glanced  bright 
and  clear,  and  the  rain-drops  on  the 
dark  leaves  sparkled  like  diamonds) 
towards  the  river,  along  whose  brink 
the  brimful  red-foaming  waters  rush- 
ed past  us,  close  by  the  edge  of  the 
path.  After  walking  about  four  hun- 
dred yards,  we  came  to  a  small  but 
massive  chapel,  fronting  the  river, 
the  back  part  resting  against  a  rocky 
bank,  with  two  superb  cypress-trees 
growing,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
door;  we  entered,  Padre  Carera 
leading  the  way.  ,The  whole  area  of 
the  interior  of  the  building  did  not 
exceed  a  parallelogram  of  twenty  feet 
by  twelve.  At  the  eastern  end,  front- 
ing the  door,  there  was  a  small  altar- 
piece  of  hard  wood,  richly  ornament- 
ed 'vith  silver,  and  there  was  one  or 
twc  bare  wooden  benches  standing 
on  ,he  tiled  floor;  but  the  chief  se- 
curity we  had  that  the  building 
would  withstand  the  storm,  consist- 
ed in  its  having  no  window  or  aper- 
ture whatsoever,  excepting  two  small 
ports,  one  on  each  side  of  the  altar- 
pie^e,  and  the  door,  which  was  a 
massive  frame  of  hardwood  planking. 
Tho  body  was  deposited  at  the  foot  of 
the  altar,  and  the  ladies,  having  been 
wrapped  up  in  cloaks  and  blankets, 
were  safely  lodged  in  quatres,  while 
we,  the  gentlemen  of  the  comfortless 
party,  seated  ourselves,disconsolate- 
ly  enough,  on  the  wooden  benches. 
The  door  was  made  fast,  after  the 
servants  had  kindled  a  blazing  wood- 
fire  on  the  floor ;  and  although  the 
flickering  light  cast  by  the  wax  ta- 
pers in  the  six  large  silver  candle- 
sticks which  were  planted  beside  the 
bier,  as  it  blended  with  the  red  glare 
of  the  fire,  and  fell  strong  on  the  pale 
uncovered  features  of  the  corpse, 
and  on  the  anxious  faces  of  the  wo- 
men, was  often  startling  enough,  yet 
being  conscious  of  a  certain  degree 
of  security,  from  the  thickness  of 
tho  walls,  we  made  up  our  minds,  as 
wt  11  as  we  could,  to  spend  the  night 
where  we  were. 

'  I  say,  Tom  Cringle,"  said  Aaron 
Br  ng, "  all  the  females  are  snug  there, 
you  see ;  we  have  a  blazing  fire  on 
th  5  hearth,  and  here  is  some  comfort 
for  we  men  slaves  ;"  whereupon  he 
produced  two  bottles  of  brandy. 
Don  Ricardo  Campana,  with  whom 
Bung  seemed  now  to  be  absolutely 
in  league,  or,  in  vulgar  phrase, as  thick 


31 

as  pickpockets,  had  brought  a  goblet 
of  water,  and  a  small  silver  drinking 
cup,  with  him,  so  we  passed  the  crea- 
ture round,  and  tried  all  we  could  to 
while  away  the  tedious  night.  There 
had  been  a  calm  for  a  full  hour  at 
this  time,  and  the  Captain  had  step- 
ped out  to  reconnoitre,  and  on  his 
return  he  had  reported  that  the 
swollen  stream  had  very  much  sub- 
sided. 

"  Well,  we  shall  get  away,  I  hope, 
to-morrow  morning,  after  all,"  whis- 
pered Bang. 

He  had  scarcely  spoken  when  it 
began  to  pelt  and  rain  again,  as  if  a 
waterspout  had  burst  overhead,  but 
there  was  no  wind. 

"  Come,  that  is  the  clearing  up  of 
it,"  said  Cloche. 

At  this  precise  moment  the  priest 
was  sitting  with  folded  arms,  beyond 
the  body,  on  a  stool  or  tressle,  in  the 
little  alcove  or  recess  where  it  lay. 
Right  overhead  was  one  of  the  small 
round  apertures  in  the  gable  of  the 
chapel,  which,  opening  on  the  bank, 
appeared  to  the  eye  a  round  black 
spot  in  the  white-washed  wall.  The 
bright  wax-lights  shed  a  strong  lustre 
on  the  worthy  Clerico's  figure,  face, 
and  fine  bald  head  which  shone  like 
silver,  while  the  deeper  tint  of  the 
embers  on  the  floor  was  reflected  in 
ruby  tints  from  the  large  silver  cruci- 
fix that  hung  at  his  waist.  The  rush- 
ing of  the  swollen  river  prevented 
me  hearing  distinctly,  but  it  occurred 
to  me,  once  or  twice,  that  a  strange 
gurgling  sound  proceeded  from  the 
aforesaid  round  aperture.  The  Pa- 
dre seemed  to  hear  it  also,  for  now 
and  then  he  looked  up,  and  once  he 
rose,  but  apparently  unable  to  distin- 
guish any  thing,  he  sat  down  again. 
However,  my  attention  had  been  ex- 
cited, and  half  asleep  as  I  was,  I  kept 
glimmering  in  the  direction  of  the 
Clerico. 

The  Captain's  deep  snore  had  gra- 
dually lengthened  out,  so  as  to  vouch 
for  his  forgetfulness,  and  Bang  and 
Don  Ricardo,  and  the  Dr  Pavo  Meal, 
and  the  ladies,  had  all  subsided  into 
the  most  perfect  quietude,  when  I 
noticed,  and  I  quaked  and  trembled 
like  an  aspen  leaf  as  I  did  so,  a  long 
black  paw,  thrust  through,  and  down 
from  the  dark  aperture  immediate- 
ly over  Padre  Carera's  head,  until 
it  reached  it,  when,  whatever  it  was, 
it  appeared  to  scratch  him  sharply, 


32 

and  then  giving  him  a  smart  cuff, 
vanished.  The  Priest  started,  put 
up  his  hand,  rubbed  his  head,  and 
seeing  nothing,  again  leant  back,  and 
was  about  departing  to  the  land  of 
nod,  like  the  others,  once  more.  But 
in  a  few  minutes  the  same  black  paw 
was  again  protruded,  and  this  time 
a  peering  black  snout  was  thrust 
through  the  hole  after  it,  with  two 
glancing  eyes,  and  the  paw,  after 
swinging  about  like  a  pendulum  for 
a  few  seconds,  was  suddenly  thrust 
into  the  Padre's  open  mouth  as  he 
lay  back  asleep;  and  then  giving 
him  another  smart  crack,  vanished 
as  before. 

"  Hobble,  gobble,"  gurgled  the 
Priest,  nearly  choked. 

"  Ave  Maria  purissima"  ejacula- 
ted Carera,  "  que  Bocado — what  a 
mouthful !— What  can  that  be  ?" 

This  was  more  than  I  knew,  I  must 
confess,  and  altogether  I  was  con- 
sumedly  puzzled,  but,  from  a  disin- 
clination to  alarm  the  women,  I  held 
my  tongue.  The  Priest  this  time 
moved  away  to  the  other  side  from 
beneath  the  hole,  but  still  within  two 
feet  of  it— in  fact,  he  could  not  get 
in  this  direction  farther  for  the  altar- 
piece — and  being  half  asleep,  he  lay 
back  once  more  against  the  wall  to 
take  his  seat,  taking  the  precaution, 
however,  to  clap  on  his  long  shovel 
hat,  shaped  like  a  small  canoe,  cross- 
wise, with  the  peaks  standing  out 
from  each  side  of  his  head,  in  place 
of  being  worn  fore  and  aft,  as  usual. 
Well,  thought  I,  a  strange  party  cer- 
tainly ;  but  drowsiness  was  fast  set- 
tling down  on  me  also,  when  the 
same  black  paw  was  again  thrust 
through  the  hole,  and  1  distinctly 
heard  a  nuzzling,  whining,  short 
bark.  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and  sat  up, 
but  before  I  was  quite  awake,  the 
head  and  neck  of  a  large  Newfound- 
land dog  was  shoved  into  the  chapel 
through  the  round  aperture,  and  ma- 
king a  long  stretch,  the  black  paws, 
thrust  down  and  resting  on  the  wall, 
supporting  the  creature,  the  animal 
snatched  the  Padre's  hat  off  his  head, 
and  giving  it  an  angry  worry,  as  much 
as  to  say,  Confound  it — I  had  hoped 
to  have  had  the  head  in  it— it  drop- 
ped it  on  the  floor,  and  with  a  loud 
yell,  Sneezer,  my  own  old  dear  Snee- 
zer, leaped  into  the  midst  of  us,  floun- 
dering amongst  the  sleeping  women, 
and  kicking  the  firebrands  about, 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Jan. 


making  them  hiss  again  with  the  wa- 
ter he  shook  from  his  shaggy  Coat, 
and  frightening  all  hands  like  the 
very  devil. 

"  Sneezer,  you  villain,  how  came 
you  here  !"  1  exclaimed,  in  great 
amazement — "  How  came  you  here, 
sir  ?"  The  dog  knew  me,  I  was  per- 
suaded, for  when  benches  were  rear- 
ed against  him,  after  the  women  had 
huddled  into  a  corner,  and  every  thing 
was  in  sad  confusion,  he  ran  to  me, 
and  leaped  on  my  neck,  gasping  and 
yelping,  but  finding  that  I  was  angry, 
and  in  no  mood  for  toying,  he  plant- 
ed himself  on  end  so  suddenly,  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor  close  by  the 
fire,  that  all  our  hands  were  stayed, 
and  no  one  could  find  in  his  heart  to 
strike  the  poor  dumb  brute,  he  sat 
so  quiet  and  motionless.  "  Sneezer, 
my  boy,  what  have  you  to  say — 
where  have  you  come  from  ?"  He 
looked  towards  the  door,  and  then 
walked  deliberately  towards  it,  and 
tried  to  open  it  with  his  paws. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Captain,  "  that 
little  scamp,  who  would  insist  on 
riding  with  me  to  St  Jago,  to  see,  as 
he  said,  if  he  might  not  be  of  use,  in 
fetching  the  surgeon  from  the  ship 
in  case  I  could  not  find  Dr  Ber-, 
gara,  has  returned,  although  I  desi- 
red him  to  stay  on  board.  The  pup- 
py has  returned  in  his  cursed  trou- 
blesome zeal,  for  no  otherwise  could 
your  dog  be  here.  Certainly,  how- 
ever, he  did  not  know  thaj  I  had 
fallen  in  with  Dr  Pavo  Real;"  and 
the  kind-hearted  fellow's  heart  melt- 
ed, as  he  continued — "  Returned—- 
why, he  may  be  drowned — Cringle, 
take  care  little  Reefpoint  be  not 
drowned." 

Sneezer  lowered  his  black  snout, 
and  for  a  moment  poked  it  into  the 
white  ashes  of  the  fire,  and  then 
raising  it  and  stretching  his  neck 
upwards  to  its  full  length,  he  gave  a 
short  bark,  and  then  a  long  loud 
howl. 

"  My  life  upon  it,  the  poor  boy  is 
gone,"  said  I. 

"  But  what  can  we  do  ?"  said  Don 
Ricardo ;  "  it  is  as  dark  as  pitch." 

And  we  again  set  ourselves  to  have 
a  small  rally  at  the  brandy  and  wa- 
ter, as  aresolver  of  our  doubts,  whe- 
ther we  should  sit  still  till  daybreak, 
or  sally  forth  now  and  run  the  chance 
of  being  drowned,  with  but  small 
hope  of  doing  any  good ;  and  the  old 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


priest  having  left  the  other  end  of  the 
chapel,  where  the  ladies  were  once 
more  reposing,  now  came  in  for  his 
siare. 

The  noise  of  the  rain  increased, 
and  there  was  still  a  little  puff  of 
wind  now  and  then,  so  that  the  Pa- 
dre., taking  an  alformbra,  or  small 
mat,  used  to  kneel  on,  and  placing 
it  on  the  step  where  the  folding-doors 
opened  inwards,  took  a  cloak  on  his 
shoulders,  and  sat  himself  down  with 
his  back  against  the  leaves,  to  keep 
them  closed,  as  the  lock  or  bolt  was 
b  -oken,  and  was  in  the  act  of  swig- 
g  ng  off  his  cupful  of  comfort,  when 
a  strong  gust  drove  the  door  open, 
as  if  the  devil  himself  had  kicked  it, 
cnpsized  the  Padre,  blew  out  the 
li  'hts  once  more,  and  scattered  the 

b  -ands  of  the  fire  all  about  us.  N 

and  I  started  up,  the  women  shriek- 
ed, but  before  we  could  get  the 
door  to  again,  in  rode  little  Reef- 
p  )int  on  a  mule,  with  Doctor  Plaget 
oi  the  Firebrand  behind  him,  bound, 
or  lashed,  as  we  call  it,  to  him  by  a 
strong  thong.  The  black  servants 
and  the  females  took  them  for  incar- 
nate fiends,  I  fancy,  for  the  yells  and 
shrieks  that  were  set  up  were  tre- 
ncendous. 

"  Yo  ho  !"  sung  out  little  Reefy; 
"  don't  be  frightened,  ladies — Lord 
love  ye,  I  am  half  drowned,  and  the 
Doctor  here  is  -altogether  so — quite 
entirely  drowned,  I  assure  you. — I 
say,  Medico,  an't  it  true  ?"  And  the 
liitle  Irish  rogue  slewed  his  head 
round  and  gave  the  exhausted  Doc- 
tor a  most  comical  look. 

"  Not  quite,"  quoth  the  Doctor, "  but 
deuced  near  it.  [  say,  Captain,  would 
you  have  known  us  ?  why,  we  are 
dyed  chocolate  colour,  you  see,  in 
that  river,  flowing  not  with  milk  and 
honey,  but  with  something  miracu- 
lously like  peasesoup — water  I  can- 
not call  it." 

"  But  Heaven  help  us,  why  did 
you  try  the  ford,  man  ?"  said  Bang. 

"  You  may  say  that,  sir,"  respond- 
ed wee  Reefy;  "  but  our  mule  was 
ki  locked  up,  and  it  was  so  dark  and 
tempestuous,  that  we  should  have 
p<  rished  by  the  road  if  we  had  tried 
b,-:ck  for  St  Jago ;  so  seeing  a  light 
here,  the  only  indication  of  a  living 
thing,  and  the  stream  looking  nar- 
row and  comparatively  quiet — con- 
found it,  it  was  all  the  deeper  though 
—-we  shoved  across." 

"  But,  bless  me,  if  you  had  been 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIII. 


33 

thrown  in  the  stream,  lashed  toge- 
ther as  you  are,  you  would  have  been 
drowned  to  a  certainty,"  said  the 
Captain. 

"  Oh,"  said  little  Reefy,  "the  Doc- 
tor was  not  on  the  mule  in  crossing 
— no,  no,  Captain,  I  knew  better — I 
had  him  in  tow,  sir;  but  after  we 
crossed  he  was  so  faint  and  chill,  that 
I  had  to  lash  myself  to  him  to  keep 
him  from  sliding  over  the  animal's 
counter,  and  walk  he  could  not." 

"But,  Master  Reefpoint,  why  came 
you  back  ?  did  I  not  desire  you  to  re- 
main in  the  Firebrand,  sir  ?" 

The  midshipman  looked  nonplus- 
sed. "  Why,  Captain,  I  forgot  to  take 
my  clothes  with  me,  and — and — in 
truth,  sir,  I  thought  our  surgeon 
would  be  of  more  use  than  any  out- 
landish Gallipot  that  you  could  carry 
back." 

The  good  intentions  of  the  lad 
saved  him  farther  reproof,  although 
I  could  not  help  smiling  at  his  coming 
back  for  his  clothes,  when  his  whole 
wardrobe  on  starting  was  confined 
to  the  two  false  collars  and  a  tooth- 
brush. 

"But  where  is  the  young  lady  ?" 
said  the  Doctor. 

"  Beyond  your  help,  my  dear  Doc- 
tor," said  the  skipper;  "  she  is  dead 
—all  that  remains  of  her  you  see 
within  that  small  railing  there." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !"  quoth  the  Medico, 
"  poor  girl — poor  girl — deep  decline 
—-wasted,  terribly  wasted,"  said  he, 
as  he  returned  from  the  railing  of 
the  altar-piece,  where  he  had  been 
to  look  down  upon  the  body ;  and 
then,  as  if  there  never  had  been  such 
a  being  as  poor  Maria  Olivera  in 
existence,  he  continued,  "  Pray,  Mr 
Bang,  what  may  you  have  in  that 
bottfe?" 

"  Brandy,  to  be  sure,  Doctor,"  said 
Bang. 

"A  thimbleful  then,  if  you  please." 

"  By  all  means" — and  the  planting 
attorney  handed  the  black  bottle  to 
the  surgeon,  who  applied  it  to  his 
lips,  without  more  circumlocution. 

"  Lord  love  us  ! — poisoned — Oh, 
gemini !" 

"  Why, Doctor,"  saidN , "  what 

has  come  over  you?" 

"  Poisoned,  Captain — only  taste.'* 

The  bottle  contained  soy.  It  was 
some  time  before  we  could  get  the 
poor  man  quieted ;  and  when  at 
length  he  was  stretched  along  a 
bench,  and  the  fire  was  stirred  up, 
C 


34 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Jan. 


and  new  wood  added  to  it,  the  fresh 
air  of  early  morning  began  to  be 
scented.  At  this  time  we  missed 
Padre  Carera,  and,  in  truth,  we  all 
fell  fast  asleep ;  but  in  about  an  hour 
or  so  afterwards,  I  was  awoke  by 
some  one  stepping  across  me.  The 

same  cause  had  stirred  N -.    It 

was  Aaron  Bang,  who  had  been  to 
look  out  at  the  door. 

"  I  say,  Cringle,  look  here — the 
Padre  and  the  servants  are  digging 
a  grave  close  to  the  chapel — are  they 
going  to  bury  the  poor  girl  so  sud- 
denly ?" 

I  stepped  to  the  door,  the  wind 
had  entirely  fallen — but  the  rain  fell 
fast — the  small  chapel  door  looked 
out  on  the  still  swollen,  but  subsi- 
ding river,  and  beyond  that  on  the 
mountain,  which  rose  abruptly  from 
the  opposite  bank.  On  the  side  of 
the  hill  was  situated  a  negro  village, 
of  about  thirty  huts,  where  lights 
were  already  twinkling,  as  if  the  in- 
mates were  preparing  to  go  forth  to 
their  work.  Far  above  them,  on  the 
ridge,  there  was  a  clear  cold  streak 
towards  the  east,  against  which  the 
outline  of  the  mountain,  and  the 
large  trees  which  grew  on  it,  were 
sharply  cut  out;  but  overhead,  the 
firmament  was  as  yet  dark  and  threat- 
ening. The  morning  star  had  just 
risen,  and  was  sparkling  bright  and 
clear  through  the  branches  of  a  mag- 
nificent tree,  that  shot  out  from  the 
highest  part  of  the  hill ;  it  seemed 
to  have  attracted  the  Captain's  at- 
tention as  well  as  mine. 

"  Were  I  romantic  now,  Mr  Crin- 
gle, I  could  expatiate  on  that  view. 
How  cold,  and  clear,  and  chaste, 
every  thing  looks  ! ,  The  elements 
have  subsided  into  a  perfect  calm, 
every  thing  is  quiet  and  still,  but 
there  is  no  warmth,  no  comfort  in 
the  scene." 

"  What  a  soaking  rain !"  said  Aaron 
Bang ;  "  why,  the  drops  are  as  small 
as  pin  points,  and  so  thick! — a 
Scotch  mist  is  a  joke  to  them.  Un- 
usual all  this,  Captain.  You  know 
our  rain  in  Jamaica  usually  descends 
in  bucketsful,  unless  it  be  regularly 
set  in  for  a  week,  and  then,  but  then 
only,  it  becomes  what  ^in  England 
we  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  a  soak- 
ing rain.  One  good  thing,  however, 
—while  it  descends  so  quietly,  the 
earth  will  absorb  it  all,  and  that  furi- 
ous river  will  not  continue  swollen." 
"  Probably  not,"  said  I, 


"  Mr  Cringle,"  said  the  skipper, 
"  do  you  mark  that  tree  on  the  ridge 
of  the  mountain,  that  large  tree  in 
such  conspicuous  relief  against  the 
eastern  sky  ?" 

"  I  do,  Captain.  But — heaven  help 
us  ! — what  necromancy  is  this !  It 
seems  to  sink  into  the  mountain  top 
— why,  I  only  see  the  uppermost 
branches  now.  It  has  disappeared, 
and  yet  the  outline  of  the  hill  is  as 
distinct  and  well  defined  as  ever ;  I 
can  even  see  the  cattle  on  the  ridge, 
although  they  are  running  about  in 
a  very  incomprehensible  way  cer- 
tainly." 

"  Hush  I"  saidDonRicardo, "  hush! 
—the  Padre  is  reading  the  funeral 
service  in  the  chapel,  preparatory  to 
the  body  being  brought  out." 

And  so  he  was.  But  a  low  grum- 
bling noise,  gradually  increasing, 
was  now  distinctly  audible.  The 
monk  hurried  on  with  the  prescribed 
form — he  finished  it — and  we  were 
about  lifting  the  body  to  carry  it 
forth— Bang  and  I  being  in  the  very 
act  of  stooping  down  to  lift  the  bier, 
when  the  Captain  sung  out  sharp 
and  quick, — "  Here,  Tom  !" — the  ur- 
gency of  the  appeal  abolishing  the 
Mister — "  Here! — zounds,  the  whole 
hill  side  is  in  motion!"  And  as  he 
spoke  I  beheld  the  negro  village,  that 
hung  on  the  opposite  bank,  gradu- 
ally fetch  way,  houses,  trees,  and  all, 
with  a  loud,  harsh,  grating  sound. 

"  God  defend  us  !"  I  involuntarily 
exclaimed. 

"  Stand  clear,"  shouted  the  skipper ; 
"  the  whole  hillside  opposite  is  un- 
der weigh,  and  we  shall  be  bothered 
here  presently." 

He  was  right — the  entire  face  of 
the  hill  over  against  us  was  by  this 
time  in  motion,  sliding  over  the  sub- 
stratum of  rock  like  a  first-rate  gli- 
ding along  the  well-greased  ivays  at 
launching  —  an  earthy  avalanche. 
Presently  the  rough,  rattling,  and 
crashing  sound,  from  the  disrupture 
of  the  soil,  and  the  breaking  of  the 
branches,  and  tearing  up  by  the  roots 
of  the  largest  trees,  gave  warning  of 
some  tremendous  incident.  The 
lights  in  the  huts  still  burned,  but 
houses  and  all  continued  to  slide 
down  the  declivity;  and  anon  a  loud 
startled  exclamation  was  heard  here 
and  there,  and  then  a  pause,  but  the 
low  mysterious  hurtling  sound  never 
ceased. 
At  length  a  loud  and  continuous 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


yell  echoed  along  the  hill-side.  The 
noise  increased — the  rushing  sound 
came  stronger  and  stronger — the  ri- 
ver rose  higher,  and  roared  louder; 
i :  overleaped  the  lintel  of  the  door 
— the  fire  on  the  floor  hissed  for  a 
moment,  and  then  expired  in  smoul- 
dering wreaths  of  white  smoke- — the 
discoloured  torrent  gurgled  into  the 
chapel,  and  reached  the  altar-piece; 
and  while  the  cries  from  the  hill- side 
were  highest,  and  bitterest,  and  most 
despairing,  it  suddenly  filled  the  cha- 
pel to  the  top  of  the  low  door-post; 
and  although  the  large  tapers  which 
had  been  lit  near  the  altar-piece  were 
as  yet  unextinguished,  like  meteors 
sparkling  on  a  troubled  sea,  all  was 
misery  and  consternation.  "  Have 
patience,  and  be  composed,  now," 
s  touted  Don  Ricardol  "  If  it  in- 
creases, we  can  escape  through  the 
a  jertures  here,  behind  the  altar-piece, 
aid  from  thence  to  the  high  ground 
bayond.  The  heavy  rain  has  loosed 
the  soil  on  the  opposite  bank,  and  it 
his  slid  into  the  river-course,  negro 
houses  and  all.  But  be  composed, 
n  y  dears — nothing  supernatural  in 
a  1  this ;  and  rest  assured,  although 
the  river  has  unquestionably  been 
forced  from  its  channel,  that  there  is 
no  danger,  if  you  will  only  maintain 
your  self-possession."  And^there  we 
A\ere — an  inhabitant  of  a  "cold  cli- 
rr  ate  cannot  go  along  with  me  in  the 
description.  We  were  all  alarmed, 
b  it  we  were  not  chilled — cold  is  a 
g  -eat  daunter  of  bravery.  At  New 
Orleans,  the  black  regiments,  in  the 
h  ?at  of  the  forenoon,  were  really  the 
n  ost  efficient  corps  of  the  army ;  but 
ir  the  morning,  when  the  hoar  frost 
vi  as  on  the  long  wire  grass,  they  were 
b  it  as  a  broken  reed.  "  Him  too  cold 
fir  brave  to-day,"  said  the  sergeant 
o'  the  Grenadier  Company  of  the 
Vest  India  regiment,  which  was  bri- 
gided  in  the  ill-omened  advance, 
\\  hen  we  attacked  New  Orleans ;  but 
h  ;re,  having  heat,  and  seeing  none 
o  •  the  women  egregiously  alarmed, 
^  e  all  took  heart  of  grace,  and  really 
tliere^was  no  quailing  amongst  us. 

Seiiora  ^Campana  and  her  two 
n  eces,  Seiiora  Cangrejo  and  her  an- 
g  ;lic  daughter,  had  all  betaken  them- 
selves to  a  sort  of  seat,  enclosing  the 
a  tar  in  a  semicircle,  with  the  pease- 
Boup-coloured  water  up  to  their 
k  ices.  Not  a  word — not  an  excla- 
mation of  fear  escaped  from  them, 


although  the  gushing  eddies  from 
the  open  door  shewed  that  the  soil 
from  the  opposite  hill  was  fast  set- 
tling down,  and  usurping  the  former 
channel  of  the  river.  "  All  very  fine 
this  to  read  of,"  at  last  exclaimed 
Aaron  Bang.  "  Zounds,  we  shall  be 

drowned.  Look  out,  N .  Tom 

Cringle,  look  out ;  for  my  part,  I  shall 
dive  through  the  door,  and  take  my 
chance." 

"  No  use  in  that,"  said  Don  Ricar- 
do ;  "  the  two  round  openings  there 
at  the  west  end  of  the  chapel,  open 
on  a  dry  shelf,  from  which  the  ground 
slopes  easily  upward  to  the  house ; 
let  us  put  the  ladies  through  those, 
and  then  we  males  can  shift  for  our- 
selves as  we  best  may." 

At  this  moment  the  water  rose  so 
high,  that  the  bier  on  which  the 
corpse  of  poor  Maria  Olivera  lay 
stark  and  stiff,  was  floated  off  the 
tressels,  and  turning  on  its  edge, 
after  glancing  for  a  moment  in  the 
light  cast  by  the  wax  tapers,  it  sank 
into  the  thick  brown  water,  and  was 
no  more  seen. 

The  old  Priest  murmured  a  prayer, 
but  the  effect  on  us  was  electric. 
"  Saufe  qui  peut"  was  now  the  cry ; 
and  Sneezer,  quite  in  his  element, 
began  to  cruise  all  about,  threaten- 
ing the  tapers  with  instant  extinction. 
"  Ladies,  get  through  the  holes," 
shouted  Don  Ricardo.  "Captain,  get 
you  out  first." 

"  Can't  desert  my  ship,"  said  the 
gallant  fellow;  "  the  last  to  quit 
where  danger  is,  my  dear  sir.  It  is 
my  charter  ;  but,  Mr  Cringle,  go  you, 
and  hand  the  ladies  out." 

"  I'll  be  damn'd  if  I  do,"  said  I. 
"  Beg  pardon,  sir;  I  simply  mean  to 
say,  that  I  cannot  usurp  the  pas  from 
you." 

"  Then,"  quoth  Don  Ricardo— a 
more  discreet  personage  than  any 
one  of  us — "  I  will  go  myself;"  and 
forthwith  he  screwed  himself  through 
one  of  the  round  holes  in  the  wall 
behind  the  altar-piece.  "  Give  me 
out  one  of  the  wax  tapers — there  is 
no  wind  now,"  said  Don  Ricardo ; 
"  and  hand  out  my  wife,  Captain 
N ." 

"  Ave  Maria  /"  said  the  matron, 
"  I  shall  never  get  through  that  hole." 

"  Try,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Bang, 
for  by  this  time  we  were  all  deuced- 
ly  alarmed  at  our  situation.  "  Try, 
madam ;"  and  we  lifted  her  towards 


£«  Tom  Cringle's  Log. 

r!af  9/il  no  bms  •  Jo<ji  bail>nj/f 
the  hole — fairly  entered  her  into  it 
head  foremost,  and  all  was  smooth, 
till  a  certain  part  of  the  excellent 
woman's  earthly  tabernacle  stuck 
fast. 

We  could  hear  her  invoking  all  the 
saints  in  the  calendar  on  the  out- 
side to  "  make  her  thin;"  but  the 
flesh  and  muscle  were  obdurate — 
through  she  would  not  go,  until — 
delicacy  being  now  blown  to  the 

winds — Captain  N placed  his 

shoulder  to  the  old  lady's  extremity, 
and  with  a  regular  "  Oh,  heave,  oh  I" 
shot  her  through  the  aperture  into 
her  husband's  arms.  The  young  la- 
dies we  ejected  much  more  easily. 
The  Priest  was  next  passed,  and  so 
we  went  on,  until  in  rotation  we  had 
all  made  our  exit,  and  were  perched 
shivering  on  the  high  bank.  God 
defend  us!  we  had  not  been  a  mi- 
nute there,  when  the  rushing  of  the 
streamincreased— therain once  more 
fell  in  torrents — several  large  trees 
came  down  with  a  fearful  impetus 
in  the  roaring  torrent,  and  struck  the 
corner  of  the  chapel.  It  shook — we 
could  see  the  small  cross  on  the  east- 
ern gable  tremble.  Another  stump 
surged  against  it — it  gave  way — and 
in  a  minute  afterwards,  there  was 
not  a  vestige  remaining  of  the  whole 
fabric. 

"  What  a  funeral  for  thee,  Maria!" 
said  Don  Ricardo. 

Not  a  vestige  of  the  body  was  ever 
found. 

There  was  nothing  now  for  it. 
We  all  stopped,  and  turned,  and 
looked — there  was  not  a  stone  of  the 
building  to  be  seen — all  was  red  pre- 
cipitous bank,  or  dark  flowing  river 
— so  we  turned  our  steps  towards 
the  house.  The  sun  by  this  time  had 
risen.  We  found  the  northern  range 
of  rooms  were  entire,  and  we  now 
made  the  most  of  it ;  and,  by  dint  of 
the  Captain's  and  my  nautical  skill, 
we  had,  before  dinner-time,  rigged  a 
canvass-jury-roof  over  the  southern 
part  of  the  fabric,  and  were  once 
more  sat  down  in  comparative  com- 
fort at  our  meal.  But  it  was  all  me- 
lancholy work  enough.  However,  at 
last  we  retired  to  our  beds;  and 
next  morning,  when  I  awoke,  there 
was  the  small  stream  once  more 
trickling  over  the  face  of  the  rock, 
with  the  slight  spray  wafting  into 
my  bed-room,  as  quietly  as  if  no 
storm  had  taken  place. 


[Jan. 

We  were  kept  at  Don  Picador's 
for  three  days,  as,  from  the  shooting 
of  the  soil  from  the  opposite  hill,  the 
river  had  been  dammed  up,  and  its 
channel  altered,  so  that  there  was 
no  venturing  across.  Three  negroes 
were  unfortunately  drowned,  when 
the  bank  shot,  as  Bang  called  it.  But 
the  wonder  passed  away;  and  by 
nine  o'clock  on  the  third  day,  when 
we  mounted  our  mules  to  proceed, 
there  was  little  apparently  on  the  fair 
face  of  nature  to  mark  that  such 
fearful  scenes  had  been.  However, 
when  we  did  get  under  weigh,  we 
found  that  the  hurricane  had  not 
passed  over  us  without  leaving  fear- 
ful evidences  of  its  violence. 

We  had  breakfasted — the  women 
had  wept— Don  Ricardo  had  blown 
his  nose — Aaron  Bang  had  blunder- 
ed and  fidgeted  about — and  the  bes- 
tias  were  at  the  door.  We  embraced 
the  ladies.  "  My  son,"  said  Senora 
Cangrejo, "  we  shall  most  likely  never 
meet  again.  You  have  your  country 
to  go  to — you  have  a  mother.  Oh, 
may  she  never  suffer  the  pangs  which 
have  wrung  my  heart !  But  I  know — 
I  know  that  she  never  will."  I  bowed. 
"  We  may  never — indeed,  in  all  like- 
lihood we  shall  never  meet  again !" 
continued  she,  in  a  rich,  deep-toned, 
mellow  voice;  "  but  if  your  way  of 
life  should  ever  lead  you  to  Cordova, 
you  will  be  sure  of  having  many  vi- 
sitors, if  you  will  but  give  out  that 
you  have  shewn  kindness  to  Maria 
Olivera,  or  to  any  one  connected 
with  her."  She  wept — and  bent  over 
me,  pressing  both  her  hands  on  the 
crown  of  my  head.  "  May  that  great 
God,  who  careth  not  for  rank  or  sta- 
tion, for  nation  or  for  country,  bless 
you,  my  son — bless  you!" 

All  this  was  sorry  work.  She  kiss- 
ed me  on  the  forehead,  and  turned 
away.  Her  daughter  was  standing 
close  to  her,  "  like  Niobe,  all  tears." 
"  Farewell,  Mr  Cringle — may  you  be 
happy !"  I  kissed  her  hand — she  turn- 
ed to  the  Captain.  He  looked  in- 
expressible things,  and  taking  her 
hand,  held  it  to  his  breast;  and  then, 
making  a  slight  genuflexion,  pressed 
it  to  his  lips.  He  appeared  to  be 
amazingly  energetic,  and  she  seem- 
ed to  struggle  to  be  released.  He 
recovered  himself,  however — made 
a  solemn  bow — the  ladies  vanished. 
We  shook  hands  with  old  Don  Pica- 
dor, mounted  our  mules,  and  bid  a 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


last  adieu  to  the  Valley  of  the  Hurri- 
cane. 

We  ambled  along  for  some  time 
in  silence.  At  length  the  skipper 
dropped  astern,  until  he  got  along- 
side of  me.  "  I  say,  Tom" — I  was 
well  aware  that  he  never  called  me 
Tom  unless  his  heart  was  full,  ho- 
nest man — "  Tom,  what  think  you  of 
Francesca  Cangrejo  ?" 

Oh  ho !  sits  the  wind  in  that  quar- 
1  er  ?  thought  I.  "  Why,  I  don't  know, 
Captain — I  have  seen  her  to  disad- 
vantage— so  much  misery — fine  wo- 
man though — rather  large  to  my  taste 
—but" 

"  Confound  your  buts"  quoth  the 
Captain.  "  But,  never  mind — push 
on,  push  on." — (I  may  tell  the  gentle 
reader  in  his  ear,  that  the  worthy  fel- 
;ow,  at  the  moment  when  I  send  this 
chapter  to  the  press,  has  his  flag,  and 
•Jiat  Francesca  Cangrejo  is  no  less  a 
personage  than  his  wife.) 

However,  let  us  get  along.  "Doc- 
tor Pavo  Real"  said  Don  Ricardo, 
s<  now  since  you  have  been  good 
enough  to  spare  us  a  day,  let  us  get 
the  heart  of  your  secret  out  of  you. 
Why,  you  must  have  been  pretty 
well  frightened  on  the  island  there." 

"  Never  so  much  frightened  in  my 
life,  Don  Ricardo ;  that  English  cap- 
tain is  a  most  tempestuous  man — but 
all  has  ended  well ;  and  after  having 
seen  you  to  the  crossing,  I  will  bid 
you  good-bye." 

"  Poo — nonsense.  Come  along — 
here  is  the  English  medico,  your  bro- 
ther Esculapius ;  so,  come  along,  you 
can  return  in  the  morning." 

"  But  the  sick  folks  in  San- 
tiago !" 

"  Will  be  none  the  sicker  of  your 
absence,  Doctor  Pavo  Heal"  re- 
sponded Don  Ricardo. 

The  little  Doctor  laughed,  and  away 
we  all  cantered — Don  Ricardo  lead- 
ing, followed  by  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ters on  three  stout  mules,  sitting,  not 
on  side-saddles,  but  on  akind  of  chair, 
with  a  foot-board  on  the  larboard 
side  to  support  the  feet — then  fol- 
lowed the  two  Galens,  and  littleReef- 
point,while  the  Captain  and  I  brought 
up  the  rear.  We  had  not  proceeded 
five  hundred  yards,  when  we  were 
brought  to  a  stand-still  by  a  mighty 
tree,  which  had  been  thrown  down 
by  the  wind  right  across  the  road. 
On  the  right  hand,  there  was  a  per- 
pendicular rock  rising  up  ^  a  height 


37 

of  five  hundred  feet;  and  on  the  left, 
an  equally  precipitous  descent,  with- 
out either  ledge  or  parapet  to  pre- 
vent one  from  falling  over.  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  We  could  not  by 
any  exertion  of  strength  remove  the 
tree ;  and  if  we  sent  back  for  assist- 
ance, it  would  have  been  a  work  of 
time.  So  we  dismounted,  got  the  la- 
dies to  alight, — and  Aaron  Bang, 

N ,  and  myself,  like  true  knights 

errant,  undertook  to  ride  the  mulos 
over  the  stump. 

Aaron  Bang  led  gallantly,  and 
made  a  deuced  good  jump  of  it— 

N followed,  and  made  not  quite 

so  clever  an  exhibition — I  then  rat- 
tled at  it,  and  down  came  mule  and 
rider.  However,  we  were  accounted 
for  on  the  right  side. 

"  But  what  shall  become  of  us  ?" 
shouted  the  English  Doctor. 

"  And  as  for  me,  I  shall  return," 
said  the  Spanish  medico. 

"  Lord  love  you,  no,"  said  little 
Reefpoint;  "  here,  lash  me  to  my 
beast,  and  no  fear."  Plaget  made 
him  fast,  as  desired, round  the  mule's 
neck,  with  a  stout  thong,  and  then 
drove  him  at  the  barricade,  and  over 
they  came,  man  and  beast,  although, 
to  tell  the  truth,  little  Reefy  alighted 
well  out  on  the  neck,  with  a  hand 
grasping  each  ear.  However,  he  was 
a  gallant  little  fellow,  and  in  nowise 
discouraged,  so  he  undertook  to 
bring  over  the  other  quadrupeds; 
and  in  little  more  than  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  we  were  all  under  weigh  on 
the  opposite  side,  in  full  sail  towards 
Don  Ricardo's  property.  But  as  we 
proceeded  up  the  valley,  the  destruc- 
tion caused  by  the  storm  became 
more  and  more  apparent.  Trees 
were  strewn  about  in  all  directions, 
having  been  torn  up  by  the  roots- 
road  there  was  literally  none ;  and 
by  the  time  we  reached  the  coftee 
estate,  after  a  ride,  or  scramble, 
more  properly  speaking,  of  three 
hours,  we  were  all  pretty  much  tired. 
In  some  places  the  road  at  the  best 
was  but  a  rocky  shelf  of  limestone 
not  exceeding  12  inches  in  width, 
where,  if  you  had  slipped,  down  you 
would  have  gone  a  thousand  feet. 
At  this  time  it  was  white  and  clean 
as  if  it  had  been  newly  chiselled,  all 
the  soil  and  sand  having  been  washed 
away  by  the  recent  heavy  rains. 

The  situation  was  beautiful ;  the 
Ibouse  stood  on  a  platform  scarped 


98 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Jan. 


out  of  the  hillside,  with  a  beautiful 
view  of  the  whole  country  down  to 
St  Jago.  The  accommodation  was 
good ;  more  comforts,  more  English 
comforts,  in  the  mansion,  than  I  had 
yet  seen  in  Cuba;  and  as  it  was  built 
of  solid  slabs  of  limestone,  and 
roofed  with  strong  hardwood  tim- 
bers and  rafters,  and  tiled,  it  had 
sustained  comparatively  little  injury, 
as  it  had  the  advantage  of  being  at 
the  same  time  sheltered  by  the  over- 
hanging cliff.  It  stood  in  the  middle 
of  a  large  platform  of  hard  sun-dried 
clay,  plastered  over,  and  as  white  as 
chalk,  which  extended  about  forty 
feet  from  the  eaves  of  the  house,  in 
every  direction,  on  which  the  coffee 
was  cured.  This  platform  was  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  the  greenest 
grass  I  had  ever  seen,  and  oversha- 
dowed, not  the  house  alone,  but  the 
whole  level  space,  by  one  vast  wild 
fig-tree. 

"  I  say,  Tom,  do  you  see  that 
Scotchman  hugging  the  Creole,  eh  ?" 

"  Scotchman !"  said  I,  looking  to- 
wards Don  Ricardo,  who  certainly 
did  not  appear  to  be  particularly 
amorous ;  on  the  contrary,  we  had 
just  alighted,  and  the  worthy  man 
was  enacting  groom. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Bang,  "  the 
Scotchman  hugging  the  Creole;  look 
at  that  tree— do  you  see  the  trunk  of 
it?" 

I  did  look  at  it.  It  was  a  magnifi- 
cent cedar,  with  a  tall  straight  stem 
covered  over  with  a  curious  sort  of 
fretwork,  wove  by  the  branches  of 
some  strong  parasitical  plant,  which 
had  warped  itself  round  and  round 
it,  by  numberless  snakelike  convolu- 
tions, as  if  it  had  been  a  vegetable 
Laocoon.  The  tree  itself  shot  up 
branchless  to  the  uncommon  height 
of  fifty  feet ;  the  average  girth  of  the 
trunk  being  four  and  twenty  feet,  or 
eight  feet  in  diameter.  The  leaf  of 
the  cedar  is  small,  not  unlike  the 
ash ;  but  when  I  looked  up,  I  noticed 
that  the  feelers  of  this  ligneous  ser- 
pent had  twisted  round  the  larger 
boughs,  and  blended  their  broad 
leaves  with  those  of  the  tree,  so  that 
it  looked  like  two  trees  grafted  into 
one ;  but,  as  Aaron  Bang  said,  in  a 
very  few  years  the  cedar  would  en- 
tirely disappear,  its  growth  being  im- 
peded, its  pith  extracted,  and  its  core 
rotted,  by  the  baleful  embraces  of 
the  wild  fig,  of  "  this  Scotchman  hug- 


ging the  Creole"  After  we  had  fairly 
shaken  into  our  places,  there  was 
every  promise  of  a  very  pleasant  vi- 
sit. Our  host  had  a  tolerable  cellar, 
and  although  there  was  not  much  of 
style  in  his  establishment,  still  there 
was  a  fair  allowance  of  comfort, 
every  thing  considered.  The  even- 
ing after  we  arrived  was  most  beau- 
tiful. The  house,  situated  on  its  white 
plateau  of  barbicues,  as  the  coffee  plat- 
forms are  called,  where  large  piles  of 
the  berries  in  their  red  cherrylike 
husks  had  been  blackening  in  the  sun 
the  whole  forenoon,  and  on  which  a 
gang  of  negroes  was  now  employed 
covering  them  up  with  tarpawlings 
for  the  night,  stood  in  the  centre  of 
an  amphitheatre  of  mountains,  the 
front  box  as  it  were,  the  stage  part 
opening  on  a  bird's  eye  view  of  the 
distant  town  and  harbour,  with  the 
everlasting  ocean  beyond  it,  the  cur- 
rents and  flaws  of  wind  making  its 
surface  look  like  ice,  as  we  were  too 
distant  to  discern  the  heaving  of  the 
swell,  or  the  motion  of  the  billows. 
The  fast  falling  shades  of  evening 
were  aided  by  the  sombrous  shadow 
of  the  immense  tree  over  head,  and 
all  down  in  the  deep  valley  was  now 
dark  and  undistinguishable ;  and  the 
blue  vapours  were  gradually  floating 
up  towards  us.  To  the  left  hand,  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  Horseshoe  Hill 
the  sunbeams  still  lingered,  and  the 
gigantic  shadows  of  the  trees  on 
the  right  hand  prong  were  strongly 
cast  across  the  valley  on  a  red  pre- 
cipitous bank  near  the  top  of  it.  The 
sun  was  descending  beyond  the 
wood,  flashing  through  the  branches, 
as  if  they  had  been  on  fire.  He  disap- 
peared. It  was  a  most  lovely  still 
evening — the  air — but  hear  the  skip- 
per— 

"  It  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs 

The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard; 
It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper'd  word ; 
And  gentle  winds  and  waters  near, 

Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 
Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 
And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met, 
And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 
And  on  the  leaf  is  browner  hue, 
And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 
So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure, 
Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 
When  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon 
away." 


J833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


"  Well  recited,  skipper,"  shouted 
Bang.  "  Given  as  the  noble  poet's 
^erses  should  be  given.  I  did  not 
know  the  extent  of  your  accomplish- 
ments; grown  poetical  ever  since 
you  saw  Francesca  Cangrejo,  eh  ?" 

The  darkness  hid  the  gallant  Cap- 
tain's blushes,  if  blush  he  did. 

"  I  say,  Don  Ricardo,  who  are 
those  ?" — half  a  dozen  well  clad  ne- 
groes had  approached  the  house  by 
this  time — "Ask  them,  Mr  Bang;  take 
vour  friend  Mr  Cringle  for  an  inter- 
preter." 

"Well,  I  will.  Tom,  who  are  they? 
Ask  them— do." 

I  put  the  question,  "  Do  you  be- 
long to  the  property  ?" 

The  foremost,  a  handsome  negro, 
imswered  me,  "  No,  we  don't,  sir ; 
it  least,  not  till  to-morrow." 

"  Not  till  to-morrow  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  Somos  Cabatteros  hoy" 
f<<  we  are  gentlemen  to-day.") 
^  "   Gentlemen  to-day;  and,  pray, 
tvhat  shall  you  be  to-morrow  ?" 

"Esclavos  otra  ves,"  ("  slaves  again, 
sir,"),  rejoined  the  poor  fellow,  no- 
ways daunted. 

"  And  you,  my  darling,"  said  I  to 
a  nice  well-dressed  girl,  who  seemed 
to  be  the  sister  of  the  spokesman, 
"  what  are  you  to-day,  may  I  ask  ?" 

She  laughed—"  Esclavo,  a  slave 
to-day,  but  to-morrow  I  shall  be 
free." 

"  Very  strange." 

"  Not  at  all,  Senor ;  there  are  six 
of  us  in  a  family,  and  one  of  us  is 
free  each  day,  all  to  father  there," 
pointing  to  an  old  greyheaded  ne- 
gro, who  stood  by,  leaning  on  his 
staff — "  he  is  free  two  days  in  the 
week ;  and  as  I  am  going  to  have  a 
child," — a  cool  admission, — "  I  want 
to  buy  another  day  for  myself  too — 
but  Don  Ricardo  will  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

The  Don  by  this  time  chimed  in, 
talking  kindly  to  the  poor  creatures  ; 
but  we  had  to  retire,  as  dinner  was 
now  announced,  to  which  we  sat 
down, 

Don  Ricardo  had  been  altogether 
Spanish  in  Santiago,  because  he  lived 
there  amongst  Spaniards,  and  every 
thing  was  Spanish  about  him;  so  with 
the  tact  of  his  country  men  he  had  gra- 
dually been  merging  into  the  society 
in  which  he  moved,  and  at  length  ha- 
ving married  a  very  high  caste  Spa- 
nish lady,  he  became  regularly  amal- 


gamated with  the  community.  But 
here  in  his  mountain  retreat,  sole 
master,  his  slaves  in  attendance  on 
him,  he  was  once  more  an  English- 
man, in  externals,  as  he  always  was 
at  heart,  and  Richie  Cloche  from 
the  Lang  Toon  of  Kirkaldy,  shone 
forth  in  all  his  glory  as  the  kind- 
hearted  landlord.  His  head  house- 
hold servant  was  an  English,  or 
rather  a  Jamaica  negro ;  his  equip- 
ment, so  far  as  the  dinner  set  out 
was  concerned,  was  pure  English; 
he  would  not  even  speak  any  thing 
but  English  himself. 

The  entertainment  was  exceeding- 
ly good,  the  only  thing  that  puzzled 
we  uninitiated  subjects,  was  a  fri- 
cassee of  Macaca  worms,  that  is,  the 
worm  which  breeds  in  the  rotten 
trunk  of  the  cotton-tree,  a  beautiful 
little  insect,  as  big  as  a  miller's 
thumb,  with  a  white  trunk  and  a 
black  head — in  one  word,  a  gigantic 
caterpillar. 

Bang  fed  thereon,  but  it  was  beyond 
my  compass.  However,  all  this  while 
we  were  having  a  great  deal  of  fun, 
when  Senora  Campana  addressed 
her  husband — "  My  dear,  you  are 
now  in  your  English  mood,  so  I  sup- 
pose we  must  go."  We  had  dined 
at  six,  and  it  might  now  be  about 
eight.  Don  Ricardo,  with  all  the 
complacency  in  the  world,  bowed, 
as  much  as  to  say,  you  are  right,  my 
dear,  you  may  go,  when  his  young- 
est niece  addressed  him. 

«  Tio — my  uncle,"  said  she,  in  a 
low  silver-toned  voice, "  Juana  and  I 
have  brought  our  guitars" 

"  Not  another  word  to  be  said," 

quoth  N , — "  the  guitars  by  all 

means." 

The  girls  in  an  instant,  without  any 
preparatory  blushing,  or  other  bo- 
theration, rose,  slipped  their  heads 
and  right  arms  through  the  black  rib- 
bons that  supported  their  instru- 
ments, and  stepped  into  the  middle 
of  the  room. 

"  *  The  Moorish  Maid  of  Grana- 
da,' "  said  Senora  Campana.  They 
nodded. 

"  You  shall  take  Fernando  the 
sailor's  part,"  said  Senora  Candala- 
ria,  the  youngest  sister,  to  Juana, 
"  for  your  voice  is  deeper  than 
mine,  and  I  shall  be  Anna." 

"Agreed,"  said  Juana,  with  a  love- 
ly smile,  and  an  arch  twinkle  of  her 
eye  towards  me,  and  then  launched 


40 

forth  in  full  tide,  accompanying  her 
sweet  and  mellow  voice  on  that  too 
much  neglected  instrument,  the  gui- 
tar. It  was  a  wild,  irregular  sort  of 
ditty,  with  one  or  two  startling  ara- 
besque bursts  in  it.  As  near  as  may 
be,  the  following  conveys  the  mean- 
ing, but  not  the  poetry. 

THE  MOORISH  MAID  OF  GRANADA. 
FERNANDO. 

"  The  setting  moon  hangs  over  the  hill ; 
On  the  dark  pure  breast  of  the  mountain 

lake, 
Still  trembles  her  greenish  silver  wake, 

And  the  blue  mist  floats  over  the  rill. 
And  the  cold  streaks  of  dawning  appear, 
Giving  token  that  sunrise  is  near ; 
And  the  fast  clearing  east  is  flushing, 
And  the  watery  clouds  are  blushing ; 
And  the  day-star  is  sparkling  on  high, 
Like  the  fire  of  my  Anna's  dark  eye  ; 
The  ruby-red  clouds  in  the  east 
Float  like  islands  upon  the  sea, 
When  the  winds  are  asleep  on  its  breast ; 
Ah,  would  that  such  calm  were  for  me! 
And  see  the  first  streamer-like  ray, 
From  the  unrisen  god  of  day, 
Is  piercing  the  ruby- red  clouds, 
Shooting  up  like  golden  shrouds  ; 
And  like  silver  gauze  falls  the  shower, 
Leaving  diamonds  on  bank,  bush,  and 

bower, 
Amidst  many  unopened  flower. 

Why  walks  the  dark  maid  of  Granada  ? 

ANNA. 

"  At  evening  when  labour  is  done, 
And  cooPd  in  the  sea  is  the  sun  ; 
And  the  dew  sparkles  clear  on  the  rose, 
And  the  flowers  are  beginning  to  close, 
Which  at  nightfall  again  in  the  calm 
Their  incense'to  God  breathe  in  balm  ; 
And  the  bat  flickers  up  in  the  sky, 
And  the  beetle  hums  moaningly  by; 
And  to  rest  in  the  brake  speeds  the  deer, 
While  the  nightingale  sings  loud  and  clear. 

"  Scorched  by  the  heat  of  the  sun's  fierce 

light, 
The  sweetest  flowers  are  bending  most 

Upon  their  slender  stems ; 
More  faint  are  they  than  if  tempest  tost, 

Till  they  drink  of  the  sparkling  gems 
That  fall  from  the  eye  of  night. 

"  Hark !  from  lattices  guitars  are  tinkling, 

And  though  in  heaven  the  stars  are 
twinkling, 

No  tell-tale  moon  looks  over  the  moun- 
tain, 

To  peer  at  her  pale  cold  face  in  the 
fountain  j 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Jan. 


And  serenader's  mellow  voice, 
Wailing  of  war,  or  warbling  of  love, 

Of  love,  while  the  melting  maid  of  his 

choice 
Leans  out  from  her  bower  above. 

041  bib  1  niaiauJ  bn&  tti 
"  All  is  soft  and  yielding  towards  night, 
When    blending    darkness    shrouds    all 

from  the  sight; 
But    chaste,  chaste,  is    this  cold,  pure 

light, 
Sang  the  Moorish  maid  of  Granada." 

After  the  song,  we  all  applauded, 
and  the  ladies  having  made  their 
congest  retired.  The  Captain  and  I 
looked  towards  Aaron  Bang  and  Don 
Ricardo;  they  were  tooth  and  nail 
at  something  which  we  could  not 
understand.  So  we  wisely  held  our 
tongues. 

"  Very  strange  all  this,"  quoth 
Bang. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Ricardo.  "  As  I 
tell  you,  every  slave  here  can  have 
himself  or  herself  appraised,  at  any 
time  they  may 'choose,  with  liberty 
to  purchase  their  freedom  day  by 
day." 

"  But  that  would  be  compulsory 
manumission,"  quoth  Bang. 

"And  if  it  be,"  said  Ricardo,  "what 
then  ?  The  scheme  works  wejl  here 
— why  should  it  not  do  so  there — I 
mean  with  you,  who  have  so  many 
advantages  over  us?" 

This  is  an  unentertaining  subject  to 
most  people,  but  having  no  bias  my- 
self, 1  have  considered  it  but  justice 
to  insert  in  my  log  the  following 
letter,  which  Bang,  poor  fellow,  ad- 
dressed to  me,  some  years  after  the 
time  I  speak  of. 


"  MY  DEAR  CRINGLE, 
"  Since  I  last  saw  you  in  London, 
it  is  nearly,  but  not  quite,  three  years 
ago.  I  considered  at  the  time  we 
parted,  that  if  1  lived  at  the  rate  of 
L.3000  a  year,  I  was  not  spending  one- 
half  of  my  average  income,  and  on 
the  faith  of  this  I  did  plead  guilty  to 
my  house  in  Park  Lane,  and  a  car- 
riage for  my  wife, — and,  in  short,  I 
spent  my  L.3000  a-year.  Where  am 
I  now  ?  In  the  old  shop  at  Mammee 
Gully — my  two  eldest  daughters  has- 
tily ordered  out,  shipped,  as  it  were, 
like  two  bales  of  goods  to  Jamaica 
— my  eldest  son  obliged  to  exchange 

from  the Light  Dragoons,  and  to 

enter  a  foot  regiment,  receiving  thg 


difference,  which  but  cleared  him 
from  his  mess  accounts.  But  the 
world  says  I  was  extravagant.  Like 
T:mon,  however— No,  damn  Timon. 
I  spent  money  when  I  thought  I  had 
it,  and  therein  I  did  no  more  than 
the  Duke  of  Bedford,  or  Lord  Gros- 
venor,  or  many  another  worthy  peer ; 
and  now  I  no  longer  have  it,  why,  I 
cut  my  coat  by  my  cloth,  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  perpetual  banish- 
ment here,  and  I  owe  no  man  a  far- 
thing. 

"  But  all  this  is  wandering  from 
the  subject.     We  are  now  asked  in 
direct  terms  to  free  our  slaves.     I 
will  not  Sven  glance  at  the  injustice 
ofthisdemandjthehorribleinfraction 
of  rights  that  it  would  lead  to;  all  this 
I  \vill  leave  untouched ;  but,  my  dear 
fellow,  were  men  in  your  service  or 
the  army  to  do  us  justice,  each  in  his 
small  sphere  in  England,  how  much 
good  might  you  not  do  us  ?  Officers 
of  rank  are,  of  all  others,  the  most 
influential  witnesses  we  could  ad- 
duce, if  they,  like  you,  have  had  op- 
portunities   of  judging    for    them- 
selves.  But  I  am  rambling  from  my 
object.     You  may   remember  our 
escapade  into  Cuba,  a  thousand  years 
a£  o,  when  you  were  a  lieutenant  of 
the  Firebrand.     Well,  you  may  re- 
member Don  Ricardo's  doctrine  re- 
gnrding  the  gradual  emancipation  of 
the  negroes,  and  how  we  saw  his 
plan  in  full  operation — at  least  I  did, 
for  you  knew  little  of  these  matters. 
Well,  last  year  I  made  a  note  of  what 
then  passed,  and  sent  it  to  an  emi- 
nent West  India  merchant  in  Lon- 
don, who  had  it  published  in  the 
C  ourier,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  please 
either  one  party  or  the  other ;  a  sig- 
nal proof,  one  would  have  thought, 
tl  at  there  was  some  good  in  it.     At 
a  later  period,  I  requested  the  same 
gentleman  to  have  it  published  in 
Blackwood,  where  it  would  at  least 
huve   had  a  fair  trial   on  its   own 
merits,  but  it  was  refused  insertion. 
TViy  very  worthy  friend,  *  *  *  who 
a<  ted   for  old  Kit  at  that  time  as 
S(  cretary  of  state  for    colonial    af- 
IV  irs,  did  not  like  it,  I  presume ;  it 
trenched  a  little,  it  would  seem,  on 
tie  integrity  of  his  great  question; 
it  approached  to  something  like  com- 
pulsory manumission,  about  which  he 
does  rave.     Why  will  he  not  think 
611  this  subject  like  a  Christian  man  ? 
The  country — I  say  so — will  never 
sanction  the  retaining  in  bondage  of 


Tom  Cringle's  Log.  41 

any  slave,  who  is  willing  to  pay  his 
master  his  fair  appraised  value. 


Our  friend  *  *  *  injures  us,  and 
himself  too,  a  leetle  by  his  ultra  no- 
tions. However,  hear  what  I  pro- 
pose, and  what,  as  I  have  told  you 
formerly,  was  published  in  the  Cou- 
rier by  no  less  a  man  than  Lord . 

"  '  Scheme  for  the  gradual  Aboli- 
tion of  Slavery. 

"  '  The  following  scheme  of  re- 
demption for  the  slaves  in  our  colo- 
nies is  akin  to  a  practice  that  pre- 
vails in  some  of  the  Spanish  settle- 
ments. 

"  '  We  have  now  bishops,  (a  most 
excellent  measure,)  and  we  may  pre- 
sume that  the  inferior  clergy  will  be 
much  more  efficient  than  heretofore. 
It  is  therefore  proposed, — That  every 
slave,  on  attaining  the  age  of  twenty- 
one  years,  should  be,  by  act  of  Par- 
liament, competent  to  apply  to  his 
parish  clergyman,  and  signify  his  de- 
sire to  be  appraised.  The  clergy- 
man's business  would  then  be  to  se- 
lect two  respectable  appraisers  from 
amongst  his  parishioners,  who  should 
value  the  slave,  calling  in  an  umpire 
if  they  disagreed. 

"  *  As  men  even  of  good  principles 
will  often  be  more  or  less  swayed 
by  the  peculiar  interests  of  the  body 
to  which  they  belong,  the  rector 
should  be  instructed,  if  he  saw  any 
flagrant  swerving  from  an  honest 
appraisement,  to  notify  the  same  to 
his  bishop,  who,  by  application  to 
the  governor,  if  need  were,  could 
thereby  rectify  it.  When  the  slave 
was  thus  valued,  the  valuation  should 
be  registered  by  the  rector,  in  a  book 
to  be  kept  for  that  purpose,  an  at- 
tested  copy  of  which  should  be  an- 
nually lodged  amongst  the  archives 
of  the  colony. 

"  '  We  shall  assume  a  case,  where 
a  slave  is  valued  for  L.I 20,  Jamaica 
currency.  He  soon,  by  working  by- 
hours,  selling  the  produce  of  his  pro- 
vision grounds,  &c.,  acquires  L.20; 
and  how  easily  and  frequently  this 
is  done,  every  one  knows,  who  is  at 
all  acquainted  with  West  India  af- 
fairs. 

**  '  He  then  shall  have  a  right  to 
pay  to  his  owner  this  L.20  as  the 
price  of  his  Monday  for  ever,  and  his 
owner  shall  be  bound  to  receive  it. 
A  similar  sum  would  purchase  him 
his  freedom  on  Tuesday ;  and  other 
four  instalments,  to  use  a  West  India 


42 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Jan. 


phrase,  would  buy  him  free  altoge- 
ther. You  will  notice,  I  consider 
that  he  is  already  free  on  the  Sunday. 
Now,  where  is  the  insurmountable 
difficulty  here  ?  The  planter  may  be 
put  to  inconvenience,  certainly,  great 
inconvenience,  but  he  has  compensa- 
tion, and  the  slave  has  his  freedom— - 
if  he  deserves  it;  and  as  his  emanci- 
pation nine  times  out  of  ten  would 
be  a  work  of  time,  he  would,  as  he 
approached  absolute  freedom,  be- 
come more  civilized,  that  is,  more  fit 
to  be  free ;  and  as  he  became  more 
civilized,  new  wants  would  spring 
up,  so  that  when  he  was  finally  free, 
he  would  not  be  content  to  work  a 
day  or  two  in  the  week  for  subsist- 
ence merely.  He  would  work  the 
whole  six  to  buy  many  little  com- 
forts, which,  as  a  slave  suddenly 
emancipated,  he  never  would  have 
thought  of. 

" '  As  the  slave  becomes  free,  I 
would  have  his  owner's  allowance 
of  pro  visions  and  clothing  decrease 
gradually. 

"  '  It  may  be  objected — "  suppose 
slaves  partly  free,  to  be  taken  in  exe- 
cution, and  sold  for  debt."  I  answer, 
let  them  be  so.  Why  cannot  three 
days  of  a  man's  labour  be  sold  by  the 
deputy-marshal  as  well  as  six? 

"  *  Again — "  suppose  the  gang  is 
mortgaged,  or  liable  to  judgments 
against  the  owner  of  it."  I  still  an- 
swer, let  it  be  so — only,  in  this  case 
let  the  slave  pay  his  instalments  into 
court,  in  place  of  paying  them  to  his 
owners,  and  let  him  apply  to  his  rec- 
tor for  information  in  such  a  case. 

"  '  By  the  register  I  would  have 
kept,  every  one  could  at  once  see 
what  property  an  owner  had  in  his 
gang— that  is,  how  many  were  ac- 
tually slaves,  and  how  many  were 
in  progress  of  becoming  free.  Thus 
well-disposed  and  industrious  slaves 
would  soon  become  freemen.  But 
the  idle  and  worthless  would  still 
continue  slaves,  and  why  the  devil 
shouldn't  they  ? 

«  <  (Signed)        A.  B .'  " 

There  does  seem  to  be  a  rough, 
yet  vigorous  sound  sense  in  all  this. 
But  I  take  leave  of  the  subject, 
which  I  do  not  profess  to  under- 
stand, only  I  am  willing  to  bear  wit- 
ness in  favour  of  my  old  friends,  so 
far  as  I  can,  conscientiously. 


We  returned  next  day  to  Santiago, 
and  had  then  to  undergo  the  bitter- 
ness of  parting.  With  me  it  was  a 
slight  affair,  but  the  skipper ! — How- 
ever, I  will  not  dwell  on  it.  We 
reached  the  town  towards  evening. 
The  women  were  ready  to  weep,  I 
saw.  However,  we  all  turned  in, 
and  next  morning  at  breakfast  we 
were  moved,  I  will  admit— some 
more,  some  less.  Little  Reefy,  poor 
fellow,  was  crying  like  a  child ;  in- 
deed he  was  little  more,  being  barely 
fifteen. 

«  Oh!  Mr  Cringle,  I  wish  I  had 
never  seen  Miss  Candalaria  de  los 
Dolores ;  indeed  I  do." 

This  was  Don  Ricardo's  youngest 
niece. 

«  Ah,  Reefy,  Reefy,"  said  I,  «  you 
must  make  haste,  and  be  made  post, 
and  then" 

"  What  does  he  call  her?"  said 
Aaron. 

"  Sehora  Tomassa  Candalaria  de 
los  Dolores  Gonzales  y  Vallejo" 
blubbered  out  little  Reefy. 

"  What  a  complicated  piece  of 
machinery  she  must  be !"  gravely 
rejoined  Bang. 

The  meal  was  protracted  to  a  very 
unusual  length,  but  time  and  tide 
wait  for  no  man.  We  rose.  Aaron 
Bang  advanced  to  make  his  bow  to 
our  kind  hostess;  he  held  out  his 
hand,  but  she,  to  Aaron's  great  sur- 
prise apparently,  pushed  it  on  one 
side,  and  regularly  closing  with  our 
friend,  hugged  him  in  right  earnest. 
I  have  before  mentioned,  that  she 
was  a  very  small  woman ;  so,  as  the 
devil  would  have  it,  the  golden  pin 
in  her  hair  was  thrust  into  Aaron's 
eye,  which  made  him  jump  back, 
wherein  he  lost  his  balance,  and 
away  he  went,  dragging  Madama 
Campana  down  on  the  top  of  him. 
However,  none  of  us  could  laugh 
now  ;  we  parted,  jumped  into  our 
boat,  and  proceeded  straight  to  the 
anchorage,  where  three  British  mer- 
chantmen were  by  this  time  riding 
all  ready  for  sea.  We  got  on  board. 
"  Mr  Yerk,"  said  the  Captain,  "  fire 
a  gun,  and  hoist  blue  Peter  at  the 
fore.  Loose  the  foretopsail."  The 
masters  came  on  board  for  their  in- 
structions ;  we  passed  but  a  melan- 
choly evening  of  it,  and  next  morn- 
ing I  took  my  last  look  of  Santiago 
de  Cuba. 


1833.]                                         The  Ccesars.  43 

THE  C/ESARS, 

CHAPTER  III, 
CALIGULA,  CLAUDIUS,  AND  NERO, 

THE  three  next  Emperors,  Caligu-  rate,  and  more  unnatural  than  the 
la,  Claudius,  and  Nero,  were  the  last  human  heart  could  conceive.  Let 
pri  ices  who  had  any  connexion  by  us,  by  way  of  example,  take  a  short 
blood*  with  the  Julian  house.  In  chapter  from  the  diabolic  life  of  Ca- 
Ne  ;o,  the  sixth  Emperor,  expired  the  ligula :  In  what  way  did  he  treat  his 
lasv  of  the  Csesars,  who  was  such  in  nearest  and  tenderest  female  con- 
reality.  These  three  were  also  the  nexions  ?  His  mother  had  been  tor- 
first  in  that  long  line  of  monsters,  tured  and  murdered  by  another  ty- 
who,  at  different  times,  under  the  rant  almost  as  fiendish  as  himself, 
title  of  Caesars,  dishonoured  huma-  She  was  happily  removed  from  his 
nit  y  more  memorably  than  was  pos-  cruelty.  Disdaining,  however,  to  ac- 
sible,  except  in  the  cases  of  those  (if  knowledge  any  connexion  with  the 
an^  such  can  be  named)  who  have  blood  of  so  obscure  a  man  as  Agrip- 
abused  the  same  enormous  powers  pa,  he  publicly  gave  out  that  his  mo- 
in  Limes  of  the  same  civility,  and  in  ther  was  indeed  the  daughter  of  Ju- 
de>iance  of  the  same  general  illumi-  lia,  but  by  an  incestuous  commerce 
na-ion.  But  for  them  it  is  a  fact,  with  her  father  Augustus.  His  three 
thf  t  some  crimes,  which  now  stain  sisters  he  debauched.  One  died, 
tht  page  of  history,  would  have  been  and  her  he  canonized ;  the  other 
accounted  fabulous  dreams  of  im-  two  he  prostituted  to  the  basest  of 
pure  romancers,  taxing  their  extra-  his  own  attendants.  Of  his  wives,  it 
vacant  imaginations  to  create  com-  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  they 
biitations  of  wickedness  more  hide-  were  first  sought  and  won  with  more 
ous  than  civilized  men  would  to] e-  circumstances  of  injury  and  outrage, 


»  And  this  was  entirely  by  the  female  side.  The  family  descent  of  the  first  six 
Co'sars  is  so  intricate,  that  it  is  rarely  understood  accurately ;  so  that  it  may  be  well 
to  state  it  briefly.  Augustus  was  grand-nephew  to  Julius  Caesar,  being  the  son  of 
1m  sister's  daughter.  He  was  also,  by  adoption,  the  son  of  Julius.  He  himself  had 
on  3  child  only,  viz.  the  infamous  Julia,  who  was  brought  him  by  his  second  wife 
Sc'ibonia;  and  through  this  Julia  it  was  that  the  three  princes,  who  succeeded  to 
Ti}erius,  claimed  relationship  to  Augustus.  On  that  Emperor's  last  marriage  with 
Liyia,  he  adopted  the  two  sons  whom  she  had  borne  to  her  divorced  husband.  These 
two  noblemen,  who  stood  in  no  degree  of  consanguinity  whatever  to  Augustus,  were 
Tiberius  and  Drusus.  Tiberius  left  no  children;  but  Drusus,  the  younger  of  the 
two  brothers,  by  his  marriage  with  the  younger  Antonia  (daughter  of  Mark  An- 
th  >ny),  had  the  celebrated  Germanicus,  and  Claudius,  (afterwards  Emperor).  Ger- 
m;  nicus,  though  adopted  by  his  uncle  Tiberius,  and  destined  to  the  empire,  died  pre^ 
mi  turely.  But,  like  Banquo,  though  he  wore  no  crown,  he  left  descendants  who  did. 
F(  r,  by  his  marriage  with  Agrippina,  a  daughter  of  Julia's  by  Agrippa,  (and  there- 
foi  e  grand-daughter  of  Augustus),  he  had  a  large  family,  of  whom  one  son  became 
th ;  Emperor  Caligula ;  and  one  of  the  daughters,  Agrippina  the  younger,  by  her 
m; -rriage  with  a  Roman  nobleman,  became  the  mother  of  the  Emperor  Nero.  Hence 
it  ippears  that  Tiberius  was  uncle  to  Claudius,  Claudius  was  uncle  to  Caligula,  Cali- 
gu  la  was  uncle  to  Nero.  But  it  is  observable,  that  Nero  and  Caligula  stood  in  an- 
ot  icr  degree  of  consanguinity  to  each  other  through  their  grandmothers,  who  were 
bo  rh  daughters  of  Mark  Anthony  the  Triumvir  ;  for  the  elder  Antonia  married  the 
grandfather  of  Nero;  the  younger  Antonia  (as  we  have  stated  above)  married  Dru- 
su  ;,  the  grandfather  of  Caligula  ;  and  again,  by  these  two  ladies,  they  were  connect- 
ed not  only  with  each  other,  but  also  with  the  Julian  house,  for  the  two  Antonias 
were  daughters  of  Mark  Anthony  by  Octavia,  sister  to  Augustus. 


44 


The  Caesars. 


[Jan. 


or  dismissed  with  more  insult  and 
levity.  The  one  whom  he  treated 
best,  and  with  most  profession  of 
love,  and  who  commonly  rode  by  his 
side,  equipped  with  spear  and  shield, 
to  his  military  inspections  and  re- 
views of  the  soldiery,  though  not 
particularly  beautiful,  was  exhibited 
to  his  friends  at  banquets  in  a  state 
of  absolute  nudity.  His  motive  for 
treating  her  with  so  much  kindness, 
was  probably  that  she  brought  him 
a  daughter;  and  her  he  acknowledg- 
ed as  his  own  child,  from  the  early 
brutality  with  which  she  attacked  the 
eyes  and  cheeks  of  other  infants  who 
were  presented  to  her  as  play-fel- 
lows.— Hence  it  would  appear  that 
he  was  aware  of  his  own  ferocity, 
and  treated  it  as  a  jest.  The  levity, 
indeed,  which  he  mingled  with  his 
worst  and  most  inhuman  acts,  and 
the  slightness  of  the  occasions  upon 
which  he  delighted  to  hang  his  most 
memorable  atrocities,  aggravated 
their  impression  at  the  time,  and 
must  have  contributed  greatly  to 
sharpen  the  sword  of  vengeance.  His 
palace  happened  to  be  contiguous  to 
the  circus.  Some  seats,  it  seems, 
were  open  indiscriminately  to  the 
public ;  consequently,  the  only  way 
in  which  they  could  be  appropriated, 
was  by  taking  possession  of  them  as 
early  as  the  midnight  preceding  any 
great  exhibitions.  Once,  when  it 
happened  that  his  sleep  was  disturb- 
ed by  such  an  occasion,  he  sent  in 
soldiers  to  eject  them ;  and  with  or- 
ders so  rigorous,  as  it  appeared  by 
the  event,  that  in  this  single  tumult 
twenty  Roman  knights,  and  as  many 
mothers  of  families,  were  cudgelled 
to  death  upon  the  spot,  to  say  no- 
thing of  what  the  reporter  calls  "  in- 
numeram  turbam  ceteram." 

But  this  is  a  trifle  to  another  anec- 
dote reported  by  the  same  autho- 
rity : — On  some  occasion  ithappened 
that  a  dearth  prevailed  either  gene- 
rally of  cattle,  or  of  such  cattle  as 
\vere  used  for  feeding  the  wild 
beasts  reserved  for  the  bloody  exhi- 
bitions of  the  amphitheatre.  Food 
could  be  had,  and  perhaps  at  no  very 
exorbitant  price,  but  on  terms 
somewhat  higher  than  the  ordinary 
market  price.  A  slight  excuse  ser- 
ved with  Caligula  for  acts  the  most 
monstrous.  Instantly  repairing  to 
the  public  jails,  and  causing  all  the 


prisoners  to  pass  in  review  before 
him  (custodiarum.  seriem  recoynos- 
cens),  he  pointed  to  two  bald-head- 
ed men,  and  ordered  that  the  whole 
file  of  intermediate  persons  should 
be  marched  off  to  the  dens  of  the 
wild  beasts :  "  Tell  them  off,"  said 
he,  "  from  the  bald  man  to  the  bald 
man."  Yet  these  were  prisoners 
committed,  not  for  punishment,  but 
trial.  Nor,  had  it  been  otherwise, 
were  the  charges  against  them  equal 
— but  running  through  every  grada- 
tion of  guilt.  But  the  elogia,  or 
records  of  their  commitment,  he 
would  not  so  much  as  look  at.  With 
such  inordinate  capacities  for  cruel- 
ty, we  cannot  wonder  that  he  should 
in  his  common  conversation  have 
deplored  the  tameness  and  insipi- 
dity of  his  own  times  and  reign,  as 
likely  to  be  marked  by  no  wide- 
spreading  calamity.  "  Augustus," 
said  he,  "  was  happy ;  for  in  his 
reign  occurred  the  slaughter  of  Va- 
rus  and  his  legions.  Tiberius  was 
happy ;  for  in  his  occurred  that  glo- 
rious fall  of  the  great  amphitheatre 
at  Fidense.  But  for  me — alas!  alas  !" 
And  then  he  would  pray  earnestly 
for  fire  or  slaughter — pestilence  or 
famine.  Famine  indeed  was  to  some 
extent  in  his  own  power ;  and  accord- 
ingly, as  far  as  his  courage  would 
carry  him,  he  did  occasionally  try 
that  mode  of  tragedy  upon  the  people 
of  Rome,  by  shutting  up  the  public 
granaries  against  them.  As  he  blend- 
ed his  mirth  and  a  truculent  sense  of 
the  humorous  with  his  cruelties, 
we  cannot  wonder  that  he  should 
soon  blend  his  cruelties  with  his  or- 
dinary festivities,  and  that  his  daily 
banquets  would  soon  become  insi- 
pid without  them.  Hence  he  requi- 
red a  daily  supply  of  executions  in 
his  own  halls  and  banqueting  rooms  ; 
nor  was  a  dinner  held  to  be  com- 
plete without  such  a  dessert.  Artists 
were  sought  out  who  had  dexterity 
and  strength  enough  to  do  what  Lu- 
can  somewhere  calls  ertsem  rotare, 
that  is,  to  cut  off  a  human  head 
with  one  whirl  of  the  sword.  Even 
this  became  insipid,  as  wanting  one 
main  element  of  misery  to  the  suf- 
ferer, and  an  indispensable  condi- 
ment to  the  jaded  palate  of  the  con- 
noisseur, viz.  a  lingering  duration. 
As  a  pleasant  variety,  therefore,  the 
tormentors  were  introduced  with 


1833-]  The  C&sars. 

their  various  instruments  of  torture  ; 
and  many  a  dismal  tragedy  in  that 
mode  of  human  suffering  was  con- 
ducted in  the  sacred  presence  during 
the  Emperor's  hours  of  amiable  re- 
laxation. 

The  result  of  these  horrid  indul- 
gences was  exactly  what  we  might 
suppose,  that  even  such  scenes  cea- 
sed to  irritate  the  languid  appetite, 
and  yet  that  without  them  lite  was 
not  endurable.  Jaded  and  exhausted 
as  the  sense  of  pleasure  had  become 
in  Caligula,  still  it  could  be  roused 
into  any  activity  by  nothing  short  of 
these  murderous  luxuries.  Hence, 
it  saems,  that  he  was  continually 
tampering  and  dallying  with  the 
thought  of  murder  ;  and  like  the  old 
Parisian  jeweller  Cardillac,  in  Louis 
XI\  .'s  time,  who  was  stung  with  a 
perpetual  lust  for  murdering  the 
possessors  of  fine  diamonds — not  so 
much  for  the  value  of  the  prize  (of 
which  he  never  hoped  to  make  any 
use)  as  from  an  unconquerable  de- 
sire of  precipitating  himself  into  the 
difficulties  and  hazards  of  the  mur- 
der,— Caligula  never  failed  to  expe- 
rience (and  sometimes  even  to  ac- 
knowledge) a  secret  temptation  to 
any  murder  which  seemed  either 
more  than  usually  abominable,  or 
more  than  usually  difficult.  Thus, 
when  the  two  Consuls  were  seated 
at  his  table,  he  burst  out  into  sudden 
and  profuse  laughter ;  and,  upon  their 
courteously  requesting  to  know 
what  witty  and  admirable  conceit 
mi[;ht  be  the  occasion  of  the  impe- 
rial mirth,  he  frankly  owned  to  them, 
and  doubtless  he  did  not  improve 
their  appetites  by  this  confession, 
that  in  fact  he  was  laughing,  and 
thr.t  he  could  not  but  laugh  (and 
tin  n  the  monster  laughed  immode- 
rately again)  at  the  pleasant  thought 
of  seeing  them  both  headless,  and 
thfct  with  so  little  trouble  to  himself, 
(imo  suo  nutu^)  he  could  have  both 
their  throats  cut.  No  doubt  he  was 
continually  balancing  the  arguments 
for  and  against  such  little  escapades  ; 
nor  had  any  person  a  reason  for 
security  in  the  extraordinary  obliga- 
tions, whether  of  hospitality  or  of 
re  igious  vows,  which  seemed  to  lay 
hi  n  under  some  peculiar  restraints 
in  that  case  above  all  others ;  for 
such  circumstances  of  peculiarity, 
by  which  the  murder  would  be 
stamped  with  unusual  atrocity,  were 


45 

but  the  more  likely  to  make  its  fas- 
cinations irresistible.  Hence  he  dal- 
lied with  the  thoughts  of  murdering 
her  whom  he  loved  best,  and  indeed 
exclusively — his  wife  Csesonia ;  and 
whilst  fondling  her,  and  toying  play- 
fully with  her  polished  throat,  he 
was  distracted  (as  he  half  insinuated 
to  her)  between  the  desire  of  caress- 
ing it,  which  might  be  often  repeat- 
ed, and  that  of  cutting  it,  which 
could  be  gratified  but  once. 

Nero  (for  as  to  Claudius  he  came 
too  late  to  the  throne  to  indulge  any 
propensities  of  this  nature  with  so 
little  discretion)  was  but  a  variety 
of  the  same  species.  He  also  was  an 
amateur,  and  an  enthusiastic  amateur 
of  murder.  But  as  this  taste,  in  the 
most  ingenious  hands,  is  limited  and 
monotonous  in  its  modes  of  manifes- 
tation, it  would  be  tedious  to  run 
through  the  long  Suetonian  roll-call 
of  his  peccadilloes  in  this  way.  One 
only  we  shall  cite,  to  illustrate  the 
amorous  delight  with  which  he  pur- 
sued any  murder  which  happened  to 
be  seasoned  highly  to  his  taste  by 
enormous  atrocity,  and  by  almost 
unconquerable  difficulty.  It  would 
really  be  pleasant,  were  it  not  for  the 
revolting  consideration  of  the  per- 
sons concerned,  and  their  relation  to 
each  other,  to  watch  the  tortuous 
pursuit  of  the  hunter,  and  the  dou- 
bles of  the  game  in  this  obstinate 
chase.  For  certain  reasons  of  state, 
as  Nero  attempted  to  persuade  him- 
self, but  in  reality  because  no  other 
crime  had  the  same  attractions  of  un- 
natural horror  about  it,  he  resolved 
to  murder  his  mother  Agrippina. 
This  being  settled,  the  next  thing 
was  to  arrange  the  mode  and  the 
tools.  Naturally  enough,  according 
to  the  custom  then  prevalent  in 
Rome,  he  first  attempted  the  thing 
by  poison.  The  poison  failed:  for 
Agrippina,  anticipating  tricks  of  this 
kind,  had  armed  her  constitution 
against  them,  like  Mithridates  ;  and 
daily  took  potent  antidotes  and  pro- 
phylactics. Or  else  (which  is  more 
probable)  the  Emperor's  agent  in 
such  purposes,  fearing  his  sudden 
repentance  and  remorse  on  first 
hearing  of  his  mother's  death,  or 
possibly  even  witnessing  her  ago- 
nies, had  composed  a  poison  of  in- 
ferior strength.  This  had  certainly 
occurred  in  the  case  of  Britannicus, 
who  had  thrown  off  with  ease  the 


46 


first  dose  administered  to  him  by 
Nero.  Upon  which  he  had  summon- 
ed to  his  presence  the  woman  em- 
ployed in  the  affair,  and  compelling 
her  by  threats  to  mingle  a  more 
powerful  potion  in  his  own  presence, 
had  tried  it  successively  upon  differ- 
ent animals,  until  he  was  satisfied 
with  its  effects ;  after  which,  imme- 
diately inviting  Britannicus  to  a  ban- 
quet, he  had  finally  dispatched  him. 
On  Agrippina,  however,  no  changes 
in  the  poison  whether  of  kind  or 
strength  had  any  effect;  so  that, 
after  various  trials,  this  mode  of 
murder  was  abandoned,  and  the  Em- 
peror addressed  himself  to  other 
plans.  The  first  of  these  was  some 
curious  mechanical  device  by  which 
a  false  ceiling  was  to  have  been  sus- 
pended by  bolts  above  her  bed;  and 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  the  bolt 
being  suddenly  drawn,  a  vast  weight 
would  have  descended  with  a  ruin- 
ous destruction  to  all  below.  This 
scheme,  however,  taking  air  from 
the  indiscretion  of  some  amongst 
the  accomplices,  reached  the  ears  of 
Agrippina ;  upon  which  the  old  lady 
looked  about  her  too  sharply  to  leave 
much  hope  in  that  scheme :  So  that 
also  was  abandoned.  Next  he  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  an  artificial  ship, 
which,  at  the  touch  of  a  few  springs, 
might  fall  to  pieces  in  deep  water. 
Such  a  ship  was  prepared,  and  sta- 
tioned at  a  suitable  point.  But  the 
main  difficulty  remained  —  which 
was  to  persuade  the  old  lady  to  go 
on  board.  Not  that  she  knew  in 
this  case  who  had  been  the  ship- 
builder, for  that  would  have  ruined 
all;  but  it  seems  that  she  took  it  ill 
to  be  hunted  in  this  murderous  spi- 
rit, and  was  out  of  humour  with  her 
son;  besides,  that  any  proposal 
coming  from  him,  though  previously 
indifferent  to  her,  would  have  in- 
stantly become  suspected.  To  meet 
this  difficulty,  a  sort  of  reconciliation 
was  proposed,  and  a  very  affection- 
ate message  sent,  which  had  the  ef- 
fect of  throwing  Agrippina  off  her 
guard,  and  seduced  her  to  BaSse  for 
the  purpose  of  joining  the  Empe- 
ror's party  at  a  great  banquet  held  in 
commemoration  of  a  solemn  festival. 
She  came  by  water  in  a  sort  of  light 
frigate,  and  was  to  return  in  the 
same  way.  Meantime  Nero  tam- 
pered with  the  commander  of  her 
vessel,  and  prevailed  upon  him  to 


The  Ccesars.  [Jan. 

wreck  it.  What  was  to  be  done? 
The  great  lady  was  anxious  to  return 
to  Rome,  and  no  proper  conveyance 
was  at  hand.  Suddenly  it  was  sug- 
gested, as  if  by  chance,  that  a  ship 
of  the  Emperor's — new  and  proper- 
ly equipped — was  moored  at  a  neigh- 
bouring station.  This  was  readily 
accepted  by  Agrippina :  the  Emperor 
accompanied  her  to  the  place  of 
embarkation,  took  a  most  tender 
leave  of  her,  and  saw  her  set  sail.  It 
was  necessary  that  the  vessel  should 
get  into  deep  water  before  the  ex- 
periment could  be  made;  and  with 
the  utmost  agitation  this  pious  son 
awaited  news  of  the  result.  Sudden- 
ly a  messenger  rushed  breathless 
into  his  presence,  and  horrified  him 
by  the  joyful  information  that  his 
august  mother  had  met  with  an 
alarming  accident,  but  by  the  bless- 
ing of  heaven  had  escaped  safe  and 
sound,  and  was  now  on  her  road  to 
mingle  congratulations  with  her  af- 
fectionate son.  The  ship,  it  seems, 
had  done  its  office  :  the  mechanism 
had  played  admirably :  but  who  can 
provide  for  every  thing  ?  The  old 
lady,  it  turned  out,  could  swim  like  a 
duck;  and  the  whole  result  had 
been  to  refresh  her  with  a  little  sea- 
bathing. Here  was  worshipful  in- 
telligence. Could  any  man's  temper 
be  expected  to  stand  such  continued 
sieges  ?  Money,  and  trouble,  and  infi- 
nite contrivance,  wasted  upon  one 
old  woman,  who  absolutely  would 
not  upon  any  terms  be  murdered ! 
— Provoking  it  certainly  was ;  and 
of  a  man  like  Nero  it  could  not  be 
expected  that  he  should  any  longer 
dissemble  his  disgust,  or  put  up  with 
such  repeated  affronts.  He  rushed 
uj3on  his  simple  congratulating 
friend,  swore  that  he  had  come  to 
murder  him,  and,  as  nobody  could 
have  suborned  him  but  Agrippina, 
he  ordered  her  off  to  instant  execu- 
tion. And  unquestionably,  if  people 
will  not  be  murdered  quietly  and  in 
a  civil  way,  they  must  expect  that 
such  forbearance  is  not  to  continue 
for  ever ;  and  obviously  have  them- 
selves only  to  blame  for  any  harsh- 
ness or  violence  which  they  may 
have  rendered  necessary. 

It  is  singular,  and  shocking  at  the 
game  time,  to  mention,  that  for  this 
atrocity  Nero  did  absolutely  receive 
solemn  congratulations  from  all  or- 
ders of  men,  With  such  evidences  of 


1833.] 

bate  servility  in  the  public  mind,  and 
of  the  utter  corruption  which  they 
had  sustained  in  their   elementary 
feelings,  it  is  the  less  astonishing  that 
he  should  have  made  other  experi- 
mt  nts  upon  the  publicpatience,which 
setim  expressly  designed  to  try  how 
much  it  would  support.     Whether 
he  were  really  the  author  of  the  de- 
solating fire  which  consumed  Rome 
for  six*  days  and  seven  nights,  and 
drove  the  mass  of  the  people  into  the 
tombs  and  sepulchres  for  shelter,  is 
yet  a  matter  of  some  doubt.  But  one 
gr  iat  presumption  against  it,  found- 
ed on  its  desperate  imprudence,  as 
at  acking  the  people  in  their  primary 
comforts,  is  considerably  weakened 
by  the  enormous  servility  of  the  Ro- 
mans in  the  case  just  stated :  they 
who  could  volunteer  congratulations 
to  a  son  for  butchering  his  mother 
(DO  matter  on  what  pretended  sus- 
picions), might  reasonably  be  suppo- 
sed incapable  of  any  resistance  which 
required  courage  even  in  a  case  of 
self-defence,  or  of  just  revenge.  The 
direct  reasons,  however,  for  implica- 
ting him  in  this  affair  seem  at  pre- 
sent insufficient.  He  was  displeased, 
it  seems,  with  the  irregularity  and 
unsightliness  of  the  antique  build- 
ings, and  also  with  the  streets  as  too 
narrow  and  winding  (angustiis  flexu- 
riique  vicorum.)     But  in  this  he  did 
but  express  what  was  no  doubt  the 
common  judgment  of  all  his  contem- 
poraries, who  had  seen  the  beautiful 
cities  of  Greece   and  Asia  Minor. 
The  Rome  of  that  time  was  in  many 
pirts  built  of  wood;    and  there  is 
much  probability  that  it  must  have 
b  ?en  a  picturesque  city,  and  in  parts 
a  most  grotesque.    But  it  is  remark- 
able, and  a  fact  which  we  have  no- 
vs  here  seen  noticed,  that  the  ancients, 
^  hether  Greeks  or  Romans,  had  no 
eye  for  the  Picturesque ;  nay,  that  it 
was    a   sense    utterly  unawakened 
amongst  them;  and  that  the  very  con- 
ception of  the  Picturesque,  as  of  a 
t  ling  distinct  from  the  Beautiful,  is 
u  ot  once  alluded  to  through  the  whole 
course   of   ancient  literature, — nor 
T>  -ould  it  have  been  intelligible  to  any 
a  ticient  critic ;  so  that,  whatever  at- 
t  -action  for  the  eye  might  exist  in 
tiie  Rome  of  that  day,  there  is  little 


The  Caesars.  4? 

doubt  that  it  was  of  a  kind  to  be  fel* 


only  by  modern  spectators.  Mere 
dissatisfaction  with  its  external  ap- 
pearance, which  must  have  been  a 
pretty  general  sentiment,  argued, 
therefore,  no  necessary  purpose  of 
destroying  it.  Certainly  it  would  be 
a  weightier  ground  of  suspicion,  if  it 
were  really  true,  that  some  of  his 
agents  were  detected  on  the  premi- 
ses of  different  senators  in  the  act  of 
applying  combustibles  to  their  man- 
sions. But  this  story  wears  a  very 
fabulous  air.  For  why  resort  to  the 
private  dwellings  of  great  men,  where 
any  intruder  was  sure  of  attracting 
notice,  when  the  same  effect,  and 
with  the  same  deadly  results,  might 
have  been  attained  quietly  and  se- 
cretly in  so  many  of  the  humble  Ro- 
man ccenacula  ? 

The  great  loss  on  this  memorable 
occasion  was  in  the  heraldic  and  an- 
cestral honours  of  the  city.  Historic 
Rome  then  went  to  wreck  for  ever. 
Then  perished  the  domus  priscorum 
ducum  hostilibus  adhuc  spoliis  ador- 
natce;  the  "  rostral"  palace ;  the  man- 
sion of  the  Pompeys;  the  Blenheims 
and  the  Strathfieldsays  of  the  Scipios, 
the  Marcelli,  the  Paulli,  and  the  Cse- 
sars ;  then  perished  the  aged  trophies 
from  Carthage  and  from  Gaul;  and, 
in  short,  as  the  historian  sums  up 
the  lamentable  desolation, "  quidquid 
visendum  atque  memorabile  ex  anti- 
quitate  duraverat"  And  this  of  itself 
might  lead  one  to  suspect  the  Em- 
peror's hand  as  the  original  agent ; 
for  by  no  one  act  was  it  possible  so 
entirely  and  so  suddenly  to  wean  the 
people  from  their  old  republican  re- 
collections, and  in  one  week  to  obli- 
terate the  memorials  of  their  popu- 
lar forces,  and  the  trophies  of  many 
ages.  The  old  people  of  Rome  were 
gone ;  their  characteristic  dress  even 
was  gone ;  for  already  in  the  time  of 
Augustus  they  had  laid  aside  the  togay 
and  assumed  the  cheaper  and  scan- 
tier pcenula,  so  that  the  eye  sought  in 
vain  for  Virgil's 

"  Romanes  rerura  dominos  gentemque 
teg  atom." 

Why,  then,  after  all  the  constitu- 
ents of  Roman  grandeur  had  passed 
away,  should  their  historical  trophies 


*  But  a  memorial  stone,  in  its  inscription,  makes  the  time  longer ;    "  Quando 
i  rbs  per  novem  dies  arsit  Neronianis  temporibus," 


48 


The  Casars. 


[Jan. 


survive,  recalling  to  them  the  scenes 
of  departed  heroism,  in  which  they 
had  no  personal  property,  and  sug- 
gesting to  them  vain  hopes,  which 
for  them  were  never  to  be  other  than 
chimeras  ?  Even  in  that  sense,  there- 
fore, and  as  a  great  depository  of 
heart-stirring  historical  remembran- 
ces, Rome  was  profitably  destroyed ; 
and  in  any  other  sense,  whether  for 
health  or  for  the  conveniences  of  po- 
lished life,  or  for  architectural  mag- 
nificence, there  never  was  a  doubt 
that  the  Roman  people  gained  infi- 
nitely by  this  conflagration.  For,  like 
London,  it  arose  from  its  ashes  with 
a  splendour  proportioned  to  its  vast 
expansion  of  Wealth  and  population ; 
and  marble  took  the  place  of  wood. 
For  the  moment,  however,  this  event 
must  have  been  felt  by  the  people  as 
an  overwhelming  calamity.  And  it 
serves  to  illustrate  the  passive  en- 
durance and  timidity  of  the  popular 
temper,  and  to  what  extent  it  might 
be  provoked  with  impunity,  that  in 
this  state  of  general  irritation  and 
effervescence,  Nero  absolutely  for- 
bade them  to  meddle  with  the  ruins 
of  their  own  dwellings — taking  that 
charge  upon  himself,  with  a  view  to 
the  vast  wealth  which  he  anticipated 
from  sifting  the  rubbish.  And,  as  if 
that  mode  of  plunder  were  not  suffi- 
cient, he  exacted  compulsory  contri- 
butions to  the  rebuilding  of  the  city 
so  indiscriminately,  as  to  press  hea- 
vily upon  all  men's  finances;  and 
thus,  in  the  public  account  which 
universally  imputed  the  fire  to  him, 
he  was  viewed  as  a  two-fold  robber, 
who  sought  to  heal  one  calamity  by  the 
infliction  of  another  and  a  greater. 

The  monotony  of  wickedness  and 
outrage  becomes  at  length  fatiguing 
to  the  coarsest  and  most  callous  sen- 
ses ;  and  the  historian,  even,  who  ca- 
ters professedly  for  the  taste  which 
feeds  upon  the  monstrous  and  the 
hyperbolical,  is  glad  at  length  to 
escape  from  the  long  evolution  of  his 
insane  atrocities,  to  the  striking  and 
truly  scenical  catastrophe  of  retribu- 
tion which  overtook  them,  and  aven- 
ged the  wrongs  of  an  insulted  world. 
Perhaps  history  contains  no  more  im- 
pressive scenes  than  those  in  which 
the  justice  of  Providepce  at  length 
arrested  the  monstrous  career  of 
Nero. 
It  was  at  Naples,  and,  by  a  remark- 


able fatality,  on  the  very  anniversary 
of  his  mother's  murder,  that  he  re- 
ceived the  first  intelligence  of  the  re- 
volt in  Gaul  under  the  Propraetor 
Vindex.  This  news  for  about  a  week 
he  treated  with  levity;  and,  like  Hen- 
ry VII.  of  England,  who  was  nettled, 
not  so  much  at  being  proclaimed  a 
rebel,  as  because  he  was  described 
under  the  slighting  denomination  of 
"  one  Henry  Tidder  or  Tudor,"  he 
complained  bitterly  that  Vindex  had 
mentioned  him  by  his  family  name  of 
/Enobarbus,  rather  than  his  assumed 
one  of  Nero.  But  much  more  keenly 
he  resented  the  insulting  description 
of  himself  as  a  "  miserable  harper,'' 
appealing  to  all  about  him  whether 
they  had  ever  known  a  better,  and 
offering  to  stake  the  truth  of  all  the 
other  charges  against  himself  upon 
the  accuracy  ot  this  in  particular. 
So  little  even  in  this  instance  was  he 
alive  to  the  true  point  of  the  insult; 
not  thinking  it  any  disgrace  that  a 
Roman  emperor  should  be  chiefly 
known  to  the  world  in  the  character 
of  a  harper,  but  only  if  he  should 
happen  to  be  a  bad  one.     Even  in 
those  days,  however,  imperfect  as 
were  the  means  of  travelling,  rebel- 
lion moved  somewhat  too  rapidly  to 
allow  any  long  interval  of  security 
so  light-minded  as  this.     One  cou- 
rier followed  upon  the  heels  of  an- 
other, until  he  felt  the  necessity  for 
leaving  Naples  ;  and  he  returned  to 
Rome,  as  the  historian  says,  prcetre- 
pidus;  by  which  word,  however,  ac- 
cording to  its  genuine  classical  ac- 
ceptation, we  apprehend  is  not  meant 
that  he  was  highly  alarmed,  but  only 
that  he  was  in  a  great  hurry.     That 
he  was  not  yet  under  any  real  alarm 
(for  he  trusted  in  certain  prophecies, 
which,  like  those  made  to  the  Scot- 
tish tyrant,  "  kept  the  promise  to  the 
ear,  but  broke  it  to  the  sense,")  is 
pretty  evident,  from  his  conduct  on 
reaching  the  capitol.     For,  without 
any  appeal  to  the  Senate  or  the  peo- 
ple,  but  sending   out  a  few  sum- 
monses to  some  men  of  rank,  he.held 
a  hasty  council,  which  he  speedily 
dismissed,  and  occupied  the  rest  of 
the  day  with  experiments  on  certain 
musical  instruments  of  recent  inven- 
tion, in  which  the  keys  were  moved 
by  hydraulic  contrivances.     He  had 
come  to  Rome,  it  appeared,  merely 
from  a  sense  of  decorum. 


J833.J  The  Caesars. 

Suddenly,  however,  arrived  news, 
.which  fell  upon  him  with  the  force 
of  (i  thunderbolt,  that  the  revolt  had 
extended  to  the  Spanish  provinces, 
and  was  headed  by  Galba.  He  faint- 
ed upon  hearing  this ;  and,  falling  to 
the  ground,  lay  for  a  long  time  life- 
less, as  it  seemed,  and  speechless. 
Upon  coming  to  himself  again,  he 
tore  his  robe,  struck  his  forehead, 
and  exclaimed  aloud — that  for  him 
all  was  over.   In  this  agony  of  mind, 
it  strikes  across  the  utter  darkness 
of  the  scene  with  the  sense  of  a  sud- 
den and  cheering  flash,  recalling  to 
us  the  possible  goodness  and  fidelity 
of  human  nature-*- when  we  read  that 
one  humble  creature  adhered  to  him, 
arid  according  to  her  slender  means, 
gav«3  him  consolation  during  these 
tryiag  moments;  this  was  the  wo- 
man who  had  tended  his  infant  years  ; 
and  she  now  recalled  to  his  remem- 
brance such    instances    of   former 
princes  in  adversity,  as    appeared 
fitted  to  sustain  his  drooping  spirits. 
It  seems,  however,  that,  according 
to  the  general  course  of  violent  emo- 
tions, the  rebound  of  high  spirits  was 
in  proportion  to  his  first  desponden- 
cy.    He  omitted  nothing  of  his  usual 
luxury  or  self-indulgence,  and  he 
even  found  spirits  for  going  incognito 
to  the  theatre,  where  he  took  suffi- 
cient interest  in  the  public  perform- 
ances, to  send  a  message  to  a  favour- 
ite actor.  At  times,  even  in  this  hope- 
less situation,  his  native  ferocity  re- 
turned upon  him,  and  he  was  belie- 
ved to  have  framed  plans  for  remo- 
ving all  his  enemies  at  once — the 
leaders  of  the  rebellion,  by  appoint- 
ing successors  to  their  offices,  and 
seci  etly  sending  assassins  to  despatch 
their  persons;  the  Senate,  by  poison 
at  Ji^  great    banquet ;    the   Gaulish 
provinces,  by  delivering  them  up  for 
pilk.ge  to  the  army ;  the  city,  by  again 
setting  it  on  fire,  whilst,  at  the  same 
time,  a  vast  number  of  wild  beasts 
was  to  have  been  turned  loose  upon 
the  unarmed  populace — for  the  dou- 
ble purpose  of  destroying  them,  and 
of  distracting  their  attention  from 
the  fire.    But,  as  the  mood  of  his 
frenzy    changed,  these   sanguinary 
schemes  were  abandoned,  (not,  how- 
ever, under  any  feelings  of  remorse, 
but  from  mere  despair  of  effecting 
them,)  and  on  the  same  day,  but 
after  a  luxurious  dinner ,  the  imperial 
monster  grew  bland  and  pathetic  in 
VOL.  xxxm.  NO.  ccni. 


49 

his  ideas ;  he  would  proceed  to  the 
rebellious  army;  he  would  present 
himself  unarmed  to  their  view ;  and 
would  recall  them  to  their  duty  by 
the  mere  spectacle  of  his  tears.  Upon 
the  pathos  with  which  he  would  weep 
he  was  resolved  to  rely  entirely. 
And  having  received  the  guilty  to  his 
mercy  without  distinction,  upon  the 
following  day  he  would  unite  his 
joy  with  their  joy,  and  would  chant 
hymns  of  victory  (epinicia) — "  which 
by  the  way,"  said  he,  suddenly,  break- 
ing off  to  his  favourite  pursuits,  "  it 
is  necessary  that  I  should  immedi- 
ately compose."  This  caprice  va- 
nished like  the  rest;  and  he  made 
an  effort  to  enlist  the  slaves  and  citi- 
zens into  his  service,  and  to  raise  by 
extortion  a  large  military  chest.  But 
in  the  midst  of  these  vacillating  pur- 
poses fresh  tidings  surprised  him — 
other  armies  had  revolted ;  and  the 
rebellion  was  spreading  contagious- 
ly. This  consummation  of  his  alarms 
reached  him  at  dinner ;  and  the  ex- 
pressions of  his  angry  fears  took 
even  a  scenical  air;  he  tore  the  dis- 
patches, upset  the  table,  and  dashed 
to  pieces  upon  the  ground  two  crys- 
tal beakers — which  had  a  high  value 
as  works  of  art,  even  in  the  Aurea 
Domusy  from  the  sculptures  which 
adorned  them. 

He  now  prepared  for  flight ;  and, 
sending  forward  commissioners  to 
prepare  the  fleet  at  Ostia  for  his  re- 
ception, he  tampered  with  such  offi- 
cers of  the  army  as  were  at  hand  to 
prevail  upon  them  to  accompany  his 
retreat.  But  all  shewed  themselves 
indisposed  to  such  schemes,  and 
some  flatly  refused.  Upon  which  he 
turned  to  other  counsels ;  sometimes 
meditating  a  flight  to  the  King  of 
Parthia,  or  even  to  throw  himself  on 
the  mercy  of  Galba ;  sometimes  in- 
clining rather  to  the  plan  of  ventu- 
ring into  the  Forum  in  mourning  ap- 
parel, begging  pardon  for  his  past 
offences,  and,  as  a  last  resource,  en- 
treating that  he  might  receive  the 
appointment  of  Egyptian  prefect. 
This  plan,  however,  he  hesitated  to 
adopt,  from  some  apprehension  that 
he  should  be  torn  to  pieces  in  his 
road  to  the  Forum  ;  and,  at  all  events, 
he  concluded  to  postpone  it  to  the 
following  day.  Meantime  events 
were  now  hurrying  to  their  catas- 
trophe, which  for  ever  anticipated 
that  intention,  His  hours  were  num- 


50 

bered ;  and  the  closing  scene  was  at 

hand. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  was 
aroused  from  slumber  with  the  in- 
telligence that  the  military  guard, 
who  did  duty  at  the  palace,  had  all 
quitted  their  posts.  Upon  this  the 
unhappy  prince  leaped  from  his 
couch,  never  again  to  taste  the  lux- 
ury of  sleep,  and  despatched  messen- 
gers to  his  friends.  No  answers  were 
returned;  and  upon  that  he  went 
personally  with  a  small  retinue  to 
their  hotels.  But  he  found  their  doors 
every  where  closed ;  and  all  his  im- 
portunities could  not  avail  to  extort 
an  answer.  Sadly  and  slowly  he  re- 
turned to  his  own  bed- chamber ;  but 
there  again  he  found  fresh  instances 
of  desertion,  which  had  occurred  du- 
ring his  short  absence  ;  the  pages  of 
his  bed-chamber  had  fled,  carrying 
with  them  the  coverlids  of  the  impe- 
rial bed,  which  were  probably  in- 
wrought with  gold,  and  even  a  golden 
box,  in  which  Nero  had  on  the  pre- 
ceding day  deposited  poison  pre- 
pared against  the  last  extremity. 
Wounded  to  the  heart  by  this  gene- 
ral desertion,  and  perhaps  by  some 
special  case  of  ingratitude,  such  as 
would  probably  enough  be  signali- 
zed in  the  flight  of  his  personal  fa- 
vourites, he  called  for  a  gladiator  of 
the  household  to  come  and  despatch 
him.  But  none  appearing, — "What!" 
said  he,  "  have  I  neither  friend  nor 
foe  ?"  And  so  saying,  he  ran  towards 
the  Tiber,  with  the  purpose  of  drown- 
ing himself.  But  that  paroxysm,  like 
all  the  rest,  proved  transient ;  and  he 
expressed  a  wish  for  some  hiding- 
place,  or  momentary  asylum,  in  which 
he  might  collect  his  unsettled  spirits, 
and  fortify  his  wandering  resolution. 
Such  a  retreat  was  offered  to  him  by 
his  libertus  Phaon,  in  his  own  rural 
villa,  about  four  miles  distant  from 
Rome.  The  offer  was  accepted ;  and 
the  Emperor,  without  further  prepa- 
ration than  that  of  throwing  over  his 
person  a  short  mantle  of  a  dusky 
hue,  and  enveloping  his  head  and 
face  in  a  handkerchief,  mounted  his 
horse,  and  left  Rome  with  four  at- 
tendants. It  was  still  night — but 


The  Casars.  [Jan. 

probably  verging  towards  the  early 
dawn ;  and  even  at  that  hour  the  im- 
perial party  met  some  travellers  on 
their  way  to  Rome  (coming  up,  no 
doubt,  *  on  law  business) — who  said, 
as  they  passed,"  These  men  are  cer- 
tainly in  chase  of  Nero."  Two  other 
incidents,  of  an  interesting  nature, 
are  recorded  of  this  short  but  me- 
morable ride:  at  one  point  of  the 
road,  the  shouts  of  the  soldiery  as- 
sailed their  ears  from  the  neighbour- 
ing encampment  of  Galba.  They 
were  probably  then  getting  under 
arms  for  their  final  march  to  take 
possession  of  the  palace.  At  another 
point  an  accident  occurred  of  a  more 
unfortunate  kind,  but  so  natural  and 
so  well  circumstantiated,  that  it 
serves  to  verify  the  whole  narrative ; 
a  dead  body  was  lying  on  the  road, 
at  which  the  Emperor's  horse  started 
so  violently  as  nearly  to  dismount 
his  rider,  and  under  the  difficulty  of 
the  moment  compelled  him  to  with- 
draw the  hand  which  held  up  the 
handkerchief,  and  suddenly  to  ex- 
pose his  features.  Precisely  at  this 
critical  moment  it  happened  that  an 
old  half-pay  officer  passed,  recogni- 
sed the  Emperor,  and  saluted  him. 
Perhaps  it  was  with  some  purpose 
of  applying  a  remedy  to  this  unfor- 
tunate rencontre,  that  the  party  dis- 
mounted at  a  point  where  several 
roads  met,  and  turned  their  horses 
adrift  to  graze  at  will  amongst  the 
furze  and  brambles.  Their  own  pur- 
pose was — to  make  their  way  to  the 
back  of  the  villa;  but,  to  accomplish 
that,  it  was  necessary  that  they 
should  first  cross  a  plantation  of 
reeds,  from  the  peculiar  state  of 
which  they  found  themselves  obliged 
to  cover  successively  each  space 
upon  which  they  trode  with  parts  of 
their  dress,  in  order  to  gain  any  sup- 
portable footing.  In  this  way,  and 
contending  with  such  hard  ships,  they 
reached  at  length  the  postern  side  of 
the  villa.  Here  we  must  suppose 
that  there  was  no  regular  ingress; 
for,  after  waiting  until  an  entrance 
was  pierced,  it  seems  that  the  Empe- 
ror could  avail  himself  of  it  in  no 
more  dignified  posture,  than  by 


•  At  this  early  hour,  witnesses,  sureties,  &c.,  and  all  concerned  in  the  law  courts, 
came  up  to  Rome  from  villas,  country  towns,  &c.  But  no  ordinary  call  existed  to 
summon  travellers  in  the  opposite  direction ;  which  accounts  for  the  comment  of  the 
travellers  on  the  errand  of  Nero  and  his  attendants. 


18S3.] 

creeping   through  the  hole   on 
hands  and  feet  (quadrupes  per  an- 
gus'ias  receptus.) 

Now,  then,  after  such  anxiety, 
alarm,  and  hardship,  Nero  had  reach- 
ed a  quiet  rural  asylum.  But  for 
the  unfortunate  concurrence  of  his 
horse's  alarm  with  the  passing  of  the 
sol(lier,he  might  perhaps  have  count- 
ed on  a  respite  of  a  day  or  two  in 
this  noiseless  and  obscure  abode. 
Bui  what  a  habitation  for  him  who 
wa*  yet  ruler  of  the  world  in  the  eye 
of  1  aw,  and  even  de  facto  was  so,  had 
any  fatal  accident  befallen  his  aged 
competitor!  The  room  in  which  (as 
the  one  most  removed  from  notice 
and  suspicion)  he  had  secreted  him- 
self, was  a  cella,  or  little  sleeping 
closet  of  a  slave,  furnished  only  with 
a  miserable  pallet  and  a  coarse  rug. 
Hei  e  lay  the  founder  and  possessor 
of  the  Golden  House,  too  happy  if 
he  might  hope  for  the  peaceable  pos- 
session even  of  this  miserable  crypt. 
But  that,  he  knew  too  well,  was  im- 
possible. A  rival  pretender  to  the 
empire  was  like  the  plague  of  fire — 
as  dangerous  in  the  shape  of  a  single 
spark  left  unextinguished,  as  in  that 
of  a  prosperous  conflagration.  But  a 
few  brief  sands  yet  remained  to  run 
in  the  Emperor's  hour-glass  ;  much 
variety  of  degradation  or  suffering 
seemed  scarcely  within  the  possibi- 
lities of  his  situation,  or  within  the 
con  pass  of  the  time.  Yet,  as  though 
Providence  had  decreed  that  His  hu- 
miliation should  pass  through  every 
shape,  and  speak  by  every  expres- 
sioD  which  came  home  to  his  un- 
derstanding, or  was  intelligible  to 
his  senses,  even  in  these  few  mo- 
ments, he  was  attacked  by  hunger 
and  thirst.  No  other  bread  could  be 
obt; lined,  (or,  perhaps,  if  the  Empe- 
ror's presence  were  concealed  from 
the  household,  it  was  not  safe  to  raise 
suspicion  by  calling  for  better)  than 
that  which  was  ordinarily  given  to 
sla\  es,  coarse,  black,  and,  to  a  palate 
so  uxurious,  doubtless  disgusting. 
This  accordingly  he  rejected;  but  a 
little  tepid  water  he  drank.  After 
which,  with  the  haste  of  one  who 
feai  s  that  he  may  be  prematurely  in- 
terrupted, but  otherwise,  with  all  the 
reluctance  which  we  may  imagine, 
and  which  his  streaming  tears  pro- 
claioaed,  he  addressed  himself  to  the 
last  labour  in  which  he  supposed 


The  Caesars.  51 

his     himself  to  have  any  interest  on  this 


earth — that  of  digging  a  grave.  Mea- 
suring a  space  adjusted  to  the  pro- 
portions of  his  person,  he  enquired 
anxiously  for  any  loose  fragments 
of  marble,  such  as  might  suffice  to 
line  it.  He  requested  also  to  be  fur- 
nished with  wood  and  water,  as  the 
materials  for  the  last  sepulchral  rites. 
And  these  labours  were  accompa- 
nied, or  continually  interrupted  by 
tears  and  lamentations,  or  by  pas- 
sionate ejaculations  on  the  blindness 
of  fortune,  in  suffering  so  divine  an 
artist  to  be  thus  violently  snatched 
away,  and  on  the  calamitous  fate  of 
musical  science,  which  then  stood  on 
the  brink  of  so  dire  an  eclipse.  In 
these  moments  he  was  most  truly  in 
an  agony,  according  to  the  original 
meaning  of  that  word;  for  the  con- 
flict was  great  between  two  master- 
principles  of  his  nature ;  on  the  one 
hand,  he  clung  with  the  weakness  of 
a  girl  to  life,  even  in  that  miserable 
shape  to  which  it  had  now  sunk; 
and  like  the  poor  malefactor,  with 
whose  last  struggles  Prior  has  so 
atrociously  amused  himself,  "  he  of- 
ten took  leave,  but  was  loath  to  de- 
part." Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
resign  his  life  very  speedily,  seemed 
his  only  chance  for  escaping  the  con- 
tumelies— perhaps  the  tortures — of 
his  enemies,  and,  above  all  other  con- 
siderations, for  making  sure  of  a 
burial,  and  possibly  of  burial  rites ; 
to  want  which,  in  the  judgment  of 
the  ancients,  was  the  last  consumma- 
tion of  misery.  Thus  occupied,  and 
thus  distracted— sternly  attracted  to 
the  grave  by  his  creed,  hideously  re- 
pelled by  infirmity  of  nature — he 
was  suddenly  interrupted  by  a  cou- 
rier with  letters  for  the  master  of 
the  house;  letters,  and  from  Rome  ! 
What  was  their  import?  That  was 
soon  told— briefly,  that  Nero  was 
adjudged  to  be  a  public  enemy  by 
the  Senate,  and  that  official  orders 
were  issued  for  apprehending  him, 
in  order  that  he  might  be  brought  to 
condign  punishment  according  to 
the  method  of  ancient  precedent. 
Ancient  precedent !  more  majorum  ! 
And  how  was  that  ?  eagerly  demand- 
ed the  Emperor.  He  was  answered 
— that  the  state-criminal  in  such 
cases  was  first  stripped  naked,  then 
impaled  as  it  were  between  the 
prongs  of  a  pitchfork,  and  in  that  con- 


52 


The  Ccesars. 


[Jan. 


dition  scourged  to  death.  Horror- 
struck  with  this  account,  he  drew 
forth  two  poniards,  or  short  swords, 
tried  their  edges,  and  then  in  utter 
imbecility  of  purpose,  returned  them 
to  their  scabbards,  alleging  that  the 
destined  moment  had  not  yet  arri- 
ved. Then  he  called  upon  Sporus, 
the  infamous  partner  in  his  former 
excesses,  to  commence  the  funeral 
anthem.  Others,  again,  he  besought 
to  lead  the  way  in  dying,  and  to  sus- 
tain him  by  the  spectacle  of  their 
example.  But  this  purpose  also  he 
dismissed  in  the  very  moment  of 
utterance  ;  and  turning  away  despair- 
ingly, he  apostrophized  himself  in 
words  reproachful  or  animating,  now 
taxing  his  nature  with  infirmity  of 
purpose,  now  calling  on  himself  by 
name,  with  adjurations  to  remember 
his  dignity,  and  to  act  worthy  of  his 
supreme  station  :  «  >&£-mi  N^aw,  cried 

he,    tf  •ai^i'ffii'   vntyttv   fa  lv   roTs    Toia-roi;' 

ah,  tfu^i  ffiKvrov  —  i.  e.  "  Fie,  fie,  then, 
Nero  ;  —  such  a  season  calls  for  per- 
fect self-possession.  Up  then,  and 
rouse  thyself  to  action." 

Thus,  and  in  similar  efforts  to  mas- 
ter the  weakness  of  his  reluctant 
nature  —  weakness  which  would  ex- 
tort pity  from  the  severest  minds, 
were  it  not  from  the  odious  connex- 
ion which  in  him  it  had  with  cruelty 
the  most  merciless  —  did  this  unhap- 
py prince,  Jaw  non  salutis  spew,  sed 
exitii  solatium  qucerens,  consume  the 
flying  moments,  until  at  length  his 
ears  caught  the  fatal  sounds  or  echoes 
from  a  body  of  horsemen  riding  up 
to  the  villa.  These  were  the  officers 
charged  with  his  arrest;  and  if  he 
should  fall  into  their  hands  alive,  he  • 
knew  that  his  last  chance  was  over 
for  liberating  himself,  by  a  Roman 
death,  from  the  burthen  of  ignomi- 
nious life,  and  from  a  lingering  tor- 
ture. He  paused  from  his  restless 
motions,  listened  attentively,  then 
repeated  a  line  from  Homer  — 


(The  resounding  tread  of  swift- 
footed  horses  reverberates  upon  my 
ears)  ;  —  then  under  some  momentary 
impulse  of  courage,  gained  perhaps 
by  figuring  to  himself  the  bloody 
populace  rioting  upon  his  mangled 
body,  yet  even  then  needing  the  aux- 
iliary hand  and  vicarious  courage  of 


his  private  secretary,  the  feeble- 
hearted  prince  stabbed  himself  in 
the  throat.  The  wound,  however, 
was  not  such  as  to  cause  instant 
death.  He  was  still  breathing,  and 
not  quite  speechless,  when  the  cen- 
turion who  commanded  the  party 
entered  the  closet ;  and  to  this  officer, 
who  uttered  a  few  hollow  words  of 
encouragement,  he  was  still  able  to 
make  a  brief  reply.  But  in  the  very 
effort  of  speaking  he  expired,  and 
with  an  expression  of  horror  im- 
pressed upon  his  stiffening  features, 
which  communicated  a  sympathetic 
horror  to  all  beholders. 

Such  was  the  too  memorable  tra- 
gedy which  closed  for  ever  the  bril- 
liant line  of  the  Julian  family,  and 
translated  the  august  title  of  Caesar 
from  its  original  purpose  as  a  proper 
name  to  that  of  an  official  designa- 
tion. It  is  the  most  striking  instance 
upon  record  of  a  dramatic  and  ex- 
treme vengeance  overtaking  extreme 
guilt;  for,  as  Nero  had  exhausted 
the  utmost  possibilities  of  crime,  so 
it  may  be  affirmed  that  he  drank  off 
the  cup  of  suffering  to  the  very  ex- 
tremity of  what  his  peculiar  nature 
allowed.  And  in  no  life  of  so  short 
a  duration,  have  there  ever  been 
crowded  equal  extremities  of  gor- 
geous prosperity  and  abject  infamy. 
It  may  be  added,  as  another  striking 
illustration  of  the  rapid  mutability 
and  revolutionary  excesses  which 
belonged  to  what  has  been  properly 
called  the  Roman  stratocracy  then 
disposing  of  the  world,  that  within  no 
very  great  succession  of  weeks  that 
same  victorious  rebel,  the  Emperor 
Galba,  at  whose  feet  Nero  had  been 
self-immolated,  was  laid  a  murdered 
corpse  in  the  same  identical  cell  which 
had  witnessed  the  lingering  agonies  of 
his  unhappy  victim.  This  was  the  act 
of  an  emancipated  slave,  anxious,  by 
a  vindictive  insult  to  the  remains  of 
one  prince,  to  place  on  record  his 
gratitude  to  another.  "  So  runs  the 
world  away !" — And  in  this  striking 
way  is  retribution  sometimes  dis- 
pensed. 

In  the  sixth  Caesar  terminated  the 
Julian  line.  The  three  next  Princes 
in  the  succession  were  personally 
uninteresting;  and,  with  a  slight  re- 
serve in  favour  of  Otho,  whose  mo- 
tives for  committing  suicide  (if  truly 
reported)  argue  great  nobility  of 


1833.1 


The  Casars. 


mind,*  were  even  brutal  in  the  tenor 
ol  their  lives  and  monstrous;  be- 
sides that  the  extreme  brevity  of 
tbeir  several  reigns  (all  three,  taken 
conjunct!/,  having  held  the  supreme 
power  for  no  more  than  twelve 
months  and  twenty  days)  dismisses 
them  from  all  effectual  station  or 
ri^ht  to  a  separate  notice  in  the  line 
ol  Caesars.  Coming  to  the  tenth  in 
the  succession,  Vespasian,  and  his 
two  sons  Titus  and  Domitian,  who 
make  up  the  list  of  the  twelve  Cse- 
surs,  as  they  are  usually  called,  we 
find  matter  for  deeper  political  me- 
ditation and  subjects  of  curious 
research.  But  these  Emperors  would 
ba  more  properly  classed  with  the 
five  who  succeed  them — Nerva, 
Trajan,  Hadrian,  and  the  two  Anto- 
nines;  after  whom  comes  the  young 
nffian  Commodus,  another  Caligu- 
la or  Nero,  from  whose  short  and 
ijifamous  reign  Gibbon  takes  up  his 
tile  of  the  decline  of  the  empire. 
And  this  classification  would  pro- 
bably have  prevailed,  had  not  the 
very  curious  work  of  Suetonius, 
T/hose  own  life  and  period  of  obser- 
•\ation  determined  the  series  and 
cycle  of  his  subjects,  led  to  a  differ- 
ent distribution.  But  as  it  is  evi- 
dent that,  in  the  succession  of  the 
first  twelve  Caesars,  the  six  latter 
Lave  no  connexion  whatever  by  de- 
scent, collaterally,  or  otherwise,  with 
the  six  first,  it  would  be  a  more 
logical  distribution  to  combine 
them  according  to  the  fortunes  of 
the  state  itself,  and  the  succession 
of  its  prosperity  through  the  several 
stages  of  splendour,  declension,  re- 
vival, and  final  decay.  Under  this  ar- 
•augemeut,  the  first  seventeen  would 
oelong  to  the  first  stage;  Commo- 
lus  would  open  the  second ;  Aure- 
sian  down  to  Constantino  or  Julian 
would  fill  the  third ;  and  Jovian  to 
Augustulus  would  bring  up  the  me- 
lancholy rear.  Meantime  it  will  be 
proper,  after  thus  briefly  throwing 
our  eyes  over  the  monstrous  atroci- 
ties of  the  early  Caesars,  to  spend  a 
few  lines  in  examining  their  origin, 
and  the  circumstances  which  favour- 


ed their  growth.  For  a  mere  hunter 
after  hidden  or  forgotten  singulari- 
ties ;  a  lover  on  their  own  account  of 
all  strange  perversities  and  freaks  of 
nature,  whether  in  action,  taste,  or 
opinion  ;  for  a  collector  and  amateur 
of  misgrowths  and  abortions;  for  a 
Suetonius,  in  short,  it  may  be  quite 
enough  to  state  and  to  arrange  his 
cabinet  of  specimens  from  the  mar- 
vellous in  human  nature.  But  cer- 
tainly in  modern  times,  any  histo- 
rian, however  little  affecting  the 
praise  of  a  philosophic  investigator, 
would  feel  himself  called  upon  to 
remove  a  little  the  taint  of  the  mira- 
culous and  preternatural  which  ad- 
heres to  such  anecdotes,  by  entering 
into  the  psychological  grounds  of 
their  possibility;  whether  lying  in 
any  peculiarly  vicious  education, 
early  familiarity  with  bad  models, 
corrupting  associations,  or  other 
plausible  key  to  effects,  which,  taken 
separately,  and  out  of  their  natural 
connexion  with  their  explanatory 
causes,  are  apt  rather  to  startle  and 
revolt  the  feelings  of  sober  thinkers. 
Except,  perhaps,  in  some  chapters 
of  Italian  history,  as,  for  example, 
among  the  most  profligate  of  the 
Papal  houses,  and  amongst  some  of 
the  Florentine  princes,  we  find  hard- 
ly any  parallel  to  the  atrocities  of 
Caligula  and  Nero ;  nor  indeed  was 
Tiberius  much  (if  at  all)  behind 
them,  though  otherwise  so  wary  and 
cautious  in  his  conduct.  The  same 
tenor  of  licentiousness  beyond  the 
needs  of  the  individual,  the  same 
craving  after  the  marvellous  and  the 
stupendous  in  guilt,  is  continually 
emerging  in  succeeding  Emperors— 
in  Vitellius,  in  Domitian,  in  Commo- 
dus, in  Caracalla — every  where,  in 
short,  where  it  was  not  overruled  by 
one  of  two  causes,  either  by  original 
goodness  of  nature  too  powerful  to 
be  mastered  by  ordinary  seductions, 
(and  in  some  cases  removed  from 
their  influence  by  an  early  appren- 
ticeship to  camps,)  or  by  the  terrors 
of  an  exemplary  ruin  immediately 
preceding.  For  such  a  determinate 
tendency  to  the  enormous  and  the 


*  We  may  add  that  the  unexampled  public  grief  which  followed  the  death  of 
Otho,  exceeding  even  that  which  followed  the  death  of  Germanicus,  and  causing 
several  officers  to  commit  suicide,  implies  some  remarkable  goodness  in  this  Prince, 
and  a  very  unusual  power  of  conciliating  attachment, 


54 


The  Camrs. 


[Jan. 


anomalous,  sufficient  causes   must 
exist : — what  were  they  ? 

In  the  first  place,  we  may  observe 
that  the  people  of  Rome  in  that  age 
were  generally  more  corrupt  by 
many  degrees  than  has  been  usually 
supposed  possible.  The  effect  of 
revolutionary  times,  to  relax  all 
modes  of  moral  obligation,  and  to 
unsettle  the  moral  sense,  has  been 
well  and  philosophically  stated  by 
Mr  Coleridge ;  but  that  would  hardly 
account  for  the  utter  licentiousness 
and  depravity  of  Imperial  Rome. 
Looking  back  to  Republican  Rome, 
and  considering  the  state  of  public 
morals  but  fifty  years  before  the 
Emperors,  we  can  with  difficulty 
believe  that  the  descendants  of  a 
people  so  severe  in  their  habits  could 
thus  rapidly  degenerate,  and  that 
a  populace,  once  so  hardy  and  mas- 
culine, should  assume  the  man- 
ners which  we  might  expect  in  the 
debauchees  of  Daphne  (the  infa- 
mous suburb  of  Antioch)  or  of 
Canopus,  into  which  settled  the 
very  lees  and  dregs  of  the  vicious 
Alexandria.  Such  extreme  changes 
would  falsify  all  that  we  know  of  hu- 
man nature  j  we  might  a  priori  pro- 
nounce them  impossible ;  and  in 
fact,  upon  searching  history,  we  find 
other  modes  of  solving  the  difficulty. 
In  reality,  the  citizens  of  Rome  were 
at  this  time  a  new  race,  brought  to- 
gether from  every  quarter  of  the 
world,  but  especially  from  Asia.  So 
vast  a  proportion  of  the  ancient  citi- 


zens had  been  cut  off  by  the  sword, 
and  partly  to  conceal  this  waste  of 
population,  but  much  more  by  way 
of  cheaply  requiting  services,  or  of 
shewing  favour,  or  of  acquiring  in- 
fluence, slaves  had  been  emancipated 
in  such  great  multitudes,  and  after- 
wards invested  with  all  the  rights  of 
citizens,  that,  in  a  single  generation, 
Rome  became  almost  transmuted 
into  a  baser  metal ;  the  progeny  of 
those  whom  the  last  generation  had 
purchased  from  the  slave-merchants. 
These  people  derived  their  stock 
chiefly  from  Cappadocia,Pontus,  &c., 
and  the  other  populous  regions  of 
Asia  Minor ;  and  hence  the  taint  of 
Asiatic  luxury  and  depravity,  which 
was  so  conspicuous  to  all  the  Ro- 
mans of  the  old  Republican  severity. 
Juvenal  is  to  be  understood  more 
literally  than  is  sometimes  supposed, 
when  he  complains  that  long  before 
his  time  the  Orontes  (that  river 
which  washed  the  infamous  capital 
of  Syria)  had  mingled  its  impure 
waters  with  those  of  the  Tiber.  And 
a  little  before  him,  Lucan  speaks 
with  mere  historic  gravity  when  he 
says — 

"  Vivant  Galatseque  Syrique 

Cappadoces,  Gallique,  extreraique  orbis 

Iberi, 

Armenii,  Cilices  :  nam  post  civilia  lella 
Hie  Populus  Romanus  erit,"* 

Probably  in  the  time  of  Nero,  not 
one  man  in  six  was  of  pure  Roman 
descent.f  And  the  consequences 


*  Blackwell,  in  his  Court  of  Augustus,  vol.  i.  p.  38&,  when  noticing  these  lines, 
upon  occasion  of  the  murder  of  Cicero,  in  the  final  proscription  under  the  last  Triumvi- 
rate, comments  thus :  "Those  of  the  greatest  and  truly  Roman  spirit  had  been  murdered 
in  the  field  by  Julius  Caesar ;  the  rest  were  now  massacred  in  the  City  by  his  son 
and  successors ;  in  their  room  came  Syrians,  Cappadocians,  Phrygians,  and  other 
enfranchised  slaves  from  the  conquered  nations  ;" — "  these  in  half  a  century  had 
sunk  so  low,  that  Tiberius  pronounced  her  very  senators  to  be  homines  ad  servitutem 
natos,  men  born  to  be  slaves." 

f  Suetonius  indeed  pretends  that  Augustus,  personally  at  least,  struggled  against 
this  ruinous  practice — thinking  it  a  matter  of  the  highest  moment,  "  sincerum 
atque  ab  omni  colluvione  peregrini  et  servilis  sanguinis  incorruptum  servare  popu- 
lum."  And  Horace  is  ready  with  his  flatteries  on  the  same  topic,  lib.  3,  Od.  6. 
But  the  facts  are  against  them  ;  for  the  question  is  not  what  Augustus  did  in  his 
own  person,  (which  at  most  could  not  operate  very  widely  except  by  the  example,) 
but  what  he  permitted  to  be  done.  Now  there  was  a  practice  familiar  to  those 
times  ;  that  when  a  congiary  or  any  other  popular  liberality  was  announced,  multi- 
tudes were  enfranchised  by  avaricious  masters  in  order  to  make  them  capable  of  the 
bounty,  (as  citizens,)  and  yet  under  the  condition  of  transferring  to  their  emancipa- 
tors whatsoever  th^y  should  receive  ;  Iv«  rov  ^r^otriu?  ^iSoptvev  trirov  Xaft£avevTs.s 
nu.ro,  /AW  a. — Qiouiri  rot;  ot^uxaffi  <r>jylxst^££/«v,  says  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  in  order 
that  after  receiving  the  corn  given  publicly  in  every  month,  they  might  carry  it  to 


1333.]  The  Ccesars. 

were  suitable.  Scarcely  a  family 
has  come  down  to  cur  knowledge 
that  could  not  in  one  generation 
enumerate  a  long  catalogue  of  di- 
vorces within  its  own  contracted 
circle.  Every  man  had  married  a 
s  ides  of  wives ;  every  woman  a  se- 
ries of  husbands.  Even  in  the  palace 
of  Augustus,  who  wished  to  be  view- 
ed as  an  exemplar  or  ideal  model 
of  domestic  purity,  every  principal 
member  of  his  family  was  tainted  in 
tnat  way ;  himself  in  a  manner  and 
a  degree  infamous  even  at  that  time.* 
For  the  first  400  years  of  Rome,  not 
cne  divorce  had  been  granted  or 
ssked,  although  the  statute  which 
allowed  of  this  indulgence  had  al- 
ways been  in  force.  But  in  the  age 
succeeding  to  the  civil  wars  men 
<  nd  women  "  married,"  says  one  au- 
thor, "  with  a  view  to  divorce,  and 
divorced  in  order  to  marry.  Many 
of  these  changes  happened  within 
the  year,  especially  if  the  lady  had 
si  large  fortune,  which  always  went 
with  her,  and  procured  her  choice  of 
transient  husbands."  And,  "  can  one 
imagine,"  asks  the  same  writer, 
"  that  the  fair  one,  who  changed  her 
husband  every  quarter,  strictly  kept 
her  matrimonial  faith  all  the  three 


months  ?"  Thus  the  very  fountain 
of  all  the  "  household  charities"  and 
household  virtues  was  polluted.  And 
after  that  we  need  little  wonder  at 
the  assassinations,  poisonings,  and  for- 
ging of  wills,  which  then  laid  waste 
the  domestic  life  of  the  Romans. 

2.  A  second  source  of  the  univer- 
sal depravity  was  the  growing  in- 
efficacy  of  the  public  religion ;  and 
this  arose  from  its  disproportion  and 
inadequacy  to  the  intellectual  ad- 
vances of  the  nation.  Religion,  in 
its  very  etymology,  has  been  held  to 
imply  a  religatio,  that  is,  a  reiterated 
or  secondary  obligation  of  morals ;  a 
sanction  supplementary  to  that  of 
the  conscience.  Now,  for  a  rude 
and  uncultivated  people,  the  Pagan 
mythology  might  not  be  too  gross  to 
discharge  the  main  functions  of  a 
useful  religion.  So  long  as  the  un- 
derstanding could  submit  to  the  fa- 
bles of  the  Pagan  creed,  so  long  it 
was  possible  that  the  hopes  and  fears 
built  upon  that  creed  might  be  prac- 
tically efficient  on  men's  lives  and 
intentions.  But  when  the  founda- 
tion gave  way,  the  whole  superstruc- 
ture of  necessity  fell  to  the  ground. 
Those  who  were  obliged  to  reject 
the  ridiculous  legends  which  invested 


those  who  had  bestowed  upon  them  their  freedom.  In  a  case,  then,  where  an  extensive 
practice  of  this  kind  was  exposed  to  Augustus,  and  publicly  reproved  by  him,  how 
did  he  proceed  ?  Did  he  reject  the  new-made  citizens  ?  No  ;  he  contented  himself 
with  diminishing  the  proportion  originally  destined  for  each,  so  that  the  same  abso- 
lute sum  being  distributed  among  a  number  increased  by  the  whole  amount  of  the 
new  inrolments,  of  necessity  the  relative  sum  for  each  separately  was  so  much  less. 
But  this  was  a  remedy  applied  only  to  the  pecuniary  fraud  as  it  would  have  affected 
himself.  The  permanent  mischief  to  the  state  went  unredressed. 

*  Part  of  the  story  is  well  known,  but  not  the  whole.  Tiberius  Nero,  a  pro- 
mising young  nobleman,  had  recently  married  a  very  splendid  beauty.  Unfortunately 
for  him,  at  the  marriage  of  Octavia  (sister  to  Augustus)  with  Mark  Anthony,  he 
allowed  his  young  wife,  then  about  eighteen,  to  attend  upon  the  bride.  Augustus 
was  deeply  and  suddenly  fascinated  by  her  charms,  and  without  further  scruple  sent 
a  message  to  Nero — intimating  that  he  was  in  love  with  his  wife,  and  would  thank 
him  to  resign  her.  The  other,  thinking  it  vain,  in  those  days  of  lawless  proscrip- 
tion, to  contest  a  point  of  this  nature  with  one  who  commanded  twelve  legions, 
obeyed  the  requisition.  Upon  some  motive,  now  unknown,  he  was  persuaded  even 
to  degrade  himself  farther ;  for  he  actually  officiated  at  the  marriage  in  character  of 
father,  and  gave  away  the  young  beauty  to  his  rival,  although  at  that  time  six  months 
advanced  in  pregnancy  by  himself.  These  humiliating  concessions  were  extorted 
from  him,  and  yielded  (probably  at  the  instigation  of  friends)  in  order  to  save  his  life. 
In  the  sequel  they  had  the  very  opposite  result;  for  he  died  soon  after,  and  it  is 
reasonably  supposed  of  grief  and  mortification.  At  the  marriage-feast,  an  incident 
occurred  which  threw  the  whole  company  into  confusion  :  A  little  boy,  roving  from, 
couch  to  couch  among  the  guests,  came  at  length  to  that  in  which  Livia  (the  bride) 
was  lying  by  the  side  of  Augustus,  on  which  he  cried  out  aloud, — "  Lady,  what  are 
you  doing  here  ?  You  are  mistaken — this  is  not  your  husband — he  is  there,"  (point- 
ing to  Tiberius,)  "  go,  go — rise,  lady,  and  recline  beside  him.'1 


56 


The  Casars. 


[Jan. 


the  whole  of  theirPanth eon,  together 
with  the  fabulousadjudgers  of  future 
punishments,  could  not  but  dismiss 
the  punishments,  which  were,  in  fact, 
as  laughable,  and  as  obviously  the 
fictions  of  human  ingenuity,  as  their 
dispensers.  In  short,  the  civilized 
part  of  the  world  in  those  days  lay 
in  this  dreadful  condition ;  their  in- 
tellect had  far  outgrown  their  reli- 
gion; the  disproportions  between 
the  two  were  at  length  become  mon- 
strous ;  and  as  yet  no  purer  or  more 
elevated  faith  was  prepared  for  their 
acceptance.  The  case  was  as  shock- 
ing as  if,  with  our  present  intellec- 
tual needs,  we  should  be  unhappy 
enough  to  have  no  creed  on  which 
to  rest  the  burden  of  our  final  hopes 
and  fears,  of  our  moral  obligations, 
and  of  our  consolations  in  misery, 
except  the  fairy  mythology  of  our 
nurses.  The  condition  of  a  people 
so  situated,  of  a  people  under  the 
calamity  of  having  outgrown  its  re- 
ligious faith,  has  never  been  suffi- 
ciently considered.  It  is  probable 
that  such  a  condition  has  never  ex- 
isted before  or  since  that  era  of  the 
world.  The  consequences  to  Rome 
were— that  the  reasoning  and  dispu- 
tatious part  of  her  population  took 
refuge  from  the  painful  state  of  doubt 
in  Atheism ;  amongst  the  thoughtless 
and  in-effective  the  consequences 
were  chiefly  felt  in  their  morals, 
which  were  thus  sapped  in  their 
foundation. 

3.  A  third  cause,  which  from  the 
first  had  exercised  a  most  baleful  in- 
fluence upon  the  arts  and  upon  lite- 
rature in  Rome,  had  by  this  time 
matured  its  disastrous  tendencies  to- 
wards the  extinction  of  the  moral 
sensibilities.  This  was  the  Circus, 
and  the  whole  machinery,  form  and 
substance,  of  the  Circensian  shows. 
Why  had  tragedy  no  existence  as  a 
part  of  the  Roman  literature  ?  Be- 
cause— and  that  was  a  reason  which 
would  have  sufficed  to  stifle  all  the 
dramatic  genius  of  Greece  and  Eng- 
land— there  was  too  much  tragedy 
in  the  shape  of  gross  reality,  almost 
daily  before  their  eyes.  The  amphi- 
theatre extinguished  the  theatre. 


How  was  it  possible  that  the  fine  and 
intellectual  griefs  of  the  drama  should 
win  their  way  to  hearts  seared  and 
rendered  callous  by  the  continual 
exhibition  of  scenes  the  most  hide- 
ous, in  which  human  blood  was  pour- 
ed out  like  water,  and  a  human  life 
sacrificed  at  any  moment  either  to 
caprice  in  the  populace,  or  to  a  strife 
of  rivalry  between  the  ayes  and  the 
noes,  or  as  the  penalty  for  any  trifling 
instance  of  awkwardness  in  the  per- 
former himself  ?  Even  the  more  in- 
nocent exhibitions,  in  which  brutes 
only  were  the  sufferers,  could  not 
but  be  mortal  to  all  the  finer  sensi- 
bilities. Five  thousand  wild  animals, 
torn  from  their  native  abodes  in  the 
wilderness  or  forest,  were  often  turn- 
ed out  to  be  hunted,  or  for  mutual 
slaughter,  in  the  course  of  a  single 
exhibition  of  this  nature;  and  it 
sometimes  happened  (a  fact  which 
of  itself  proclaims  the  course  of  the 
public  propensities,)  that  the  person 
at  whose  expense  the  shows  were 
exhibited,  by  way  of  paying  special 
court  to  the  people  and  meriting 
their  favour,  in  the  way  most  con- 
spicuously open  to  him,  issued  orders 
that  all,  without  a  solitary  exception, 
should  be  slaughtered.  He  made  it 
known,  as  the  very  highest  gratifica- 
tion which  the  case  allowed,  that  (in 
the  language  of  our  modern  auction- 
eers) the  whole,  "  without  reserve," 
should  perish  before  their  eyes.  Even 
such  spectacles  must  have  hardened 
the  heart,  and  blunted  the  more  de- 
licate sensibilities ;  but  these  would 
soon  cease  to  stimulate  the  pamper- 
ed and  exhausted  sense.  From  the 
combats  of  tigers  or  leopards,  in 
which  the  passions  could  only  be 
gathered  indirectly,  and  by  way  of 
inference  from  the  motions,  the  tran- 
sition must  have  been  almost  inevi- 
table to  those  of  men,  whose  nobler 
and  more  varied  passions  spoke  di- 
rectly, and  by  the  intelligible  lan- 
guage of  the  eye,  to  human  specta- 
tors; and  from  the  frequent  con- 
templation of  these  authorized  mur- 
ders, in  which  a  whole  people,  wo- 
men* as  much  as  men,  and  children 
intermingled  with  both,  looked  on 


*  Augustus,  indeed,  strove  to  exclude  the  women  from  one  part  of  the  Circensian 
spectacles ;  and  what  was  that  ?  Simply  from  the  sight  of  the  athletcc,  as  being  naked. 
But  that  they  should  witness  the  pangs  of  the  dying  gladiators,  he  deemed  quite 
allowable.  The  smooth  barbarian  considered,  that  a  license  of  the  first  sort  offended 


1833.]  The 

with  leisurely  indifference, with  anxi- 
ous expectation,  or  with  rapturous 
dt  light,  whilst  below  them  were 
passing  the  direct  sufferings  of  hu- 
minity,  and  not  seldom  its  dying 
pangs,  it  was  impossible  to  expect  a 
result  different  from  that  which  did 
in  fact  take  place, — universal  hard- 
ness of  heart,  obdurate  depravity, 
and  a  twofold  degradation  of  human 
nature,  which  acted  simultaneously 
upon  the  two  pillars  of  morality, 
(which  are  otherwise  not  often  as- 
sailed together,)  of  natural  sensibi- 
lity in  the  first  place,  and,  in  the  se- 
cond, of  conscientious  principle. 

4.  But  these  were  circumstances 
which  applied  to  the  whole  popula- 
tion indiscriminately.  Superadded 
to  these,  in  the  case  of  the  Emperor, 
ai  d  affecting  him  exclusively,  was 
this  prodigious  disadvantage — that 
ancient  reverence  for  the  immediate 
witnesses  of  his  actions,  and  for  the 
people  and  Senate  who  would  under 
other  circumstances  have  exercised 
the  old  functions  of  the  censor,  was, 
as  to  the  Emperor,  pretty  nearly  ob- 
literated. The  very  title  of  Impera- 
tor,  from  which  we  have  derived  our 
modern  one  of  Emperor,  proclaims 
the  nature  of  the  government,  and 
the  tenure  of  that  office.  It  was 
purely  a  government  by  the  sword, 
or  permanent  stratocracy  having  a 
movable  head.  Never  was  there  a 
people  who  enquired  so  impertinent- 
ly as  the  Romans  into  the  domestic 
conduct  of  each  private  citizen.  No 
rank  escaped  this  jealous  vigilance ; 
and  private  liberty,  even  in  the  most 
indifferent  circumstances  of  taste  or 
expense,  was  sacrificed  to  this  in- 
quisitorial rigour  of  surveillance  ex- 
ercised on  behalf  of  the  state,  some- 
times by  erroneous  patriotism,  too 
oi'ten  by  malice  in  disguise.  To  this 
spirit  the  highest  public  officers 
were  obliged  to  bow ;  the  Consuls, 
not  less  than  others.  And  even  the 
occasional  Dictator,  if  by  law  irre- 
sponsible, acted  nevertheless  as  one 
who  knew  that  any  change  which 
depressed  his  party,  might  cventu- 


C&mrs. 


57 


ally  abrogate  his  privilege.  For  the 
first  time  in  the  person  of  an  Impe- 
rator  was  seen  a  supreme  autocrat, 
who  had  virtually  and  effectively  all 
the  irresponsibility  which  the  law 
assigned,  and  the  origin  of  his  office 
presumed.  Satisfied  to  know  that 
he  possessed  such  power,  Augustus, 
as  much  from  natural  taste  as  policy, 
was  glad  to  dissemble  it,  and  by 
every  means  to  withdraw  it  from 
public  notice.  But  he  had  passed 
his  youth  as  citizen  of  a  republic ; 
and  in  the  state  of  transition  to  auto- 
cracy, in  his  office  of  Triumvir,  had 
experimentally  known  the  perils  of 
rivalship,  and  the  pains  of  foreign 
control,  too  feelingly  to  provoke  un- 
necessarily any  sleeping  embers  of 
the  republican  spirit.  Tiberius, 
though  familiar  from  his  infancy 
with  the  servile  homage  of  a  court, 
was  yet  modified  by  the  popular 
temper  of  Augustus ;  and  he  came 
late  to  the  throne.  Caligula  was  the 
first  prince  on  whom  the  entire  effect 
of  his  political  situation  was  allowed 
to  operate ;  and  the  natural  results 
were  seen — he  was  the  first  absolute 
monster.  He  must  early  have  seen 
the  realities  of  his  position,  and  from 
what  quarter  it  was  that  any  cloud 
could  arise  to  menace  his  security. 
To  the  Senate  or  people  any  respect 
which  he  might  think  proper  to  pay, 
must  have  been  imputed  by  all  par- 
ties to  the  lingering  superstitions  of 
custom,  to  involuntary  habit,  to 
court  dissimulation,  or  to  the  decen- 
cies of  external  form,  and  the  pre- 
scriptive reverence  of  ancient  names. 
But  neither  Senate  nor  people  could 
enforce  their  claims — whatever  they 
might  happen  to  be.  Their  sanction 
and  ratifying  vote  might  be  worth 
having,  as  consecrating  what  was 
already  secure,  and  conciliating  the 
scruples  of  the  weak  to  the  absolute 
decision  of  the  strong.  But  their 
resistance,  as  an  original  movement, 
was  so  wholly  without  hope,  that 
they  were  never  weak  enough  to 
threaten  it. 

The  army  was  the  true  successor 


against  decorum,  whilst  the  other  violated  only  the  sanctities  of  the  human  heart, 
and  the  whole  sexual  character  of  women.  It  is  our  opinion,  that  to  the  brutalizing 
ejfect  of  these  exhibitions  we  are  to  ascribe  not  only  the  early  extinction  of  the  Ro- 
man drama,  but  generally  the  inferiority  of  Rome  to  Greece  in  every  department  of 
the  fine  arts.  The  fine  temper  of  Roman  sensibility,  which  no  culture  could  have 
brought  to  the  level  of  the  Grecian,  was  thus  dulled  for  every  application, 


58 

to  their 


The  CcBsars. 


[Jan. 


being  the  ultimate 
depository  of  power.  Yet,  as  the 
army  was  necessarily  subdivided,  as 
the  shifting  circumstances  upon 
every  frontier  were  continually  vary- 
ing the  strength  of  the  several  divi- 
sions as  to  numbers  and  state  of  dis- 
cipline, one  part  might  be  balanced 
against  the  other  by  an  Imperator 
standing  in  the  centre  of  the  whole. 
The  rigour  of  the  military  sacramen- 
tum,  or  oath  of  allegiance,  made  it 
dangerous  to  offer  the  first  over- 
tures to  rebellion ;  and  the  money, 
which  the  soldiers  were  continually 
depositing  in  the  bank,  placed  at  the 
foot  of  their  military  standards,  if 
sometimes  turned  against  the  Em- 
peror, was  also  liable  to  be  seques- 
trated in  his  favour.  There  were 
then,  in  fact,  two  great  forces  in  the 
government  acting  in  and  by  each 
other — the  Stratocracy,  and  the  Au- 
tocracy. Each  needed  the  other  j 
each  stood  in  awe  of  each.  But,  as 
regarded  all  other  forces  in  the  em- 
pire,  constitutional  or  irregular,  po- 
pular or  senatorial,  neither  had  any 
thing  to  fear.  Under  any  ordinary 
circumstances,  therefore,  consider- 
ing the  hazards  of  a  rebellion,  the 
Emperor  was  substantially  liberated 
from  all  control.  Vexations  or  out- 
rages upon  the  populace  were  not 
such  to  the  army.  It  was  but  rarely 
that  the  soldier  participated  in  the 
emotions  of  the  citizen.  And  thus, 
being  effectually  without  check,  the 
most  vicious  of  the  Caesars  went  on 
without  fear,  presuming  upon  the 
weakness  of  one  part  of  his  subjects, 
and  the  indifference  of  the  other, 
until  he  was  tempted  onwards  to 
atrocities  which  armed  against  him 
the  common  feelings  of  human  na- 
ture, and  all  mankind,  as  it  were, 
rose  in  a  body  with  one  voice,  and 
apparently  with  one  heart,  united  by 
mere  force  of  indignant  sympathy, 
to  put  him  down,  and  "  abate"  him 
as  a  monster.  But,  until  he  brought 
matters  to  this  extremity,  Caesar  had 
no  cause  to  fear.  Nor  was  it  at  all 
certain,  in  any  one  instance,  where 
this  exemplary  chastisement  over- 
took him,  that  the  apparent  unani- 
mity of  the  actors  went  further  than 
the  practical  conclusion  of  "  abating" 
the  imperial  nuisance,  or  that  their 
indignation  had  settled  upon  the 
same  offences.  In  general  the  army 
measured  the  guiit  by  the  public 


scandal,  rather  than  by  its  moral  atro- 
city; and  Caesar  suffered  perhaps  in 
every  case,  not  so  much  because  he 
had  violated  his  duties,  as  because 
he  had  dishonoured  his  office. 

It  is,  therefore,  in  the  total  absence 
of  the  checks  which  have  almost 
universally  existed  to  control  other 
despots,  under  some  indirect  shape, 
even  where  none  was  provided  by 
the  laws,  that  we  must  seek  for  the 
main  peculiarity  affecting  the  condi- 
tion of  the  Roman  Caesar,  which  pe- 
culiarity it  was,  superadded  to  the 
other  three,  that  finally  made  those 
three  operative  in  their  fullest  ex- 
tent. It  is  in  the  perfection  of  the 
stratocracy  that  we  must  look  for 
the  key  to  the  excesses  of  the  auto- 
crat. Even  in  the  bloody  despotisms 
of  the  Barbary  states,  there  has  al- 
ways existed  in  the  religious  preju- 
dices of  the  people,  which  could  not 
be  violated  with  safety,  one  check 
more  upon  the  caprices  of  the  des- 
pot than  was  found  at  Rome.  Upon 
the  whole,  therefore,  what  affects  us 
on  the  first  reading  as  a  prodigy  or 
anomaly  in  the  frantic  outrages  of 
the  early  Caesars — falls  within  the 
natural  bounds  of  intelligible  human 
nature,  when  we  state  the  case  con- 
siderately. Surrounded  by  a  popu- 
lation which  had  not  only  gone 
through  a  most  vicious  and  corrupt- 
ing discipline,  and  had  been  utterly 
ruined  by  the  license  of  revolution- 
ary times,  and  the  bloodiest  proscrip- 
tions, but  had  even  been  extensively 
changed  in  its  very  elements,  and 
from  the  descendants  of  Romulus 
had  been  transmuted  into  an  Asiatic 
mob ; — starting  from  this  point,  and 
considering  as  the  second  feature  of 
the  case,  that  this  transfigured  people, 
morally  so  degenerate,  were  carried, 
however,  by  the  progress  of  civilisa- 
tion to  a  certain  intellectual  altitude, 
which  the  popular  religion  had  not 
strength  to  ascend — but  from  inhe- 
rent disproportion  remained  at  the 
base  of  the  general  civilisation,  inca- 
pable of  accompanying  the  other 
elements  in  their  advance ; — thirdly, 
that  this  polished  condition  of  so- 
ciety, which  should  naturally  with 
the  evils  of  a  luxurious  repose  have 
counted  upon  its  pacific  benefits,  had 
yet,  by  means  of  its  circus  and  its 
gladiatorial  contests,  applied  a  con- 
stant irritation,  and  a  system  of  pro- 
vocations to  the  appetites  for  blood, 


1833.]  The 

such  as  in  all  other  nations  are  con- 
nected with  the  rudest  stages  of  so- 
cie  y,  and  with  the  most  barbarous 
modes  of  warfare,  nor  even  in  such  cir- 
cumstances without  many  palliatives 
wa  iting  to  the  spectators  of  the  Cir- 
cus ; — combining  these  considera- 
tions, we  have  already  a  key  to  the 
enormities  and  hideous  excesses  of 
the  Roman  Imperator.  The  hot  blood 
which  excites,  and  the  adventurous 
courage  which  accompanies,  the  ex- 
cesses of  sanguinary  warfare, presup- 
pose a  condition  of  the  moral  nature 
not  to  be  compared  for  malignity  and 
baleful  tendency  to  the  cool  and  cow- 
ardly spirit  of  amateurship  in  which 
the  Roman  (perhaps  an  effeminate 
Asiatic)  sat  looking  down  upon  the 
bravest  of  men  (Thracians,  or  other 
Europeans)  mangling  each  other  for 
his  recreation.  When,  lastly,  from 
such  a  population,  and  thus  disci- 
plined from  his  nursery  days,  we 
suppose  the  case  of  one  individual 
selected,  privileged,  and  raised  to  a 
conscious  irresponsibility,  except  at 
the  bar  of  one  extrajudicial  tribunal, 
not  easily  irritated,  and  notoriously 
to  be  propitiated  by  other  means 
then  those  of  upright  or  impartial 
conduct,  we  lay  together  the  ele- 
ments of  a  situation  too  trying  for 
poor  human  nature,  and  fitted  only 
to  the  faculties  of  an  angel  or  a  de- 
mon; of  an  angel,  if  we  suppose  him 
to  resist  its  full  temptations;  of  a  de- 
mon, if  we  suppose  him  to  use  its 
total  opportunities.  Thus  interpret- 
ed and  solved,  Caligula  and  Nero  be- 
come ordinary  men. 

But,  finally,  what  if,  after  all,  the 
worst  of  the  Caesars,  and  these  in 
pa  -ticular,  were  entitled  to  the  be- 
ne  it  of  a  still  shorter  and  more  con- 
clusive apology  ?  What  if,  in  a  true 
medical  sense,  they  were  insane?  It 
is  certain  that  a  vein  of  madness  ran 
in  the  family ;  and  anecdotes  are  re- 
corded of  the  three  worst,  which  go 
far  to  establish  it  as  a  fact,  and  others 
which  would  imply  it  as  symptoms 
— preceding  or  accompanying.  As 
belonging  to  the  former  class,  take 
th  >  following  story  :  At  midnight  an 
elderly  gentleman  suddenly  sends 
ro  ind  a  message  to  a  select  party  of 
noblemen,  rouses  them  out  of  bed, 
and  summons  them  instantly  to  his 
palace.  Trembling  for  their  lives  from 


Ccesars. 


59 


the  suddenness  of  the  summons,  and 
from   the   unseasonable    hour,   and 
scarcely  doubting  that  by  some  ano- 
nymous delator  they  have  been  im- 
plicated as  parties  to  a  conspiracy, 
they  hurry  to  the  palace — are  recei- 
ved in  portentous  silence  by  the  ush- 
ers and  pages  in  attendance — are  con- 
ducted to  a  saloon,  where  (as  in  every 
where  else)  the  silence  of  night  pre- 
vails, united  with  the  silence  of  fear 
and  whispering  expectation.   All  are 
seated — all  look  at  each  other  in  omi- 
nous  anxiety.     Which  is  accuser? 
Which  is  the  accused?    On  whom 
shall  their  suspicion  settle — on  whom 
their  pity? — All  are  silent — almost 
speechless — and  even  the  current  of 
their  thoughts  is  frost-bound  by  fear. 
Suddenly  the  sound  of  a  fiddle  or  a 
viol  is  caught  from  a  distance — it 
swells  upon  the  ear — steps  approach 
— and  in  another  moment  in  rushes 
the   elderly  gentleman,  grave  and 
gloomy  as  his  audience,  but  caper- 
ing about  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement. 
For  half  an  hour  he  continues  to 
perform   all  possible  evolutions  of 
caprioles,  pirouettes,  and  other  ex- 
travagant feats  of  activity,  accom- 
panying himself  on  the  fiddle ;  and, 
at  length,  not  having  once  looked  at 
his  guests,  the   elderly  gentleman 
whirls  out  of  the  room  in  the  same 
transport  of  emotion  with  which  he 
entered  it ;  the  panic-struck  visitors 
are  requested  by  a  slave  to  consider 
themselves  as  dismissed :  they  re- 
tire ;    resume  their  couches  : — the 
nocturnal  pageant  has  "  dislimned" 
and  vanished  j  and  on  the  following 
morning,  were  it  not  for  their  con- 
curring testimonies,  all  would  be 
disposed  to  take  this  interruption  of 
their  sleep  for  one  of  its  most  fantas- 
tic dreams.    The  elderly  gentleman, 
whofiguredinthisdeliriouspassew/ — 
who  was  he  ?  He  was  Tiberius  Caesar, 
king  of  kings,  and  lord  of  the  terra- 
queous globe.  Would  a  British  jury 
demand  better  evidence  than  this  of  a 
disturbed  intellect  in  any  formal  pro- 
cess  cfe  lunatico   inquirendo?    For 
Caligula,  again,  the  evidence  of  symp- 
toms is  still  plainer.    He  knew  his 
own   defect;    and  purposed  going 
through  a  course  of  hellebore.  Sleep- 
lessness, one  of  the  commonest  indi- 
cations of  lunacy,  haunted  him  in  an 
excess  rarely  recorded.*  The  same, 


'  No  fiction  of  romance  presents  so  awful  a  picture  of  the  ideal  tyrant  as  that  of 
Caligula  by  Suetonius.     His  palace— radiant  with  purple  and  gold,  but  murder 


60                                            Tfte  Casars.  [Jan. 

or  similar  facts,  might  be  brought  brought  back  within  the  fold  of  hu- 

forward   on  behalf  of  Nero.     And  manity,  as  objects  rather  of  pity  than 

thus  these  unfortunate  princes,  who  of  abhorrence,  would  be  reconciled 

have  so  long  (and  with  so  little  in-  to  our  indulgent  feelings,  and,  at  the 

vestigation  of  their  cases)  passed  for  same  time,  made  intelligible  to  our 

monsters  or  for  demoniac  counter-  understandings, 
feits  of  men,  would  at  length  be 


every  where  lurking  beneath  flowers  ; — his  smiles  and  echoing  laughter— masking  (yet 
hardly  meant  to  mask)  his  foul  treachery  of  heart ; — his  hideous  and  tumultuousdreams 
— his  baffled  sleep — and  his  sleepless  nights — compose  the  picture  of  an  ^Escbylus; 
What  a  master's  sketch  lies  in  these  few  lines  : — "  Incitabatur  insomnio  maxime ; 
neque  enim  plus  tribus  horis  nocturnis  quiescebat ;  acne  his  placida  quiete,  atpavida 
miris  rerum  imaginibus :  ut  qui  inter  ceteras  pelagi  quondam  speciem  colloquentem 
secum  videre  visus  sit.  Ideoque  magna  parte  noctis,  vigilise  cubandique  tsedio,  nunc 
toro  residens,  nunc  per  longissimas  porticus  vagus,  invocare  identidem  atque  exspec- 
tare  lucem  consueverat  j" — i.  e.  But,  above  all,  he  was  tormented  with  nervous  irri- 
tation, by  sleeplessness ;  for  he  enjoyed  not  more  than  three  hours  of  nocturnal  re- 
pose ;  nor  these  even  in  pure  untroubled  rest,  but  agitated  by  phantasmata  of  por- 
tentous augury;  as,  for  example,  upon  one  occasion  he  fancied  that  he  saw  the  sea, 
under  some  definite  impersonation,  conversing  with  himself.  Hence  it  was,  and 
from  this  incapacity  of  sleeping,  and  from  weariness  of  lying  awake,  that  he  had  fall- 
en into  habits  of  ranging  all  the  night  long,  through  the  palace,  sometimes  throwing 
himself  on  a  couch,  sometimes  wandering  along  the  vast  corridors — watching  for  the 
earliest  dawn,  and  anxiously  invoking  its  approach. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEEPLY-LAMENTED  ENSIGN  GEORGE  HOLFORD 
WALKER,  WHO  WAS  SHOT  THROUGH  THE  HEART  IN  AN  AFFAIR  WITH  THE 
MALAYS,  ON  THE  3D  OF  MAY  1832,  AND  DIED  INSTANTANEOUSLY,  IN  HIS 
19TH  YEAR. 

OH,  fare-thee-well !  our  beautiful  and  brave! 

Our  lovely,  gentle,  generous,  gallant  boy ! 
Oh !  what  a  sum  of  ardent  hope  and  joy 

Lies  crush'-d  and  wither'd  in  thy  distant  grave  I 

Thy  cheek  in  its  first  down,-— thy  dark  blue  eye, 

Bright  flashing  with  an  ardent  spirit's  fire, 
Shone  like  the  sunbeam  of  yon  torrid  sky, — 

While  fame  precocious  fed  thy  young  desire. 

Happy  and  hopeful  wert  thou  !     Whosoe'er 
Look'd  on  thine  open,  manly  forehead,  smiled  ; 

For  there  was  written  many  a  promise  fair, — 
But,  oh,  how  fate  such  promise  has  beguiled ! 

Yet  there  was  mercy  in  thine  early  doom, 

For  thy  career,  bless'd  youth,  though  brief,  was  bright; 

And  thou  wert  stricken  pangless  to  the  tomb, 
In  the  first  transport  of  thy  conscious  might. 

Why  dwell  we  on  the  praise  thou  might'st  have  won, 
Had  thy  young  promise  ripen'd  I     Had  the  man, 

Maturing  in  the  beam  of  Glory's  sun, 
Been  spared  to  finish  as  the  boy  began ! 

Let  us  not  think !     Such  thought  is  anguish  now  ! 

Oh,  may  His  will  be  done  who  call'd  thee  hence ! 
And  this  sore  chastening  wisely  did  bestow 

On  hearts  too  proud,  affections  too  intense ! 

MARGT.  HODSON.' 


1833,]  Little  Leonard's  Last"  Good-Night 


LITTLE  LEONARD'S  LAST  "  GOOD-NIGHT." 

"  Gooo-night !  good-night !  I  go  to  sleep,"  * 

Murmur'd  the  little  child ; — 
And  oh !  the  ray  of  heaven  that  broke 
On  the  sweet  lips  that  faintly  spoke 

That  soft  "  Good-night,"  and  smiled. 

That  angel  smile  !  that  loving  look 

From  the  dim  closing  eyes  ! 
The  peace  of  that  pure  brow  !  But  there- 
Aye — on  that  brow,  so  young !  so  fair ! 

An  awful  shadow  lies. 

The  gloom  of  evening— of  the  boughs 

That  o'er  yon  window  wave — 
Nay,  nay — within  these  silent  walls, 
A  deeper,  darker,  shadow  falls, 

The  twilight  of  the  Grave — 

The  twilight  of  the  Grave— for  still 

Fast  comes  the  fluttering  breath- 
Owe  fading  smile — one  look  of  love — 
A  murmur — as  from  brooding  dove — 
«  Good-night." And  this  is  Death  ! 

Oh  !  who  hath  called  thee  «  Terrible!" 

Mild  Angel  I  most  benign  ! 
Could  mother's  fondest  lullaby 
Have  laid  to  rest  more  blissfully 

That  sleeping  babe,  than  thine ! 

Yet  this  is  Death— the  doom  for  all 

Of  Adam's  race  decreed — 
"  But  this  poor  lamb  !  this  little  one  !— 
What  had  the  guiltless  creature  done  ?" — 

Unhappy  heart !  take  heed ; 

Though  He  is  merciful  as  just 

Who  hears  that  fond  appeal — 
He  will  not  break  the  bruised  reed, 
He  will  not  search  the  wounds  that  bleed- 
He  only  wounds  to  heal. 

"  Let  little  children  come  to  me," 

He  cried,  and  to  his  breast 
Folded  them  tenderly — To-day 
He  calls  thine  unshorn  lamb  away 

To  that  securest  rest  ! 


*  These  were  the  dying  words  of  a  little  child,  related  to  the  author,  uttered  at 
the  moment  of  its  departure. 


62  Mr  Bird's  Picture—*  Chevy  Chase.  [Jan. 

ORIGINAL  LETTER  FROM  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

MR  BIRD'S  PICTURE — CHEVY  CHASE. 
TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  BLACKWOOD's  MAGAZINE. 

DEAR  SIR, — The  following  letters  explain  the  purport  for  which  they  were 
written.  '  In  themselves  they  are  interesting;  and  as  one  is  from  the  pen  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  it  would  be  perhaps  a  selfish  injustice  to  withhold  its  pub- 
lication. I  would  fain  think  they  may  be  read  not  without  interest,  from 
another  cause.  They  relate  to  a  Picture,  painted  by  poor  Bird,  R.A.,  who 
died  when  he  had  just  attained  that  eminence  in  his  profession  from  which 
he  might  have  expected  to  reap  a  golden  harvest ;  but  "  aliter  visum  ^st." 
That  picture  was  Chevy  Chase  ;-it  is  in  the  collection  of  the  Marquis  of  Staf- 
ford, and  I  believe  obtained  the  prize  from  the  British  Institution.  It  is  en- 
graved in  mezzotinto  by  Mr  Young.  The  original  sketch  in  oils  was  in  gra- 
titude presented  by  the  painter  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  is,  I  presume,  now 
at  Abbotsford ;  and  there  may  it  long  remain,  a  memorial  of  the  kindness  of 
that  great  and  excellent  man,  and  of  the  genius  and  grateful  feelings  of  the 
artist.  Among  the  Lives  of  the  Painters,  by  Allan  Cunningham,  (notwith- 
standing I  am  disposed  to  find  many  faults  with  it)  a  delightful  work,  may 
be  found  that  of  poor  Bird.  I  am  unwilling  to  call  in  question  the  judg- 
ment of  so  good  and  amusing  a  writer ;  but  there  are  sundry  matters  in 
those  Lives,  upon  which  I  have  sometimes  intended  to  offer  a  few  words  of 
remonstrance.  His  Life  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  is  certainly  written  with 
a  prejudice  ;  too  much  hearsay  evidence,  and  that  too  picked  up  from  ser- 
vants, is  admitted,  and  inferences  of  character  drawn  therefrom.  He  does 
not  appear  to  have  justly  appreciated  the  mind  of  that  great  man,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds.  But  the  Life  of  Bird,  on  whose  account  these  letters  were  writ- 
ten, gives  no  idea  whatever  of  the  man.  I  knew  him  well— perhaps  no  one 
better — and  from  his  commencing  as  an  artist,  to  the  day  of  his  death,  was 
in  almost  daily  intercourse  with  him ;  and  I  must  say  the  life  of  him  writ- 
ten by  Allan  Cunningham,  may  be  as  well  the  life  of  any  one  as  of  my  old 
friend  Bird.  It  is  in  little,  or  nothing,  correct.  There  were  many  friends 
of  the  painter  who  knew  him  well,  and  loved  him  for  his  many  virtues  and 
his  genius,  to  whom  it  is  surprising  the  author  did  not  apply.  Should  he 
meditate  another  edition,  and  wish  to  revise  that  portion  of  his  valuable 
work,  he  may,  without  difficulty,  obtain  more  correct,  as  well  as  more  in- 
teresting information. 

The  writer  of  the  Letter  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  (No.  I.)  was  a  very  near 
relative  of  mine,  and  that  and  the  Reply  (No.  II.)  came  into  my  pos- 
session at  his  decease  in  1812. — I  need  not  say  I  shall  carefully  preserve 
the  originals. 

I  am,  dear  Sir,  yours  very  truly, 

J.  E. 

Dec.  3,  1832. 

No.  I. 

L n  Court,  Dec.  3,  1811.  will  wave  the  ceremony  of  a  formal 

SIR, — I  am  much  at  a  loss  how  to  introduction,  and  do  me  the  favour 
apologize  to  you  for  intruding  my-  to  answer  my  enquiries  on  the  sub- 
self,  a  perfect  stranger,  upon  your  ject.  Mr  Murray  of  Fleet  Street, 
notice;  but  the  truth  is,  1  wish  for  who  has  favoured  me  with  your  ad- 
some  information  respecting  the  cos-  dress,  will,  I  have  no  doubt,  make 
tume  of  your  countrymen  towards  such  a  report  of  me,  as  may  in  some 
the  latter  end  of  the  14th  century.  I  degree  qualify  the  presumption  of 
know  that  you  are  better  able  to  give  this  abrupt  application.  It  is  but  fair 
me  this  information  than  any  other  to  acknowledge  that  my  enquiries 
person,  and  I  throw  myself  upon  have  no  reference  to  any  underta- 
your  liberality,  in  the  hope  that  you  king  of  my  own,  but  are  solely  intend- 


1833.] 


Mr  Bird's  Picture— Chevy  Chase. 


ed  lor  the  benefit  of  a  very  ingenious 
friend,  who  has  formed  the  design 
of  u  picture,  taken  from  the  follow- 
ing stanza  of  the  old  ballad  of  Chevy 
Chise, 
"  >  ext  day  did  many  widows  come,"&c. 

Though  this  ballad  is  not  strictly  his- 
torical, yet  time  has  given  it  a  sanc- 
tion almost  equal  to  such  authority ; 
and  as  we  are  to  look  to  the  battle  of 
Otterbourne  for  many  of  its  events, 
it  assumes  a  somewhat  higher  rank 
than  a  completely  fictitious  subject 
would  be  permitted  to  claim.  In  the 
act  Ion  passed  on  the  Borders  bet  ween 
the  retainers  of  the  great  houses  of 
Douglas  and  Percy,  in  some  degree 
the,  manners  ,and  dress  of  the  two 
countries  are  to  be  preserved ;  not 
only  the  military,  but  the  common 
and  ordinary  habiliments  of  the 
higher,  middle,  and  lower  classes, 
of  such  as  might  be  likely  to  visit 
the  field  the  day  after  the  battle,  in 
search  of  their  friends  and  relatives. 
I  recollect,  in  the  first  sketch  of  this 
object,  the  friends  of  Douglas  are 
bearing  his  body  from  the  field  in  a 
kind  of  solemn  procession,  the  whole 
in  shadow.  The  perspective  of  this 
retiring  train  produces  a  melancholy 
yet  sublime  effect.  The  form  of  the 
body  is  scarcely  perceptible  ;  the 
bearers,  and  they  who  precede  the 
corpse,  grow  indistinct  from  the  in- 
creasing distance;  and  the  few  who 
follow  appear  to  have  their  heads 
acd  bodies  covered  with  something 
like  mourning  cloaks.  This  last  divi- 
sion of  the  attendants  of  the  decea- 
sed hero,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to 
criticise  as  bearing  too  near  a  resem- 
blance to  a  funeral  provided  by  an 
undertaker,  and  may  probably  in- 
troduce ludicrous  ideas,  where  all 
sLould  be  serious  and  solemn.  I 
rather  think  this  group  should  prin- 
cipally consist  of  military  persons 
not  completely  armed  depiedau  cap, 
but  rather  negligently,  as  their  con- 
dition might  require  under  the  ex- 
is  ting  circumstances,  but  still  in  such 
n  anner  as  to  distinguish  them  as 
retainers  or  friends  of  the  house  of 
Douglas.  Having  stated  thus  much  of 
the  subject,  the  following  questions 
\vill  naturally  arise,  to  Enable  the 
painter  to  execute  his  task  with  fide- 
lity and  propriety.  Was  there  any 
difference  in  the  defensive  armour 
oc  the  contending  parties;  and  if  so, 


in  what  did  it  consist  ?  Were  the 
offensive  weapons  the  same  ?  or  in 
what  did  they  differ  ?  Should  the 
followers  of  the  body  of  Douglas 
have  their  helmets  on  their  heads, 
or  in  their  hands ;  and  was  there  any- 
peculiar  mode  of  carrying  their 
arms  on  such  an  occasion  ?  Was  the 
plaid  in  use  at  this  period ;  and  if  so, 
how  was  it  worn  ?  Was  there  any 
distinction  or  difference  in  dress, 
amongst  persons  of  the  higher,  mid- 
dle, or  lower  ranks,  except  that  of 
fineness  or  quality — I  mean  such  as 
were  professedly  not  military  ?  Sup- 
pose Lady  Percy  should  be  introdu- 
ced lamenting  over  the  body  of  her 
husband,  as  she  would  form  part  of 
the  principal  group,  how  might  she 
be  properly  drest  as  to  colour  and 
fashion  of  her  clothes  ?  Was  there 
any  prevailing  colour  in  the  dresses 
of  middle  and  lower  classes  ?  Was 
the  bonnet,  or  what  else,  worn  on  the 
head  at  this  period,  and  of  what  form 
and  colour  ?  I  take  it  for  granted 
that  the  inhabitants  of  the  low  coun- 
try of  Scotland  differed  but  little  in 
their  dress  from  the  French  and 
English,  with  whom  they  had  con- 
stant intercourse.  The  armour  of  the 
military  retainers  might  be  similar 
likewise,  but  that  the  great  distinc- 
tion was  the  badge  or  crest  of  the 
great  leaders  which  was  worn  by  the 
common  soldiers,  either  painted  or 
embossed  upon  their  armour  before 
and  behind,  such  as  I  have  observed 
on  the  plate  of  the  siege  of  Boulogne, 
temp.  Hen.  VIII.,  and  published  by 
the  Society  of  Antiquaries.  This 
seems  confirmed  by  an  historical 
event  at  a  subsequent  period.  At 
the  battle  of  Barnett,  in  1471,  the 
similarity  of  a  sun  and  a  star  on  the 
liveries  of  Edward  and  Warwick, 
produced  a  mistake  fatal  to  the  Lan- 
castrians. I  wish  my  friend  had  ta- 
ken the  battle  of  Otterbourne  for  his 
subject,  in  which  Douglas  was  slain, 
and  Hotspur  taken  prisoner ;  this 
would,  I  think,  have  given  greater 
variety  and  interest  to  the  picture  j 
but  1  do  not  interpose  my  fallible 
judgment  to  obliterate  the  impres- 
sions which  genius  may  have  formed 
in  the  mind  of  the  painter,  and 
which  thorough  knowledge  of  his  art 
may  enable  him  to  execute  beyond 
my  feeble  conception.  I  love  the  sis- 
ter arts ;  and  when  I  am  writing  to 
the  first  Poe.t  of  the  age,  I  scarcely 


64  Mr  Bird's  Picture 

know  how.  to  restrain  my  pen  from 
offering  that  tribute  which  is  due 
from  those  who  love  and  honour  vir- 
tue and  genius  to  those  who  possess 
them. 

"  O  let  your  spirit  still  my  bosom  soothe, 
Inspire  my  dreams,  and  my  wild  wander- 
ings guide  ! 
Your  voice  each  rugged  path  of  life  can 

smooth ; 

For  well  I  know  wherever  you  reside, 
There  harmony,  and  peace,  and  innocence 
abide." 

I  must  end,  as  I  began,  with  an  apo- 
logy for  troubling  you  with  this  long 


'—Chevy  Chase.  [Jan. 

letter.  ^  If  you  shall  think  it  worth 
answering,  my  friend  will  be  proud 
to  benefit  by  your  instructions  ;  if 
not,  I  shall  at  least  have  made  an  ef- 
fort to  serve  him  extremely  gratify- 
ing to  myself,  as  it  gives  me  the  op- 
portunity of  expressing  the  high  re- 
spect I  feel  for  your  character,  and 
of  thanking  you  for  the  gratification 
I  have  received  from  the  repeated 
perusal  of  your  charming  produc- 
tions.— Believe  me  to  be,  with  most 
sincere  respect  and  regard, 

Sir,  your  very  obedt.  servt., 
T.  E. 


No.  II. 


SIR, 


I  am  favoured  with  your  letter, 
and  without  pretending  to  touch  up- 
on the  complimentary  part  of  it,  I 
can  only  assure  you  that  I  am  much 
flattered  by  your  thinking  it  worth 
while  to  appeal  to  me  on  a  point  of 
national  antiquities.  I  am  very 
partial  to  Chevy  Chase,  although 
perhaps  Otterbourne  might  have 
afforded  a  more  varied  subject  for 
the  pencil.  But  the  imagination  of 
the  artist  being  once'.deeply  impress- 
ed with  a  favourite  idea,  he  will 
be  certain  to  make  more  of  it  than 
of  any  other  that  can  be  suggested 
to  him.  In  attempting  to  answer 
your  queries,  I  hope  you  will  allow 
fol  the  difficulty  in  describing  what 
can  only  be  accurately  expressed  by 
drawing,  &c.  &c.  I  shall  a.t  least 
have  one  good  thick  cloak  under 
which  to  shelter  my  ignorance.  I 
greatly  doubt  the  propriety  of  mourn- 
ing cloaks — but  a  group  of  friars 
might  with  great  propriety  be  intro- 
duced, and  their  garb  would  have 
almost  the  same  effect.  I  am  not 
aware  there  was  any  difference  be- 
tween the  defensive  armour  of  the 
Scots  and  English,  at  least  as  worn 
by  the  knights  and  men-at-arms ;  yet 
it  would  seem  that  the  English  ar- 
mour was  more  gorgeous  andshewy : 
they  had  crests  upon  the  helmet  be- 
fore they  were  used  in  Scotland; 
and  at  the  battle  of  Pinkie,  Patten 
expresses  his  surprise  at  the  plain- 
ness of  the  Scottish  nobility's  ar- 
mour. I  conceive  something  like 
this  may  be  gained  by  looking  at 
Grose's  ancient  armour,  and  select- 
ing the  more  elaborate  forms  for  the 


English — the  plate-armour  for  ex- 
ample; while  the  Scots  might  be 
supposed  to  have  longer  retained 
the  ring  or  mail-armour.  There 
should  not  be  a  strict  discrimination 
in  this  respect,  but  only  the  painter 
may  have  this  circumstance  in  his 
recollection.  There  are  at  New- 
battle  two  very  old  pictures  on  wood, 
said  to  be  heroes  of  the  Douglas  fa- 
mily, and  one  of  them  averred  to  be 
the  chief  of  Otterbourne.  The  dress 
is  very  singular — a  sort  of  loose  buff 
jerkin,  with  sleeves  enveloping  the 
whole  person  up  to  the  throat,  very 
curiously  slashed  and  pinked,  and 
covering  apparently  a  coat  of  mail. 
The  figure  has  his  hand  on  his  dagger, 
a  black  bonnet  with  a  feather  on  his 
head,  a  very  commanding  cast  of 
features,  and  a  beard  of  great  length. 
The  pictures  certainly  are  extremely 
ancient,  and  belong  to  the  Douglas 
family. 

Query  2.  The  knights  and  men-at- 
arms  on  each  side  wore  the  sword 
and  lance,  but  the  English  infantry 
were  armed  with  bows — the  Scots 
with  long  spears,  mallets,  and  two- 
handed  swords ;  battle-axes  of  vari- 
ous forms  were  in  great  use  among 
the  Scots.  The  English  also  retain- 
ed the  brown  bill,  so  formidable  at 
the  battle  of  Hastings;  a  weapon 
very  picturesque,  because  affording 
a  great  variety  of  forms,  for  which, 
as  well  as  for  the  defensive  armour 
worn  by  the  infantry  of  the  period, 
see  Grose,  and  the  prints  to  Johnes's 
Froissart. 

Query  3.  Those  of  the  followers 
of  Douglas  that  are  knights  and 
men-at-arms,  may  have  their  hel- 


1S38.] 


Mr  Bird's  Picture—  Chevy  Chase. 


met  at  the  saddle-bow,  or  borne 
by  their  pages — in  no  case  in  their 
hands.  The  infantry  may  wear  their 
steel-caps  or  morions;  the  target  or 
buckler  of  the  archers,  when  not  in 
use,  was  slung  at  their  back  like 
those,  of  the  Highlanders  in  1745.  I 
am  cot  aware  there  was  any  parti- 
cular mode  of  carrying  their  arms  at 
funerals,  but  they  would  naturally 
point  them  downwards  with  an  aix- 
of  depression. 

Query  4.  The  plaid  never  was  in 
use  among  the  Borderers,  f.  e.  the 
Highland  or  tartan  plaid;  but  there 
was,  and  is  still  used,  a  plaid  with 
a  very  smalt  cheque  of  black  and 
grey,  which  we  call  a  inaudy  and 
which,  I  believe,  was  very  ancient ; 
it  is  the  constant  dress  of  a  shepherd, 
worn  over  one  shoulder,  and  then 
drawn  round  the  person,  leaving 
one  f  rm  free. 

Query  5.  In  peace  the  nobility 
and  gentry  wore  cloaks,  or  robes 
richly  furred,  over  their  close  doub- 
lets. The  inferior  ranks  seem  to 
have  worn  the  doublet  only;  look 
at  Johnes's  Froissart,  which  I  think 
you  may  also  consult  for  the  fashion 
of  Lady  Percy's  garments.  Stoddart 
some  years  ago  painted  a  picture  of 
Chaucer's  Pilgrims,  which  displayed 
much  knowledge  of  costume. 

Query  6.  I  am  not  aware  there 
was  any  prevailing  colour  among 
the  peasantry  of  each  nation;  the 
silvan  green  will  of  course  predo- 
minate among  Percy's  bowmen. 

Query  7.  The  bonnet,  the  shape 
of  that  of  Henry  VIII.,  (but  of 
various  colours,)  was  the  univer- 
sal covering  in  this  age.  The  follow- 
ing points  of  costume  occur  to  my 
recollection  in  a  border  ballad,  (mo- 
dern, but  in  which  most  particulars 
are  taken  from  tradition.)  Scott  of 
Harden,  an  ancient  marauding  bor- 
derer, is  described  thus  : 

"  His  cloak  was  of  the  forest  green, 
Wi'  buttons  like  the  moon  ; 
His  trows  were  of  the  gude  buckskin, 
"VVT  a'  the  hair  aboon." 

Thr  goat-skin  or  deer-skin  panta- 
loons, with  the  hair  outermost,  would 
equip  one  wild  figure  well  enough, 
who  might  be  supposed  a  Border 
outlaw.  You  are  quite  right  re- 
specting the  badges,  butbesides  those 
of  their  masters,  the  soldiers  usually 
wore  St  George's  or  St  Andrew's 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIII. 


cross,  red  and  white,  as  national 
badges.  The  dogs  of  the  chase,  huge 
dun  greyhounds,  might  with  proprie- 
ty, and  I  think  good  effect,  be  intro- 
duced; suppose  one  mourning  over 
his  master,  and  licking  his  face.  A 
slaughtered  deer  or  two  might  also 
appear  to  mark  the  history  of  the 
fight,  and  the  cause  of  quarrel. 

I  have  often  thought  a  fine  sub- 
ject for  a  Border  painting  occurs  in 
the  old  ballad  called  the^Raid  of  the 
Reidswire,  where  the  wardens  on 
either  side  having  met  on  a  day  of 
truce,  their  armed  followers  and  the 
various  tribes  mingled  in  a  friendly 
manner  on  each  side,  till,  from  some 
accidental  dispute,  words  grew  high 
between  the  wardens.  Mutual  insult 
followed.  The  English  chief  ad- 
dressing the  Scottish, 

"  Rose  and  raxed  him  where  he  stood, 
And  bid  him  match  him  with  his  marrows. 
Then  Tynedale  heard  them  reason  rude, 
And  they  let  fly  a  flight  of  arrows." 

The  two  angry  chieftains,  espe- 
cially Forster,  drawing  himself  up  in 
hia  pride  and  scorn,  would  make  a 
good  group,  backed  by  the  Tyne- 
dale men,  bending  and  drawing  their 
bows ;  on  the  sides  you  might  have 
a  group  busied  on  their  game,  whom 
the  alarm  had  not  yet  reached ;  ano- 
ther half  disturbed ;  another,  where 
they  were  mounting  their  horses, 
and  taking  to  their  weapons,  with  the 
wild  character  peculiar  to  the  coun- 
try. 

This  is,  Sir,  all,  and  I  think  more 
than  you  bargained  for.  I  would 
strongly  recommend  to  your  friend, 
should  he  wish  to  continue  such 
subjects,  to  visit  the  armouries  in 
the  Tower  of  London,  where  there 
are  various  ancient,  picturesque,  and 
curious  weapons,  and  to  fill  his 
sketch-book  with  them  for  future 
use.  I  shall  be  happy  to  hear  that 
these  hints  have  been  of  the  least 
service  to  him,  or  to  explain  myself 
where  I  may  have  been  obscure. 
And  I  am,  Sir,  your  very  humble 
servant, 

WALTER  SCOTT. 
Edin.SthDec.  1811. 

If  Douglas's  face  is  shewn,  the 
artist  should  not  forget  the  leading 
features  of  his  family,  which  were 
an  open  high  forehead,  a  long  face, 
with  a  very  dark  complexion. 


66 


Ireland.    No.  1. 


[Jan. 


ion 

V 


IRELAND. 

No.  I. 


THE  situation  of  Ireland  has  long 
demanded  the  anxious  consideration 
of  every  well-wisher  to  his  country. 
If  we  have  not  lately  adverted  to  it, 
it  is  not  because  its  convulsions  and 
its  sufferings  have  failed  to  excite 
our  warmest  sympathy,  and  the  he- 
roism of  a  large  portion  of  its  inha- 
bitants our  highest  admiration ;  not 
because  we  are  not  fully  alive  to  the 
imminent  hazard  to  which  it  is  ex- 
posed, and  the  indissoluble  bond 
which  has  united  its  fortunes  to  that 
of  this  country;  but  because  the 
pressure  of  danger  and  of  overwhelm- 
ing interests  at  home,  has  been  such 
as  to  absorb  our  exclusive  attention. 
With  the  dagger  at  our  own  throats, 
we  had  no  leisure  to  attend,  and  no 
space  to  devote,  to  any  thing  but  our 
own  misfortunes ;  not  even  to  the 
concerns  of  the  sister  island,  bound 
to  us  by  every  tie  of  kindred  inte- 
rest, and  national  sympathy"! 

The  crisis  of  the  moment,  how- 
ever, calls  for  instant  attention;  and 
the  short  intermission  which  it  has 
afforded  in  the  work  of  destruc- 
tion, has  given  us  some  breathing 
time,  of  which  we  gladly  avail  our- 
selves to  turn  our  eyes  to  the  con- 
dition of  this  unhappy  country,  so 
richly  gifted  by  nature,  so  fully  fill- 
ed with  inhabitants,  so  deplorably 
pregnant  with  misery.  The  sur- 
vey, while  it  is  melancholy,  is  yet 
instructive ;  it  points  with  unerring 
hand  to  the  evils  of  popular  insubor- 
dination, and  affords  an  example  of 
the  effects  of  democratic  misrule,  so 
awful,  so  glaring,  that  if  the  people 
of  this  country  are  not  as  blind  and 
perverted  as  their  flatterers  tell  them 
they  are  enlightened,  they  must  per- 
ceive the  fatal  gulf,  to  the  brink  of 
which  they  are  so  madly  hastening. 
The  consideration  of  Irish  history, 
and  of  the  present  condition  of  that 
island,  is  better  calculated  than  any 
other  topic  to  illustrate  the  princi- 
ples for  which  we  have  so  long  and 
«o  strenuously  contended  ;  to  point 
out  the  admirable  effects  of  real  free- 
dom, as  contradistinguished  from  po- 
pular licentiousness  and  democratic 
tyranny;  and  to  demonstrate  the  en- 
ormous evils  arising  not  merely  to 


the  higher  but  the  lower  orders,  from 
those  principles  of  anarchy  and  in- 
subordination, which  our  rulers  have 
spread  with  so  unsparing  and  reck- 
less a  hand,  for  the  last  two  years, 
through  this  once  united  and  pros- 
perous land. 

That  Ireland,  though  blessed  with  a 
rich  soil  and  a  temperate  climate, 
though  abounding  in  men,  and  over- 
flowing with  agricultural  riches,  is  a 
distracted  and  unhappy  country,  is 
universally  known.  That  it  is  over- 
whelmed with  a  beggarly  and  redun- 
dant population ;  that  its  millions  are 
starving  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  and 
seem  to  live  only  to  bring  into  the 
world  millions  as  miserable  and  dis- 
tracted as  themselves,  is  matter  of 
common  observation,  not  only  to  all 
who  have  visited  the  country  itself, 
but  to  all  who  have  compared  it  with 
other  states,  even  in  the  lowest  stage 
of  civilisation,  and  under  circum- 
stances generally  supposed  the  most 
adverse  to  human  improvement. 
That  its  population  is  redundant,  as 
well  as  miserable  to  the  very  great- 
est degree,  is  demonstrated,  not 
merely  by  the  immense  tide  of  emi- 
gration which  annually  flows  over 
the  Atlantic,  but  the  enormous  mul- 
titudes who  are  daily  transported 
across  the  channel  to  overwhelm  the 
already  overpeopled  shores  of  Bri- 
tain. From  Mr  Cleland's  admirable 
statistical  work  on  Glasgow,  it  ap- 
pears that  there  are  no  less  than 
35,000  Irish  in  that  city,  almost  all 
in  the  very  lowest  rank,  and  humblest 
employments  of  life ;  and  the  propor- 
tion in  the  other  great  cities  of  the 
empire,  Manchester,  Bristol,  Liver- 
pool, Birmingham,  and  Edinburgh,  is 
probably  at  least  as  great.  Humboldt 
was  the  first  who  took  notice  of  the 
extraordinary,  and,  but  for  his  accu- 
racy, almost  incredible  fact,  that  be- 
tween the  years  1801  and  1821,  there 
was  a  difference  of  a  million  of  souls 
between  the  increase  of  the  popula- 
tion of  Great  Britain,  as  demonstra- 
ted by  a  comparison  of  the  births 
and  the  deaths,  and  the  actual  in- 
crease of  its  inhabitants ;  a  difference 
which  he  justly  considers  as  chiefly 
owing  to  the  immense  influx  of  Irish 


1833.] 


treland.    No.  I. 


67 


during  that  period.*  There  is  no 
instance  on  record  of  so  great  an 
inu  idation  of  inhabitants  breaking 
into  any  country,  barbarous  or  civi- 
lized, not  even  when  the  Goths  and 
Vai  dais  of  erwhelmed  the  Roman 
Empire. 

I  is  in  vain,  therefore,  to  attempt  to 
shake  ourselves  loose  of  Ireland,  or 
consider  its  misery  as  a  foreign  and 
extianeous  consideration  with  which 
the  people  of  this  country  have  lit- 
tle concern.  The  starvation  and 
ana  chy  of  that  kingdom  is  a  leprosy, 
which  will  soon  spread  over  the 
whole  empire.  The  redundance  of 
our  own  population,  the  misery  of 
our  own  poor,  the  weight  of  our 
own  poor-rates,  are  all  chiefly  owing 
to  the  multitudes  who  are  perpe- 
tually pressing  upon  them  from  the 
Iris  i  snores.  During  the  periods  of 
the  greatest  depression  of  industry 
in  this  country  since  the  peace,  if  the 
Irish  labourers  could  have  been  re- 
mo\  ed,  the  nati-ve  poor  would  have 
found  ample  employment  ;  and  more 
than  one  committee  of  the  House  of 
Corimons  have  reported,  after  the 
most  patient  investigation  and  mi- 
nut*  examination  of  evidence  from 
all  parts  of  the  country,  that  there 
is  no  tendency  to  undue  increase 
ainciig  the  people  of  Great  Britain, 
and  that  the  whole  existing  distress 
was  owing  to  the  immigration  from 
the  sister  kingdom. 

Nature  has  forbidden  us  to  sever 
the  connexion  which  subsists  be- 
tween the  two  countries.  We  must 
swim  or  sink  together.  It  is  utterly 
imp  >ssible  to  effect  that  disjunction 
of  British  from  Irish  interests,  for 
v  whi  ;h  the  demagogues  of  that  coun- 
try s  o  strenuously  contend,  and  which 
many  persons  in  this  island,  from  the 
welj  founded  jealousy  of  Catholic 
ascendency  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  the  apparent  hopelessness 
of  all  attempts  to  improve  its  condi- 
tion are  gradually  becoming  incli- 
ned to  support.  The  legislature  may 
be  s  iparated  by  act  of  Parliament  ; 
the  government  may  be  severed  by 
Catl  olic  revolts  ;  but  Ireland  will 
not  he  less  hang  like  a  dead  weight 
roui  d  the  neck  of  England  ;  its  star- 
ving multitudes  will  not  the  less 
ovei  whelm  our  labourers  ;  its  pas- 

-- 


sions  and  its  jealousies  will  not  the 
less  paralyse  the  exertions  of  our 
government.  Let  a  Catholic  Repub- 
lic be  established  in  Ireland ;  let 
O'Connell  be  its  President;  let  the 
English  landholders  be  rooted  out, 
and  Ireland,  with  its  priests  and  its 
poverty,  be  left  to  shift  for  itself;  and 
the  weight,  the  insupportable  weight 
of  its  misery  will  be  more  severely 
felt  in  this  country  than  ever.  De- 
prived of  the  wealth  and  the  capital 
of  the  English  landholders,  or  of  the 
proprietors  of  English  descent ;  a 
prey  to  its  own  furious  and  ungo- 
vernable passions ;  ruled  by  an  igno- 
rant and  ambitious  priesthood ;  se- 
duced by  frantic  and  unprincipled 
demagogues,  it  would  speedily  fall 
into  an  abyss  of  misery  far  greater 
than  that  which  already  overwhelms 
it.  For  every  thousand  of  the  Irish 
poor  who  now  approach  the  shores  of 
Britain,  ten  thousand  would  then 
arrive,  from  the  experienced  impos- 
sibility of  finding  subsistence  at 
home ;  universal  distress  would  pro- 
duce such  anarchy  as  would  neces- 
sarily lead  the  better  classes  to  throw 
themselves  into  the  arms  of  any  go- 
vernment who  would  interfere  for 
their  protection.  France  would  find 
the  golden  opportunity,  so  long  wish- 
ed for,  at  length  arrived,  of  striking  at 
the  power  oT  England  through  the 
neighbouring  island;  the  tri-color 
flag  would  speedily  wave  from  the 
Giant's  Causeway  to  Cape  Clear ; 
and  even  if  England  submitted  to  the 
usurpation,  and  relinquished  its  re- 
bellious subjects  to  the  great  parent 
democracy,  the  cost  of  men  and  ships 
required  to  guard  the  western  shore 
of  Britain,  and  avert  the  pestilence 
from  our  own  homes,  would  be 
greater  than  are  now  employed  in 
maintaining  a  precarious  and  doubt- 
ful authority  in  that  distracted  island. 
Whence  is  all  this  misery  and  these 
furious  passions,  in  a  country  so 
richly  endowed  by  nature,  and  sub- 
jected to  a  government  whose  sway 
has,  in  other  states,  established  so 
large  a  portion  of  general  felicity  ? 
The  Irish  democrats  answer,  that  it 
is  the  oppression  of  the  English  go- 
vernment which  has  done  all  these 
things ;  the  editors  of  the  Whig  jour- 
nals and  reviews  repeat  the  same 


Humboldt,  Voyages,  viii. 


68 


Ireland.    No.  I. 


[Jan 


cry  ;  and  every  Whig,  following,  on 
this  as  on  every  other  subject,  their 
leaders,  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  re-echo 
the  same  sentiment,  until  it  has  ob- 
tained general  belief,  even  among 
those  whose  education  and  good 
sense  might  have  led  them  to  see 
through  the  fallacy.  Yet,  in  truth, 
there  is  no  opinion  more  erroneous  ; 
and  there  is  none  the  dissemination 
of  which  has  done  so  much  to  per- 
petuate the  very  evils  which  are  the 
subject  of  such  general  and  well 
founded  lamentation.  Ireland,  in 
reality,  is  not  miserable  because  she 
has,  but  because  she  has  not,  been 
conquered;  she  is  suffering  under  a 
redundant  population,  not  because 
the  tyranny  of  England,  but  the  ty- 
ranny of  her  own  demagogues,  pre- 
vents their  getting  bread  ;  and  she  is 
torn  with  discordant  passions,  not 
because  British  oppression  has  call- 
ed them  into  existence,  but  because 
Irish  licentiousness  has  kept  them 
alive  for  centuries  after,  under  a 
more  rigorous  government,  they 
would  have  been  buried  for  ever. 

It  is  the  more  extraordinary  that 
the  popular  party  in  both  islands 
should  so  heedlessly  and  blindly 
have  adopted  this  doctrine,  when  it 
is  so  directly  contrary  to  what  they 
at  the  same  time  maintain  in  regard 
to  the  causes  of  the  simultaneous 
rise  and  prosperity  of  Scotland.  That 
poor  and  barren  land,  they  see,  has 
made  unexampled  strides  in  wealth 
and  greatness  during  the  last  eighty 
years ;  its  income  during  that  period 
has  been  quadrupled,  its  numbers 
nearly  doubled,  its  prosperity  aug- 
mented tenfold ;  they  behold  its  cities 
crowded  with  palaces,  its  fields  smi- 
ling with  plenty,  its  mountains  cover-, 
ed  with  herds,  its  harbours  crowded 
with  masts,  the  Atlantic  studded 
with  its  sails;  and  yet  all  this  has 
grown  up  under  an  aristocratic  rule, 
and  with  a  representative  system 
from  which  the  lower  classes  were 
in  a  great  measure  excluded.  In  de- 
spair atbeholding  a  nation  whose  con- 
dition was  so  utterly  at  variance 
with  all  their  dogmas  of  the  neces- 
sity of  democratic  representation  to 
temper  the  frame  of  government, 
they  have  recourse  to  the  salutary 
influence  of  English  ascendency, 
and  ascribe  all  this  improvement  to 
the  beneficial  influence  of  English 
freedom.  Scotland,  they  tell  us,  has 


prospered,  not  because  she  has,  but 
because  she  has  not,  been  governed 
by  her  own  institutions;  and  she  is 
now  rich  and  opulent,  because  the 
narrow  and  jealous  spirit  of  her  own 
government  has  been  tempered  bythe 
beneficial  influence  of  English  free- 
dom. Whether  this  is  really  the  case, 
we  shall  examine  in  a  succeeding 
Number;  and  many  curious  and  un- 
known facts  as  to  the  native  institu- 
tions of  Scotland,  we  promise  to  un- 
fold ;  but,  in  the  meantime,  let  it  be 
conceded  that  this  observation  is 
well  founded,  and  that  all  the  pro- 
sperity of  Scotland  has  been  owing 
to  English  influence.  How  has  it 
happened  that  the  same  influence  at 
the  same  time  has  been  the  cause  of 
all  the  misery  of  Ireland  ?  The  com- 
mon answer  that  Scotland  was  always 
an  independent  country,  and  that 
Ireland  was  won  and  ruled  by  the 
sword,  is  utterly  unsatisfactory,  and 
betrays  an  inattention  to  the  most 
notorious  historical  facts.  For  how 
has  it  happened  that  Ireland  was 
conquered  with  so  much  facility, 
while  Scotland  so  long  and  stre- 
nuously resisted  the  spoiler  ?  How 
did  it  happen  that  Henry  II.,  with 
eleven  hundred  men,  achieved  with 
ease  the  conquest  of  the  one  coun- 
try, while  Edward  II.,  at  the  head  of 
80,000  men,  was  unable  to  effect  the 
subjugation  of  the  other  ?  How  was 
it  that  Scotland,  not  once,  but  twenty 
times,  expelled  vast  English  armies 
from  her  territory,  while  Ireland  has 
never  thrown  them  off  since  the 
Norman  standard  first  approached 
her  shores?  And  without  going  back 
to  remote  periods,  how  has  it  hap- 
pened that  the  same  influence  of 
English  legislation,  which,  according 
to  them,  has  been  utterly  ruinous  to 
Ireland,  has  been  the  sole  cause  of 
the  unexampled  prosperity  of  Scot- 
land ?  that  the  same  gale  which  has 
been  the  zephyr  of  spring  to  the  one 
state,  has  been  the  blast  of  desolation 
to  the  other  ?  It  is  evident  that  there 
is  a  fundamental  difference  between 
the  two  states;  and  that  if  we  would 
discover  the  cause  of  the  different 
modes  in  which  the  same  legislation 
of  the  dominant  state  has  operated 
in  the  two  countries,  we  must  look 
to  the  different  condition  of  the  peo- 
ple to  whom  it  was  applied. 

One  fact  is  very  remarkable,  and 
throws  a  great  light  on  this  difficult 


Ireland.    No.  I. 


subject;  and  that  is,  that  at  different 
periods,  opposite  systems  have  been 
trit:d  in  Ireland,  and  that  invariably 
the  system  of  concession  and  indul- 
gence has  been  immediately  fol- 
lowed by  an  ebullition  of  more  than 
usual  atrocity  and  violence. 

The  first  of  these  instances  is  the 
great  indulgence  shewed  to  them  by 
James  I.  That  monarch  justly  boast- 
ed that  Ireland  was  the.  scene  of  his 
beneficent  legislation;  and  that  he 
had  done  more  to  its  inhabitants  than 
all  the  monarchs  who  had  sat  on  the 
English  throne  since  the  time  of 
Henry  II.  He  established  the  bo- 
roughs ;  gave  them  a  right  of  send* 
ing  representatives  to  Parliament ; 
and  first  spread  over  its  savage  and 
unknown  provinces  the  institutions 
and  the  liberties  of  England.  "What 
was  the  consequence  ?  Did  the  peo- 
ple testify  gratitude  to  their  benefac- 
tors ?  Did  they  prove  themselves 
worthy  of  British  freedom,  and  capa- 
ble of  withstanding  the  passions 
arising  from  a  representative  govern- 
ment y  We  shall  give  the  answer  in 
tho  words  of  Mr  Hume. 

"  The  Irish,  every  where  intermingled 
with  the  English,  needed  but  a  hint  from 
their  leaders  and  priests  to  begin  hostili- 
ties against  a  people  whom  they  hated  on 
account  of  their  religion,  and  envied  for 
thtir  riches  and  prosperity.  The  houses, 
cattle,  goods,  of  the  unwary  English  were 
firs-t  seized.  Those  who  heard  of  the 
commotions  in  their  neighbourhood,  in- 
stead of  deserting  their  habitations,  and 
assembling  for  mutual  protection,  remain- 
ed at  home,  in  hopes  of  defending  their 
property,  and  fell  thus  separately  into  the 
ha  ids  of  their  enemies.  After  rapacity 
hal  fully  exerted  itself,  cruelty,  and  the 
most  barbarous  that  ever,  in  any  nation, 
Wi,s  known  or  heard  of,  began  its  opera- 
tions. A  universal  massacre  commenced 
of  the  English,  now  defenceless,  and  pas- 
sively resigned  to  their  inhuman  foes. 
No  age,  no  sex,  no  condition,  was  spared. 
Ti  e  wife  weeping  for  her  butchered  hus- 
ba  id,  and  embracing  her  helpless  chil- 
dren, was  pierced  with  them,  and  perished 
by  the  same  stroke.  The  old,  the  young, 
th  :  vigorous,  the  infirm,  underwent  a  like 
fate,  and  were  confounded  in  one  com- 
mon ruin.  In  vain  did  flight  save  from 
tlu  first  assault:  destruction  was  every 
where  let  loose,  and  met  the  hunted  vic- 
tims at  every  turn.  In  vain  was  recourse 
hal  to  relations,  to  companions,  to  friends: 
and  connexions  were  dissolved,  and  death 
w;is  dealt  by  that  hand,  from  which  pro- 


tection was  implored  and  expected.  With- 
out provocation,  without  opposition,  the 
astonished  English,  living  in  profound 
peace,  and  full  security,  were  massacred 
by  their  nearest  neighbours,  with  whom 
they  had  long  upheld  a  continual  inter- 
course of  kindness  and  good  offices. 

"  But  death  was  the  slightest  punish- 
ment inflicted  by  those  rebels :  all  the 
tortures  which  wanton  cruelty  could  de- 
vise, all  the  lingering  pains  of  body,  the 
anguish  of  mind,  the  agonies  of  despair, 
could  not  satiate  revenge  excited  without 
injury,  and  cruelty  derived  from  no  cause. 
To  enter  into  particulars  would  shock  the 
least  delicate  humanity.  Such  enormi- 
ties, though  attested  by  undoubted  evi- 
dence, appear  almost  incredible.  De- 
praved nature,  even  perverted  religion, 
encouraged  by  the  utmost  license,  reach 
not  to  such  a  pitch  of  ferocity ;  unless 
the  pity  inherent  in  human  breasts  be  de- 
stroyed by  that  contagion  of  example, 
which  transports  men  beyond  all  the  usual 
motives  of  conduct  and  behaviour. 

"  The  weaker  sex  themselves,  natu- 
rally tender  to  their  own  sufferings,  and 
compassionate  to  those  of  others,  here 
emulated  their  more  robust  companions 
in  the  practice  of  every  cruelty.  Even 
children,  taught  by  the  example,  and  en- 
couraged by  the  exhortation  of  their  pa- 
rents, essayed  their  feeble  blows  on  the 
dead  carcasses  or  defenceless  children  of 
the  English.  The  very  avarice  of  the 
Irish  was  not  a  sufficient  restraint  of  their 
cruelty.  Such  was  their  frenzy,  that  the 
cattle  which  they  had  seized,  and  by  ra- 
pine made  their  own,  yet,  because  they 
bore  the  name  of  English,  were  wanton- 
ly slaughtered,  or,  when  covered  with 
wounds,  turned  loose  into  the  woods  and 
deserts. 

"  The  stately  buildings  or  commodious 
habitations  of  the  planters,  as  if  upbraid- 
ing the  sloth  and  ignorance  of  the  natives, 
were  consumed  with  fire,  or  laid  level 
with  the  ground.  And  where  the  miser- 
able owners,  shut  up  in  their  houses  and 
preparing  for  defence,  perished  in.  the 
flames,  together  with  their  wives  and 
children,  a  double  triumph  was  afforded 
to  their  insulting  foes. 

"  If  anywhere  a  number  assembled 
together,  and,  assuming  courage  from  de- 
spair, were  resolved  to  sweeten  death  by 
revenge  on  their  assassins,  they  were 
disarmed  by  capitulations  and  promises 
of  safety,  confirmed  by  the  most  solemn, 
oaths.  But  no  sooner  had  they  surren- 
dered, than  the  rebels,  with  perfidy  equal 
to  their  cruelty,  made  them  share  the  fate 
of  their  unhappy  countrymen. 

"  Others,  more  ingenious  still  in  their 
barbarity,  tempted  their  prisoners  by  th* 


70 

fond  love  of  life,  to  imbrue  their  hands 
in  the  blood  of  friends,  brothers,  parents ; 
and  having  thus  rendered  them  accom- 
plices in  guilt,  gave  them  that  death, 
Which  they  sought  to  shun  by  deserving  it. 

"  Amidst  all  these  enormities,  the  sa- 
cred name  of  RELIGION  resounded  on 
every  side ;  not  to  stop  the  hands  of  these 
murderers,  but  to  enforce  their  blows, 
and  to  steel  their  hearts  against  every 
movement  of  human  or  social  sympathy. 
The  English,  as  heretics,  abhorred  of 
God,  and  detestable  to  all  holy  men,  were 
marked  out  by  the  priests  for  slaughter; 
and,  of  all  actions,  to  rid  the  world  of 
these  declared  enemies  to  Catholic  faith 
and  piety,  was  represented  as  the  most 
meritorious.  Nature,  which,  in  that  rude 
people,  was  sufficiently  inclined  to  atro- 
cious deeds,  was  farther  stimulated  by 
precept;  and  national  prejudices  im- 
poisoned  by  those  aversions,  more  deadly 
and  incurable,  which  arose  from  an  en- 
raged superstition.  While  death  finished 
the  sufferings  of  each  victim,  the  bigoted 
assassins,  with  joy  and  exultation,  still 
echoed  in  his  expiring  ears,  that  these 
agonies  were  but  the  commencement  of 
torments  infinite  and  eternal." 

This  dreadful  rebellion  left  conse- 
ouenceslong  felt  in  Irish  government. 
Cromwell,  the  iron  leader  of  English 
vengeance,  treated  them  with  terrible 
severity :  at  the  storming  of  a  single 
city,  12,000  men  were  put  to  the 
sword ;  and  such  was  the  terror  in- 
spired by  his  merciless  sword,  that 
all  the  revolted  cities  opened  their 
gates,  and  the  people  submitted 
trembling  to  the  law  of  the  conquer- 
or. The  recollection  of  the  horrors 
of  the  Tyrone  rebellion  was  long  en- 
graven in  the  English  legislature: 
and  it  produced,  along  with  the  ter- 
rors of  religious  dissension,  the  severe 
code  of  laws  which  were  imposed  on 
the  savage  population  of  the  country, 
before  the  close  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  An  hundred  years  of  peace 
and  tranquillity  followed  the  promul- 
gation of  these  oppressive  laws.  That 
they  were  severe  and  cruel  is  obvious 
from  their  tenor ;  that  they  were  in 
many  respects  not  worse  than  was 
called  for  by  the  horrors  which  pre- 
ceded their  enactment  and  followed 
their  repeal,  is  now  unhappily  proved 
by  the  result. 

The  next  great  period  of  conces- 
sion commenced  about  the  year  1772, 
soon  after  the  accession  of  George 
III.  The  severe  code  under  which 
Ireland  had  so  long  lain  chained,  but 


Ireland.    No.  T.  [Jan. 

quiet,  was  relaxed  :  the  Catholics 
were  admitted  to  a  full  share  of  the 
representation ;  the  more  selfish  and 
unnecessary  parts  of  the  restric- 
tions were  removed;  and,  before 

1796,  hardly  any  part  of  the  old  fet- 
ters remained  exceptingthe  exclusion 
of  Catholics  from  theHouses  of  Lords 
and  Commons,  and  the  higher  situ- 
ations in  the  army.   Did  tranquillity, 
satisfaction,  and  peace,  follow  these 
immense     concessions,     continued 
through  a  period  of  thirty  years  ? 
On  the  contrary,  they  were  immedi- 
ately followed  by  the  same  result  as 
had    attended    the   concessions    of 
James  I.  A  new  rebellion  broke  out ; 
the  horrors  of  1 798  rivalled  those  of 
1641 ;  and  the  dreadful  recollection 
of  the  Tyrone  massacre  was  drown- 
ed in  the  more  recent  suffering  of  the 
same  unhappy  country. 

The  perilous  state  in  which  Ire- 
land then  stood,  imperfectly  known 
at  the  time  even  to  the  government, 
is  now  fully  developed.  From  the 
Memoirs  of  Wolfe  Tone,  recently 
published,  it  appears  that  250,000 
men  were  sworn  in,  organized,  drill- 
ed, and  regimented;  that  colonels 
and  officers  for  this  immense  force 
were  all  appointed ;  and  the  whole 
under  the  direction  of  the  central 
committee  at  Dublin,  only  waited  the 
arrival  of  Hoche  and  the  French  fleet 
to  hoist  the  tricolor  flag,  and  pro- 
claim the  Hibernian  Republic  in  close 
alliance  with  the  Republic  of  France. 
With  truth  it  may  be  said,  that  the 
fate  of  England  then  hung  upon  a 
thread.  Napoleon,  and  the  uncon- 
quered  army  of  Italy,  were  still  in 
Europe ;  a  successful  descent  of  the 
advanced  guard,  15,000  strong,  under 
Hoche, would  immediately  have  been 
followed  up  by  the  invasion  of  the 
main  body  under  that  great  leader ; 
and  the  facility  with  which  the  French 
fleet  reached  Bantry  Bay  in  February 

1797,  where  they  were  only  prevent- 
ed from    landing    by  tempestuous 
gales,  proves  that  the  command  of 
the  seas  cannot  always  be  relied  on 
as  a  security  against  foreign  invasion. 
Had  40,000  French  soldiers  landed 
at  that  time  in  Ireland,  to  organize 
200,000  hot-headed  Catholic  demo- 
crats, and  lend  the  hand  of  fraternity 
to  their  numerous  coadjutors  on  the 
other  side  of  St  George's  Channel, 
it  is  difficult  to  say  what  would  have 
been  the  present  fate  of  England. 


1833.]  Ireland. 

The  rebellion  of  1798  threw  back 
for  ten  years  the  progress  of  the  in- 
dulgent measures  so  long  practised 
towards  Ireland ;  but  at  length  the 
spirit  of  clemency  again  resumed  its 
sw-iy;  the  system  of  concession  was 
agrin  adopted,  and  the  last  remnants 
of  the  Irish  fetters  removed  by  the 
liberal  Tory  administration  of  Eng- 
land. First,  the  Catholics  were  de- 
clared eligible  to  any  situations  in 
the  army  and  navy,  and  at  length,  by 
thr,  famous  relief  bill,  the  remaining 
distinctions  between  Catholic  and 
Pratestant  were  done  away,  and  an 
eqial  share  of  political  influence  ex- 
tended to  them  as  their  Protestant 
brethren.  What  has  been  the  conse- 
quence? Has  Ireland  increased  in 
tranquillity  since  this  memorable 
ch  inge  ?  Have  the  prophecies  of  its 
advocates  been  verified  as  to  the 
stilling  of  the  waves  of  dissension 
and  rebellion  ?  Has  it  proved  true, 
as  Earl  Grey  prophesied  it  would  in 
his  place  in  the  House  of  Lords, 

Defluit  saxis  agitatus  humor  ; 
Concedunt  venti,  fugiuntque  nubes  ; 
Et  minax  quod  sic  voluere  ponto 
Unda  recumbit  ? 

The  reverse  of  all  this  has  notori- 
ously been  the  case.    Since  this  last 
and  great   concession,  Ireland  has 
become  worse  than  ever.     Midnight 
cc  nflagration,dastardly  assassination, 
hrve  spread  with  fearful  rapidity; 
the  sources  of  justice  have  been  dried 
up,  and  the  most  atrocious  criminals 
repeatedly  suffered  to  escape,  from 
tte  impossibility  of  bringing  them  to 
justice.     An  universal  insurrection 
against  the  payment  of  tithes  has  de- 
n-id all  the  authority  of  government, 
ir  open  violation  of  the  solemn  pro- 
ir  ises  of  the  Catholics  that  no  inva- 
sion on  the  rights  of  the  Protestant 
cl  mrch  was  intended ;  and  the  starving 
clergy  of  Ireland  have  been  thrown 
as  a  burden  upon  the  consolidated 
f  i  ,nd  of  England.  At  this  moment  the 
authority  of  England  is  merely  nomi- 
n  il  over  the  neighbouring  island;  the 
lord  Lieutenant  is  less  generally 
obeyed  than  the  great  Agitator,  and 
fie  dictates  of  the  Catholic  leaders 
1  )oked  up  to  in  preference  to  the  acts 
of  the  British  Parliament.  In  despair 
at  so  desperate  a  state  of  things,  so 
entirely  the  reverse  of  all  they  had 
1  oped  from  the  long  train  of  concili- 
atory measures,  the  English  are  gi- 


NO.  i.  n 

ving  up  the  cause  in  despair,  while 
the  great  and  gallant  body  of  Irish 
Protestants  are  firmly  looking  the 
danger  in  the  face,  and  silently  pre- 
paring for  the  struggle  which  they 
well  know  has  now  become  inevita- 
ble. 

The  result  of  experience,  there- 
fore, is  complete  in  all  its  parts. 
Thrice  during  the  last  two  hundred 
years  have  conciliatory  measures 
been  tried  on  the  largest  scale,  and 
with  the  most  beneficent  intention ; 
and  thrice  have  the  concessions  to 
the  Catholics  been  followed  by  a 
violent  and  intolerable  outbreak  of 
savage  ferocity.  The  two  first  re- 
bellions were  followed  by  a  firm  and 
severe  system  of  coercive  govern- 
ment ;  as  long  as  they  continued  in 
force,  Ireland  was  comparatively 
tranquil,  and  their  relaxation  was  the 
signal  for  the  commencement  of  a 
state  of  insubordination  which  rapid- 
ly led  to  anarchy  and  revolt.  The 
present  revolutionary  spirit  has  been 
met  by  a 'different  system.  Every 
thing  has  'been  conceded  to  the  de- 
magogues ;  their  demands  have  been 
granted,  their  assemblies  allowed, 
their  advice  followed,  their  leaders 
promoted ;  and  the  country  in  con- 
sequence has  arrived  at  a  state  of 
anarchy  unparalleled  in  any  Chris- 
tian state. 

What  makes  the  present  state  of 
Ireland  and  the  democratic  spirit  of 
its  inhabitants  altogether  unpardon- 
able, is  the  extreme'  indulgence  and 
liberality  with  which  for  the  last  fifty 
years  they  have  been  treated  by  this 
country.  During  the  whole  war,  Ire- 
land paid  neither  income-tax  nor  as- 
sessed taxes  ;  and  the  sum  thus  made 
a  present  of  by  Ejigland  to  her  peo- 
ple, amounted  at  the  very  lowest  cal- 
culation to  L.50,000,000  sterling.  She 
shared  in  the  full  benefit  of  the  war 
in  consequence  of  the  immense  ex- 
tent of  the  demand  for  agricultural 
produce  which  its  expenditure  oc- 
casioned, without  feeling  any  of  the 
burdens  which  neutralized  its  exten- 
sion in  this  country.  No  poor's  rates 
are  levied  on  her  landholders;  in 
other   words,    they  are    levied   on 
England  and  Scotland  instead,  and 
this  island  is  in  consequence  over- 
whelmed by  a  mass   of  indigence 
created  in  the  neighbouring  kingdom, 
but  which  British  indulgence  has  re- 
lieved them  from  the  necessity  of 


Ireland.     No.  I. 


[Jan. 


maintaining.  The  amount  of  the  sums 
annually  paid  by  the  Parliament  of 
Great  Britain  to  objects  of  charity 
and  utility  in  Ireland  almost  exceeds 
belief,  and  is  at  least  five  times  great- 
er than  all  directed  to  the  same  ob- 
jects in  both  the  other  parts  of  the 
empire  taken  together.*  Yet  with 
all  their  good  deeds,  past,  present, 
and  to  come,  Ireland  is  the  most  dis- 
contented part  of  the  United  King- 
dom. She  is  incessantly  crying  out 
against  her  benefactor,  and  recurring 
to  old  oppression  rendered  necessary 
by  her  passions,  instead  of  present 
benefactions,  of  which  her  democra- 
tic population  have  proved  them- 
selves unworthy  by  their  ingratitude. 


Notwithstanding  all  the  efforts  of 
her  demagogues  to  distract  the  coun- 
try, and  counteract  all  the  liberality 
and  beneficence  of  the  English  go- 
vernment, Ireland  has  advanced  with 
greater  rapidity  in  industry,  wealth, 
and  all  the  real  sources  of  happiness, 
during  the  last  thirty  years,  than  any 
other  part  of  the  empire.  Since  the 
Union,  she  has  made  a  start  both  in 
agricultural  and  manufacturing  in- 
dustry, quite  unparalleled,  and  much 
greater  than  Scotland  Lad  made  du- 
ring the  first  hundred  years  after 
her"  incorporation  with  the  English 
dominions.!  It  is  quite  evident,  that 
if  the  demagogues  would  let  Ireland 
alone — if  the  wounds  in  her  political 


*  The  following  is  a  statement  of  the  principal  sums  annually  paid  by  Government 
to  the  Charities  in  Dublin : — 


Protestant  Schools, 
Foundling  Hospital, 
House  of  Industry, 
Lunatic  Asylum, 
Fever  Board, 


L.38,300 

32,500 

36,64-0 

7,084 

12,000 


Carry  forward,     L.  1 26,524 


Brought  forward,    L.  126,524 
Dublin  Police,  .       26,600 

Lock  Hospital,  ,.         8,000 

Dublin  Society,  "  ." "     9,230 

Education  Society,          ,         5,538 

L.  175,292 


f  Imports  into  Ireland  from  all  parts,  in  1801  and  1825. 

In  1801.  In  1825. 

Cotton  manufactures,  entered  by  the  yard,         44,314  yards.  4,996,885  yards. 

Cotton  yarn 375,000  Ibs.  2,702,000  Ibs. 

Cotton  wool,        .         .         .        .        .  1,200,000  Ibs.  4,065,000  Ibs. 

Flax  seed,          ,-      '.-..    .        .        .         376,000  bushels.  535,000  bushels. 

Tallow,       .         .         .  i.  •    .  ;*       U           16,000  cwts.  131,000  cwts. 

Iron,  un wrought,      ;,  «     .  r«.        •      •' i             7,454  tons.  17,902  tons. 

Coals,          .         .         .         ....         315,000  tons.  738,000  tons. 

Exports  out  of  Ireland  to  all  parts. 

In  1801.  In  1825. 

Cotton  manufactures,  entered  by  the  yard  1,256  yards]  10,567,000  yards. 

Linen  manufactures,         .         .         .         37,911,000  yards.  55,114,000  yards. 
Flax,  undressed,      ....                    1,639  cwts.  54,898  cwts. 

Irish  spirits,  ....  178,000  gallons.          629,000  gallons. 

Aggregate  Official  Value  of  Imports  from  all  parts. 
In  1801,  L. 4,621,000.  In  1825,  L.8,59fi,00 

Aggregate  Official  Value  of  Exports  to  all  parts. 
In  1801,  L.  4, 064,000.  In  1825,  L.  9,243,000. 

Aggregate  value  of  produce  or  manufactures  of  the  United  Kingdom,  as  distin- 
guished from  Foreign  or  Colonial  merchandise,  exported  from  Ireland: — In  1801, 
L.3,778,000.  In  1825,  L.9,102,000. 


In  1792 
1793 
1794 
1795 
1796 
1797 


Tea  entered  for  Home  Consumption  in  Ireland. 

1,844,000  Ibs.    In  1822        3,816,0001bs. 


2,148,000 
2,041,000 
2,970,000 
2,326,000 
2,492,000 


1823 
1824 
1825 
1826 
1827 


3,367,000 
3,387,000 
3,889,000 
3,807,000 
3,888,000 


It  Is  important  to  keep  in  mind,  that  during  the  first  of  these  two  periods,  the 


Ireland.     No.  L 


system  were  not  continually  kept 
open,  and  the  passions  of  the  people 
incessantly  inflamed,  by  her  popular 
leaders,  she  would  become  as  rich 
and  prosperous  as  she  is  populous 
— that,  instead  of  a  source  of  weak- 
ness, she  would  become  a  pillar  of 
strength  to  the  united  empire — and 
instead  of  being  overspread  with  the 
most  wretched  and  squalid  popula- 
tion in  Europe,  she  might  eventually 
boast  of  the  most  contented  and 
happy. 

The  revenues  of  the'Church,  against 
which  so  violent  an  outcry  has  re- 
cently been  raised, have  for  long  been 
collected  with  unexampled  forbear- 
ance by  the  Irish  Protestant  clergy. 
From  the  papers  laid  before  Parlia- 
ment, it  appears,  that  while  the  tithe, 
at  collected  by  .the  English  clergy, 
on  an  average,  amounts  to  a  twen- 
tieth, that  drawn  by  the  Irish  hardly 
amounts  to  a  fortieth  of  the  produce. 
Recently  the  proportion  has  daily 
been  growing  smaller ;  and  at  last  it 
has,  in  many  parts  of  the  country, 
been  totally  destroyed.  Individual 
cases  of  harshness  may  have  occur- 
red, which  are  not  surprising,  consi- 
dering the  long  continued  vexations 
to  which  the  clergy  have  been  expo- 
sed by  the  Catholic  tenantry;  but, 
upon  the  whole,  their  dues  have  been 
levied  with  a  degree  of  moderation 
of  which  the  Christian  church  affords 
few  examples. 

We  are  decidedly  friendly  to  a 
Commutation  of  Tithes,  and  their 
imposition  as  a  burden  on  the  land- 
lord directly ;  but  we  are  so,  because 
we  are  convinced  it  would  amelior- 
ate the  condition  of  the  clergy,  not 


because  there  is  the  slightest  chance 
of  its  relieving  the  distresses  or 
lightening  the  burdens  of  the  culti- 
vators. We  would  avoid  the  un- 
seemly spectacle  of  the  parochial 
clergyman  contending  with  his  flock ; 
and  relieve  both  parties  from  the 
extremities  to  which  they  are  now 
reduced — the  one  of  starving,  or 
levying  their  dues  in  kind — the  other, 
of  suffering  their  cattle  to  be  dis- 
trained, or  incurring  the  spiritual 
censure  of  their  Catholic  director. 
We  would  put  an  end  to  the  dis- 
graceful sale  of  distrained  cattle,  in 
which  an  insulated  clergyman,  sup- 
ported by  the  armed  police  and  the 
military,  is  to  be  seen  on  one  side, 
and  50,000  infuriated  Catholics  on 
the  other.  But  while,  for  the  sake 
of  peace,  and  to  avoid  the  painful 
collision  which  now  exists,  we  would 
strongly  advocate  a  commutation  of 
tithes,  nothing  can  be  clearer,  than 
that  the  condition  of  the  tenantry 
will  by  such  a  change  be  rendered 
much  worse  than  before.  Extrava- 
gantly high  as  rents  now  are  in  most 
parts  of  Ireland,  they  would  become 
still  higher  if  the  tithes  were  laid  on 
the  landlord,  and  no  deduction  from 
his  demands  were  permitted  on  the 
score  of  tithe  to  the  rector.  The 
Irish  landlords,  or  middlemen,  who 
exact  four,  five,  and  six  guineas  an 
acre  for  potato-land,  will  soon  let 
the  farmers  feel  the  difference  be- 
tween a  lay  and  an  ecclesiastical 
holder  of  the  tithe.  They  will  no 
longer  get  off  with  a  fortieth  part  of 
the  produce  in  that  payment — a  tenth 
will  in  general  be  rigidly  exacted. 
Whatever  is  done  with  the  tithe — 


dtty  on  black  tea  was  only  4tjd.,  and  on  green  tea  6^d.,  while  in  the  second  it  was 
cent  per  cent.  Hence,  the  increased  consumption  is  indicative  of  much  more  than  a 
proportionate  increase  of  wealth. 

Coffee  entered  for  Home  Consumption  in  Ireland. 


In  1792 

40,000  Ibs. 

In  1822 

265,000  Ibs. 

1793 

52,000 

1823 

".    245,000 

1794 

100,000 

1824 

'  V   269,000 

1795 

91,000 

1825 

-  -i    316,000 

1796 

61,000 

1826 

*,,.   475,000 

1797 

1  32,000 

1827 

585,000 

Sugar  entered  for  Home 

Consumption 

in  Ireland. 

In  1792 

161,000  cwt. 

In  1822 

''•",+   370,000  cwt. 

1793 

196,000 

1823 

"  ,    386,000 

1794, 

209,000 

1824 

5  ?*    410,000 

1795 

227,000 

1825 

*•-'*  '  423,000 

1796 

182,000 

1826 

318,000 

1797    » 

231,000 

1827 

319,000 

74 


whether  it  is  given  to  the  landlord, 
and  he  is  bound  to  pay  the  clergy- 
man— or  the  state,  and  they  under- 
take the  maintenance  of  the  church 
— the  existing  burden  on  the  cultiva- 
tor will  be  greatly  augmented.  The 
owner  of  the  soil  may  be  benefited 
by  the  change;  but  the  farmer  who 
holds  of  him  unquestionably  will 
not.  The  example  of  Scotland  is 
decisive  on  this  point.  Two  hun- 
dred years  ago,  the  tithes  of  that 
country  were  commuted  with  admi- 
rable wisdom  by  Charles  I. ;  and  the 
consequence  has  been,  that  although 
the  vexation  of  collecting  tithes  in 
kind,  and  the  animosity  between  the 
clergyman  and  the  tenantry  have 
thus  ceased,  the  burdens  on  the  lat- 
ter have  been  considerably  augment- 
ed. The  Scotch  farmer  now  pays 
much  more  for  rent  alone,  than  the 
English  does  for  rent  and  tithe  toge- 
ther. 

The  overwhelming  mendicity  and 
redundant  population  of  Ireland,  is 
by  no  means  an  insurmountable  evil. 
Scotland,  at  the  close  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  was  overrun  by 
200,000  beggars,  who  set  all  law  at 
defiance,  and  lived  at  free  quarters 
on  the  industrious  poor  in  every 
quarter ;  but  this  immense  mass  of 
mendicity,  amounting  to  about  a  fifth 
of  the  whole  population  of  the  coun- 
try at  that  time,  has  long  since  dis- 
appeared, and  the  condition  of  her 
labouring  classes  become  the  object 
of  envy  to  the  surrounding  states. 
The  resources,  both  agricultural  and 
commercial,  of  Ireland,  are  immense. 
Her  soil  contains  above  1 2,000,000  ara- 
ble acres,  exclusive  of  5,000,000  that 
might  be  rendered  arable.  Now,  sup- 
posing that  of  this  quantity  3,000,000 
of  acres  are  annually  devoted  to 
potatoes,  3,000,000  to  wheat,  and 
6,000,000  to  grass,  oats,  or  barley, 
we  shall  find,  that  from  this  arable 
portion  alone  there  might  be  raised 
the  following  quantity  of  food. 
3  millions  acres  in  wheat,  at  2  quar- 
ters per  acre,  6,000,QOO  quarters. 
3  millions  acres  potatoes,  at  50  bolls 
per  acre,  150,000,000  bolls. 
Now,  six  millions  of  quarters  of 
wheat  will  maintain  six  millions  of 
souls,  and  150,000,000  bolls  of  pota- 
toes will  at  the  very  least  maintain 
15,000,000  more ;  so  that  the  wheat 


Ireland.    No.  L  {Jan. 

and  potatoes  growing  on  these  six 
millions  of  acres  alone,  would  main- 
tain twenty-one  millions  of  souls. 
This  is  supposing  the  waste  lands 
in  the  island  to  yield  nothing,  the 
mountain  pasture  to  yield  nothing, 
and  six  millions  of  the  arable  acres 
to  be  devoted  to  the  production  of 
grass,  oats,  or  barley,  for  the  conve- 
nience and  luxuries  of  life.  It  is 
evident,  therefore,  that  there  is 
ample  room  in  the  soil  of  Ireland  to 
maintain  at  least  three  times  its  pre- 
sent population,  in  the  highest  state 
of  affluence  and  comfort. 

The  manufacturing  and  commer- 
cial advantages  of  Ireland  also  are 
immense.  From  the  cheapness  of 
labour,  which,  at  an  average,  is  little 
more  than  half  that  in  Great  Britain, 
the  linen  manufactures  of  the  North 
have  of  late  years  made  the  most 
rapid  progress,*  and  a  considerable 
part  of  the  commercial  capital  of 
Glasgow  has  already  emigrated  to 
that  more  favourable  seat  of  manu- 
facturing industry.  The  numerous 
natural  harbours  and  deeply  indent- 
ed bays  of  the  Irish  coast,  give  it 
facilities  for  the  formation  of  sea- 
ports, and  a  coastways  commerce, 
unknown  to  any  other  part  of  the 
empire.  All  along  the  west  coast 
the  shore  is  so  precipitous,  that  al- 
most every  bay  may  be  formed  at 
little  expense  into  a  harbour;  and 
Valentia,  the  nearest  point  of  Eu- 
rope to  America,  is  evidently  desti- 
ned, if  the  intentions  of  nature  are  not 
thwarted  by  her  own  demagogues, 
to  become  the  great  emporium  of 
British  export  to  the  countless  mil- 
lions of  the  New  World,  and  render 
the  West  of  Ireland  the  scene  of  as 

freat  commercial  activity  as  the 
evern  or  the  Mersey. 
In  her  fisheries,  too,  Ireland  enjoys 
a  mine  of  wealth  hitherto  almost  un- 
explored, the  extent  of  which  is  in- 
calculable. The  rivers  on  its  western 
coast  all  abound  with  salmon;  its 
hen-ing  and  deep-sea  fisheries  are 
equal  in  extent,  and  superior  in  qua- 
lity, to  those  of  the  whole  of  Great 
Britain.  Little  expense  is  required 
to  render  every  bay  on  the  north 
and  west  coast  a  fishing  station, 
which  may  rival  the  activity  of  Wick 
or  Thurso. 
The  Dutch  have  long  monopo- 


*  See  Ante,  p,  72,  note. 


1833.] 


Ireland.    No.  I. 


75 


li^ed  the  herring-fishery  of  the  Shet- 
land Isles;  and  in  Adam  Smith's 
ti  ne,  it  was  calculated  that  it  yielded 
tc  them  annually  a  clear  profit  of 
tuo  millions  a-year;  it  may  safely 
bi;  affirmed,  that  the  coast  and  deep- 
st  a  fisheries  of  Ireland  are  capable 
of  yielding  a  clear  profit  to  the  na- 
tbn  of  at  least  double  that  sum.  The 
religion  of  the  great  bulk  of  the  in- 
h  ibitants  is  as  great  an  advantage  in 
tl  is,  as  in  every  other  it  is  a  disad- 
v  intage  to  their  industry  :  —  the 
Catholics,  by  consuming  fish  only 
01  fast-days  and  Lent,  afford  the 
g-eat  market  for  fisheries  all  over 
the  world.  There  is  no  reason  why 
tlie  peasantry  of  Ireland  should  not 
generally  consume  salt  herrings  with 
their  daily  meal  of  potatoes;  and  if 
so,  no  limit  can  be  assigned  to  the 
extent  of  their  fisheries,  or  the  de- 
gree of  comfort  which  they  may 
spread  through  their  labouringpopu- 
lf  tion. 

What  is  it,  then,  which  retains  in 
sich  an  abject  state  of  misery  a 
country  so  prodigally  gifted  by  na- 
ture, and  so  indulgently  treated  by 
government  ?  How  has  it  happened 
that  Ireland,  so  kindly  cherished  by 
Great  Britain  for  the  last  half  cen- 
tury, almost  without  taxation,  cer- 
tiinly  without  any  of  the  burdens 
which  at  the  same  period  have  over- 
whelmed British  industry,  is  in  so 
deplorable  a  state;  that,  abounding 
in  agricultural  riches,  its  people 
all  quid  so  often  be  starving ;  enjoy- 
ing every  advantage  for  manufac- 
tures, its  industry  should  in  so  many 
quarters  be  languishing;  and  begirt 
with  the  finest  fisheries  in  Europe, 
i  should  derive  comparatively  no- 
thing from  that  inexhaustible  source 

0  f  wealth  ?  The  Irish  have  an  answer 
r  ^ady ;  they  say  it  is  misgovernment. 
We  agree  with  them;  it  is  misgo- 
\ernment;  but  it  is  not  the  misgo- 
vernment of  England,  but  of  their 
own  factious  demagogues,  which  has 
( ccasioned  all  the  misery ;  and  if  it  is 

1  i  a  worse  state  than  ever  now,  it  is 
i  ot  because,  under  our  Whig  rulers, 
they  have  been  too  harshly,  but  too 
1  ?niently  treated ;  it  is  not  because 
government  has  been  too  rigorous, 
tut  because  it  has,  by  undue  conces- 
sion, been  dissolved. 


In  truth,  if  the  matter  be  consider- 
ed dispassionately,  it  must  occur  to 
every  man  of  historical  information, 
that  the  vulgar  theory  which  ascribes 
all  the  miseries  of  Ireland  to  English 
conquest,  is  totally  unfounded.  Ire- 
land is  no  doubt  a  province  of  a  great 
empire;  but  so  also  is  Scotland,  Ha- 
nover, and  Canada  ;  and  yet  all  these 
countries,  so  far  from  being  in  a 
miserable  condition,  are  in  the  very 
highest  state  of  prosperity.  Ireland 
was  conquered  six  centuries  ago; 
but  so  was  England  by  the  Normans, 
Gaul  by  the  Franks,  and  the  North 
of  Italy  by  the  Lombards ;  and  yet 
from  the  mixed  population  of  the 
victors  and  vanquished,  has  arisen 
all  the  wealth,  prosperity,  and  gran- 
deur of  those  great  countries.  A 
living  historian  of  philosophic  ability 
has  justly  traced  to  the  severities 
and  misery  consequent  for  centu- 
ries on  the  Norman  conquest,  the 
remote  seeds  of  British  freedom  ; 
and  observed,  that  those  ages  of  na- 
tional suffering  were  the  most  valua- 
ble ages  which  England  has  ever 
known.*  There  must  have  been 
something  more,  therefore,  than  the 
mere  fact  of  early  subjugation,  which 
is  to  be  looked  to  as  the  origin  of 
Irish  misery,  something  which  has 
counteracted  in  this  alone,  of  all 
other  European  states,  the  healing 
powers  of  nature,  and  rendered  the 
intermixture  of  different  races,  con- 
sequent on  foreign  conquest,  the 
source  of  so  much  benefit  to  other 
states,  the  predecessor  of  so  much 
wretchedness  to  that  unhappy  land. 

This  fundamental  cause  is  to  be 
found  in  the  annexation  of  Ireland  to 
a  country  possessing  free  institu- 
tions ;  and  the  consequent  and  not 
unnatural  extension  to  her  popula- 
tion of  privileges  which  they  were 
not  capable  of  bearing,  and  of  pas- 
sions whose  excitation  they  could 
not  withstand. 

For  nearly  two  hundred  years, 
ever  since  the  beneficent  labours  of 
James  I.,  Ireland  has  enjoyed  the 
forms,  and  been  delivered  over  to 
the  passions,  of  a  free  state.  She  has 
had  county  elections,  Parliaments, 
grand  juries,  trial  by  jury,  and  all  the 
other  machinery  which  has  grown 
up  in  England  during  eight  centu- 


*  Guizot,  Essais  sur  1' Historic  de  France, 


Ireland.    No.  L 


[Jail. 


ries  from  the  seeds  of  Saxon  liberty. 
"What  has  been  the  consequence  ? 
During  all  that  time  she  has  been 
divided,  distracted,  and  unhappy. 
Justice  has  been  ill  administered,  or 
totally  denied ;  property  unprotect- 
ed, and  insecure ;  industry  without 
encouragement ;  wealth  without  em- 
ployment; the  higher  orders  indo- 
lent, and  in  many  cases  corrupted  ; 
the  lower,  violent,  and  too  often  aban- 
doned. The  long  continuance  and 
present  extent  of  these  disorders 
can  be  traced  only  to  one  source, — 
practical  weakness,  and  inefficiency 
of  government;  no  strict  or  regular 
execution  of  justice;  a  general  dis- 
solution of  authority ;  in  other  words, 
the  abandonment  of  the  virtuous  and 
pacific  to  the  profligate  and  the  da- 
ring. This  is  exactly  the  present 
state  of  Ireland ;  and  it  is  under  these 
evils  that  it  has  been  labouring  for 
three  hundred  years.  What  remedy 
is  appropriate  to  the  evil  ?  Is  it  to  be 
found  in  increasing  the  democratic 
spirit  of  the  people ;  throwing  into 
an  already  ardent  and  excited  popu- 
lation the  additional  firebrand  of  po- 
litical animosity ;  and  applying  to  a 
nation,  three-fourths  of  whom  are  lit- 
tle better  than  savages,  the  passions 
and  the  desires  of  popular  ambition  ? 
Or  is  it  to  be  found  in  a  regular  and 
severe  administration  of  justice  ;  a 
coercion  of  the  lawless  spirit  and 
extravagant  passions  of  the  lower 
classes;  a  steady  and  unflinching 
repression  of  popular  excitation  ; 
and  a  gradual  preparation  of  the  na- 
tion, by  the  habits  of  industry,  and 
the  acquisition  of  property,  for  the 
moderation  and  self-control  indispen- 
sable for  the  safe  discharge  of  the 
duties  of  a  popular  government. 

The  great  misfortune  of  the  Eng- 
lish always  has  been,  that  they  think 
that  whatever  is  found  to  work  well 
among  themselves,  must  necessarily 
work  well  in  all  other  countries; 
and  that  to  secure  the  happiness  of 
all  the  nations  in  alliance  or  subjec- 
tion to  them,  it  is  quite  sufficient  to 
transplant  into  their  soil  the  English 
institutions.  Ireland  has  been  the 
victim  of  this  natural  and  well-mean- 
ing, but  most  mistaken  and  ruinous 
policy.  Scotland  is  so  prosperous, 
chiefly  because  her  ancestors  first  so 
bravely  with  their  swords  resisted 
English  invasion,  and  so  long  af- 
terwards steadily  withstood  the  al- 


lurements of  English  innovation.  In 
making  these  observations,  we  mean 
nothing  disrespectful  to  England  ; 
on  the  contrary,  they  are  founded  on 
the  highest  perception  of  its  political 
superiority  to  the  other  parts  of  the 
empire.  England  is  greatly  farther 
advanced  in  social  civilisation ;  much 
better  able  to  bear  the  excitation  of 
democratic  institutions,  than  Scot* 
land ;  and  incalculably  more  so  than 
Ireland.  The  progress  of  Scotland  in 
wealth,  industry,  and  prosperity,  for 
the  last  eighty  years,  has  been  unex- 
ampled; but  it  is  not  in  eighty  years 
that  a  nation  becomes  capable  of 
bearing  the  excitements  of  popular 
power.  The  English  apprenticeship 
to  it  has  lasted  for  eight  centuries  ; 
the  Irish  has  not  yet  begun.  The 
ruin  of  Ireland  throughout  has  been, 
that  the  English,  instead  of  the  steady 
sway  adapted  to  their  infant  civilisa- 
tion, have  given  them  at  once  the 
institutions  fitted  for  the  last  stage  of 
free  existence ;  and  which  centuries 
of  pacific  industry  would  alone  en- 
able them  to  bear. 

Examine  the  institutions  of  Ireland; 
what  are  they  ?  All  those  adapted 
for  a  sober,  rational,  phlegmatic  peo- 
ple, such  as  might  suit  the  modera- 
tion of  the  Gothic  or  German  race 
of  mankind.  You  see  popular  elec- 
tions where  two  or  three  thousand 
electors  are  brought  forward  for  the 
larger  counties,  and  as  many  for  the 
greater  cities;  public  meetings,  where 
the  demagogues  of  the  day  thunder 
in  vehement  and  impassioned  strains 
to  an  ignorant  and  excited  multitude ; 
grand  juries,  where  the  prosecution 
of  crimes  is  subjected  to  the  influence 
of  party  zeal  or  religious  rancour ; 
jury  trials,  where  the  accused  are  al- 
ternately convicted  on  the  doubtful 
testimony  of  traitors,  or  acquitted 
from  the  force  of  prejudice  or  popu- 
lar intimidation;  the  people  every 
where  combined,  under  skilful  lead- 
ers, in  one  vast  and  systematic  oppo- 
sition to  authority  of  every  sort,  civil 
or  religious  ;  a  hidden  unseen  eccle- 
siastical authority,  universally  and 
implicitly  obeyed;  an  open  and  avow- 
ed government,  insulted  and  defied 
at  the  head  of  30,000  men.  What  can 
be  expected  from  such  institutions, 
existing  amongst  a  semibarbarous 
and  impassioned  people  ?  Just  such 
a  result  as  would  instantly  ensue  if 
they  were  established  at  once  in  Hun- 


Ireland.     No.  I. 


gary,  Bohemia,  Poland,  or  Russia  ; 
such  a  result  as  the  revolutionists 
over  ail  the  world  are  constantly  la- 
bouring to  effect — universal  confu- 
sion, anarchy,  and  misery  ;  the  rich 
divided  against  the  poor;  violence, 
ir  timidation,  and  ferocity  among  the 
labouring  classes;  the  despotic  au- 
thority of  frantic  demagogues;  the 
prostration  and  ruin  of  industry  in 
every  quarter  of  the  country;  the 
g  -owth  of  habits  which  render  the 
e  ijoyment  of  freedom  utterly  im- 
practicable for  ages  to  come.  Such 
is-  the  state  of  Ireland ;  such  it  will 
continue  to  be  while  the  present 
feeble  and  inefficient  government,  or 
rither  total  absence  of  government, 
exists  among  its  impassioned  peo- 
ple. 

We  are  far  from  being  insensible 
to  the  other  evils  of  Ireland,  on  which 
tie  revolutionary  party  lay  so  much 
stress,  and  to  which  they  ascribe  all 
the  wretchedness  which  so  remark- 
ably distinguishes  it.   We  know  well 
t!ie  extent  and  injustice  of  the  con- 
fiscations   of   land   consequent    on 
Cromwell's  suppression  of  the  Ty- 
rone   rebellion;    the    rancour   and 
heartburnings  which  it  has  left  in 
the  descendants  of  the  dispossessed 
proprietors;  and  the  wretched  con- 
Fequences  which  have  resulted,  and 
do  result,  from  the  adoption  of  one 
faith  by  the  dominant  landlords,  and 
another  by  the  insurgent  peasantry. 
All  that  we  know  well.     But  what 
we  rest  upon  is  this  :  All  these  evils 
have  existed  to  an  equal  or  greater 
extent  in  other  countries,  who  have 
nevertheless  rapidly  recovered  from 
them,  and  shortly  after  exhibited  un- 
equivocal symptoms  of  the  most  re- 
markable prosperity.     For  example, 
the  confiscation  of  property  during 
the  French  Revolution  was  carried 
to  a  much  greater  length  than  it  ever 
was  in  Ireland,  and  the  old  proprietors 
were  in  most  places  almost  entirely 
rooted  out ;  yet  the  revolutionists 
are  the  first  to  tell  us,  that  France 
has  been    immensely  benefited  by 
the  revolution  ;  and  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that,  under  the  rule  of  the 
Bourbons,  from  1815  to  1830,  it  ex- 
hibited a  degree  of  prosperity  unpre- 
cedented in  any  former  period  of  its 
history.    In  like  manner,  in  Scotland 
the  religion  of  the  owners  of  the  soil 
is  in  a  great  degree  different  from 
that  of  the  peasantry — two-thirds  of 


the  former  belonging  to  the  Episco- 
pal communion ;  yet  religious  ran- 
cour is  unknown  in  that  country. 
And  if  it  be  said,  that  this  is  because 
the  Presbyterian  religion,  as  the  re- 
ligion of  the  majority,  is  established 
to  the  north  of  the  Tweed,  what  is 
to  be  said  of  England,  where,  ac- 
cording to  the  constant  boast  of  the 
democratic  party,  the  Dissenters  are 
as  numerous  as  the  members  of  the 
Establishment,  and  yet  no  religious 
animosity  prevails?  Difference  of 
religion  is  very  common  in  the  con- 
tinental states.  One-half  of  the  po- 
pulation of  France  is  said  to  be  Pro- 
testant, but,  nevertheless,  religious 
rancour  has  never  been  added  to  its 
numerous  causes  of  discord.  All  re- 
ligions exist  in  Russia.  When  the  Em- 
peror Alexander  took  the  field  against 
Bonaparte,  he  went  with  a  Greek  pa- 
triarch at  the  head  of  the  Church,  a 
Catholic  chancellor  of  the  empire, 
and  a  Protestant  general-in-chief  of 
all  the  armies;  and  yet  tranquilli- 
ty, industry,  and  prosperity,  prevail 
through  the  wide  extent  of  the  Czar's 
dominions.  In  the  East,  our  em- 
pire is  inhabited  by  persons  profess- 
ing such  discordant  religions,  that 
they  would  rather  perish  than  eat 
together;  and  in  Canada,  upon  an 
old  and  stationary  Catholic  popula- 
tion, a  new  and  rapidly  increasing 
Protestant  race  has  been  superindu- 
ced; yet  in  no  part  of  the  world  are 
the  seeds  of  prosperity  more  rapidly 
germinating.  The  Whigs  told  us, 
that  Ireland  was  an  exception  to  the 
general  rule,  because  the  Catholics 
were  not  emancipated  ;  but  that  as- 
sertion, like  most  of  the  others  which 
they  advanced,  is  now  disproved; 
the  Catholics  have  been  emancipa- 
ted, and  Ireland  ever  since  has  been 
in  an  unprecedented  state  of  misery 
— the  whole  country  is  in  a  state  of 
virtual  insurrection,  and  the  passions 
of  the  peopl^  are  more  furious  than 
ever. 

It  is  now  proved  by  experience, 
that  the  causes  to  which  the  Whigs 
ascribed  the  misery  of  Ireland,  and 
which  long  misled  so  large  a  portion 
of  the  British  public,  are  not  the  real 
sources  of  the  evil.  The  system  they 
recommended  has  been  tried  —  it 
has  not  only  totally  failed,  but  made 
the  country  much  worse  than  be- 
fore. 

What,  then,  should  a  government 


78 


lrelai\d.     No.  /. 


have  done,  called  upon  to  legislate 
for  this  distracted  and  divided  coun- 
try ?  We  answer,  without  hesita- 
tion, done  every  thing,  on  the  one 
hand,  to  protect  its  industry,  deve- 
lope  its  resources,  relieve  its  poor, 
assuage  its  sufferings  j  and  on  the 
other,  crushed  its  demagogues,  re- 
strained its  excesses,  rendered  hope- 
less its  violence.  The  task  was  a 
difficult  one;  it  could  be  accom- 
plished only  slowly  and  gradually — 
and  more  than  one  generation  must 
have  descended  to  the  grave,  before 
the  whole  fruits  of  those  really  heal- 
ing measures  could  have  been  seen  j 
but  still  it  was  the  only  path  which 
promised  a  chance  even  of  safety, 
and  it  was  the  only  one  on  which 
political  wisdom  would  have  cared 
to  enter. 

Many  measures  might  have  been 
adopted,  which  would  already  have 
had  a  great  effect  on  the  sufferings 
of  Ireland:  many  avoided,  which 
would  have  prevented  the  terrible 
increase  of  its  discord  which  has 
lately  taken  place. 

1.  The  first  measure  which  is  in- 
dispensable to  the  revival  of  Irish 
prosperity,  is  the  adoption  of  the 
most  vigorous  measures  to  restore  the 
administration  of  justice,  and  give 
to  life  and  property  somewhat  of  that 
protection  which  is  now  afforded 
only  to  rapine  and  outrage.  This  is 
a  matter  of  first-rate  importance;  so 
much  so,  indeed,  that  without  it  all 
attempts  to  tranquillize  or  improve 
Ireland  will,  as  they  hitherto  have 
done,  prove  completely  nugatory. 
As  long  as  the  south  of  Ireland  is 
illuminated  by  midnight  conflagra- 
tions, or  disgraced  by  assassinations 
at  noon-day — as  long  as  families  are 
roasted  alive  in  their  houses,  and 
witnesses  murdered  for  speaking  the 
truth — as  long  as  legal  payments 
are  resisted  by  organized  multitudes, 
and  the  power  of  government  set  at 
nought  by  Catholic  authority — so 
long  will  Ireland  remain  in  its  pre- 
sent distracted  and  unhappy  state, 
miserable  itself,  a  source  of  misery 
to  others,  a  dead  weight  about  the 
neck  of  the  empire. 

The  intimidation  of  juries  and 
witnesses  has  been  carried  to  a  length 
in  Ireland,  of  which,  on  this  side  of 
the  Channel,  we  can  form  no  con- 
ception ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  many 
evils  which  it  owes  to  the  democra- 
tic spirit,  organized,  as  it  has  been, 


[Jan. 

by  the  skill  and  influence  of  the 
priesthood.  This  is  an  evil  of  the 
utmost  magnitude,  corrupting,  as  it 
does,  the  sources  of  justice,  and  se- 
curing impunity  to  rapine  and  ven- 
geance. Government  can  never  com- 
bat too  vigorously  this  terrible  evil. 
The  mode  of  doing  so  must  be  deve- 
loped by  the  local  authorities ;  but 
we  venture  to  prophecy,  the  evil  will 
never  be  eradicated  till  justice  is 
administered  as  in  Scotland,  by  pub- 
lic authorities  appointed  and  paid  by 
the  Crown;  and  till  the  Government 
are  authorized,  upon  a  report  from 
the  Judges,  that  the  conviction  of 
offenders  has  become  impossible, 
from  the  effects  of  intimidation,  to 
suspend  jury  trial  for  a  time  in  the 
turbulent  districts,  and  try  the  of- 
fenders, as  in  courts  martial,  by  the 
Judges  alone.  Many  estimable  men 
will  hesitate  as  to  this :  let  them  re- 
collect what  is  the  other  alternative, 
namely,  impunity  to  assassins,  in- 
cendiaries, and  robbers,  and  cease- 
less anarchy  to  the  country. 

On  this  subject  it  is  sufficient  to 
quote  the  testimony  of  a  gentleman 
of  acknowledged  talent,  intimately 
acquainted  with  Ireland,  and  cer- 
tainly any  thing  rather  than  favour- 
able to  the  Conservative  cause.  Sir 
Henry  Parnell  has  said  in  his  place 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  "  that 
as  member  for  Queen's  County,  he 
could  not  help  adverting  to  the  state 
of  that  part  of  Ireland.  He  had  re- 
ceived information  that  a  confederacy 
prevailed  among  the  lower  orders  of 
that  county,  which  enabled  them  to 
exercise  a  complete  control  over  the 
higher  orders,  and  to  set  at  defiance 
the  laws  which  were  passed  for  the 
general  protection  of  the  commu- 
nity. He  was  further  informed 
that  houses  were  frequently  attack- 
ed by  armed  parties  in  the  open  day, 
and  that  murders  were  sometimes 
committed  during  such  attacks.  He 
was  likewise  informed  that  the  reign 
of  terror  made  it  impossible  to  ob- 
tain a  conviction  against  these  ma- 
rauders when  brought  to  trial,  and 
that  thus  peaceable  persons,,  who 
disapproved  of  these  violent  pro- 
ceedings, were  obliged,  by  a  regard 
to  their  own  safety,  to  give  them  an 
implied  but  involuntary  sanction. 
He  called  the  attention  of  the  right 
hon.  secretary  for  Ireland  to  this 
subject:  he  trusted  that  something- 
would  be  done  to  restore  peace  and 


1 333.]  Ireland.     No.  I. 

security  to  that  part  of  the  country. 
The  magistrates  were  of  opinion 
that  the  insurrection  act  should 
be  renewed,  and  that  Government 
should  be  invested  with  additional 
p  owers  to  put  down  this  system  of 
intimidation  and  outrage." 

Provision  also  is  indispensably  re- 
quired for  the  protection  of  the  wit- 
nesses, who  bear  testimony  in  unpo- 
pular causes.  At  present  they  are  sent 
I  ack  after  the  trial  to  their  homes 
to  be  assassinated,  or  roasted  alive 
I  y  the  insurgent  peasantry ;  and  yet 
the  English  are  astonished  that 
justice  cannot  be  obtained  in  Ire- 
land !  In  all  such  cases,  where  the 
witness  desires  it,  and  he  appears 
to  have  given  a  true  testimony,  he 
*  hould  be  furnished  with  the  means 
of  emigration,  with  his  wife  and  fa- 
mily, and  marched  to  the  place  of 
embarkation  under  a  military  guard. 
Nothing  short  of  this  will  procure 
evidence  against  the  worst  criminals, 
or  overcome  the  rooted  determina- 
tion of  the  Irish  peasantry  to  mur- 
der all  those  who  have  given  evi- 
dence, as  they  conceive,  against  the 
people ;  that  is,  who  have  sworn  the 
1  ruth  against  cut-throats  and  incen- 
diaries. 

2.  The  government  is  now  com- 
mitted in  a  struggle  with  the  Catho- 
jic  priesthood  as  to  the  payment  of 
'  ithes ;  the  authority  of  the  law  must 
"be  vindicated,  or  the  semblance  of 
order,  which  now  exists  in  Ireland, 
will  be  annihilated.  Let  what  mea- 
sures they  choose  follow  for  the 
commutation  of  tithes:  the  first  thing 
:o  do  is,  to  vindicate  the  authority 
of  the  law  against  an  insurgent  peo- 
ple. For  this  purpose,  authority 
should  be  obtained  from  the  legisla- 
te, to  levy  from  those  who  can  pay 
and  wont  pay,  the  full  value  of  the 
tithe  in  kind,  with  expenses,  and 
:o  march  the  cattle  distrained  off  to 
ihe  nearest  sea-port,  to  be  sold  in 
Bristol  or  Liverpool.  A  few  exam- 
ples of  the  vigorous  application  of 
this  law,  would  operate  like  a  charm 
in  dissolving  the  combination  against 
tithes.  The  present  system  of  ex- 
posing the  cattle  for  sale,  in  a  coun- 
try where  no  person  ventures  to  buy 
them,  and  then  marching  them  back 
to  the  owners,  is  a  mere  mockery, 
and  tends  to  nothing  but  to  bring 
government  and  the  law  into  con- 
tempt. Why  they  never  fell  upon 


79 

the  simple  expedient  of  marching 
them  to  Cork,  Waterford,  or  Dublin, 
there  to  be  embarked  for  England, 
and  sold  there,  is  one  of  the  °unac- 
countable  parts  of  the  conduct  of  the 
present  Administration,  which  proves 
that  they  are  ignorant  of  the  first 
principles  of  the  government  of  man- 
kind. The  state  of  things  in  Ireland 
for  the  last  year,  is  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  direct  premium  on  rebel- 
lion, an  encouragement  to  the  ces- 
sation of  payment  of  taxes,  rent,  or 
burdens  of  any  description,  and  an 
invitation  to  the  people  to  avail  them- 
selves of  the  machinery  now  put  in 
motion  against  the  clergy  for  their 
deliverance  from  rent,  taxes,  and 
burdens  of  every  description. 

3.  Having  vindicated  the  authority 
of  the  law,  measures  should  next  be 
taken   to   prevent  the  clergy  from 
coming  in  contact  with  the  cultiva- 
tors, by  commuting  the  tithes,  and 
laying  them  as  a  direct  burden  on 
the  landlords.    Let  us  not  be  mis- 
taken :  we  have  not  the  least  idea 
that  this  will  improve  the  condition 
of  the  farmers,  or  satisfy  the  desires 
of  the  abolitionists — we  know  well 
what  they  wish  ;  the  resumption  of 
the  tithes  to  the  Catholic  clergy,  of 
the  estates  to  the  Catholic  landlords, 
and  of  the  government  to  Catholic 
leaders,  is  what  they  desire,  and  will 
never  cease  to  strive  for.  But  though 
this  measure  would  do  as  little,  in 
all  probability,  as  Catholic  Emanci- 
pation to  tranquillize  Ireland,  yet  it 
would  remove  the  irritation  which 
now  exists  between  the  clergy  an£ 
their  parishioners,  and  thus  withdraw 
the  Established  Church  from  a  poli- 
tical contest,  of  which  it  is  now  the 
victim. 

4.  The  next  great  object  of  Irish 
legislation,  should  be  the  establish- 
ment of  a  judicious  and  enlightened 
system  of  Poor's  Laws,  for  the  re- 
lief of  the  sick,  the  aged,  and  those 
who,  though  willing,  can  find  no  em- 
ployment.    It  is  needless  to  argue 
this   question — the   public  mind   is 
made  up  upon  it.     The  English  and 
Scotch  will  not  much  longer  submit 
to  have  their  poor's  rates  doubled 
annually  by  the  inundation  of  Irish 
beggars ;  or  their  scanty  channels  of 
employment  choked  by  multitudes 
of  Irish  labourers.  The  time  is  come, 
when,  in  the  general  distress  of  the 
empire,  consequent  on  the  shock 


80 


Ireland.     Nu.  I. 


[Jail. 


given  to  credit  and  industry  by  the 
Reform  Bill,  each  portion  must  be 
led  to  a  maintenance  of  their  own 
poor.  We  are  persuaded  that  the 
Irish  themselves  must  be  aware,  that 
however  burdensome  such  a  mea- 
sure may  be,  it  is  unavoidable ;  and 
that  the  relief  afforded  to  this  coun- 
try by  the  absorption  of  its  labour- 
ing poor,  and  their  removal  from  a 
life  of  dissolute  idleness,  will  be  a 
greater  public  and  private  benefit, 
than  the  imposition  of  poor's  rates 
will  be  a  burden. 

The  hackneyed  argument,  that  by 
so  doing  you  will  add  fuel  to  the 
flame,  and  increase  the  already  re- 
dundant numbers  of  the  Irish  poor, 
is  generally  known  to  be,  what  it 
really  is,  a  complete  delusion.  A 
judicious  system  of  poor's  rates  in 
reality,  instead  of  being  an  encou- 
ragement to  undue  increase,  is  the 
most  effectual  means  for  diminish- 
ing it ;  because  it  is  a  check  to  the 
propagation  of  those  pauper  and  de- 
grading habits,  which,  more  than  any 
other  circumstance,  lead  to  the  mul- 
tiplication of  the  poor.  Without 
poor's  rates,  Ireland  has  for  a  cen- 
tury been  overwhelmed  with  a  re- 
dundant poor :  with  them,  England 
for  two  has  retained  hers  within  the 
bounds  of  general  comfort  and  pros- 
perity. This  example  is  decisive : 
further  argument  is  like  attempting 
to  prove  that  two  and  two  make  four. 

5.  The  greatest  possible  facility 
should  be  given  by  Government  to 
the  emigration  of  the  Irish  poor. 
The  number  who  emigrated  in  1831 
to  Canada  was  18,000.  No  reason 
can  be  assigned  why  it  should  not 
be  180,000.  The  expense  of  trans- 
porting settlers  to  the  shores  of  Ca- 
nada, is  about  L.3  a-head  :  to  furnish 
the  means  of  emigration  to  this  large 
body,  therefore,  would  only  cost 
L.540,000 ;  and  what  an  immense  re- 
lief would  it  prove  to  every  part  of 
the  empire  !  The  expense  of  such  a 
proceeding  would,  no  doubt,  be  con- 
siderable; but  what  is  that  to  the 
incalculable  relief  it  would  afford 
to  a  nation  now  labouring  in  every 
quarter  from  the  immigration  of  Irish 
poor  ?  We  have  spent  much  more 
than  that  sum  already  in  fitting  out 
a  fleet  to  partition  the  dominions  of 
our  ancient  ally,  and  give  back  Ant- 
werp the  stronghold  of  revolution- 
ary France,  to  the  power  which 
openly  aims  at  our  subjugation. 


The  apprehension  so  commonly 
expressed,  that  if  we  furnish  the 
Irish  with  the  means  of  emigration, 
they  will  only  people  the  faster  at 
home,  and  speedily  fill  up  the  va- 
cuum produced  by  our  exertions,  is 
altogether  chimerical.  Even  if  it 
were  true  that  this  would  follow,  it 
would  be  no  reason  whatever  for  not 
giving  this  direction  to  the  stream, 
if  it  cannot  be  checked.  At  present 
the  Irish  do  not  remain  at  home; 
they  emigrate  into  England  and 
Scotland,  because  the  steam-boats 
bring  them  over  the  Channel  for  a 
sixpence,  and  they  there  find  em- 
ployment in  health,  and  a  legal  set- 
tlement in  sickness  and  age.  Sup- 
posing, therefore,  that  we  could  not 
stop  the  increase  of  the  Irish  poor, 
we  do  ourselves,  as  well  as  them,  an 
immense  service,  by  turning  them 
into  the  regions  of  Transatlantic 
plenty,  instead  of  the  densely  peo- 
pled shores  of  Britain.  But,  in  truth, 
a  judicious  system  of  emigration 
largely  carried  into  execution,  would 
have  just  an  opposite  effect.  By 
improving  the  condition  of  those 
who  remain  at  home,  and  enlarging 
the  sphere  of  their  employment,  it 
would  contribute  to  diffuse  better 
habits,  encourage  artificial  wants, 
and  gradually  bring  the  increase  of 
mankind  into  some  degree  of  har- 
mony with  the  augmentation  of  the 
wages  of  labour. 

6.  The  fisheries,  and  neglected 
harbours,  and  waste  lands  of  Ireland, 
furnish  ample  room  for  the  com- 
mencement of  government  works  on 
a  great  scale,  to  spread  wealth,  and 
industry,  and  orderly  habits  through 
its  labouring  poor.  The  mines  of 
untouched  wealth  which  there  exist 
are  incalculable;  they  might  almost 
pave  the  Emerald  Isle  with  gold.  In 
other  countries,  such  undertakings 
may  be  safely  left  to  the  exertions  of 
private  industry.  In  Ireland  the  case 
is  otherwise.  Unless  they  are  begun 
and  forced  on  by  the  capital  and  the 
vigour  of  Government,they  never  will 
be  attempted.  Ireland  is  in  that  stage 
of  civilisation  when  such  underta- 
kings must  originate  with  Govern- 
ment, or  not  be  carried  on  at  all.  In- 
dividual capital  will  never  migrate  to 
a  country,  where  life  and  property  is 
so  precarious  as  it  is  in  that  distract- 
ed island.  If  we  would  give  the 
people  in  the  south  and  west  a  taste 
for  the  enjoyments  of  wealth  or  the 


1833.]  Ireland.    No.  I. 

acquisitions  of  industry,  we  must,  in 
the  first  instance,  force  them  on  a 
reluctant  people  by  government  ex- 
penditure. 

Having  done  thus  much  for  the 
welrare  and  happiness  of  Ireland — 
having  strained  every  nerve  for  the 
real  benefit  and  prosperity  of  its 
numerous  inhabitants,  Government 
would  be  entitled  to  come  forward 
and  deliver  them  from  the  worst 
curse  which  desolates  their  land, — 
that  of  their  own  priests  and  dema- 
gogues. The  seditious  harangues, 
the  treasonable  meetings,  the  incen- 
diary proclamations,  which  have  so 
long  kept  up  the  flame  of  discontent 
in  that  unhappy  country,  to  promote 
the  ambition  of  a  few  restless  dema- 
gogues, must  be  put  down.  The 
people  must  be  delivered  from  the 


of  themselves.  England,  with  its 
cent  iries  of  freedom ;  Scotland,  with 
its  oautious  character,  could  not 
withstand  such  incendiary  applica- 
tion. How  then  can  it  be  expected 
that  Ireland  is  to  be  tranquil  under 
their  influence,  destitute  as  she  is  of 
the  free  habits  of  the  one,  or  the 
cautious  temperament  of  the  other. 
Naturally  brave,  impassioned  and 
ardent,  the  Irish  have  never  felt  in 
the  slightest  degree  the  counteract- 
ing influence  of  the  causes  which 
moderate  popular  excesses  in  this 
country, and  so  long  prevented  liber- 
ty from  degenerating  into  licentious- 
ness. Yet  it  is  into  their  inflamma- 
ble bosom  that  Government  has  so 
long  allowed  the  fury  of  political 
and  religious  rancour  to  be  poured 
without  alloy.  And  still  the  English 
express  surprise  at  the  ceaseless  dis- 
quietude and  suffering  of  Ireland  ! 

The  consideration  of  what  a  wise 
and  beneficent  government  might 
have  done,  and  should  have  done,  for 
Ireland,  forms  the  best  introduction 
to  the  examination  of  what  the 
Whigs  have  actually  effected. 

In  entering  on  this  subject,  we 
know  not  in  what  terms  to  express 
our  astonishment  at  the  mixture  of 
vacillation,  recklessness,  and  igno- 
rance, which  the  conduct  of  admini- 
stration towards  Ireland  has  afforded 
for  the  last  two  years.  Indeed,  we 
doubt  whether  there  is  on  record  in 
European  history,  such  an  instance 
of  weakness  of  judgment  and  vio- 
lence of  party  ambition,  as  their  con- 
duct from  first  to  last  has  exhibited . 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIII. 


81 

These  are  hard  words ;  let  the  reader 
judge  from  the  facts,  whether  or  not 

they  are  merited. 

When  they  first  came  into  power, 

in  November  1830,  they  declared 
their  resolution,  in  the  strongest 
terms,  to  put  a  period  to  the  anarchy 
of  Ireland.  For  three  months,  Dub- 
lin was  the  scene  of  the  most  vehe- 
ment contest  between  Mr  O'Connell 
and  the  Irish  Secretary ;  and  at  last 
he  was  caught  by  the  vigour  and 
ability  of  the  Attorney- General,  and 
actually  PLEADED  GUILTY  to  a  cri- 
minal indictment  preferred  against 
him.  Their  vigour  on  this  occasion 
was  attended  with  the  best  effects, 
and  had  a  prodigious  effect  both  in 
Ireland  and  England.  O'Connell 
seemed  to  be  gone;  the  anarchy  of 
Ireland  to  be  pierced  to  the  heart  in 
the  person  of  the  great  Agitator; 
and  tranquillity  about  to  revisit  its 
shores,  from  the  experienced  hope- 
lessness of  agitating  with  impunity 
and  success.  In  England,  all  good 
men  beheld  with  satisfaction  this 
incipient  act  of  vigour,  and  antici- 
pated the  happiest  result  from  this 
signal  advantage  gained  over  the 
worst  enemy  his  country  had  ever 
known. 

But  immediately  after  this  deci- 
sive success,  commenced  the  ruinous 
system  of  weakness,  vacillation,  and 
subservience  to  the  mob,  which  has 
ever  since  been  pursued.  The  bud- 
get was  brought  in ;  Ministers  were 
beaten,  laughed  at,  and  evidently 
falling;  and  to  prop  up  their  totter- 
ing power,  they  resolved  to  throw 
themselves,  without  reserve,  into  the 
arms  of  the  revolutionary  party  in 
the  whole  empire.  This  instantly 
revived  their  all  but  ruined  fortunes; 
the  danger  was  transferred  from 
themselves  to  the  nation;  instead  of 
the  Whig  Administration  going  down, 
the  gulf  of  perdition,  Great  Britain 
entered  the  jaws ;  and  they  had  the 
satisfaction  of  prolonging  a  feverish, 
existence  for  a  few  years,  by  a  mea- 
sure which  they  now  know,  and  do 
not  scruple  to  avow,  will  prove  the 
destruction  of  the  empire. 

Towards  the  success  of  this  alli- 
ance with  the  Revolutionists,  it  was 
indispensable  that  the  great  Agitator 
should  be  gained  over  to  their  side ; 
and  the  democrats  of  Ireland  per- 
mitted to  agitate  and  convulse  the 
country  under  the  colours  of  admi- 
nistration. With  this  view,  he  was 

F 


82 


Ireland.    No.  I. 


[Jan. 


never  brought  up  to  receive  sentence. 
Month  after  month,  the  whole  win- 
ter term  of  the  Dublin  courts  expi- 
red, without  his  prosecution  being 
moved  in,  although  it  might  have 
been  finished  in  ten  minutes ;  and  at 
last  it  was  allowed  to  come  to  a  na- 
tural termination  by  the  dissolution 
of  Parliament  in  April  1831. 

Not  content  with  this  immense 
boon  to  the  great  Agitator,  Ministers, 
in  the  transports  of  their  first  love 
for  the  Revolutionists,  went  a  step 
farther.  They  promoted  him  above 
all  his  brethren,  placed  him  at  the 
head  of  the  Irish  bar,  and,  if  report 
be  true,  were  only  prevented  by  the 
firmness  of  the  Irish  Secretary,  too 
able  a  man  not  to  be  a  Conservative 
in  heart,  whatever  he  is  in  party, 
from  making  him  Attorney-General  J 
This  unprecedented  and  disgraceful 
step  was  equivalent  to  a  general 
proclamation  of  anarchy  through  the 
country.  The  passions  of  its  ardent 
people  were  let  loose  without  re- 
straint. Sheltered  under  the  wings 
of  administration,  secure  from  all 
danger  at  the  hands  of  Government, 
the  Catholics,  democrats,  and  agita- 
tors of  that  distracted  country  uni- 
ted together ;  and  in  the  midst  of  vio- 
lence, intimidation,  and  bloodshed, 
a  large  majority  of  movement-men 
was  returned  to  Parliament. 

Nor  was  this  all.  With  the  view 
apparently  of  still  farther  rousing  the 
passions  of  the  Catholics,  Mr  Stanley 
declared  in  his  place  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  that  "  the  extinction  of 
tithes"  was  intended  by  Govern- 
ment ;  and  the  Catholic  leaders,  by 
this  time  become  a  powerful  body  in 
the  House,  instantly  hailed  the  joy- 
ous intelligence,  and  said,  without 
contradiction  from  the  Treasury 
Benches,  that  they  considered  tithes 
as  now  at  an  end  on  the  other  side 
of  St  George's  Channel.  This  un- 
expected intelligence  spread  like 
wildfire  through  Ireland ;  faster  than 
the  fiery  cross,  it  sped  from  chapel 
to  chapel,  from  priest  to  priest; 
and  the  people,  totally  incapable  of 
understanding  what  was  intended, 
but  relying  on  the  words  of  Admini- 
stration in  the  House  of  Commons, 
concluded  that  tithes  were  finally 
abolished ;  and  that  all  payments  to 
the  clergy  were  thenceforward  to 
cease  for  ever. 

In  the  tumults  consequent  on  this 


unexpected  and  unhoped  for  ex- 
tinction of  tithes,  the  combination 
against  their  payment  was  rapidly 
organized.  The  Catholic  bishops 
and  priests  could  not  be  persuaded 
that  they  were  not  forwarding  the 
views  of  Administration,  and  of  their 
favourite  pupil  and  dignified  ally, 
Mr  O'Connell,  by  anticipating  a  little 
the  work  of  "  Extinction,"  and  refu- 
sing de  facto  to  pay  those  burdens 
which  were  so  soon  de  jure  to  be 
terminated.  Thence  arose  the  im- 
mense and  unparalleled  combination 
against  tithes  in  Ireland,  originating 
in  the  diocese  of  Dr  Doyle.  Orga- 
nized by  the  Catholic  leaders  in 
Dublin,  it  soon  spread  universally 
over  the  south  and  west ;  and  in  a 
short  time  two-thirds  of  the  esta- 
blished clergy  were  in  a  state  of 
starvation,  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  country  in  a  virtual  insurrection 
against  the  authority  of  the  law.  The 
consequences  are  well  known.  A 
bill  was  brought  into  Parliament  to 
provide  for  the  necessities  of  the 
Irish  Church  out  of  the  Consolida- 
ted Fund;  the  clergy  of  Ireland 
thrown  upon  the  industry  of  Eng- 
land, and  the  Attorney-General,  char- 
ged with  the  hopeless  task,  by  the 
aid  of  the  military,  of  recovering  the 
dues  of  the  church  out  of  several 
millions  of  an  insurgent  peasantry. 

Meanwhile  the  perilous  state  of 
the  country  roused  the  spirit,  and 
called  forth  the  patriotism  of  the 
Protestants  of  the  North.  Seeing 
themselves  abandoned  by  the  Go- 
vernment, and  on  the  verge  of  de- 
struction; anticipating  the  horrors 
of  the  Tyrone  Rebellion  on  a  still 
greater  scale,  this  intrepid  band 
stood  forth  alone,  but  undismayed, 
in  the  midst  of  the  general  paralysis 
and  defection  of  the  empire.  While 
England  was  quailing  under  the  vio- 
lence of  the  Revolutionists,  and  be- 
holding in  consternation  the  fires  at 
Bristol ;  while  the  noble  example  of 
the  Conservative  Meeting  at  Edin- 
burgh failed  to  stimulate  the  Scotch 
to  the  discharge  of  patriotic  duty ; 
the  Irish  Protestants  boldly  stood 
forth,  and  though  menaced  by  dan- 
gers infinitely  greater  than  any  other 
part  of  the  British  dominions,  held 
a  language,  and  exhibited  a  deter- 
mination, which,  if  generally  imita- 
ted through  the  empire,  would  have 
consigned  the  Reform  Bill,  with  its 


18311 


Ireland.    No .  I. 


parsnt  Administration,  to  an  exe- 
cra  ed  grave,  and  delivered  the  em- 
pire from  all  the  dangers  which  its 
authors  are  now  sensible  are  thick- 
ening round  its  aged  head.  History 
has  no  more  glorious  example  of 
courageous  ability  to  refer  to,  than 
wa£  exhibited  by  the  brave  and  il- 
lusirious  leaders  of  Irish  patriotism ; 
the  splendid  eloquence  of  Mr  Boy- 
ton  the  dauntless  intrepidity  of  the 
Earl  of  Roden,  captivated  the  brave 
and  the  enthusiastic  in  every  part  of 
the  empire ;  and  the  Protestants  of 
the  North,  to  whom  Ireland  had  so 
often  owed  her  deliverance,  stood 
forth  in  such  numbers,  and  with  so 
heroic  a  spirit,  as  daunted  as  much 
as  i ;  astonished  the  servile  crew  of  the 
Revolutionists,  crouching,  though 
the/  are  under  the  wings  of  mini- 
steiial  support. 

Meanwhile  the  ministerial  project 
for  tithes  came  forth.  It  was  no 
longer"  an  extinction"  of  tithes, but 
onl/  a  "  commutation,"  which  by 
laying  them  on  the  landlord  directly, 
stil  preserved  them,  though  not  in 
so  i  alpable  a  manner,  as  a  burden  on 
the  soil.  The  wisdom  of  the  change 
from  the  intention  originally  announ- 
ced, is  obvious;  and  we  rejoice  at 
berig  able  to  render  our  humble 
me«;d  of  praise  to  the  Government 
for  this  return  to  Conservative  prin- 
ciples, even  at  the  eleventh  hour; 
but  what  shall  we  say  to  the  rash- 
ness which  dictated  the  previous 
promise  of  "  extinction,"  and  set  the 
Catholic  population  every  where  on 
fire,  at  the  prospect  of  a  boon  which 
Government  never  intended  they 
sho  ild  receive?  Thence  has  arisen 
the  universal,  the  unanimous  detes- 
tati  3n  in  which  the  Whigs  are  held 
in  Ireland.  The  nation,  for  the  last 
six  months,  has  been  every  where 
convulsed  by  contests  for  the  pay- 
merit  of  tithes.  Every  other  subject, 
how  pressing  soever,  has  been  lost 
in  t  lie  overwhelming  interest  of  that 
one  topic.  The  peasantry  originally 
roii  sed  by  the  promises  of  Govern- 
me  it  for  the  "  extinction"  of  tithes, 
org  anized  and  headed  by  the  darling 
fav  >urite  of  Ministers,  the  great  Agi- 
tate r,  find  themselves  assailed  by  the 
mil  tary,  for  doing  what  these  recent 
allhs,  these  highly  rewarded,  and 
desrly-beloved  supporters  of  Go- 
ver  iment,  urged  them  to  do.  Blood 
has  flowed  profusely  in  many  places ; 
irri  ;ation  been  widely  spread  in  all, 


because  the  people  persist  in  annex- 
ing  to  the  word  "  extinction"  its  na- 
tural and  established  meaning.  The 
consequences  of  this  deception,  of 
the  frustration  of  their  hopes,  and  the 
blasting  of  these  expectations,  have 
been  dreadful  in  the  extreme,  and 
so  will  Government  and  Parliament 
find  at  the  next  election. 

To  complete,  the  work  of  revolu- 
tionary madness,  the  Government 
next  proceeded  to  pass  for  Ireland 
the  Reform  Bill :  a  bill  which  at  once 
swept  away  the  in  corporations  which 
the  wisdom  of  James  I.  had  establish- 
ed as  a  barrier  against  Catholic  in- 
vasion; and  threw  the  elections  of 
great  part  of  the  country  at  once  in- 
to the  hands  of  an  infuriated  Catholic 
rabble,  acting  under  the  dictation  of 
ambitious  and  able  leaders.  Of  all 
the  infatuations  of  which  party  men 
were  ever  guilty,  this  is  perhaps  the 
greatest.  For  Ireland,  great  part  of 
whose  people  are  still  almost  in  a 
savage  state,  and  all  of  whom  are 
actuated  by  the  strongest  political 
passions,  they  proposed  the  same 
electoral  institutions  as  England  for 
the  neighbouring  island.  Into  its 
inflammable,  ardent,  and  penniless 
population  they  poured  the  same 
fatal  gift  of  political  power  which 
was  hardly  deemed  safe  amidst  the 
old  established  freedom,  sober  ha- 
bits, and  extended  property  of  Eng- 
land. One  political  constitution  was 
carved  out  at  a  single  heat  for  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  and  Ireland ;  in  other 
words,  one  measure  taken  for  a  man 
of  forty,  a  youth  of  eighteen,  and  a 
boy  of  twelve ;  for  in  these  propor- 
tions, or  nearly  so,  is  the  capacity  of 
the  different  portions  of  the  empire 
to  bear  political  excitation,  or  duly 
exercise  the  political  rights  of  elect- 
ing citizens.  The  simple  enuncia- 
tion of  this  fact  is  sufficient  to  con- 
vict the  Ministry,  not  only  of  the 
most  culpable  rashness,  but  total 
ignorance  of  the  first  principles  of 
representative  governments.  It  is 
utterly  impossible  that  the  same  po- 
litical institutions  can  be  adapted  at 
the  same  time  to  two  nations,  one  of 
which  is  in  the  infancy,  and  the  other 
in  the  old  age  of  its  political  educa- 
tion. If  the  L.10  franchise  and  the 
abolition  of  the  close  boroughs  is 
adapted  for  England,  it  cannot  be 
suited  for  Ireland. 

What  would  we  say  to  a  legislator 
who  should  propose  the  same  politi- 


84 


Ireland.     Aro.  I. 


[Jan. 


cal  institutions  for  the  Bedouin  Arabs, 
the  degraded  Chinese,  and  the  yeo- 
manry of  England  ?  Could  any  thing 
but  anarchy  and  wretchedness  be 
anticipated  from  so  total  a  departure 
from  the  lessons  of  experience ;  so 
blind  a  forgetful  ness  of  the  differ- 
ence between  such  different  races 
and  situations  of  mankind  ?  Yet  this 
is  precisely  what  the  Whigs  have 
done.  They  have  given  the  same 
sovereign  powers  to  the  impassioned 
Catholic  cottar,  guided  by  his  priest, 
and  execrating  the  Protestants,  as  to 
the  sober  English  yeoman,  inheriting 
from  a  long  line  of  ancestors  attach- 
ment to  his  King  and  country.  They 
have  swept  away  the  old  bulwarks 
equally  in  Popish  Ireland  as  Protest- 
ant England.  There  never  was  such 
infatuation.  Supposing  it  to  be  all 
true  what  they  have  so  long  and  so 
strenuously  maintained,  as  to  the 
degradation  in  which  the  Irish  were 
kept  by  the  Catholic  code,  that  only 
makes  their  conduct  the  more  inex- 
cusable, in  so  suddenlyinvestingthem 
with  irresistible  sway.  If  it  be  true, 
that  they  have  only  ceased  within 
these  few  years  to  be  slaves,  it  was 
surely  the  height  of  madness  to  in- 
vest them  at  once,  while  still  burn- 
ing with  servile  passions,  with  the 
last  and  highest  privileges  of  free- 
men. 

The  consequences  have  already 
developed  themselves,  and  they  have 
struck  with  dismay  the  very  authors 
of  the  Reform  Bill.  The  Globe  tells 
us  that  there  are  sixty-seven  members 
supported  by  O'  Connell,  standing  for 
the  Irish  cities  and  counties,  and  that 
a  great  majority  of  them  will  to  all 
appearance  be  returned.  Mr  Sheil 
boasts  that  the  repealers  are  already 
forty  strong,  and  daily  receiving  ac- 
cessions of  strength;  a  force  quite 
sufficient,  by  throwing  itself  into  the 
scale  when  nearly  balanced,  to  sub- 
vert the  empire.  The  Ministerial 
papers  are  daily  firing  signal  guns  of 
distress  for  the  effects  of  their  own 
healing  measure.  On  their  darling 
allies,  the  Radicals,  they  have  opened 
with  unexampled  fierceness :  for 
them,  in  gratitude  for  their  past  ser- 
vices, they  have  invented  the  epithet 
of  "  the  Destructives,"  which  Tory 
malignity  never  yet  thought  of;  and 
on  these  their  leading  journal  has 
lately  opened  those  floodgates  of 
slang  and  abuse,  which  a  few  months 
ago  were  bestowed  exclusively  on  the 


Conservative  party.  It  is  Ireland 
which  has  produced  this  consterna- 
tion in  the  Ministerial  ranks.  They 
were  fully  warned,  a  hundred  times 
over,  during  the  progress  of  the 
Reform  Bill,  that  this  consequence 
would  infallibly  result  from  sweep- 
ing away  all  the  barriers  of  the  con- 
stitution in  Ireland ;  but  to  all  these 
warnings  they  were  utterly  deaf; 
with  obstinate  resolution  they  for- 
ced through  the  whole  dangerous 
clauses  of  the  revolutionary  measure, 
and  they  now  confess  that  the  em- 
pire in  consequence  is  on  the  verge 
of  dissolution. 

So  absurd,  vacillating,  contradict- 
ory, and  yet  obstinate,  has  been  the 
conduct  of  Ministers  in  Ireland,  that 
they  have  contrived  to  accomplish 
what  would  a  priori  have  been  deem- 
ed impossible,  viz.  the  union  of 
Catholics  and  Orangemen  in  one 
common  opinion.  That  common  opi- 
nion is  detestation  of  them  and  their 
measures.  The  Protestants,  with 
reason,  look  upon  them  as  the  worst 
enemies  Ireland  ever  saw ;  as  the 
original  authors  of  the  fatal  admis- 
sion of  Catholic  influence  into  the 
House  of  Commons  ;  as  the  patrons 
and  re  warders  of  the  greatest  enemy 
to  the  peace  of  Ireland  that  time  has 
ever  produced.  The  Catholics  re- 
gard them  as  men  who  have  betray- 
ed them  into  measures  which  they 
now  punish  them  for  pursuing ;  as 
having  set  the  country  on  fire  by  the 
promised  extinction  of  tithes,  which 
they  are  now  supporting  with  the 
whole  military  force  of  the  empire. 
In  the  universal  obloquy  which  they 
have  acquired,  the  supporters  of  the 
Union  itself  have  rapidly  and  alarm- 
ingly decreased,  and  a  portentous 
union  of  Catholics  and  Protestants 
taken  place,  to  support  the  severance 
of  the  island  from  British  dominion. 

O' Connell  has  treated  the  Govern- 
ment, as  all  men  deserve  to  be  treat- 
ed who,  for  party  purposes  and  the 
maintenance  of  power,  surrender  the 
independence  and  spirit  of  freemen 
— he  has  turned  upon  them  with  in- 
dignation. Loaded  with  their  ho- 
nours, he  has  spurned  them  with  con- 
tumely; rising  from  their  caresses, 
he  has  turned  from  them  with  loath- 
ing. The  English  newspapers  have 
been  for  the  most  part  afraid  to  print, 
even  in  these  days  of  general  license, 
the  volley  of  abuse  with  which  he  has 
assailed  those  who  lately  loaded  him 


Ireland.      No.  L 


85 


wit'i  honours.  The  leading  feature, 
say]  he,  of  Lord  Anglesey's  govern- 
ment, has  been  the  immense  quantity 
of  Mood  which  has  been  shed  during 
its  continuance;  morelives  have  been 
lost  in  one  year  of  Whig  rule,  than  in 
fifteen  of  Tory  domination.*  The  pre- 

sen;  Ministers  deserve  to  be No! 

we  will  not  pollute  our  pages  by  the 
filthy  abuse  which  the  first-born  of 
their  revolutionary  affections,  the 
Jeader  of  the  Irish  bar,  pours  out  up- 
on his  loving  benefactors.  We  have 
always  opposed,  and  fearlessly  op- 
posed, the  present  Ministers ;  but  we 
should  deem  ourselves  disgraced  if 
we  applied  to  them  the  epithets  which 
they  have  received  from  their  revo- 
lutionary favourite. 

But  the  matter  does  not  rest  here. 
If  their  domestic  dissensions  led  only 
to  ;he  exposure  of  the  monstrous 
alliances  which  the  present  Ministry 
had  formed  to  uphold  their  fortunes, 
they  would  be  rather  a  subject  of 
ridicule  than  lamentation.  But, 
unfortunately,  graver  and  weightier 
consequences  have  followed  in  the 
train  of  this  monstrous  alliance.  All 
Ireland  is  disgusted ;  the  hatred  at 
the  Ministry  is  not  only  universal,  but 
it  has  involved  Great  Britain  in  the 
obloquy.  There  can  be  no  doubt, 
that  the  union  of  England  and  Ire- 
land is  more  seriously  endangered 
by  die  unparalleled  folly  and  reck- 
lessness of  the  present  Ministry,  than 
by  any  thing  else  that  has  ever  oc- 
curred.—O'Connell  openly  boasts  of 
this.  Hear  his  own  words : 

"  Mr  Shell's  conviction,  as  to  the  ne- 
cessity of  repeal,  was  produced  by  the 
con  luct  of  the  British  Parliament ;  and 
the  administration  of  Lord  Anglesea, 
Stanley,  and  the  Attorney- General,  shew- 
ed tiiat,  without  repeal,  it  was  impossible 
to  do  any  service  to  Ireland.  (Hear,  and 
chei  rs.)  He  was  proud  to  think  that  the 
enemies  of  Ireland  were  no  longer  to  be 
distinguished  by  their  religion,  but  by 
their  servility.  (Hear,  and  cheers.) 
Onngemen,  Methodists,  Presbyterians, 
can  now  be  ranged  amongst  the  patriots 
of  reland  ;  and  he  was  most  proud  to 
be  able  to  state  this  fact,  that  the  first 
per  on  who  tendered  a  vote  to  his  son  in 
Tr;  lee,  was  the  Methodist  preacher  of 
tha  town.  (Cheers.)  Amongst  the  Irish 


patriots  were  to  be  found  men  of  every 
persuasion,  Avhile  the  vilest  and  most  ser- 
vile, the  veriest  '  lickspittle'— (it  was  an 
unpleasant  word  to  use,  and  which  he 
should  not  pronounce  in  a  public  assem- 
bly, ifhe  could  find  one  equally  expressive 
of  the  class  lie  was  describing) — but  that 
filthy  word  particularly  applied  to  the 
Catholic  portion  of  the  herd  of  slaves  who 
were  the  most  bitter  and  malignant  ene- 
mies of  Ireland.  (Hear,  and  cheers.)" 

In  these  circumstances,  the  salva- 
tion of  the  empire  hangs  upon  a 
thread.  If  the  Irish  members  gene- 
rally support  the  repeal  of  the  Union, 
there  is  no  concealing  the  fact,  that 
in  the  present  distracted  and  divided 
state  of  parties  in  this  country,  they 
may  soon  be  able  to  dictate  it  to  any 
administration. 

One  only  resource  remains  to  hold 
together  the  falling  members  of  the 
empire.  The  great  and  noble  Orange 
party  of  Ireland  are  still  firm  to  their 
duty,  and  the  integrity  of  the  British 
dominions.  Calumniated,  maltreat- 
ed, injured  as  they  have  been  by  the 
liberal  measures,  both  of  the  present 
and  the  preceding  Cabinet,  they  are 
yet  firm  in  their  allegiance  both  to  the 
British  crown  and  the  British  legis- 
lature. But  let  us  not  throw  away 
our  last  chance.  This  brave  and  pa- 
triotic body  may  be  driven  to  des- 
peration ;  a  drop  may  make  the  cup 
overflow.  They  are  assailed  by  a 
reckless  and  desperate  Catholic  fac- 
tion, strong  in  numbers,  able  in 
guidance,  reckless  in  intention  ;  men. 
whom  no  bloodshed  or  conflagration 
will  intimidate,  no  public  suffering 
deter;  who  will  pursue  their  own. 
ambition,  careless  though  the  ruins 
of  the  empire  were  to  overwhelm, 
them  in  the  attempt.  This  terrible 
body  has  been  headed,  patronised, 
and  flattered  by  the  government  of 
England,  during  the  whole  struggle 
on  the  Reform  Bill,  and  nothing  but 
the  triumph  of  that  measure  has 
cooled  the  alliance,  or  made  them 
sensible  of  the  desperate  danger 
which  they  ran  in  the  attempt.  Such, 
a  combination,  a  little  longer  persist- 
ed in,  would  have  led  to  the  dis- 
memberment of  the  empire.  But  let 
us  not  be  mistaken;  the  least  remo- 
val of  it  would  lead  to  an  union  of 


*  This  is  exactly  what  the  French  say  with  truth  of  Louis  Philippe's  government 
&s  compared  with  the  fifteen  years  of  the  restoration.  It  is  curious  to  observe,  how 
fa  different  countries  similar  systems  produce  similar  effects. 


86 


Ireland.    No.  I. 


[Jan. 


all  parties  against  the  British  union, 
and  infallibly  sever  from  England 
the  right  arm  of  her  strength.  It  is 
by  supporting,  with  all  the  might  of 
England,  the  Orange  party  of  Ire- 
land, and  by  such  a  measure  alone, 
that  the  crown  of  Ireland  can  be 
kept  on  the  head  of  the  British  sove- 
reign, or  the  independence  of  the 
British  empire  maintained.  The  Ca- 
tholics will  never  cease  to  desire  a 
severance,  because  it  would  lead, 
they  hope,  to  a  Catholic  Prince  and 
a  Catholic  government,  and  the  re- 
sumption of  the  whole  estates,  both 
civil  and  ecclesiastical,  to  theCatholic 
proprietors.  Her  Revolutionists  will 
never  cease  to  desire  it,  because  it  will 
at  once  occasion  the  formation  of  an 
Hibernian  Republic,  in  close  alliance 
with  the  great  parent  democracy, 
and  place  the  agitators  at  the  head 
of  affairs.  Her  Protestants  alone  are 
prompted  by  every  motive,  human 
and  divine,  by  kindred  interest,  reli- 
gion, and  loyalty,  to  resist  the  con- 
vulsion; and  hitherto,  through  evil 
report  and  good  report,  through  sup- 
port and  injury,  they  have  stood  firm 
in  their  faith.  What  madness  if  the 
affections  of  this  great  body,  the  sole 
remaining  link  which  holds  together 
the  empire,  is  lost  in  the  flattery  of 
revolutionary  passions!  But  that 
must  be  the  consequence  if  the  pre- 
sent vacillating  system  is  persisted 
in,  and  the  tried  support  of  the  Pro- 
testant union  is  lost  in  the  vain  at- 
tempt to  conciliate  its  Catholic  ene- 
mies. 

In  a  succeeding  Number  we  shall 
pursue  this  subject,  and  lay  before 
our  readers,  in  support  of  the  same 
views,  some  quotations  from  the 
splendid  speeches,  with  which,  in  the 
midst  of  the  vacillation  and  revo- 
lutionary measures  of  Government, 
the  Protestant  leaders  have  support- 
ed the  common  cause  of  the  British 
empire  and  the  Protestant  religion. 
But  we  cannot  resist  the  satisfaction 
of  adorning  our  pages  with  one  ex- 
tract from  a  brilliant  speech  lately 
delivered  at  Cork  by  Mr  Cummins, 
at  a  great  meeting  of  Conserva- 
tive gentlemen;  which  places  in  a 
striking  point  of  view  the  close 
analogy,  on  which  we  have  often  en- 
larged, between  the  proceedings  of 
the  Cabal  Administration  in  the  time 
of  Charles  II.,  and  our  present  in- 
fatuated rulers.  "  My  Lord,  we 
have  passed  through  most  important 


changes,  and  if  I  just  allude  to  the 
passing  of  the  Relief  Bill — to  the 
repeal  of  the  Test  Acts — to  the  re- 
modelling of  the  Constituency  of  the 
Country,  believe  me  I  do  it  not  now 
to  cast  a  needless  censure  on  any  of 
those  who  advocated  these  measures 
— which  I  consider  full  of  danger  to 
the  country — but  for  the  purpose  of 
pointing  out,  soberly  and  advisedly, 
what  I  deem  the  only  hope  of  safety 
for  our  much-loved  country ;  namely, 
a  union,  on  moderate  principles,  of 
all  men  of  all  parties  who  have  really 
the  welfare  of  the  nation  at  heart; 
and  I  shall  endeavour  to  illustrate 
this  by  a  brief  reference  to  a  former 
part  of  our  history,  respecting  which 
I  cannot  wonder  that  some  of  the 
wise  and  wily  politicians  of  the  day 
would  fain  have  us  to  consider  it  an 
old  almanack— I  allude  to  the  period 
when  the  Cabal  of  the  Second  Charles 
laid  their  schemes  for  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  British  constitution.  It 
is  not  a  little  remarkable,  that  the 
measures  they  resolved  upon  to  ef- 
fect this  object,  were,  first,  the  re- 
lief of  the  Romanists  from  all  disa- 
bilities— and,  secondly,  the  levelling 
of  all  distinctions  between  religious 
sects  and  parties ;  and  the  grand  po- 
litical step  they  deemed  necessary 
for  that  purpose,  was,  forming  an 
alliance  with  France,  and  provoking 
a  war  with  Holland — (hear.)  Yes, 
Gentlemen,  they  were  jealous  of  the 
existence  of  a  consistent  Protestant 
neighbour — (hear.)  If,  however,  the 
inglorious  issue  of  that  war  were  the 
only  result,  we  should  not  now  refer 
to  their  disgrace ;  the  poison  of  their 
principles  worked  at  home — the  seed 
sown  by  them  sprang  up,  and  in  the 
ensuing  reign  drove  the  unfortunate 
Stuart  line  from  the  throne  of  Eng- 
land— (hear,  hear.)  But,  my  Lord, 
what  then  saved  the  country?  A 
union  of  Whig  and  Tory  upon  sound 
Conservative  and  Protestant  princi- 
ples. To  this  re-acting  power — to 
the  Conservative  society  of  that  day, 
we  owe  the  glorious  settlement  of 
1688 — (hear,  and  loud  cheers.)  Let 
us  then  seek  the  same  result  now — 
let  every  man  in  the  country,  who 
loves  our  unrivalled  constitution, 
unite  to  preservers  blessings — and 
while  we  are  equally  removed  from 
indifference  in  our  moderation,  and 
from  violence  in  our  firmness,  let 
our  grand  leading  principle  be, '  Hold 
fast  that  which  is  good'— and  as  far 


1833.]  Ireland.    No.  7. 

as  that  principle  will  lead  us,  let  our 
uni  [inching  motto  be,  *  No  surren- 
der'— (cheers.)  " 

We  promise  our  readers  ample 
gratification  from  a  continuance  of 
these  extracts,  and  a  narrative  of  the 
able  and  vigorous  proceedings  of  the 
Conservative  Society  of  Ireland; 
and  we  rejoice  at  having  an  oppor- 


87 

tunity  of  drawing  closer  the  bonds  of 
union  between  the  great  Conserva- 
tive party  in  this  country  and  their 
intrepid  supporters  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Channel ;  an  union  pregnant 
with  the  happiest  effects  to  both,  and 
by  which  alone  the  maintenance  of 
our  religion  or  our  independence 
can  be  secured. 


AN  IRISH  GARLAND. 


I. 

YE  GENTLEMEN  OF  IRELAND. 


Yi  gentlemen  of  Ireland, 

fn  country  and  in  town, 
W  lose  honour'd  flag  in  ninety-eight 

Put  foul  rebellion  down ; 
Tl  at  glorious  standard  raise  again 

To  face  the  Tricolor, 
Where  it  waves  on  their  graves 

Who  put  it  down  before— 
Oh,  face  it  as  your  fathers  did, 

Twill  shame  your  skies  no  more. 

The  glories-of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  fold 
Oi'  the  fair  and  ample  banner 

In  orange  and  in  gold: 
The  British  Lions  "rampant, 

And  the  golden  Harp,  shall  soar 
Through  the  black  stormy  track 

Of  treason  gathering  o'er 
The  Isle  of  evil  destiny, 

(To  burst  in  rain  of  gore.) 


You  need  no  frantic  orators, 

No  riots  in  the  cause ; 
Your  strength  is  in  the  sacred  might 

Of  Truth's  eternal  laws  : 
With  lessons  from  God's  living  Word, 

You  need  no  other  lore, 
Though  lies  should  arise 

From  traitors  by  the  score  ; 
When  they  yell  their  noonday  blasphemies, 

And  ruffians  round  them  roar. 

Did  not  your  flag  of  honour 

Around  the  welkin  burn, 
Till  the   gathering  storm  be  scared  and 
gone, 

And  skies  of  blue  return  ! 
Then,  then,  ye  true  Conservatives, 

The  wine-cup  shall  run  o'er, 
When  ye  fill,  as  ye  will," 

To  the  manly  hearts  who  bore 
The  rampant  Lion  of  the  North 

First  o'er  the  Tricolor. 


II. 

YE  JACKASSES  OP  IRELAND. 


li  e  jackasses  of  Ireland, 

In  stable,  shed,  and  lane, 
"Whose  ears,  though  cropp'd  in  ninety- 
eight, 

Now  flout  our  skies  again ; 
I  rick  up  your  hairy  standards, 

Come,  take  a  roll  and  fling. 
And  bray,  while  ye  may, 

While  your  dust  is  on  the  wing, 
"  Ee-eeh,  ee-eeh,  ee-eeh,  ee-aw  ! 

Down,  down  with  State  and  King !" 

'.  7ou  need  no  College  pedants 

To  reason  in  the  cause  ; 
'four  brains  are  in  your  free-born  heels, 

Your  strength  is  in  your  jaws  :— • 
With  horrible  noises  loud  and  long, 

The  steeples  down  you'll  bring, 
As  ye  bray,  night  and  day, 

(And  the  chapel  bells  shall  ring,) 
'  Ee-eeh,  ee-eeh,  ee-eeh,  ee-aw ! 

Down,  down  with  Church  and  King  !' 


The  gibbets  of  your  fathers 

Shall  wave  you  to  be  free — 
(For  worthily  they  played  their  parts 

On  many  a  gallows-tree ;) 
Where  Murphy  and  great  Emmet  swung, 

The  Judges  all  shall  swing; 
As  ye  bray,  night  and  day, 

(And  the  Newgate  birds  shall  sing,) 
"  Ee-eeh,  ee-eeh,  ee-eeh,  ee-aw ! 

Down,  down  with  Law  and  King !" 

The  divine  voice  of  Freedom 

From  east  to  west  shall  sound, 
Till  neither  Parson,  Judge,  nor  Lord, 

In  Ireland  shall  be  found  : — > 
Then,  then,  ye  long-eared  lawgivers, 

How  College  Green  shall  ring, 
As  ye  bray,  night  and  day, 

(And  Dan  shall  be  the  King,) 
"  Ee-eeh,  ee-eeh,  ee-eeh,  ee-aw  ! 

Down,  down  with  every  thing  !" 


88  An  Irish  Garland*  [Jail. 

III. 

SONG  TO  BE  SUNG  AT  THE  LIFTING  OF  THE  CONSERVATIVE  STANDARD. 

COME  shake  forth  the  Banner,  let  loyal  breath  fan  her ; 

She's  blazed  over  Erin  three  ages  and  more ! 
Through  danger  we'll  hold  her,  the  fewer  the  bolder, 

As  constant  and  true  as  our  fathers  before. 

See,  see,  where  the  rags  of  the  Tricolor  brave  us  ; 

Behold  what  a  crew  'neath  its  tatters  advance — 
Fools,  tyrants,  and  traitors,  in  league  to  enslave  us, 

A  rabble  well  worthy  the  ensign  of  France  ! 

But  up  with  the  banner,  let  loyal  breath  fan  her, 
She'll  blaze  o'er  the  heads  of  our  gentlemen  still — 

Ho,  Protestants,  rally  from  mountain  and  valley, 
Around  the  old  flagstaff  on  Liberty's  hill ! 

Through  the  Broad  Stone  of  Honour,  the  flagstaff  is  founded 
Deep,  deep,  in  the  sure  Rock  of  Ages  below ; 

It  stood  when  rebellion's  wild  tempest  resounded, 
'Twill  stand,  by  God's  will,  though  again  it  should  blow ! 

Then  up  with  the  Banner  !  the  ensign  of  honour  ! 

Let  loyal  breath  fan  her !  up,  up,  and  away — 
To  slave  and  to  faitour,  to  tyrant  and  traitor, 

Shake  forth  the  old  Flag  of  defiance— hurrah ! 

IV. 

SONG  TO  BE  SUNG  AT  THE  LIFTING  OF  THE  REVOLUTIONARY  STANDARD. 

BRAY,  Asses,  bray  for  the  pride  of  the  levellers ; 

Stretch  your  long  jaws  to  the  Tricolor's  praise — 
Oh  for  a  chief  of  Parisian  revellers 
'Mong  us  the  standard  in  earnest  to  raise ! 
Oh  for  a  hangman  bold, 
Worthy  our  flag  to  hold, 
Onward  to  lead  us  'gainst  order  and  law  ! 
Loud  would  Clan  Donkey  then 
Ring  from  its  deepest  den, 
Glory  and  freedom  for  ever! — ee-aw ! 

Ee-aw ! 
Plunder  and  pillage  for  ever  ! — ee-aw ! 

Hang  out  your  rags  on  the  infidels'  Upas  tree, 

Root  and  branch  dripping  with  poison  and  blood- 
Blasphemy,  treachery,  treason,  and  sophistry, 

These  are  its  fruits,  and  they  prove  the  true  good ! 
Rooted  in  sin  and  lust, 
Deep  in  our  hearts,  it  must 
Flourish,  while  strength  from  a  vice  it  can  draw ; 
Virtue  shall  all  around 
Pine  oe'r  the  poison'd  ground, 
While  we  sing  Reason  for  ever ! — ee-aw. 

Ee-aw ! 
Reason  and  rapine  for  ever ! — ee-aw  ! 

When  last  to  the  banquet  we  gather'd  around  her, 

The  Seine  for  three  days  with  our  feasting  was  dyed; 
Blest  Paris  we  left  more  enslaved  than  we  round  her, 
And  Bristol  in  flames  to  our  revel  replied.- 
Up  with  her  here,  my  sons, 
Silly  and  wicked  ones ! 
Britain's  old  Lion  who  values  a  straw  ? 
If  the  poor  brute  should  roar, 
Bray  round  your  Tricolor, 
Donkeys  o'er  Lions  for  ever ! — ee-aw  ! 
Ee-aw  I 


U33.]  Zephyrs.  89 

ZEPHYRS. 

ALL  around  was  dark  in  mist, 

But  a  star  shone  bright 

In  the  lonely  night, 
And  the  bosom  of  ocean  kiss'd — 
A  favour'd  spot,  and  the  Zephyrs  there 
Came  to  sport  in  the  waters  fair. 

CHORUS. 

Spirits,  away — your  wings  renew 
With  healing  balm  in  the  briny  dew. 

The  dolphins  float  around, 

And  a  circle  track 

With  uplifted  back, 
Like  the  stones  upon  Druid  ground, 
That  lie  upon  Carnac's  dreary  plain, — 
So  motionless  they  in  the  misty  main. 

CHORUS. 

Spirits,  away — your  wings  renew 
With  healing  balm  from  the  briny  dew. 

FIRST  SPIRIT.    Sister  spirit,  where  hast  been  ? 

SECOND  SPIRIT.     Over  the  sands 

Of  burning  lands, 
From  gardens  fresh  and  green ; 
To  fan  the  fever'd  cheek  to  rest 
Of  a  child  on  its  fainting  mother's  breast. 

CHORUS. 

Sister  spirits,  your  wings  renew 
With  healing  balm  of  the  briny  dew. 

FIRST  SPIRIT.    And  thou,  say,  sister,  where  ? 
THIRD  SPIRIT.      Where  fountains  play, 
With  silvery  spray, 

To  the  sun  and  the  scented  air ; 

And  sweet  birds  sing,  and  leaf  and  flower 

Bend  to  the  music  in  lady's  bower. 

CHORUS. 

Sister  spirits,  your  wings  renew 
With  healing  balm  of  the  briny  dew. 

FOURTH  SPIRIT.  And  I  where  blood  was  spilt — 

And  as  I  fann'd 

The  murderer's  hand, 
It  gave  him  a  pang  of  guilt, 
For  he  saw  his  brother  lie  cold  in  death, 
And  could  not  feel  that  reviving  breath. 

CHORUS. 

Sister  spirits,  your  wings  renew 
With  healing  balm  of  the  briny  dew. 

FIFTH  SPIRIT.    And  I  my  pastime  took 

In  wake  of  a  ship 

That  her  bows  did  dip, 
And  the  salt  spray  from  her  shook. 
Merrily  danced  the  ship  along 
With  flaunting  colours,  and  seaman's  song. 


90  Zephyrs.  [Jan. 

CHORUS. 

Sister  spirits,  your  wings  renew 
With  healing  balm  of  the  briny  dew. 

FIRST  SPIRIT.    Dolphins,  away — be  free, 

For  I  hear  the  swell 

Of  the  Sea-God's  shell, 
That  calls  up  the  sleeping  sea. 
Alas !  the  joy  on  that  fated  deck- 
Weeping,  and  wailing,  and  prayer— and  wreck ! 

CHORUS. 

Sisters,  away — the  briny  dew 
No  more  may  with  healing  your  wings  renew. 


THE  PICTURE. 

A  HORRID  wood  of  unknown  trees,  that  throw 
An  awful  foliage,  snakes  about  whose  rind 
Festoon'd  in  hideous  idleness  did  wind, 

And  swing  the  black-green  masses  to  and  fro. 

A  river — none  knew  whence  or  where — did  flow 
Mysterious  through  ;  clouds,  swoln  and  lurid,  shined 
Above,  like  freighted  ships,  waiting  a  wind ; 

And  moans  were  heard,  like  some  half-utter' d  woe ; 
And  shadowy  monsters  glided  by,  whose  yell 

Shook  terribly  th'  unfathom'd  wilderness. — 
Where  I  The  Great  Maker,  his  invisible 

And  undiscover'd  worlds  doth  yet  impress 
On  thought,  creation's  mirror,  wherein  do  dwell 

His  unattained  wonders  numberless. 


MIGNON  S  SONG. 

(From  Gothe.) 

Know  you  the  land  where  the  Lemon-tree  blows, 
In  dark  leaves  embower'd  the  gold  Orange  glows ; 
The  wind  breathes  softly  from  the  deep  blue  sky  j 
Still  is  the  Myrtle,  and  the  Laurel  high;— 
Know'st  thou  it  ? 

Thither !  O  thither ! 
Might  I  with  thee— O,  my  beloved  one !— go ! 

Know  you  the  House,  with  its  Chambers  so  bright— 
The  Roof  rests  on  Columns,  the  Hall  gleams  with  Light— 
And  Marble  Statues  stand  and  look  on  me  ; — 
"  What,  my  poor  Child,  have  they  done  to  thee  ?" 
Know'st  thou  it  ? 

Thither !  O  thither ! 
Might  I  with  thee,  my  own  Protector !  go  ! 

Know  you  the  Mountain  ?  its  path  in  the  Cloud  ? 
The  Mule  his  way  seeks  in  the  dark  Mist-shroud  ; 
In  caverns  dwell  the  Dragon's  ancient  brood  ; 
The  Crag  rushes  down,  and  o'er  it  the  Flood  j— 
Know'st  thou  it  ? 

Thither!  O  thither ! 
Our  way  lies,  Father  !  Thither  let  us  go  ! 

H.  H,  J. 


1833.] 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


01 


SCOTCH  AND  YANKEES.      A  CARICATURE. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  ANNALS  OF  THE  PARISH,  &C. 

CHAPTER  I. 


HECTOR  DHU,  or  Black  Hector  of 
Ardenlochie,  was  the  last  male  of 
1  is  line,  and  when  he  died  his  estate 
vent  to  heirs-female,  descendants  of 
\  is  grandfather,  who  left  three  daugh- 
tsrs.  One  of  them  was  married  to 
s  respectable  writer  to  the  signet  in 
Edinburgh  ;  we  say  respectable, ^not- 
withstanding his  profession.  An- 
c  ther  had  emigrated  with  a  relation 
t3  New  York,  and  had  been  married 
to  an  opulent  farmer  in  the  State  of 
vermont.  The  third  was  deemed 
fortunate  in  having  married  at  Glas- 
gow a  Virginia  tobacco  -  planter, 
whom  she  accompanied  to  that  coun- 
try, where  she  was  forgotten  by  her 
relations  in  our  time ;  who  also  could 
i-.ot  correctly  say,  whether  the  wife 
(•f  the  writer  to  the  signet  or  the 
farmer's  in  Vermont  was  the  eldest. 

The  lady  in  Edinburgh  had  an 
«nly  daughter,  who  in  due  season 
was  married  to  Dr  Clatterpenny, 
who  exercised  the  manifold  calling, 
Irade,  or  profession,  of  druggist,  sur- 
£  eon,  or  physician,  in  the  borough 
town  of  Clarticloses. 

When  we  knew  this  lady  she  was 
r  widow  well-stricken  in  years,  and 
distinguished  for  the  nimbleness  of 
her  tongue,  and  the  address  with 
which  she  covered  cunning  and  dis- 

•  ;ernment  with  a  veil  of  folly. 

A  long  period  had  elapsed,  during 

vhich  the   farmer's  wife  was  not 

heard  of;  in  fact,  the  good- woman 

•  lied  in  giving  birth  to  her  only  son, 
,  edediah  Peabody  of  Mount  Pisgah, 
:'a  the  State  of  Vermont,  and  who  at 
'he  time  of  this  eventful  history  was 
u  widower,  and  the  father  of  a  very 
pretty  girl,  who  in  the  Yankee  fa- 

.hion  was  called  Miss  Octavia  Mar- 
i  ^aret  Peabody,  which  her  father  and 
>ther  friends  abridged,  to  save  time, 
nto  the  name  of  Tavy. 

Of  the  Virginia  planter's  lady  no- 
hing  whatever  was  known.  She 
cept  up  no  communication  with  her 
riends  or  sisters,  and  was  as  good  as 
•lead  to  all  her  cousins,  when  Hec- 
tor Dhu  departed  this  life. 
On  his  death,  Dr  Drone,  the  mi- 


nister of  the  parish,  caused  inquiry 
to  be  made  respecting  the  heirs  to 
his  estate,  and  Mr  Peabody  and 
Mrs  Clatterpenny  came  forward,  of 
course. 

Some  doubts  of  her  right  lay  al- 
ways on  the  mind  of  that  lady,  when 
she  received  a  letter  from  a  son 
whom  she  had  walking  the  hospi- 
tals in  London,  informing  her  that 
Mr  Peabody  had  arrived  in  the  Bri- 
tish metropolis  by  one  of  the  New 
York  packet  ships  with  his  daugh- 
ter, an  uncommonly  beautiful  young 
lady ;  and  he  gave  his  mother  a  gen- 
tle hint,  that  probably  it  would  save 
much  expense,  and  keep  the  for- 
tune in  the  house,  if  he  could  make 
himself  agreeable  to  Miss  Octavia; 
"  but,"  he  added, "  I  fear  she  intends 
to  throw  herself  away  upon  a  young 
man  from  Virginia,  with  whom  she 
has  lately  become  acquainted,  and 
who  is  in  town  on  his  return  to  the 
United  States,  from  a  tour  that  he 
has  been  making  in  some  of  the  most 
interesting  parts  of  Europe." 

As  soon  as  Mrs  Clatterpenny  re- 
ceived this  letter,  she  acted  with  her 
usual  discretion  and  decision.  At 
this  time  she  resided  in  the  old  town 
of  Edinburgh,  in  a  close  celebrated 
as  a  receptacle  for  the  widows  of  the 
Faculty,  and  the  relicts,  as  the  Scotch 
call  the  surviving  wives,  of  divines. 

Among  other  acquaintance  whom 
Mrs  Clatterpenny  knew  in  Edin- 
burgh, was  a  Mr  Threeper,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Scotch  Bar,  who,  like  the 
generality  of  his  brethren,  having 
little  to  do  with  briefs  or  business, 
was  exceedingly  amusing  to  old  wo- 
men. Upon  the  instant,  our  heroine 
determined  that  she  would  see  if  she 
could  make  a  cheap  bargain  for  his 
services  and  advice  in  the  matter 
she  had  to  agitate  with  her  kinsman, 
Mr  Peabody.  In  this  she  shewed 
her  wonted  acumen;  for,  after  ha- 
ving disclosed  to  Mr  Threeper  her 
pretensions  to  the  Ardenlochie  pro- 
perty, she  persuaded  him  not  only 
to  take  her  case  in  hand,  but  to  ac- 
company her  to  London ;  in  fact,  to 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


[Jan. 


go  shares  with  her  in  the  adventure, 
and  to  agree  for  payment,  that  he 
should  be  content  either  with  the 
half  of  the  estate,  if  he  made  good 
her  claims  to  it;  or  the  same  re- 
ward, if  her  son,  in  any  way  by  his 
advice,  married  the  daughter  of  Mr 
Peabody. 

Accordingly,  an  agreement  be- 
tween them  to  this  effect  was  for- 
mally drawn  up,  and  they  proceeded 
together  in  the  steam-boat  called  the 
United  Kingdom,  from  Leith  to  Lon- 
don. 

They  had,  among  other  fellow-pas- 
sengers, a  Mr  Archibald  Shortridge, 
junior,  a  young  man  from  Glasgow. 
He  was  a  good-natured  fellow,  ra- 
ther fattish,  and  his  father  had  been 
some  years  ago  Lord  Provost  of  that 
royal  city,  which,  by  the  bye,  this 
young  man  was  at  great  pains  to  let 
strangers  know.  But  though  there 
was  a  little  weakness  in  this,  he  was 
a  very  passable  character,  as  men 
go  in  the  world,  and  not  overly  nice 
in  his  feelings.  He  had  been  bred 
up  in  the  notion,  that  gold  is  the 
chief  good  in  the  world,  and  that 
they  are  great  fools  who  think  other- 
wise. 

We  should  mention  a  striking  cha- 
racteristic of  him — a  way  of  stand- 
ing very  imposingly  with  his  legs 
apart,  like  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes, 
with  his  head  back,  and  his  thumbs 
in  the  arm-holes  of  his  waistcoat. 
In  this  posture  he  was  really  a  very 
prognosticate  figure.  Many  took 
him  for  a  member  of  the  town-coun- 
cil before  he  was  elected  into  that 
venerable  body,  and  it  was  clearly 
seen  that  he  was  ordained  to  be  a 
bailie.  Some  went  so  far  as  to  say, 
that  they  saw  the  signs  of  Lord  Pro- 
vost about  him ;  at  all  events,  it  was 
the  universal  opinion  of  those  that 
knew  him,  that  Mr  Shortridge  was 
not  come  to  his  kingdom. 

It  happened  odd  enough,  that  old 
Provost  Shortridge,  his  father,  and 
Mr  Peabody,  had  some  correspond- 
ence together,  in  which  the  Provost, 
a  long  forecasting  man,  having  some 
notion  of  Peabody's  relationship  to 
Hector  Dhu,  a  confirmed  bachelor, 
jocularly,  in  a  postscript  to  one  of 
his  letters,  invited  Peabody  to  come 
with  his  daughter  to  Glasgow,  offer- 
ing to  introduce  them  to  their  High» 
land  relation. 


Peabody  at  the  time  declined  the 
invitation,  but,  from  less  to  more, 
the  subject  being  once  introduced 
into  their  correspondence  respect- 
ing staves  and  lumber,  it  was  in  the 
end  pactioned  between  them,  that 
Archie,  (as  he  was  called  in  those 
days,)  our  acquaintance,  was  propo- 
sed for  Miss  Octavia  Margaret ;  and, 
in  consequence,  when  that  young 
lady  was  heard  to  have  arrived  in 
London,  the  aforesaid  Archie,  or,  as 
he  was  now  called,  Archibald,  ju- 
nior, was  advised  by  his  wily  father 
to  go  and  push  his  fortune,  by  the 
United  Kingdom,  with  the  young 
lady. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass,  that  the  Uni- 
ted Kingdom  was  enriched  with  all 
these  of  our  dramatis  persona),  in 
addition  to  the  usual  clanjamphry 
that  constitute  the  cargoes  of  the 
steamers  that  ply  between  Leith  and 
London. 

It  happened,  however,  that  the  pas- 
sage was  rough  and  squally,  which, 
Mrs  Clatterpenny,  in  complaining  of 
her  sickness,  assured  her  compa- 
nions made  her  a  sore  nymph.  Mr 
Threeper  was  speechless,  and  lay  all 
day  in  his  bed,  crying  "  Oh  !  oh !" 
as  often  as  the  steward  addressed 
him ;  but  Mr  Shortridge,  in  all  the 
perils  of  the  voyage,  was  as  gay1  as 
a  lark,  and  as  thirsty  as  a  duck  j  for 
he  had  been  on  a  voyage  of  pleasure, 
like  most  young  men  of  the  Tron- 
gate,  to  the  Craig  of  Ailsa,  where  he 
feasted  on  solan  geese,  by  which,  as 
he  said  himself,  he  was  inured  to 
seafaring ;  but  his  appetite  was  none 
improved. 

When  the  vessel  reached  her  moor- 
ings in  the  Thames,  they  somehow 
got  into  a  hackney-coach  together—- 
perhaps there  was  a  little  political 
economy  in  this — and  they  took  up 
their  abode,  on  the  recommendation 
of  Mr  Threeper,  at  the  Talbot  Inn, 
in  the  Borough.  "  It  has  been  many 
hundred  years,"  said  he,  "  a  very 
celebrated  house.  .  Chaucer  the  poet 
speaks  of  it  in  his  time,  and  the  Pil- 
xgrims  for  Canterbury  he  represents 
as  taking  their  departure  therefrom. 
An  inn,  tavern,  or  hotel,  to  have  been 
much  frequented  for  several  hundred 
years,  speaks  well  for  its  accommo- 
dation ;  it  must  have  adapted  itself  in 
a  very  extraordinary  manner  to  the 
various  changes  of  society," 


1333.] 


Scotcli  and  Yankees, 


CHAPTER  II. 


OUR  travellers  being  arrived  at  the 
inn,  Mr  Shortridge  had  some  doubt, 
from  its  appearance,  if  it  were  ex- 
actly the  place  which,  from  the  in- 
ferences of  Mr  Threeper,  he  had 
been  led  to  expect;  but  he  submit- 
ted to  his  fate,  and  the  luggage  which 
they  had  brought  with  them  in  the 
hackney-coach  was  unloaded.  While 
waiting  for  Mrs  Clatterpenny,  who 
had  some  orders  to  give  at  the  bar, 
he  fell  into  conversation  with  the 
advocate,  in  which  he  enquired  if 
there  \vas  any  truth  in  the  report, 
that  their  fellow  passenger,  Mrs  Clat- 
terpenny, was  heiress  to  the  great 
Ardenlochie  estates. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr  Threeper,  "  if 
no  nearer  relative  can  be  found." 

"  Your  news,"  said  Mr  Shortridge, 
"  surprises  me.  I  have  heard  my 
father  say,  when  he  was  the  Lord 
I  rovoat  of  Glasgow,  that  an  old  ac- 
quaintance of  our  house  in  Vermont 
was  the  heir ;  but  between  ourselves, 
Mr  Threeper,  how  could  you  allow 
that  old  woman  to  come  with  you? 
Thank  fortune  we  are  on  shore ;  I 
could  not  have  endured  her  intole- 
rable clack  much  longer." 

"  Ay,"  said  Mr  Threeper,  "  the 
hoarse  waves  are  musical  compared 
to  her  tongue;  but  I  could  not  do 
well  without  her ;  and  to  let  you  into 
the  truth,  the  random  nonsense  she 
if  ever  talking,  is  a  cloak  which  con- 
ceals both* shrewdness  and  cunning; 
moreover,  she  has  a  son  in  London, 
b  etween  whom  and  her  relation,  Pea- 
body's  daughter,  just  arrived  from 
America,  she  is  desirous  to  effect  a 
marriage,  to  avoid  litigation  ;  for 
there  is  a  doubt  arising  from  Mr 
I  eabody's  claim  to  the  property,  as 
heir-at-law." 

"  Peabody!  did  you  say  Peabo- 
dy?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr  Threeper;  "we 
Lave  heard  that  the  same  cause  has 
brought  him  across  the  Atlantic." 

Mr  Shortridge  looked  very  much 
a  stonished  at  this,  and  added,  with 
a  Ji  accent  of  great  wonder,  "  Do  you 
k  now,  that  it  was  arranged  between 
niy  father  and  this  very  Peabody, 
that  I  should  go  to  America  and 
cjurt  his  daughter.  Between  us,  the 
Irovost  had  an  eye,  I  suspect,  to 
these  very  Ardenlochie  estates,  But 


what  says  young  Clatterpenny  to 
this  match  of  his  mother's  making?" 
Mr  Threeper  was  neither  sharp, 
adroit,  nor  intelligent,  and  of  course 
this  declaration  of  young  Shortridge 
made  no  right  impression  upon  him, 
and  he  replied,  "  We  anticipate  no 
difficulty  with  the  young  man.  He 
has  written  to  his  mother,  that  the 
lady  is  a  divinity,  and  he  has  himself 
proposed  the  match,  to  which  I  have 
lent  my  advice." 

Mr  Shortridge  said  nothing  to  this, 
but  rubbing  his  mouth  with  his  hand, 
muttered,  "  I'm  glad  to  hear  that 
though,  for  I  would  not  like  to  marry 
a  fright." 

This  was  not  overheard  by  Mr 
Threeper,  who,  forgetful  of  his  pro- 
fessional prudence,  added,  "  It  is 
feared,  however,  that  she  will  throw 
herself  away  on  one  Tompkins,  a 
young  Virginian,  who  is  now  in  Lon- 
don." - 

"  Tompkins  !"  cried  Mr  Short- 
ridge ;  "  I  know  him  well ;  he  was  in 
Glasgow,  and  took  a  beefer  with  us 
when  my  father  was  the  Lord  Pro- 
vost." 

"  There  is  no  doubt,"  said  Threep- 
er, "  that  it  is  the  same,  for  he  has 
been  making  the  tour  of  Europe. 
What  sort  of  a  person  is  he  ?" 

"  Not  unlike  myself,"  replied  Mr 
Shortridge  ;  "  rather  genteelish." 

"  The  likeness,"  cried  Threeper, 
"  cannot  be  striking ;  but  hush,  here 
comes  Mrs  Clatterpenny  reprimand- 
ing the  negro  waiter,  who,  by  the  bye, 
is  the  first  of  the  kind  that  I  have 
ever  seen." 

In  saying  this,  the  two  gentlemen 
stepped  more  apart,  and  Mrs  Clat- 
terpenny entered  in  great  tribulation, 
speaking  behind  her  to  the  waiter, 
who  had  not,  she  thought,  been  so 
attentive  to  her  commands  as  he 
ought. 

"Black  lad,"  said  she,  "I  say, 
black  lad !  what  for  have  ye  no  taken 
my  bits  o'  boxes  up  to  the  bed-cham- 
er  ?  I  tell  you  to  take  them  up  in  a 
gay  time."  Then  turning  round  and 
observing  the  gentlemen,  she  adress- 
ed  them, "  Eh !  gentlemen,  little  did  I 
hope  for  the  pleasantrie  of  seeing  you 
here ;  and  glad  am  I,  Mr  Threeper, 
that  ye  are  not  out  of  the  way,  for  I 
am  almost  driven  demented.  Tho 


94 


misleared  blackamoor  does  not  know 
a  word  I  say—It's  a  dreadful  thing 
that  folk  in  London  town  will  no 
speak  the  English  language.  Oh,  Mr 
Shortridge,  is  na  this  a  town  I — it's 
not  like  our  own  ancient  borough 
towns,  that  were  finished  afore  the 
rexes  were  kings,  and  have  not  had 
a  new  building  in  them  since." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Shortridge,  "folks 
say  that  some  of  them  would  be  none 
the  worse  of  being  mended." 

"Oh,  Mr  Shortridge,"  cried  the 
lady,  "  it's  no  possible  that  you,  the 
gett  of  a  Lord  Provost,  can  be  a  re- 
former ;  but  Glasgow,  I  will  allow, 
would  be  none  the  worse  of  a  refor- 
mation; 'deed,  Mr  Shortridge,  we 
would  all  be  the  better  of  a  reforma- 
tion, and  ye  should'na  laugh  in  your 
sleeve  at  my  moralizing." 

Shortridge,  who  had  a  salutary 
dread  of  the  old  woman's  tongue,  re- 
plied, to  change  the  conversation, 
that  he  was  only  thinking  of  their 
sufferings  in  the  voyage. 

"  Aye,"  said  she,  "  that's  to  be  held 
in  remembrance;  oh,  that  dismal 
night,  when  the  wind  was  roaring 
like  a  cotton-mill,  and  the  captain 
was  swearing  as  if  he  had  been  the 
Prince  of  the  Powers  of  the  Air !  I'll 
never  forget  it.  You  and  me  were 
like  the  two  innocent  babes  in  the 
wood,  and  obligated  to  sleep  on  the 
floor,  with  only  a  rag  of  a  sail  fastened 
with  a  gimlet  and  a  fork,  for  a  parti- 
tion between  us ;  but,  Mr  Shortridge, 
ye're  a  discreet  young  man — nay,  ye 
needna  turn  your  head  away  and 
think  shame,  for  no  young  gentle- 
man could  behave  to  a  lady  in  a  more 
satisfactory  manner." 

Shortridge  was  a  good  deal  net- 
tled at  this  speech,  and  turning  on 
his  heel,  said,  rather  huffily,  "  It's  all 
an  invention," 

«  Well,  well,"  replied  Mrs  Clatter- 
penny,  j,"  but  you'll  never  deny  that 
we  were  objects  of  pity.  There  was 
yourself,  Mr  Threeper,"  turning  to- 
wards the  advocate,  "  a  man  learned 
in  the  law,  and  all  manner  of  know- 
ledge known  to  the  Greeks,  what  a 
sight  were  ye  ?  the  whale  swallowing 
Jonah  was  as  mim  as  a  May  pud- 
dock  compared  to  you;  and,  Mr 
Shortridge,  ye  had  a  sore  time 
o't." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  exclaimed  Short- 
ridge, "  my  dear  madam,  I  was  not 
at  all  ill,  only  a  tiff  off  the  Bass." 


Scotch  and  Yankees.  [jan 

"  A  tiff!"  cried  Mrs  Clatterpenny  ; 
"  do  ye  no  mind  what  Robin  Burns 
says  ?— 


'  Oh  that  some  power  the  gift  would  gie 

us, 

To  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us.' 
But  I'll  tell  ye  what  ye  were  like,  if 
ye'll  show  me  a  man  vomiting  a  de- 
vil, and  his  name  Legion  ;  however, 
we  have  aU  our  infirmities,  and  I 
want  at  this  present  time  to  confabu- 
late with  Mr  Threeper  on  a  matter  of 
instant  business,  so  ye  must  leave 
us." 

"Mr  Threeper,"  continued  she, 
after  the  Glasgow  beau  had  disap- 
peared, "  Mr  Threeper,  that  Mr 
Shortridge  is  no  an  overly  sensible 
lad,  so  I  hope  ye  have  not  let  him 
into  the  catastrophies  of  our  busi- 
ness ;  for  I  will  be  as  plain  as  I  am 
pleasant  with  you;  in  short,  Mr 
Threeper,  since  we  came  together  in 
the  same  vessel,  I  think  ye're  a  wee 
leaky,  and  given  to  make  causeway 
talk  of  sealed  secrets;  and  surely 
ye'll  never  tell  me  that  this  is  a  fit 
house  to  bring  a  woman  of  character 
to." 

"  I  acknowledge,"  said  he,  "that 
it  is  not  quite  what  I  expected ;  it's 
more  like  women  than  wine — it  has 
not  improved  with  age." 

«  Mr  Threeper,"  said  the  old  lady, 
"  do  you  mean  that  as  a  fling  at  me  ? 
ye  have  a  stock  of  impudence  to  do 
so,  but  it's  all  the  stock  in  trade  that 
many  lawyers  are  possessed  of; 
however,  it  may  do  for  a  night's 
lodging,  but  I  give  you  fair  warning, 
that  though  it's  a  good  house  enough 
for  you,  as  you  said  before  you  saw 
it,  it  will  never  do  for  the  likes  o'  me. 
But  what  I  wanted  to  consult  you 
about  in  a  professional  way,  is  a  mat- 
ter that  calls  for  all  your  talent ;  I 
told  a  blackamoor  man,  do  ye  hear 
me?  and  telling  a  blackamoor  man  to 
seek  for  my  cousin,  Peabody,  ye 
see"— 

"Well,  I  do  see,"  replied  Mr 
Threeper. 

"  You  do  see !  is  that  all  the  law 
you  have  to  give  me  ?  but  I  have  not 
told  you  the  particulars ;  he's  never 
come  back  yet,  think  of  that  and 
weep;  he's  like  the  raven,  Mr  Threep- 
er, that  Noah  sent  out  of  the  ark ; 
vagabond  bird,  it  was  black  too,  ye 
know." 
"What  then?" 


If  33.] 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


"  What  then,  Mr  Threeper,  is  that 
ali  the  opinion  of  counsel  that  ye 
hf  ve  to  offer  to  a  lanerly  widow  in 
London  town,  sorrowing  like  a  peli- 
can in  the  wilderness  ?" 

Poor  Mr  Threeper  knew  not 
wliat  to  say;  experience  had  taught 
him  that  his  client  was  driving  lo- 
wirds  some  other  object,  while  pre- 
tending that  she  was  consulting  him. 
Fortunately,  however,  at  this  moment 
a  bustle  was  heard,  and  on  looking 
towards  the  occasion,  they  beheld 
ar  odd  figure  entering  the  house ;  an 
elderly  person,  who  wore  a  broad- 
biimmed  straw-hat,  turned  up  be- 
hind, somewhat  ecclesiastical,  with 
a  crape  tied  round  it  in  a  very  dis- 
heveled manner.  He  had  no  neck- 
cloth, but  the  collar  of  his  shirt  was 


fastened  by  a  black  ribband,  and  he 
wore  a  bottle-green  great-coat,  with 
large  buttons,  one  of  which,  on  the 
haunches,  was  missing ;  his  waist- 
coat was  home-made  swansdown,  of 
large  broad  stripes,  and  he  had  on 
corduroy  trovvsers,  with  his  shoes 
down  in  the  heel,  and  a  cigar  in  his 
mouth,  while  his  hands  were  busily 
employed  with  a  knife  and  stick, 
which  he  was  indefatigably  making 
nothing  of. 

"  Who  is  this  ?"  cried  Mrs  Clatter- 
penny  ;  "  what'na  curiosity  is  this  ? 
Yankee  Doodle  himself  is,  compared 
to  this  man,  a  perfect  composity  ; 
oh,  sirs,  but  he  must  be  troubled 
with  sore  eyes,  for  he  wears  blue 
specks,  and  they're  of  the  nose-nip- 
ping kind." 


CHAPTER  III. 


BY  the  time  our  heroine  had  ex- 
amined this  phenomenon,  he  had 
made  his  way  through  coaches,  carts, 
ci  ates,  trunks,  and  band-boxes,  to  the 
place  where  she  was  standing  talking 
to  Mr  Threeper. 

«  Well,"  said  the  stranger, "  I  guess 
if  you  be'nt  some  of  them,  'ere  folks 
what  have  come'd  by  the  steam-boat 
from  Scotland  state." 

"  'Deed,  sir,"  replied  Mrs  Clatter- 
p<mny,  "it's  no  a  guess,  but  a  true 
sf.y ;  we  are  just  even  now  come,  and 
a'  in  confusion  as  yet." 

The  stranger  then  turned  round  to 
Mr  Threeper  and  said,  "  I,  squire, 
expect  you  have  brought  a  right  rare 
cargo  of  novelties." 

Mr  Threeper  replied  in  the  best 
si  yle  of  the  Parliament  House  in  the 
IV  Modern  Athens;  perhaps  we  ought  to 
c  ill  it,  for  the  same  reason  that  the 
inhabitants  have  changed  the  name 
o  '  the  town, — the  Areopagus. 

"  No,  sir,  none,  whatever ;  every 
thing  is  going  right,  the  reformers 
have  all  their  own  way." 

"Well,  I  reckon,"  continued  the 
o  id  apparition,  "  that  be  pretty  parti- 
c  alar,  for  I  can  tell  you  that  we  have 
h  ere  in  London  a  considerable  some ; 
we  hear  that  the  Emperator  of  Rushy 
his  had  an  audience  of  the  Great 
Mogul,  and  therefore  I  guess  we 
siiall  have  a  Dutch  war." 

"Oh,  Mr  Threeper,"  exclaimed 
Mrs  Clatterpenny,  "sic  a  constipa- 
tion that  will  be!" 


"  And  pray,  Mister,"  said  the 
strange-looking  man,  "  what  be  she 
called,  that  'ere  ship  what  brought 
you  to  this  'ere  place  ?" 

"The  United  Kingdom,"  replied 
Mr  Threeper. 

But  the  foreigner,  none  daunted, 
continued, "  She'll  be  a  spacious  cle- 
ver floater,  I  guess;  and  I  say,  old  lady, 
did'nt  you  hear  naught  in  that  'ere 
voyage  of  one  Mrs  Clatterpenny, 
one  of  my  relations  in  Scotland 
Street." 

"  The  gude  preserve  us !"  cried  the 
lady;  "is  na  that  delightful  ?  am  not  I 
Mrs  Clatterpenny  mysel',  and  is  not 
this  Mr  Threeper,  my  man  of  busi- 
ness, a  most  judicial  man?" 

"  Well,  I  reckon  as  how  I  do  be 
Jedediah  Peabody  of  Mount  Pisgah, 
State  of  Vermont;  folks  call  me 
Squire,  but  I  an't  myself  so  'da- 
cious." 

"  Oh,  Mr  Peabody,  my  cousin,  but 
I  am  most  happy  to  see  you  looking 
so  well ;  but  ye  have  lost  Mrs  Pea- 
body,  worthy  lady ;  she  was  a  loss, 
Mr  Peabody !" 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "rest  her  soul, 
poor  creature,  she  was  an  almighty 
ambitious  woman ;  she  would  have 
her  kitchen  as  spanking  as  our  par- 
lour." 

"  Aye,  aye,"  continued  Mrs  Clat- 
terpenny, in  the  most  sympathetic 
manner  possible,  "  that  shewed  she 
was  the  bee  that  made  the  honey ;  ye 
see  I  speak  to  you  with  the  cordiality 


96 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


[Jan. 


of  an  old  friend — and  how  is  your 
lovely  daughter  ?" 

"  Well,"  replied  the  Vermont  far- 
mer; "I  reckon  our  Tavy  be  right 
well,  for  she's  gone  a  sparking  with 
that 'ere  young  Tompkins  what  comes 
from  Virginy  to  see  the  lions  j  they 
are  main  dreadful  creturs." 

Mrs  Clatterpenny  was  greatly 
struck  at  this  intelligence,  and  cried, 
"  I  wonder  you,  a  man  of  discretion, 
would  let  her  do  the  like  of  that ;  she 
can  do  far  better,  and,  Mr  Peabody, 
let  me  tell  you,  keep  the  gear  among 
us." 

Mr  Threeper,  who  overheard  her, 
whispered,  "  Softly,  ma'am,  softly, 
cast  not  your  line  too  fast."  But  she 
disregarded  the  admonition,  and  con- 
tinued, "  Had  it  been  wi'  our  Johnny, 
her  ain  cousin,  it  would  hae  been  a 
more  comely  thing." 

Mr  Threeper  prudently  twitched 
her  gown  at  this — "  I  beseech  you,  be 
on  your  guard." 

"  I  wish,  Mr  Threeper,"  said  she 
tartly,  "  that  ye  would  behave  your- 
self, and  no  be  pouking  at  my  tail." 

Mrs  Clatterpenny  at  the  same  time 
observing  that  Peabody  was  looking 
round  the  court  of  the  inn,  in  not 
the  most  satisfied  manner,  added, 
"  'Deed  it's  not  a  perfect  paradise, 
but  it's  some  place  that  Mr  Threeper 
read  of  in  a  story-book,  only  they 
forgot  to  mention  that  midden ; 
however,  I'll  no  be  long  here ;  indeed 
I  have  a  great  mind  to  quit  it  on  the 
instant,  and  I  willj  and  how  are  we 
to  get  our  trunks  carried  to  a  Chris- 
tian place?" 

"  Christian  place,"  said  the  porter, 
"  Christian  place !  I  don't  know  any 
such  place,  I  was  never  there." 

While  she  went  bustling  about  the 
inn-yard,  Mr  Threeper  politely  in- 
formed Mr  Peabody,  that  they  had 
come  to  the  Talbot,  entirely  owing 
to  a  misconception  which  they  had 
made  in  the  reading  of  Chaucer." 

"  Chaucer !"  said  Peabody,  "  did 
he  keep  tavern  here  ?" 

Mr  Threeper  looked  at  the  Ame- 
rican, and  snuffing,  as  it  were  a  fetid 
smell,  turned  upon  his  heel,  and 
went  towards  Mrs  Clatterpenny, 
who  by  this  time  was  frying  with 
vexation  at  not  being  able  to  make 
herself  understood  by  the  servants ; 
however,  in  the  end,  a  hackney 
coach  was  procured,  their  luggage 


reloaded,  and  with  glee  and  comfort 
seated  beside  her  cousin,  off  the  ve- 
hicle drove  for  the  west  end  of  the 
town. 

In  going  along,  the  old  gentleman 
mentioned  that  he  had  committed  a 
similar  mistake,  in  thinking  the  stage- 
coach inn,  in  which  he  had  come 
with  his  daughter  to  London,  was  a 
proper  place  to  stay  at ;  but  on  the 
representation  of  Mr  Tomkins,  they 
had  removed  soon  after  to  a  lodging- 
house  in  Spring  Gardens;  and  as 
Mr  Threeper  spoke  of  going  to 
Fludyer  Street,  he  proposed  that  they 
should  take  Spring  Gardens  in  their 
way,  that  he  might  shew  his  kins- 
woman the  house.  This  was  deem- 
ed a  happy  thought,  and  accordingly 
they  went  round  that  way,  and  he 
pointed  out  to  his  lodging,  and  look- 
ing up,  saw  his  daughter  with 
Tompkins  at  a  window. 

"  Hey,"  cried  he,  "  what  do  I  see  ? 
our  Tavy  in  a  secresy  with  that  ere 
Virginy  chap,  Tompkins." 

Mrs  Clatterpenny  also  looked  up, 
and  exclaimed,  "  Megsty  me  !"  To 
which  Peabody,  taking  the  cigar 
from  his  lips  and  spitting  delibe- 
rately, said,  "  Now,  for  our  daughter 
Tavy  to  contract  herself  with  a  young 
man,  snapping  her  fingers  at  her 
father — "  Mrs  Clatterpenny  finish- 
ed the  sentence,  and  cried,  "  Oh,  the 
cutty,  has  she  done  the  like  of  that  ?" 
But  Peabody  exclaimed,  "  I'll  spoil 
their  rigg,  or  my  baptismal  name  is 
written  in  an  oyster  shell."  With 
that  he  alighted  from  the  coach,  and 
hastened  into  the  house ;  and  as  fast 
as  his  down-the-heeled  shoes  ena- 
bled him,  he  went  to  the  room  where 
he  saw  the  lovers  standing.  Mrs 
Clatterpenny,  turning  towards  Mr 
Threeper,  sagaciously  observed,  as 
the  carriage  drove  off, — 

"  He's  in  the  afflictions,  Mr  Three- 
per ;  but  this  is  just  what  Mrs  Widow 
Carlin  warned  me  of,  from  a  letter 
she  had  from  her  grandson  in  New 
York;  he  wrote,  that  when  young 
folks  there  make  a  purpose  of  mar- 
riage, instead  of  publishing  the  banns 
in  a  godly  manner  in  the  kirk,  they 
make  a  show  of  themselves,  arm-in- 
arm cleeket,  up  and  down  Broadway 
Street.  Talk  of  irregular  marriages  ! 
a  hey  cock-a-lorum  to  Gretna  Green, 
is  holy  wedlock,  compared  to  sic 
chambering  and  wantoning." 


183.3.] 

Mr  Threeper  looked  very  grave  at 
this,  and  said,  "  Chambering  it  can- 
not strictly  be  called,  for  the  window 
was  open,  and  we  all  saw  what  took 
place." 

"  That's  very  true,"  said  Mrs  Clat- 
terpenny,  "  the  observe  shews  that 
ye're  a  man  distinct  in  the  law ;  but 
for  a  young  lady  of  good  connexions 
to  lay  hold  of  her  lover,  is  highway 
robbery.  It  waS  bad  enough  amang 
our  ain  well-disposed  folk  at  home, 
to  see  a  lad  and  a  lass  slipping  and 
si  uking  afar  off  from  one  another, 
the  lassie  biting  a  straw,  going  to  a 
C(  rner  in  the  evening.  But  that,  Mr 
T  ireeper,  was  only  among  the  lower 
orders ;  the  genteeler  sort  divert 
th9mselves  in  flower  gardens,  with 
making  love  among  the  roses,  as  that 
sv/eet,  sweet  wee  man,  Mr  Moore,  in 
a  ballad  rehearses,  as  no  doubt  ye 
wjll  know.  But  what  will  this  world 
come  to  at  last!  for  I  weel  mind, 
wiien  my  dear  deceased  Doctor  made 
love  to  me,  that  he  never  got  a  word 
of  sense  out  of  my  mouth,  till  I  saw 
that  he  was  in  earnest." 

In  the  meantime,  Peabody  was 
m  mating  the  stairs  as  fast  as  he  was 
al  le,  with  wrathful  energy  ;  but  be- 
fore he  reached  the  room,  his  daugh- 
ter enquired  at  Mr  Tompkins,  as  a 
continuance  of  their  discourse,  if 
he  know  Mr  Archibald  Shortridge, 
junior. 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  the  Virginian, 
"  my  friend  Colonel  Cyril  Thornton 
gave  me  an  introduction  to  his  father, 
the  Lord  Provost  of  Glasgow;  he  is 
related,  I  believe,  to  the  Colonel." 

"  Indeed!"  said  the  young  lady; 
"  I'm  glad  of  that,  for  the  Colonel  is 
a  nice  man,  except  in  writing  his 
own  life,  which  gentlemen  never  do." 

Tompkins  replied  a  little  gravely, 
that  he  could  not  see  why  his  rela- 
tionship to  the  Colonel  should  make 
lu T  so  happy. 

But  she  answered  gaily,  "  You 
know  one  would  not  like  to  have  a 
booby  for  a  lover." 

"  A  lover,  Octavia  !" 

"  Father  says  so,  and  I  am  a  duti- 
ful child." 

"  Pshaw !"  cried  Tompkins,  "this 
is  more  wayward  than  the  favour 
you  affect  to  that  ninny,  Clatter- 
prnny ;"  and  he  swung  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room. 

The  young  lady  looked  after  him 
at  this  antic  caper,  and  inquired 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIII. 


Scotch  and  Yankees.  97 

archly,  if  she  had  ever  given  Clatter- 
penny  more  encouragement  than  his 
merits  deserved. 

"  Merits!  what  merits?"  cried 
Tompkins,  turning  fiercely  round, 
and  coming  up  to  her. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "  the  merit  of 
being  heir  to  a  great  estate  in  Scot- 
land ;  is  not  that  a  charm,  to  win 
favour  for  him  in  any  young  lady's 
eye  ?" 

At  this  moment  the  old  gentleman 
shuffled  into  the  room,  holding  his 
cigar  in  one  hand,  and  his  staff  up- 
lifted in  the  other,  crying,  "  Sheer 
off,  Squire  Tompkins;  and  come 
hither,  daughter  Tavy ;"  upon  which 
the  young  lady,  as  an  obedient  child, 
obeyed  the  summons,  and  the  Vir- 
ginian lingeringly  walked  towards 
the  door. 

"  I'm  sure,  father,"  said  Miss  Oc- 
tavia, "  you  need  not  be  afraid  of 
Tompkins;  have  you  not  seen  the 
partiality  of  my  heart  for  my  dear 
kinsman  Clatterpenny  ?" 

Tompkins  smote  his  forehead  at 
this  speech,  and  cried,  "  Oh !  the 
devil." 

"  Well,"  said  Peabody,  "  but  I  ex- 
pect I  have  promised  you  to  young 
squire  Shortridge,4  bekase,  you  see, 
his  father  and  I  are  main  gracious  by 
way  of  letters ;  however,  you  know, 
Tavy,  I  ain't  a  going  to  trade  you,  or 
make  a  nigger  slave  of  your  affec- 
tions." 

"  But,"  enquired  Miss,  "  is  he 
heir  to  such  an  estate  in  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland  ?" 

"  Oh  !  mercenary  woman,"  cried 
Topmkins  ;  and  Peabody  answered, 
"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  something.  I 
guess  that  'ere  estate  ben't  surely 
his,  for  I  here  have  in  my  pocket 
these  few  lines  concerning  the  Old 
Scotch  Indian  Chief  what  was  our 
relation — what  call  you  him,  Tavy  ?" 

The  young  lady,  rather  somewhat 
gravely,  replied,  "  that  his  name  was 
Hector  Dhu  of  Ardenlochie." 

"  Well,"  said  the  father, "  these  two 
lines  tell  me  what  we  did  not  know, 
and  says  he  has  kicked  the  bucket; 
which,  if  so  be,  and  the  news  ain't 
erroneous,  it  adds  that  we  be  his  in- 
heritors, and  not  cousin  Clatter- 
penny." 

Tompkins  at  this  rushed  forward 
and  cried,  "  Did  you  say,  Hector 
Dhu  of  Ardenlochie  was  dead  ?" 

"  I  guess  so,"  replied  Peabody ; 
G 


98 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


[Jan. 


"  and  it  ben't  below  the  fact;  but  I 
say,  squire,  we  have  business;  so  you 
clear  out.  This  way,  Tavy ;"  and  the 
old  gentleman  preceded  his  daugh- 
ter into  another  room,  leaving  Tomp- 
kins  alone ;  and  astonished  at  what 
he  had  heard,  soon  after  he  broke 
out  into  the  following  soliloquy  :— 
"  In  my  mother's  tales  of  her  an- 
cestors," said  he,  "  she  has  often 
told  me,  that  when  Hector  Dhu  of. 
Ardenlochie  died,  his  estate  ought  to 
be  mine ;  for  that  she  was  the  child 
of  an  elder  daughter  than  the  mo- 


thers of  the  Clatterpennys,  or  the 
Peabodys.  If  there  be  any  truth  in 
the  traditions  of  my  mother,  these 
news  deserve  investigation,  and 
luckily  I  took  her  papers  to  Scot- 
land to  examine  into  the  affair ;  but 
I  was  told  then  that  Hector  Dhu 
was  a  stout  old  bachelor,  and  might 
live  so  many  years,  that  I  never 
thought  even  of  opening  the  bundles 
at  Edinburgh." 

At  this  juncture,  he  alertly  left  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


IT  was  certainly  a  very  extraordi- 
nary thing  that  all  those  who  were 
interested  in  the  Ardenlochie  inhe- 
ritance should  meet  together  in  the 
way  we  have  described,  in  the  Tal- 
bot  inn  in  South wark.  Had  a  novelist 
or  a  dramatic  writer  been  guilty  of 
so  improbable  an  incident,  he  would 
have  been  scouted  in  the  most  nefa- 
rious manner;  but  there  is  no  mi- 
racle more  wonderful  than  truth,  and 
this  surprising  incident  is  related  by 
us  with  as  much  brevity  as  is  con- 
sistent with  perspicuity. 

It  is  true,  that  before  the  day  was 
done,  Mr  Archibald  Shortridge,  ju- 
nior, shifted  his  quarters  to  the  Lon- 
don Coffee-House,  in  Ludgate  Hill, 
much  renowned  for  its  hospitable  re- 
ception of  Glasgow  citizens,  and 
other  denizens  from  the  west  of  Scot- 
land. 

Mr  Threeper,  before  the  sun  was 
set,  and  it  set  early,  induced  the  old 
lady,  as  we  have  related,  to  pitch  her 
tent  in  Fludyer  Street,  Westminster; 
while  he  deemed  it  becoming  his 
professional  eminence,  to  take  up  his 
abode  in  an  excellent  hotel,  which 
we  at  this  moment  forget  the  name 
of,  but  it  is  a  house  greatly  frequent- 
ed by  those  who  are  called  in  vulgar 
parlance,  the  claws  of  Edinburgh — to 
say  nothing  of  those  myriads  of  bai- 
lies, deputies,  and  other  clanjamphry, 
who  fancy  that  they  have  business 
before  Parliament,  when  it  happens 
that  some  schemer  tells  them  a  road, 
bridge,  or  railway,  merits  the  atten- 
tion of  the  collective  wisdom  of  such 
a  nest  of  sapients  as  a  town  council. 

The  party  being  thus  broken  up, 
there  was  something  attractive  in  the 
influence  of  each,  and  in  consequence 


they  were,  though  living  apart,  fre- 
quently together. 

In  the  meantime,  Mrs  Clatterpen- 
ny  had  scarcely  removed  into  her 
new  lodgings,  when  she  chanced  to 
recollect  that  her  son  Johnny,  who 
was  walking  the  hospitals,  had  not 
yet  paid  his  duty  to  her.  It  is  true, 
that  her  faculties  were  so  much  oc- 
cupied with  strange  matters,  that  she 
had  never  thought  of  him  at  all ;  but 
when  she  did  call  to  mind  that  he 
was  in  the  same  town  with  her,  and 
had  never  come  to  see  her,  she  was 
truly  an  afflicted  woman.  She  rung 
for  the  servant-maid  of  the  house, 
and,  with  accents  that  would  have 
pierced  a  heart  of  stone,  erranded  the 
damsel  to  bring  to  her  immediately 
her  precious  darling. 

The  maid  being  fresh  from  the 
country,  repeated  the  commands  that 
had  been  given  to  her  as  well  as  she 
could  to  her  mistress,  but  her  mis- 
tress averred,  that  she  knew  not  such 
a  person  as  Mr  Johnny  residing  in  all 
the  street*  At  last  the  old  lady  recol- 
lected that  he  lived  in  Tooly  Street, 
in  the  Borough,  and  she  contrived  at 
a  late  hour  to  make  that  known.  But 
no  Johnny  was  forthcoming  that 
night,  and  his  anxious  mother  never 
closed  her  eyes,  thinking  that  he  per- 
haps had  caught  a  mortal  malady  in 
Guy's  Hospital,  and  greatly  lay  in 
need  of  her  blandishments.  When  this 
thought  had  got  possession  of  her 
brain,  which  it  was  not  allowed  to  do 
till  the  night  was  far  advanced,  and 
she  had  pressed  her  pillow,  she  was 
not  long-  till  she  ascertained  even  the 
name  of  his  distemper. 

"  Goodness  me !"  said  she,  "  what 
if  it's  the  cholera,  and  that  I  have  just 


1833.1 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


ccrce  to  this  sinful  city  to  lay  his 
h<;ad  in  the  grave ;  but  if  it  is  the 
cholera,  surely  the  doctors  would 
nover  let  me  do  that."  And  then 
having  tormented  herself  with  this 
cogitation,  a  ray  broke  in  upon  her 
benighted  brain;  and  among  other 
things  which  she  conjured  up  for  her 
cctnfort,  she  remembered  that  Johnny 
hf.d  written  to  her  a  letter,  in  which 
he;  had  told  her  that  cholera  patients 
ware  not  received  into  the  hospital 
which  he  was  attending.  In  short, 
Mrs  Clatterpenny  never  knew  what 
it  was  to  let  down  her  eyelids  all  that 
ni^ht.  Her  peace  was  also  disturb- 
er by  a  police'man  walking  beneath 
her  window;  as  often  as  she  heard 
his  foot  fall  on  the  stones  she  cover- 
ed her  head,  lay  trembling,  and  con- 
chided  that  he  could  be  nothing  less 
than  a  London  housebreaker.  By 
acd  bye,  however,  the  dawn  began  to 
dapple  the  east,  and  betimes  she 
arose,  thinking  of  her  Johnny  and  of 
the  man  walking  in  the  street.  At  last 
she  heard  her  landlady  stirring,  and 
she  rose  to  disclose  to  her  the  jeo- 
pardy that  she  had  discovered  them 
al  i  to  have  been  in  ;  but  it  was  some- 
ti;ne  before  she  proved  to  the  satis- 
faction of  the  innocent  landlady,  that 
the  policeman  was  a  thief,  though 
Bbe  had  no  doubt  upon  the  subject 
hrrself. 

"  But,"  said  she,  "if  he  had  not  an 
ill  turn  to  do,  what  for  was  he  going 
up  and  down  at  the  dead  hour  of 
night,  and  looking  in  at  the  seams  of 
the  windows  wherever  he  saw  a  light 
within  ?  That's  volumous  I  And  if  I 
tl ought  that  Mr  Threeper  was  right- 
ly versed  in  the  jookries  of  the  law, 
1  would  go  home  and  leave  him  to 
knit  the  ravelled  skein  himself;  but  I 
liiive  seen,  since  I  brought  him  with 
ii- e,  that  he  has  not  a  spur  in  his  head, 
and  I  maun  stay  to  keep  him  right. 
I  would  adv?ise  every  one  that  may 
br  brought  into  my  situation,  to  make 
no  covenant  with  a  man  of  the  law 
ti  1  he  has  been  proven  in  a  steam- 
v.'ssel." 

At  this  moment  Mr  Threeper,  as 
tl'.e  day  was  now  advanced,  came  in- 
to her  parlour,  and  sent  up  word  that 
lie  was  there  waiting  to  take  break- 
fjist  with  her.  She  took  this,  in  her 
forlorn  estate,  very  kind  of  him,  little 
thinking  that  he  thereby  would  save 
t)  ie  price  of  his  breakfast  at  the  hotel, 
v  hich  he  intended  to  charge  in  his 


account,  and  at  the  same  time  make 
a  judicious  application  to  her  teapot. 

However,  she  made  haste  down 
stairs,  and  was  right  well  pleased 
with  her  visitor. 

"  This  is,"  said  she  to  him,  "  very 
discreet  of  you  to  come  in  such  a 
friendly  manner  to  see  me,  for  really 
I  am  no  out  of  the  need  of  friendship. 
All  night  I  could  think  of  nothing  but 
our  Johnny  that's  at  his  studies  in 
the  hospital  here,  and  a  dreadful  ap- 

Earition  walking  the  streets,  girding 
is  thoughts  for  guilt.  At  times,  Mr 
Threeper,  I  could  not  forget  yon 
Peabodys;  the  old  man  is  just  a  fright, 
but  his  daughter  is  weel-fairt;  and  if 
our  Johnny  can  make  a  conquest  of 
her  tender  affections,  she'll  not  make 
an  ill  match." 

"It  will  be  a  judicious  union,"  re- 
plied Mr  Threeper,  "for  then  the 
doubt  that  you  have,  whether  your 
mother  or  Mr  Peabody's  was  the 
ELDER  daughter  of  old  Ardenlochie, 
will  be  got  over  in  a  very  satisfactory 
manner." 

"  I've  been  thinking  so  too,"  repli- 
ed Mrs  Clatterpenny,  "  but  I  do  not 
approve  of  yon  curdooing  with  the 
lad  Tompkins;  and  I'm  just  out  of  the 
body  till  I  see  our  Johnny,  to  give 
him  counsel  how  to  behave  in  such 
a  jeopardy ;  for  Johnny,  I  needna  tell 
you,  is  a  very  sightly  young  man, 
though  ye'll  say  that  the  craw  aye 
thinks  its  own  bird  the  whitest.  How- 
somever,  Mr  Threeper,  I'm  no  a  wo- 
man given  to  such  vanities;  only,  it 
would  be  the  height  of  injustice  if  I 
were  to  deny,  that  for  my  taste,  were 
I  a  wanter  on  the  eve  of  a  purpose 
of  marriage,  I^would  make  our  John- 
ny my  option  instead  of  the  lad  from 
Virginy— but  every  one  to  her  own 
liking." 

During  this  conversation,  Mr 
Threeper  was  laying  in  his  breakfast ; 
plate  of  toast  after  plate  had  disap- 
peared, till  the  paucity  of  materials 
attracted  the  attention  of  Mrs  Clat- 
terpenny, insomuch  that  she  could 
not  help  remarking,  it  was  well  seen 
the  Englishers  were  a  starveling  na- 
tion, and  did  not  know  the  comforts 
of  a  good  breakfast,  though  they  pre- 
tended to  have  a  nostril  for  roast 
beef  at  their  dinner. 

«  And  it's  very  plain,  Mr  Threeper, 
that  they  have  but  a  scrimpit  notion, 
after  all,  of  good  living.  Oh,  Mr 
Threeper,  if  ye  had  seen  what  I  have 


100 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


fJan 


seen  of  a  Highland  breakfast,  your 
mouth  would  water.  When  I  was  a 
young  lady  in  my  teens,  before  I  was 
married  to  my  dear  deceased  doctor, 
I  paid  a  visit  to  Hector  Dhu,  and  ye 
would  have  seen,  had  ye  been  in  his 
house  then,  what  a  breakfast  should 
be.  We  had,  in  the  first  place,  I  re- 
member well,  though  there  was  just 
him  and  me,  a  plateful  of  eggs  as  big 
as  a  stack  of  peats;  a  mutton  ham, 
boiled  whole ;  a  cold  hen,  left  from 
the  dinner  the  day  before,  just  want- 
ing a  wing;  four  rizzart  haddocks, 
every  one  of  them  as  big  as  a  wee 
whale;  six  farles  of  cru  mp-cake ;  three 
penny  loaves — they  were  a  little 
mouldy,  but  ye're  to  expect  that  in 
theHighlands ; — and  a  plate  of  toasted 
bread,  that  it  would  have  ta'en  a  man 


of  learning  to  count  the  slices.  That 
was  a  breakfast!  besides  tea  and 
coffee.  To  be  sure  the  coffee  was  not 
very  good,  and  ye  might  have  said, 
without  the  breach  of  truth,  that  the 
servant  had  forgotten  to  put  in  the 
beans ;  but  it  was  something,  I  trow 
different  from  the  starvation  of  toom 
plates  such  as  we  see  here.  Do  ye 
know,  Mr  Threeper,  that  ye  have  been 
so  busy  in  taking  your  share,  seeing 
there  was  so  little,  that  ye  forgat 
me  altogether?  I  haven't  had  devil- 
be-licket  of  all  the  bread  that  was 
brought  into  the  room." 

At  this  moment  Johnny  entered  the 
apartment;— but  we  must  defer  to 
another  chapter  what  passed  on  that 
occasion. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Dr  Johnny,  as  young  Clatterpenny 
was  called  among  his  companions, 
had  not  the  talents  of  his  mother. 
He  took  more  after  what  his  father 
had  been ;  namely,  he  was  above  me- 
diocrity in  his  appearance,  stood  on 
excellent  terms  with  himself,  and 
though  it  could  not  be  said  that  he 
was  a  young  man  of  ability,  he  had 
address  enough,  with  a  consequen- 
tial air,  to  make  himself  pass,  with  a 
certain  class  of  old  women,  as  one 
of  that  description. 

His  mother  was  all  interjections 
and  fondness  at  the  sight  of  her  son, 
who  had  come  to  breakfast,  and,  to 
the  great  gratification  of  Mr  Three- 
per, she  was  not  long  of  making  this 
intention  known  to  the  servant  of 
the  house  ;  recommending,  at  the 
same  time,  to  the  astonished  menial, 
to  prepare  something  better  than  a 
shaving  of  bread,  for  Scotland  was 
not  a  land  of  famine. 

While  the  new  breakfast  was  pre- 
paring, divers  interlocutors  were  de- 
livered by  each  of  the  several  par- 
ties ;  and  before  the  tray  was  served 
a  second  time,  Dr  Johnny  under- 
stood on  what  footing  Mr  Threeper 
had  accompanied  his  mother.  "But," 
said  the  old  lady,  "our  chief  depen- 
dence, Johnny,is  on  you;  for  although 
it  cannot  be  doubted  that  Mr  Pea- 
body  and  me  are  either  of  us  the 
true  heir,  it  would  save  a  great 
fasherie  at  law  if  ye  would  draw 
up  with  his  daughter,  whom  I  must 


say  has  a  comely  face,  and  her  like- 
ness is  not  in  every  draw-well  that 
a  Joe  Janet  keeks  into." 

Johnny  acknowledged  the  superi- 
ority of  the  young  lady,  but  express- 
ed some  fear  that  Tompkins  had  al- 
ready engaged  her  affections. 

"  Not  that  I,"  said  he, "  care  much 
about  that,  for  a  woman  brought  up 
in  the  woods,  no  doubt,  snaps  at  the 
first  gentleman  that  says  a  civil  word 
to  her." 

"Yes,"  interposed  Mr  Threeper, 
"inexperience  is  easily  beguiled." 

"That,"  said  Mrs  Clatterpenny, 
"is  the  next  bore  to  what  I  said, 
whenmydear  deceased  husband, the 
doctor,  and  his  father,  made  up  to 
me.  Heigh,  sirs,  many  changes  have 
happened  in  the  world  since  then !  I 
was  very  different  from  what  I'm 
now;  for  I  was  then  very  well  look- 
ed, and  Mr  M'Causlin,the  merchant, 
that  had  a  shop  on  the  South>Bridge, 
often  and  often  said  sae.  But  fate's 
fate;  I  was  ordained  to  throw  myself 
away  on  the  doctor.  Ah,  but,  with 
all  his  faults,  be  was  a  man  that  had 
a  way  of  his  own ;  and  when  he 
went  out  in  the  morning,  his  shoes 
were  like  black  satin,  and  the  ring 
on  his  finger  was  a  carbuncle  of 
great  price.  Mr  Threeper,  he  was  a 
learned  man  likewise,  and  told  me 
that  castor  oil  comes  from  America; 
but  cousins  are  worse  than  castor  oil. 
And  he  was  a  jocose  man,  and  had 
the  skin  of  a  crocodile  hanging  in 


1833.] 


Scotcli  and  Yankees. 


101 


the  shop,  which  he  used  to  call  our 
humbug. 

"  *  Dear  Doctor,'  quo'  I  one  day  to 
him,*  surely  they  were  giants  in  those 
days,  when  such  like  bugs  bit  their 
backs' — which  made  him  laugh  so 
loud  and  long  that  he  terrified  me, 
lost  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  stop. 
But,  poor  man,  every  thing  under  the 
sun  is  ordained  to  have  an  end,  as 
well  as  his  guffaw." 

The  advocate  having  by  this  time 
quenched  his  hunger,  could  partake, 
as  he  said  himself,  "  of  nothing  fur- 
ther of  the  toast  and  tea,"  sliddered 
back  his  chair  from  the  breakfast 
table,  and  with  a  grave  professional 
air,  told  Dr  Johnny,  that  it  was  not 
idle  talk  that  his  mother  uttered, 
when  she  recommended  him  to  cast 
a  sheep's  eye  at  Miss  Octavia. 

"  After,"  said  he,  "  the  gravest 
consideration  that  I  have  been  able 
to  bestow  on  this  very  difficult  case, 
I  have  come  to  a  conclusion,  that 
we  ought  not  to  go  to  law  if  we  can 
make  a  marriage  between  you  and 
Mr  Peabody's  only  daughter.  There- 
fore, you  see,  sir,  that  much  depends 
upon  you ;  and  I  am  of  opinion,  that 
it  is  a  very  fortunate  thing  the  young 
lady  is  so  gracefully  endowed." 

"  That's  a  very  connect  speech," 
said  Mrs  Clatterpenny ;  "and,  Johnny, 
i:iy  dear,  what  have  you  got  to  gain- 
say such  powerful  argolling?" 

The  young  doctor,  after  duly  con- 
sidering what  he  had  heard,  answer- 
ed: "I  will  make  no  rash  promises. 
Miss  Peabody  is  certainly  a  very  eli- 
gible match  for  me  in  my  present 
s  tate  ;  but  if  my  mother  is  the  heir- 
uss,  why  should  I  think  of  marrying 
Ler  at  all  ?  I  ought  to  look  to  a  little 
better." 

"  That's  very  discreet  of  you," 
haid  Mrs  Clatterpenny,  "  if  I  were 
the  true  heir;  but  if  Peabody  comes 
in  before  me,  what  do  ye  say  to  that?" 

"  Ah,"  replied  Johnny,  "  the  case 
is  different,  for  then  Miss  would  be 
most  desirable.  Mr  Threeper,  is 
there  any  doubt  of  that?" 

"None,"  said  the  lawyer,  "none 
in  my  opinion;  but  if  we  are  to  go 
into  court  with  the  question,  there 
maybe  objections  raised;  and  in  the 
present  aspect  of  all  things,  I  would 
advise  you  to  cherish  kindly  inclina- 
tion towards  the  young  lady." 

"I  would  advise  you  too,"  said 
Ms  mother,  "  for  possession  is  nine 


points  of  the  law,  and  there's  no 
telling  what  airt  the  wind  blows 
when  there's  a  gale  in  the  Parliament 
House." 

"  I  will  think  of  what  you  have 
advised,  Mr  Threeper,"  said  Doctor 
Johnny. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  said 
his  mother,  "  and  let  no  grass  grow 
beneath  your  feet  till  ye  have  paid 
your  respects  to  the  lady  this  morn- 
ing in  their  new  lodgings,  No.  110,  in 
Spring  Gardens ;  a  very  creditable 
place,  as  I  understand.  And  if  ye 
make  haste,  ye'll  be  there  before  that 
upsetting  young  man  from  Virginy, 
that  they  call  Mr houselicat." 

Nothing  particular  at  that  time 
took  place  after  this  admonition. 
Doctor  Johnny  took  his  leave  for 
the  purpose  of  doing  what  his  mo- 
ther advised  ;  and  while  he  was  on 
the  road  through  the  Park  to  Spring- 
gardens,  Mr  Peabody  arid  his  daugh- 
ter were  sitting  after  breakfast  dis- 
coursing at  their  ease,  respecting 
Mrs  Clatterpenny  and  her  preten- 
sions. 

"  What  could  have  brought  the 
old  lady,"  said  Miss  Octavia,  "  to 
meet  us  in  London?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  her 
father;  "  I  guess  it  might  be  the 
ship.  But  if  so  be  that  we  ain't  the 
inheritors  of  that  'ere  old  Scotch  In- 
dian chief's  location,  you  may  make 
a  better  speck  of  yourself." 

"  Oh,  heavens  !"  cried  the  young 
lady. 

"  W7hy,  Tavy,  you  see  here,"  said 
the  old  gentleman,  "  how  the  cat 
jumps;  you  know  what  a  dead  ever 
lasting  certainty  it  is  to  lose  pro- 
perty in  them  'ere  doubts  of  law." 

"  But,"  said  the  simple  maiden, 
"  consider  my  regard  for  cousin 
Clatterpenny." 

"  I  have  been,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, "  a-making  my  calculations 
'bout  it,  so  will  be  no  more  a  stump 
in  the  way,  bekase  of  them  'ere 
doubts.  Oh,  Tavy,  what  be  the  mat- 
ter ?  I  guess  if  she  ain't  besoomed 
right  away.  Help !  help  !" 

At  this  instant  Doctor  Johnny 
made  his  appearance,  and  joined  in 
the  confusion;  but  before  the  love- 
sick Miss  was  recovered,  the  porter 
from  the  inn  had  brought  a  letter  for 
Mr  Peabody,  which  had  come  by 
the  post  that  morning,  with  a  super- 
scription to  be  delivered  hnmedi- 


102 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


[Jan. 


ately.  The  old  man  having  got  his 
daughter  upright,  left  her  in  the 
hands  of  Doctor  Johnny ;  and  going 
to  a  window,  read  the  letter  to  him- 
self very  quietly.  But  though  he 
made  no  exclamation,  the  contents 
evidently  gave  him  pleasure,  and  he 
put  the  letter  folded  up  again  into 
his  waistcoat- pocket,  and  returned 
towards  the  afflicted  damsel. 

The  conversation,  in  the  mean 
time,  between  Doctor  Johnny  and 
Miss  Octavia,  shewed  him  that  he 
had  no  hope  in  that  quarter.  She  was 
a  sharp  and  shrewd  observer,  and 
saw  that  she  had  not  that  measure 
of  acomplishments  and  beauty  which 
would  obtain  the  ascendency  in  his 
breast,  and  therefore  was  not  long 
of  convincing  him  that  he  had  no- 
thing to  hope  for.  Indeed  there  was 
ill  luck  in  the  time  of  his  applica- 
tion, and  she  felt  that  she  had  too 
long  dissembled.  Accordingly,  she 
determined  to  do  so  no  more,  and 
she  made  short  work  with  the  Doc- 
tor, soon  giving  him  his  dismissal,  to 
which  he  had  no  time  to  reply, 
when  Mrs  Clatterpenny  and  Mr 
Threeper  came  in ;  the  lady  saying 
to  Mr  Peabody  as  she  entered,  with- 
out observing  the  condition  of  Miss 
Octavia,  "  Is't  really  true,  Mr  Pea- 
body,  that  in  America  the  advocates 
and  lords  of  session  sit  in  judgment 
amang  you  wanting  wigs  and  gowns? 
For  my  part,  if  I  am  to  pay  for  law, 
I  wouldna  think  I  gat  justice  if  the 
advocates  and  the  fifteen  hadna  wigs 
nor  gowns;  I  would  always  like  to 
get  all  that  pertains  to  a  whole  suit 
if  I  paid  for  one." 

Mr  Peabody  made  no  reply  to  this 
speech,  but  touching  his  forehead 
significantly,  said,  "  Is  she  ?" 

Mr  Threeper  was  taken  a  little 
aback,  and  answered  rather  rashly, 
"  Sometimes." 

Presently,  however,  he  added, 
"  when  necessary."  Mrs  Clatter- 
penny,  very  quick  in  her  observa- 
tions, observed  the  gestures  of  her 
kinsman,  and  said  aside  to  her  man 
of  business,  "  Have  I  given  him  a  sus- 
pect of  my  composety?"  and  then  add 
ed,  "  I'll  leave  you  to  sift  him,  and  be 


sure  ye  find  out  all  the  favourable 
outs  and  ins  of  my  anxiety." 

"  Cousin  Peabody,"  she  rejoined 
aloud,  "I'll  just  step  oure  and  see 
my  sweet  friend  Miss  Octavia.  She's 
a  fine  creature;  and  I'm  just  like  my 
dear  deceased  husband,  who  was 
very  fond  of  Octavos — indeed  he  was 
very  fond  of  them.  And,  oh,  but  he 
was  a  jocose  man;  for,  one  day,  when 
I  was  wearying  by  myself,  seeing 
him  sae  taken  up  with  one  of  his 
Octavos,  and  saying,  Oh  that  I  were 
a  book  instead  of  a  wife, '  I  would 
not  object,'  said  he,  *  if  ye  were  an 
almanack;  that  I  might  get  a  new  one 
every  year.' " 

With  these  words  she  went  across 
the  room  to  Doctor  Johnny;  and  the 
young  lady,  who,  now  recovered, 
was  sitting  talking  to  him  on  a  sofa, 
and  Peabody  with  Mr  Threeper  con- 
tinued their  confabulation  near  the 
door  of  the  room. 

"  I  calculate,"  said  the  Vermont 
farmer,  touching  his  forehead,  "  that 
the  old  ladye  be  quite  'roneous." 

"  Your  remark  is  perfectly  just ; 
but  she  is  not  altogether  fatuous,  for 
in  that  case  she  could  not  have  per- 
suaded me  to  come  with  her,  though 
she  can  well  afford  it." 

"  I  guess,  then,"  said  Mr  Pea- 
body,  "  she  is  tarnation  rich." 

"  She  will  be,"  replied  the  advo- 
cate drily,  "  when  she  is  in  posses- 
sion of  the  Ardenlochie  property." 

"  Aye,"  replied  the  old  man, 
"  that  may  be  true,  but  I  likewise 
am  an  inheritor." 

"  That  you  were  a  relation  we 
have  always  known." 

"  But  may  not  I  be  the  heir  ?"  said 
Peabody. 

"  Certainly,  if  there  be  no  other," 
replied  the  legal  gentleman. 

"  And  if  there  be  another,"  cried 
the  old  man,  "  what  then  ?"  putting 
his  hand  into  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
and  pulling  out  the  letter  he  had  just 
received. 

"  You  can't,  that's  all,"  replied 
Mr  Threeper. 

"  Read  that,  squire,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  handing  the  letter  to  him 
with  a  flourish. 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


103 


CHAPTER  VI, 


MR  THREEPER  received  the  letter ; 
and  before  looking  at  it,  regarded 
the  Yankee  farmer  inquisitively ; 
but  his  countenance  remained  as  im- 
perturbable as  the  trunk  of  a  pine- 
tree  in  the  American  forest.  He  then 
looked  at  the  letter — first  at  the  seal, 
which  told  nothing ;  but  on  inspect- 
in  \r  the  superscription,  he  gave  a 
slight  start  of  recognition, — Mr  Pea- 
body  eyeing  him  very  steadfastly, 
but  sedately. 

"  That  'ere  letter,"  says  he,  "gives 
m3  to  know,  that  my  claim  beats 
ccusin  Clatterpenny's  to  immortal 
smash." 

Mr  Threeper  made  no  immediate 
reply.  "  Who  ?  in  the  name  of  —," 
ci  ied  he.  "  No,  no,  Mr  Peabody,  this 
letter  misinforms  you.  Conscience 
of  me,  but  I  am  astonished,  and  be- 
ginning to  be  confounded." 

"  Why,"  said  Mr  Peabody,  "  ain't 
it  one  Nabal  M'Gab  ?  Look  ye  there, 
L'.J  scriptifies  himself  Nabal  M'Gab, 
writer  to  the  signet,  Edinburgh  ;  and 
as  sure  as  rifles,  he  offers  to  establish 
n  y  right  on  shares." 

Mr  Threeper  was  amazed ;  he  did 
not  know  which  way  to  look — whe- 
ther to  the  right  or  left,  or  up  or 
down.  At  last  he  declared,  in  a  kind 
of  soliloquy,  "  The  family  papers 
vere  put  into  his  hands  on  my  own 
alvice;  and  he  betrays  his  trust 
vithout  consulting  me." 

Mr  Peabody  observed,  with  a  little 
Eiore  inflection  of  accent,  "  I  guess 
\re  would  call  such  a  dry  trick,  '  I 
}  ank — thou  yankest — he  or  she  yanks 
--we  yank— ye  yank— they  yank — 
we  all  yank  together.'  " 

"  But  this  is  treason,  Mr  Peabody ; 
le  deceives  you,  Mr  Peabody;— 
t'iere  are  others  of  the  Ardenlochie 
Mood  in  America  besides  you." 

"  Well,"  'said  the  old  man,  "  what 
of  that?" 

Mr  Threeper,  putting  his  hands  to 
his  lips,  said,  "  Hush." 

"Wherefore?" 

"  Hark  !"  said  Threeper,  "  it  was 
;L  footstep  at  the  door." 

"  Well,  if  so  be,"  said  Peabody, 
"  I  expect  it's  my  dog,  Bonaparte, 
scraping  to  come  in — if  it  bean't  no- 
body else." 

"  Mr  Peabody,"  replied  the  man  of 


law,  in  a  whisper,  "  join  with  us, 
and  we'll  all  keep  the  secret." 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  slily, 
and  then  said,  "  I  s'pose  you  are  on 
shares  with  the  old  ladye  ?" 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,"  said  Mr  Three- 
per, "  but  join  with  us." 

"  Ah,  if  Cousin  Clatterpenny  is 
not  the  heir,  mother's  sister  had  a 
sister  that  was  not  grandmother  to 
she." 

"  Gracious,"  cried  Threeper,"  you 
alarm  me !'' 

"  But  it  is  as  true  as  nothing," 
said  the  Vermont  farmer.  "  She  was 
her  aunt  in  Virginy ;  and  died  one 
day  afore  I  wer'n't  born." 

"Indeed!"  said  Threeper;  "and 
was  that  aunt  married  ?" 

"  Well,  I  reckon  I  can't  tell,"  re- 
plied Peabody — adding,  "  By  jinks  I 
I  have  papers  in  my  velisse,  to  judi- 
cate  that  'ere  matter — stay  while  I 
fetch  them." 

At  these  words,  Mr  Peabody  went 
out  of  the  room,  and  left  Mr  Threeper 
standing  on  the  floor.  "  Here,"  said 
he,  "  is  a  new  turn  up  ;  an  aunt  in 
Virginia!  Should  she  have  left  is- 
sue, what  is  to  be  done  ?  The  old 
lady  may  give  it  up— but  how  am  I 
to  be  indemnified  ?" 

Mrs  Clatterpenny,  seeing  him 
alone,  and  perplexed,  came  forward, 
and,  with  a  wheedling  voice,  said  to 
him,  "  Oh,  but  ye're  a  man  of  saga- 
city ;  and  so,"  with  a  softened  tone 
she  added,  "  wi'  your  counselling, 
and  the  help  of  my  own  manage- 
ment, he  thinks  me  a  conkos  mentos 
— hah,  Mr  Threeper,  what's  come 
ower  you,  that  ye're  in  such  consti- 
pation ?" 

"  Enough,"  replied  the  advocate, 
"  enough  has  come  to  my  knowledge 
to  drive  us  both  mad.  M'Gab  has 
written  to  him  all  the  infirmities  of 
our  case,  and  has  told  him  that  he 
was  nearer  of  blood  than  you." 

"  Ay,"  said  Mrs  CJatterpenny, 
"  that's  piper's  news, — would  e'er  I 
have  brought  you  with  me,  had  mine 
been  a  clear  case  ?  But  I  knew  you 
were  souple  in  the  law ;  and  being 
affected  with  the  apprehensions,  I 
ran  the  risk  on  shares  wi'  you,  be- 
haved to  you— did  I  not  ?— in  the 
most  discreet  manner,  when  you 


104 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


[Jan 


came  to  spunge  on  me  at  breakfast- 
time  ?  But  surely  it's  no  past  a'  pos- 
sibility to  be  able  to  get  our  Johnny 
married  to  his  daughter  ?" 

Mr  Threeper  was  in  no  condition 
to  listen  to  her ;  he  saw  the  despera- 
tion of  her  case;  he  thought  how  she 
had  gotten  to  the  windward  of  him  in 
the  agreement,  and  he  exclaimed, 
"  To  come  on  such  a  wildgoose 
chase  to  London,  and  this  aunt  in 
Virginia !" 

"  What  did  ye  say  ?"  cried  Mrs 
Clatterpenny ;  "  mercy  on  us,  what 
did  ye  say  anent  an  aunt  in  Virginy  ? 
No  possible,  Mr  Threeper.  An  aunt 
in  Virginy !  My  stars,  that's  moo- 
ving." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  and  she  may 
have  had  children,  too." 

Mrs  Clatterpenny  continued, "  An 
auntie  in  Virginy  with  two  children ! 
what  will  become  of  us  !  Oh,  but  ye 
hae  given  me  poor  advice  !  An  auntie 
in  Virginy! — that  's  the  land  where 
the  tobacco  grows;  she  will  take 
snuff.  I  never  thought  they  were 
wholesome  that  did.  I  came  at  the 
peril  of  ray  life,  Mr  Threeper ;  but 
did  I  think  ye  would  tell  me  of  an 
aunt  in  Virginy  ?" 

Mr  Threeper,  alarmed  at  her  vio- 
lence, replied,  in  a  subdued  tone, 
"  You  know,  madam,  that  I  am  not 
to  blame." 

"  Then,"  cried  she,  with  increa- 
sing fervency,  "  how  durst  you  dis- 
cover this  aunt  in  Virginy,  with  two 
children?  Oh,  mani  oh,  man!  I 
thought  you  were  skilled  in  the  law 
— but  an  aunt  in  Virginy  beats  every 
thing.  Mr  Threeper,  ye  ought  to  be 
punished,  yea,  prosecuted  to  the  ut- 
most rigour  of  the  law,  for  discover- 
ing this  aunt  in  Virginy.  What 's  the 
worth  of  your  wig  now  ?  Oh  !  oh  ! 
my  heart  is  full  —  an  aunt  in  Vir- 
giny !" 

With  that  she  flounced  out  of  the 
room,  forgetful  of  all  that  was  in  it ; 
but  her  son  followed,  and  overtook 
her  before  she  got  into  the  street,  for 
the  lock  of  the  street-door  being  a 
draw-bolt,  her  Scottish  cunning  could 
not  discover  the  secret  of  that  imple- 
ment, and  she  was  unable  to  let  her- 
self out.  But  when  she  was  out,  she 
made  nimble  heels,  with  a  silent 
tongue,  to  her  own  lodgings ;  and  in 
going  across  the  Park,  they  fell  in 
with  Mr  Shortridge,  to  whose  care, 
as  it  was  now  near  the  hour  to  at- 


tend a  lecture  at  the  hospital,  Dr 
Johnny  consigned  her,  and  hastened 
through  the  Horse  Guards  on  his 
own  affairs. 

They  reached  her  lodgings  before 
they  had  any  connected  conversa- 
tion. In  speaking,  however,  of  Miss 
Peabody,  he  expressed  some  doubt 
if  she  would  have  him ;  assigning  for 
a  reason,  that  she  had  some  chance  of 
getting  a  parcel  of  Highland  rocks 
and  heather. 

"  Oh,  Mr  Shortridge,  that 's  no  a 
becoming  speech — you're  no  better 
than  a  flea;  who  were  ye  biting  be- 
hind their  backs  ?" 

"  To  be  plain  with  you,"  replied 
Mr  Shortridge,  "  after  coming  so 
long  with  you  without  a  civil  word, 
your  son  was  in  my  mind." 

"  Our  Johnny  !"  cried  she.  "  Mi- 
Archibald  Shortridge,  junior"— - 

"  Well,  madam." 

"  Your  father  was  the  Lord  Pro- 
vost of  Glasgow" 

"  Yes,  Mrs  Clatterpenny,  and  that 
was  something." 

"  'Deed,  it  was,"  replied  she, "  with 
his  golden  chain  about  his  neck,  his 
black  velvet  cloak  and  cocket  hat. 
Oh  but  he  was  a  pomp,  and  there- 
fore I'll  never  deny  ye're  without  a 
share  of  pedigree ;  but,  Mr  Archi- 
bald Shortridge,  junior" 

The  young  man  replied  tartly, 
"  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  particular,''  said  she, 
"  but  only  just  to  make  an  observe 
—the  which  is,  that  there  is  a  pre- 
ternatural difference  between  our 
Johnny  and  the  likes  of  you ;  for  al- 
though I  had  my  superior  education 
in  the  Lowlands,  his  great-grandfather 
was  a  chieftain,  wi'  bonnet  and  kilt, 
and  eagle's  feather,  his  piper  proudly 
marching  before  him,  and  his  tail 
behind,  when  yours,  Mr  Archibald 
Shortridge,  junior,  was  keeping  a 
shop,  and  wearing  breeches.  So  take 
your  change  out  of  that,  Mr  Archi- 
bald Shortridge, junior;" — and  she, 
without  any  apology  for  leaving  him, 
mounted  to  her  own  room. 

Shortridge  did  not,  however,  re- 
main long  behind  her;  he  also  walk- 
ed away,  equally  astonished  at  her 
behaviour,  and  unable  to  account  for 
it,  for  he  was  as  yet  uninformed  of 
the  secret  which  M'Gab  had  disclo- 
sed, and  only  knew  that  Dr  Johnny 
was  the  old  lady's  son  and  heir ;  that 
she  was,  by  all  accounts,  the  proper 


1833.]  ScotcJi  and  Yankees. 

hoiress  of  the  Ardenlochie  estate, 
and  had  concluded  by  some  process 
of  thought,  that  it  would  not  be  dif- 
ficult to  fix,  therefore,  Miss  Octavia's 
affections  upon  him.  He  was  the 
more  convinced  of  this,  as  she  had 
received  him  but  coolly  when  intro- 


105 


wards  him  was  of  the  most  perplex- 
ing kind.  However,  he  went  leisure- 
ly through  the  Horse  Guards,  across 
the  Parade,  towards  Spring  Gardens, 
to  which  he  had  learnt  the  Peabodys 
had  removed;  and  in  going  to  call 
on  them  he  walked  thoughtfully 


duced  to  her,  and  that  her  father  did    along.  But  opposite  the  gun,  in  the 


not  think  the  son  of  the  Lord  Pro- 
vost of  Glasgow  quite  so  important 
as  he  had  expected  But  the  anger, 
the  sullenness,  and  the  cri?p  temper 
of  Mrs  Clatterpenny,  seemed  to  him 


Park,  he  run  against  the  old  Squire 
himself,  before  he  was  recognised ; 
and  before  he  had  well  recovered 
from  this  encounter,  the  Squire  said 
to  him But  we  shall  give  their 


inexplicable :  her  whole  conduct  to-    conversation  in  the  next  Chapter. 


CROCODILE  ISLAND. 


MY  favourite  inn  at  Oxford  was 
tae  Golden  Cross.  The  Angel  was 
admirable  in  its  way;  the  Star  ce- 
lestial, and  the  Mitre  fit  for  an  arch- 
bishop,— but  the  snug  room  on  the 
left  of  the  inner  court  of  the  Golden 
Cross  was  superior  to  them  all. 
There  seemed  to  be  more  comfort 
there  than  in  the  gaudier  apartments 
of  its  rivals,  and  the  company  one 
met  with  was  generally  more  in- 
dined  to  be  social.  About  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening  was  "  the 
witching  time  o'  night,"  for  at  that 
hour  the  multitudinous  coaches  from 
the  North  poured  in  their  hungry 
passengers  to  a  plentiful  hot  supper. 
In  these  hurried  refections  I  invari- 
;ibly  joined.  Half  an  hour  very  often 
sufficed  to  give  me  glimpses  of  good 
v'ullows  whom  it  only  required  time 
10  ripen  into  friends.  Many  strange 
mortals  I  saw,  who  furnished  me 
with  materials  for  thinking  till  the 
lext  evening  :  and  sometimes  I  have 
been  rewarded  for  the  wing  of  a 
fowl  by  a  glance  from  a  pair  of  beau- 
tiful bright  eyes,  which  knocked  all 
:he  classics,  and  even  Aldrich's  Lo- 
gic, out  of  my  head  for  a  week. 
Three  coaches,  I  think,  met  at  the 
Golden  Cross.  There  was  very  little 
time  for  ceremony ;  the  passengers 
made  the  best  use  of  the  short  period 
allowed  them,  and  devoted  more  at- 
tention to  the  viands  before  them 
than  to  the  courtesies  of  polished 
life.  I  made  myself  generally  useful 
as  a  carver,  and  did  the  honours  of 
the  table  in  the  best  manner  I  could. 
One  night  I  was  waiting  impatiently 
for  the  arrival  of  the  coaches,  and 
wondering  what  sort  of  company 


they  would  present  to  me,  when  a 
young  man  came  into  the  room,  and 
sat  down  at  a  small  table  before  the 
fire,  who  immediately  excited  my 
curiosity.  He  called  for  sandwiches, 
and  rum  and  water,  and  interrupted 
his  active  labours  in  swallowing 
them  only  by  deep  and  often-repeat- 
ed sighs.  He  was  tall,  and  strikingly 
handsome.  I  should  have  guessed 
him  to  be  little  more  than  one  or  two 
and  twenty,  had  it  not  been  for  a 
fixedness  about  the  brow  and  eyes 
which  we  seldom  meet  with  at  so 
early  a  time  of  life.  I  was  anxious 
to  enter  into  conversation  with  him  ; 
for,  as  I  have  said,  I  was  greatly 
interested  by  his  appearance.  I 
thought  I  knew  the  faces  of  all  the 
University  ;  and  I  was  certain  I  had 
never  met  with  him  before.  He  had 
not  the  general  appearance  of  a 
gownsman ;  he  was  tastefully  and 
plainly  dressed;  obviously  in  very 
low  spirits;  and  finished  his  second 
tumbler  in  the  twinkling  of  a  bed- 
post. As  the  third  was  laid  down 
before  him,  I  had  just  given  the  pre- 
liminary cough  with  which  a  stranger 
usually  commences  a  conversation, 
when  a  rush  was  made  into  the  room 
by  the  occupants  of  all  the  three 
coaches,  and  the  Babel  and  confusion 
they  created  prevented  me  from 
executing  my  intention.  On  that 
occasion  I  did  not  join  the  party  at 
the  supper-table.  I  maintained  my 
position  at  the  corner  of  the  chim- 
ney, very  near  the  seat  occupied  by 
the  youth  who  had  so  strongly  ex- 
cited my  attention.  The  company 
was  more  than  usually  numerous ; 
and  a  gentleman,  closely  muffled  up, 


106 


Crocodile  Island. 


[Jan. 


finding  no  room  at  the  principal 
board,  took  his  station  at  the  same 
table  with  the  stranger.  The  intru- 
der threw  off  one  or  two  cloaks  and 
greatcoats,  and  untied  an  immense 
profusion  of  comforters  and  shawls, 
revealing  the  very  commonplace 
countenance  of  a  fat  burly  man 
about  fifty  years  of  age,  with  great 
staring  blue  eyes,  and  a  lank  flax- 
en wig  of  the  lightest  colour  I  had 
ever  seen.  This  personage  gave 
his  orders  to  the  waiter  in  a  very 
imperious  tone,  to  bring  him  a  plate 
of  cold  beef,  and  a  quart  of  brown 
jstout,  and  exhibited  various  signs 
of  impatience  while  his  commands 
were  executed. 

"  Cold  night,  sir,"  he  said,  at 
length  addressing  the  youth.  "  I've 
travelled  all  the  way  from  Man- 
chester, and  feel  now  as  hungry  as 
a  hunter." 

"  It  takes  a  man  a  long  time  to  die 
of  starvation,"  replied  the  other. 
"  Men  have  been  known  to  subsist 
for  ten  days  without  tasting  food." 

"  Thank  God,  that  has  never  been 
my  case.  I  would  not  abstain  from 
food  ten  minutes  longer  to  save  my 
father  from  being  hanged.  —  Make 
haste,  waiter  1" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head, 
and  threw  such  an  expression  of  per- 
fect misery  into  his  handsome  fea- 
tures, that  his  companion  was  struck 
with  it. 

«  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "  you  are 
unhappy,  in  spite  of  being  so  young. 
You  haven't  wanted  meat  so  long 
yourself,  I  hope.  —  Waiter,  what  the 
devil's  keeping  you  with  that  'ere 
beef?" 

"  Worse,  worse,"  replied  the 
other,  in  a  hollow  voice.  "  Youth 
is  no  preventive  against  care,  or 
crime,  or  misery,  or  —  murder!'* 

He  added  the  last  word  with  such  a 
peculiar  intonation,  that  the  traveller 
started,  and  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork,  which  he  had  that  moment 
taken  possession  of,  and  gazed  at 
him  as  if  he  were  anxious  to  make 
out  his  meaning. 

"  Don't  judge  of  me  harshly,"  con- 
tinued the  youth  ;  "  but  listen  to  me, 
I  beseech  you,  only  for  a  moment, 
and  you  will  confer  a  great  obliga- 
tion on  a  fellow-creature,  and  pre- 
vent misery  of  which  you  can  have 
no  conception." 

The  man  thus  addressed  remained 


motionless  with  surprise.  He  never 
lifted  his  eyes  from  the  deeply  me- 
lancholy countenance  of  the  narra- 
tor; and  I  must  confess  I  listened 
with  no  little  earnestness  to  the  dis- 
closure he  made  myself. 

"  At  sixteen  years  of  age,"  he  said, 
"  I  found  myself  a  denizen  of  the 
wilds.  Shaded  from  the  summer 
heats,  by  magnificent  oaks  of  the 
primeval  forest,  where  I  lived ;  and 
secured  from  the  winter's  cold,  by 
skins  of  the  tiger  and  lynx,  I  had 
not  a  desire  ungratified.  Groves  of 
orange-trees  spread  themselves  for 
hundreds  of  miles  along  our  river  : 
cocoa-nuts,  and  all  the  profusion  of 
fruits  and  flowers  with  which  the 
Great  Spirit  saw  fit  to  beautify  the 
original  paradise  of  man,  supplied 
every  want.  The  eaglet's  feather  in 
my  hair,  the  embroidery  of  my  wam- 
pum belt,  pointed  out  to  my  follow- 
ers where  their  obedience  was  to  be 
rendered ;  and  I  felt  myself  prouder 
of  their  unhesitating  submission,  and 
the  love  with  which  they  regarded 
me,  than  that  the  blood  of  a  hundred 
kings  flowed  in  my  veins.  I  was 
Chief  of  the  Chactaws  and  Musco- 
gulges.  My  mother  was  of  European 
origin :  her  grandfather  had  visited 
the  then  thinly  populated  regions  of 
North  America,  in  company  with  se- 
veral hundred  bold  and  heroic  spi- 
rits like  himself,  whose  aspirations 
for  the  independence  and  equality 
of  man,  had  carried  them  beyond 
the  dull  cold  letter  of  the  law.  His 
name  yet  survives  in  Tipperary ;  his 
boldness  was  the  theme  of  song; 
and  the  twelve  dastard  mechanics, 
who,  at  the  bidding  of  a  judge,  con- 
sented to  deprive  their  country  of 
its  ornament  and  hero,  and  to  banish 
him,  with  all  the  nobility  of  his  na- 
ture fresh  upon  him,  were  stigma- 
tized as  traitors  to  the  cause  of  free- 
dom. In  spite,  however,  of  their  cow- 
ardice and  meanness,  they  could  not 
resist  displaying  the  veneration  in 
which  they  held  him,  by  entwi- 
ning his  wrists  with  massive  belts  ; 
and  even  around  his  legs  they  sus- 
pended majestic  iron  chains,  which 
rattled  with  surpassing  grandeur 
whenever  he  moved.  He  had  not 
been  long  in  the  new  land  to  which 
his  merits  had  thus  transferred  him, 
when  his  name  became  as  illustrious 
in  it  as  it  had  been  in  his  own.  The 
name  of  O'Flaherty  is  still,  I  under- 


1833.] 


Crocodile  Island. 


107 


stand,  a  word  of  fear  to  the  sleepy- 
eyed  burghers  of  the  law-oppressed 
tortris.  But  his  course  was  as  short 
as  it  was  glorious.  In  leading  a  mid- 
night attack  on  the  storehouse  of 
some  tyrannizing  merchant,  he  was 
shot  in  the  act  of  breaking  open  a 
be  x  which  contained  a  vast  quantity 
of  coin.  He  fell — and  though  he 
lived  for  several  weeks,  he  kept  his 
testh  close  upon  the  residence  of  his 
followers.  He  died,  as  a  hero  should 
die,  calm,  collected,  fearless.  Even 
when  the  cord  with  which  they  had 
doomed  him  to  perish  was  folded 
re  und  his  neck,  he  disdained  to  pur- 
el  tase  an  extension  of  his  life  by 
treachery  to  his  friends.  "  An  O'- 
F  aherty,"  he  said,  "  can  die — but 
ho  never  peaches."  He  left  a  son 
who  was  worthy  of  his  father's 
fame.  Like  him  he  was  inspired 
with  an  indomitable  hatred  of  ty- 
nnny  and  restraint;  with  a  noble 
and  elevating  desire  to  bring  back 
tl  ose  golden  days,  when  all  things 
were  in  common — when  man,  stand- 
ing in  the  dignity  of  his  original  na- 
ture, took  to  himself  whatever  plea- 
sed his  fancy,  and  owed  no  allegi- 
ance to  the  debasing  influence  of  the 
law.  From  this  noble  stock  my 
ir  other  was  descended;  and  when 
hsr  beauty  and  the  heroism  of  her 
character  had  raised  her  to  be  the 
consort  of  the  Forest  King,  she 
snemed  to  feel  that  she  was  just  in 
the  situation  for  which  she  was  des- 
tined by  her  nature.  The  pride  of 
ancestry,  and  the  remembrance  of 
the  glorious  achievements  which  had 
rendered  the  names  of  her  forefa- 
thers illustrious,  beamed  from  her 
eye,  and  imprinted  a  majesty  upon 
liar  brow,  which  we  seek  for  in  vain 
in  females  of  inglorious  birth.  Atta- 
kul-kulla,  which,  in  the  puerile  lan- 
guage of  the  whites,  means  the 
Little  Carpenter,  was  my  father's 
name.  On  his  head,  when  going 
forth  to  battle,  he  wore  a  paper  cap 
of  the  most  warlike  form,  surround- 
ed with  miniature  saws,  and  sur- 
mounted with  a  golden  gimlet. 
^  7hen  I  was  born,  the  infinite  nations, 
a  ad  kindreds,  and  tongues  which 
confessed  his  sway,  made  every  de- 
monstration of  satisfaction.  The 


Muscogulges,  the  Simmoles,  the 
Cherokees,  the  Chactaws,  and  all  the 
other  powerful  tribes  which  border- 
ed on  the  stately  Alatamaha,  sent 
deputies  to  the  royal  residence  to 
congratulate  their  monarch  on  so 
auspicious  an  occasion.  But,  alas  ! 
this  universal  rejoicing  was  soon 
turned  into  mourning.  Amongst 
those  who  came  as  ambassadors 
from  the  neighbouring  powers  was 
Sisquo  Dumfki,  the  rat-catcher,  from 
a  kingdom  on  the  banks  of  the  ma- 
jestic Mississippi.  This  man  was  the 
most  celebrated  drinker  of  his  na- 
tion. The  strongest  casine*  seemed 
to  have  no  more  effect  upon  his  sen- 
ses than  the  purest  water.  At  all 
feasts  and  solemn  entertainments  he 
was  the  champion  of  the  Chicasaws. 
His  fame  was  not  unknown  to  the 
leaders  of  our  tribe.  My  royal  father 
burned  with  a  passionate  thirst  for 
glory — and  also  for  casine.  In  the 
happiness  of  my  birth  he  challenged 
Sisquo  Dumfki  to  a  trial  of  their 
strength  of  stomach.  For  five  days 
and  nights  they  sat  unceasingly 
swallowing  the  delicious  fluid — five 
days  and  nights  the  calumet  sent 
forth  its  smoke — never  for  one  mo- 
ment being  lifted  from  the  lips,  save 
to  make  room  for  the  cocoa-nut  shell 
in  which  they  drank  their  casiiie. 
Sleep  at  last  seemed  to  weigh  hea- 
vily on  the  lids  of  my  royal  father, 
— he  was  longer  in  the  intervals  of 
applying  the  goblet  to  his  mouth, — 
and  at  last  his  hand  refused  its 
office  —  his  head  sank  upon  his 
shoulder ;  and  his  generous  compe- 
titor, satisfied  with  the.  victory  he 
had  gained,  covered  the  imperial 
person  with  a  robe  of  leopard  skin, 
and  left  him  to  his  repose.  Repose  ! 
— it  was  indeed  his  last  repose — he 
opened  his  eyes  but  once — groaned 
heavily  —  then  shouting  '  Give  me 
casine  in  pailfuls,' — for  the  ruling 
passion  was  strong  to  the  latest  hour 
—he  became  immoderately  sick,  and 
expired,  I  am  afraid  to  state  how 
much  had  been  drank  in  this  prodi- 
gious contest ;  but  it  was  said  by 
the  court  flatterers  on  the  occasion, 
'  that  they  had  consumed  as  much 
liquid  as  would  have  supplied  a  na- 
vigable canal  from  lake  Ouaquaphe- 


*  Casine,  a  sort  of  usquebaugh  iu  great  request  among  the  Indians — and  a  very 
good  tipple  in  its  way. — Experto  crede. 


108 


Crocodile  Island. 


(Jan. 


nogan  to  Talahasochte !  I  was  an 
orphan ;  and  though  the  death  of  my 
father  had  now  raised  me  to  a  throne, 
I  was  bound  by  the  customs  of  our 
nation  to  revenge  it.  In  this  feeling 
I  was  bred;  I  was  allowed  even 
from  my  infancy  to  drink  nothing 
weaker  than  casine;  my  victuals 
were  all  seasoned  with  the  strongest 
rum,  so  that  by  the  time  I  was  six- 
teen years  of  age,  my  head  was  so 
accustomed  to  the  influence  of  spiri- 
tuous liquors,  that  they  were  harm- 
less to  me  as  milk.  Sisquo  Dumfki 
was  still  alive,  and  still  remained  the 
unrivalled  hero  of  his  tribe.  His 
death  was  decreed  by  my  mother 
the  very  hour  my  father  died;  for 
this  purpose  she  imbued  my  infant 
mind  with  unmitigated  hatred  of  the 
murderer,  as  she  called  him,  of  my 
father,  and  taught  me  the  happiness 
and  glory  of  revenge.  She  talked  to 
me  of  attaining  her  object  by  the  hat- 
chet and  tomahawk,  doubting  per- 
haps that  in  spite  of  the  training  I 
had  received,  I  should  still  be  van- 
quished by  the  superhuman  capacity 
of  the  rat-catcher ;  but  I  was  confi- 
dent in  my  own  strength,  and  send- 
ing a  trusty  messenger  to  the  en- 
campment of  the  Chicasaws,  I  in- 
vited him  to  a  solemn  feast,  and  chal- 
lenged him  to  a  trial  of  strength.  He 
came.  You  may  imagine,  sir,  to 
yourself  the  feelings  which  agitated 
my  bosom,  when  in  my  very  pre- 
sence, on  the  spot  which  was  the 
scene  of  his  triumph,  I  saw  the  per- 
petrator of  a  father's  murder.  Such, 
at  least,  was  the  light  in  which  I  had 
been  taught,  since  the  hour  I  was 
first  suspended  on  the  aromatic 
boughs  of  the  magnolia,  to  regard 
the  proud,  the  generous,  the  lofty 
Sisquo  Dumfki.  How  ill  founded 
was  my  hatred  of  that  noble  indivi- 
dual, you  will  discover  in  the  sequel 
of  my  story. 

'*  On  this  occasion  he -did  not  come 
alone.  At  his  side,  as  he  stood  hum- 
bly before  me,  and  paid  his  compli- 
ments to  the  queen,  my  mother,  I 
marked  with  palpitating  heart  and 
flushing  cheek,  the  most  beautiful 
young  girl  I  had  ever-  seen.  Her 
limbs,  unconcealed  by  the  foolish 
drapery  in  which  the  European  dam- 
sels endeavour  to  hide  their  inferi- 
ority, were  like  polished  marble,  so 
smooth  and  round  and  beautifully 
shaped.  Round  her  middle  she  wore 


a  light  bandage,  embroidered  with 
the  feathers  of  the  eagle,  and  this 
was  the  sole  garment  she  had  on, 
save  that  her  head  was  ornamented 
with  a  beautiful  diadem  of  heron's 
plumes.  She  was  so  young,  so  art- 
less, and  so  ravishingly  beautiful, 
that  she  took  my  heart  captive  at  the 
first  glance.  I  had  at  that  time  only 
twelve  wives,  selected  by  the  re- 
gent from  my  own  peculiar  tribe, 
but  several  other  nations  had  for 
some  time  been  importuning  me  to 
choose  a  score  or  two  of  consorts 
from  the  loveliest  of  their  maid- 
ens, and  I  had  for  some  reason  or 
other  delayed  complying  with  their 
requests.  But  now  I  was  resolved 
to  marry  the  whole  nation,  so  as  to 
secufe  this  most  beautiful  of  her  sex. 
Alas !  was  it  not  madness  thus  to 
give  way  to  these  tender  emotions, 
when  the  first  word  she  uttered  con- 
veyed to  rne  the  appalling  certainty 
that  she  was  daughter  of  my  dead- 
liest foe — of  the  very  being  whom  it 
had  been  the  sole  object  of  my  edu- 
cation to  enable  me  to  drink  to 
death  !  But  a  second  look  at  the  en- 
chanting girl  made  me  forgetful  of 
every  feeling  of  revenge.  I  spoke 
to  her — I  found  her  soft,'sweet,  de- 
lightful,— a  daughter  of  the  pathless 
forest, — stately  as  the  loftiest  palms 
that  waved  their  plumed  heads  in 
grandeur  to  the  sky,  and  pure  as  the 
spiral  ophrys,  with  its  snow-white 
flowers,  which  blossoms  so  tenderly 
at  their  feet.  Her  name  was  Nem- 
rooma,  which  in  your  language 
means  the  spotless  lily — mine,  I 
must  inform  you,  was  Quinmolla, 
the  drinker  of  rum." 

Here  the  youngman  paused,  and 
sighed  deeply.  I  confess  I  was  in- 
tensely interested  by  the  manner  in 
which  he  related  his  story ;  the  tra- 
veller to  whom  he  addressed  him- 
self, was  apparently  fascinated  by 
the  wild  beauty  of  his  eyes;  for  the 
beef  still  lay  untasted  before  him, 
and  he  could  not  remove  his  looks, 
even  for  a  moment,  from  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  Indian  king.  "  The 
feast  was  at  last  prepared,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  and  Sisqup  Dumfki  and 
myself  were  placed  in  conspicuous 
situations,  but  still  far  enough  re- 
moved from  the  spectators  to  have 
our  conversation  private.  We  drank, 
and  every  time  the  casine  hogshead 
was  replenished^  the  lovely  Nero* 


]  833.]  Crocodile 

rooma  flitted  towards  us  with  the 
cocoa  bowl.  I  retained  her  hand  in 
mine,  and  gazed  upon  her  with  an 
expression  in  my  glances,  that  suffi- 
ciently betrayed  the  interest  she  ex- 
cited in  my  heart.  She  did  not  seem 
displeased  with  my  admiration,  but 
hung  down  her  head  and  blushed, 
Tv'ith  such  bewitching  innocence  and 
beauty,  as  rendered  her  a  thousand 
times  more  enchanting  in  my  eyes 
tlian  ever.  When  we  had  now  drank 
u  nceasingly  for  three  days,  I  said  to 
ny  opponent,  *  It  grieves  me,  O 
Sisquo  Dumfki,  that  this  contest 
inust  be  carried  on  to  the  death. 
Even  if  you  are  victorious  in  this 
trial,  as  sixteen  years  ago  you  were 
with  my  illustrious  parent,  you  have 
no  chance  of  escaping  with  your  life. 
1  myself,  till  I  became  acquainted 
with  your  noble  sentiments,  thirsted 
for  your  blood ;  and  now  that  I  know 
you  all  that  a  chief  should  be,  my 
soul  is  tortured  with  regret  that  it 
will  be  impossible  to  save  you.' 
With  an  unmoved  countenance  the 
hero  heard  me  declare,  as  it  were, 
his  condemnation  to  certain  death. 
He  drained  off  the  bowl  which  he 
happened  to  have  in  his  hand,  and 
i-eplied,  *  Death  comes  only  once — 
the  Great  Spirit  rejoices  in  the  ac- 
tions of  majestic  men.  There  are 
casine  and  tobacco  in  Elysium.' 
But  I  was  resolved,  if  possible,  to  pre- 
serve my  friend  from  the  destruc- 
tion prepared  for  him  by  my  mo- 
ther. *  Sisquo,'  I  said,  '  let  us  delay 
the  conclusion  of  our  contest  till 
some  fitter  opportunity.  If  you 
would  save  your  life,  and  make  me 
the  happiest  of  kings  and  of  mortals, 
pretend  to  be  overcome  by  the  ca- 
sine, and  ask  to  be  left  in  this  tent  to 
sleep.  I  will  place  round  it  a  body 
of  my  own  guards,  with  orders  to 
prevent  all  emissaries  from  the 
queen  from  entering  it  under  pain 
of  death.  In  the  mean  'time  I  will 
wed  your  daughter,  if  it  seems  good 
to  you ;  and  when  by  this  means  you 
are  connected  with  the  royal  house, 
your  life  will  become  sacred,  even 
from  the  vengeance  of  an  offended 
woman.'  *  It  seems  good  to  me/ 
he  replied,  *  O  mightiest  potentate 
on  Alatamaha's  banks ;  and  well 
pleased  shall  I  resign  the  victory  to 
you,  in  hopes  of  concluding'a  whole 
week  with  you  on  some  future  op- 
portunity. With  regard  to  Nem- 


Island. 


109 


rooma  — what  is  she  but  a  silly 
flower,  which  will  be  too  highly 
honoured  by  being  transplanted  into 
the  gardens  of  the  mighty  Quin- 
molla?' 

"  In  pursuance  of  this  resolution, 
the  noble  Sisquo  Dumfki  assumed 
every  appearance  of  total  inebriety  ; 
he  hiccuped,  sang,  roared,  and 
finally  sank  down  in  a  state  of  appa- 
rent insensibility.  I  confess  I  was 
astonished  at  the  absence  of  Nem- 
rooma  on  this  interesting  occasion. 
She  came  not  near  to  cover  her  fa- 
ther with  skins  or  leaves,  and  the 
duty  was  left  to  me  of  casting  over 
him  the  royal  mantle,  and  turning 
his  feet  towards  the  fire.  With  an 
expressive  grasp  of  the  hand,  I  left 
him  to  provide  for  his  safety;  for  my 
mother,  I  was  well  aware,  would 
take  every  means  in  her  power  to 
put  him  to  death  in  revenge  for  his 
victory  over  her  husband.  On  issu- 
ing from  the  tent,  I  was  hailed  victor 
by  ten  thousand  voices  ;  the  whole 
combined  nations  which  owned  my 
sway,  seemed  delirious  with  the 
triumph  I  had  achieved.  No  con- 
queror returning  from  a  successful 
expedition,  with  the  imperial  robe 
purpled  to  a  deeper  die  with  the 
blood  of  thousands  of  his  subjects, 
was  ever  received  with  such  an  en- 
thusiasm of  attachment.  Calling 
aside  the  captain  of  my  guard,  I 
gave  him  the  strictest  injunctions  to 
allow  no  one  to  enter  the  tent  in. 
which  my  illustrious  competitor  re- 
posed, and  proceeded  to  the  wigwam 
of  the  queen.  She  was  smoking 
when  I  entered;  and  the  clouds 
which  circled  round  her  head,  gave 
to  her  piercing  black  eyes  the  like- 
ness of  two  brilliant  stars  shining  in 
a  lowering-heaven. 

"  *  He  is  dead  ?'  she  said ;  '  my  son 
would  scarcely  venture  into  the  pre- 
sence of  his  mother  if  the  murderer 
of  his  father  was  left  alive.' 

"  '  No,  my  mother,'  I  replied,  '  he 
is  sunk  in  deep  sleep,  and  we  are 
sufficiently  revenged  by  having  con- 
quered at  his  own  weapons  the  hero 
of  the  Chicasaws.' 

"  '  He  sleeps ! — 'tis  well.  It  shall 
be  my  care  to  see  that  he  never 
awakes  —  the  tomahawk  in  a  wo- 
man's hand,  is  as  sure  as  a  poisonous 
drug  in  the  bowl — for,  mark  me, 
Quinmolla,  no  powers  can  persuade 
me,  that  the  glorious  Atta-kull-kulla 


no 


met  with  fair  treatment  at  the  hand 
of  his  rival  at  the  feast.  Have  I  not 
seen  him  often  and  often  drink  not 
only  for  five  days,  but  for  weeks  and 
months  together,  and  start  up  from 
his  debauch  as  fresh  as  if  he  had  been 
bathing  in  the  warrior's  streams  in 
the  shadowy  land  ?  Tell  me,  my  son, 
that  Sisquo  Dumfki  has  for  the  last 
time  seen  the  light  of  day.' 

"'  I  cannot,'  I  replied;  'it  goes 
against  my  soul.  He  trusts  me — 
why  should  I  be  faithless  as  the 
hyena  or  the  white  men ! — No,  mo- 
ther, let  him  live,  for  my  spirit  burns 
with  admiration  of  the  beautiful 
Nemrooma.' 

" '  The  feather  in  thy  hair  was  torn 
surely  from  the  pigeon's  wing,  and 
not  the  eagle's.  What !  hast  thou  no 
fear  of  the  wrath  of  your  father, 
whose  form  I  often  see  gloomily  re- 
posing beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
stately  palm-tree  which  he  loved  the 
most — fearest  thou  not,  that  rushing 
from  the  land  of  spirits,  he  blasts  thee 
to  the  earth,  with  the  sight  of  those 
frowning  brows,  which  no  mortal 
can  look  upon  and  live  ?  Away !  thou 
art  unworthy  of  the  blood  of  a  thou- 
sand forest  kings,  who,  long  ere  we 
removed  to  these  plains,  reigned  on 
the  shores  of  the  eternal  Sire  of  Ri- 
vers ;*  and  unworthier  still, since  you 
prefer  your  love  to  your  revenge,  of 
the  ancestry  of  the  Milesian  lords, 
the  O'Flaherties  of  the  Tipperary 
wilds.' — I  stood  astonished  at  this 
torrent  of  indignation,  but  my  rage 
was  at  length  roused  as  she  proceed- 
ed,— *  Nemrooma !  and  what  seest 
thou  in  that  paltry  girl  to  wean  thee 
from  the  nobler  passion  of  venge- 
ance ?  But  cease  to  cherish  fantastic 
hopes— the  setting  sun  of  yesterday 
went  down  upon  her  death.' 

"  '  What !  hast  thou  dared  to  blight 
the  lily  which  I  intended  to  carry  in 
my  bosom — how?  when?  where?' 

"  *  The  Alatamaha  is  broad  and 
deep,'  replied  my  mother,  '  a  canoe 
is  frail  and  slight — ill  may  a  maiden's 
arm  contend  with  an  impetuous 
river.  Alone  in  a  fragile  bark — un- 
used to  the  paddle — she  was  floated 
down  the  stream.' 

"  «  WTretch,'  I  exclaimed,  losing  all 
respect  for  her  dignity,  in  the  rage 
that  seized  me  on  account  of  her 


Crocodile  Island.  [Jan. 

cruelty,   'you  shall  dearly  pay  for 


this.  Ere  the  palm-trees  are  gilded 
seven  times  with  the  morning  and 
evening  suns,  expect  my  return,  and 
to  suffer  for  your  crimes.' 

"  I  rushed  into  the  open  air  as  I 
spoke,  and  leaving  tents,  wigwams, 
friends,  and  subjects  far  behind  me, 
I  darted  into  the  thickest    of   the 
forest,  and  pursued  my  way  to  a 
winding  of  the  river,  where  I  kept  a 
canoe  constantly  prepared  for  my 
fishing  expeditions.     In  it  I  found  a 
supply  of  provisions,  my  rods,  and 
lines;  my  war-club,   and  my  bow 
with  poisoned  arrows.    I  embarked, 
and  pushing  out  into  the  middle  of 
the   stream,  I  pursued  my  way  as 
raidly  as  I  could,  in  hopes  of  over- 
taking the  beautiful  Nemrooma,  or 
perhaps  of  seeing  her  on  the  bank,  if 
she   should    have    been    fortunate 
enough  to  swim  to  land.     I  kept  my 
eyes  intently  fixed  on  every  bend  of 
the  stream,  in  case  her  canoe  should 
have  been  stranded,  but  in  vain.  All 
that  day  I  kept  on  my  course,  and  be- 
gan to  fear  that  ere  I  could  overtake 
her,  she  would  be  carried  down  to  a 
bluff  in  the  river,  which  we  had  call- 
ed Crocodile  Island,  and  in  that  case 
I  knew  there  was  no  hope  of  her  safe- 
ty.   How   peacefully,  O  Alatamaha, 
glided  thy  glorious  expanse  of  wa- 
ters, bearing  the  vast  shadows  of  the 
umbrageous  oaks  upon  their  bosom, 
while  thy  banks  were  made  vocal  by 
the  music    of  unnumbered   birds! 
Little   did   such  a  scene  of  placid 
beauty  accord  with  the  tumultuous 
throbbings  of  Nemrooma's  agonized 
breast.     I  thought  what  must  have 
been    her    feelings    while    floating 
past  those  magnificent  scenes,  cloth- 
ed with  all  the  verdure  of  luxuriant 
nature,  and  enlivened  with  the  glit- 
tering plumage  of  the  various  people 
of  the  skies,  which  glanced  for  a  mo- 
ment across    her  like  glimpses  of 
sunshine,  and  then  flitted  once  more 
into  the  shadows  of  the  woods.  The 
banks  were   also  ornamented  with 
hanging  garlands  and  bowers,  form- 
ed, as  it  were,  for  the  retreat  of  the 
river  divinities,  of  the  most  beautiful 
shrubs  and  plants.     And   here  and 
there  the  eye  was  delighted  with  the 
large  white  flowers  of  the  ipomea,  sur- 
rounded with  its  dark-green  leaves. 


Mississippi—Father  of  Rivers* 


1833.] 


Crocodile  Island. 


Ill 


"  But  all  these  enchanting  sights 
were  insufficient  todi  vert  my  thoughts 
from  the  probable  fate  of  the  beauti- 
ful Nemrooma.  All  night  I  plied  my 
cc  urse,  and,  on  the  morning,  could 
st  11  discover  no  trace  either  of  the 
giil  or  her  canoe.  About  noon,  I  was 
made  aware,  by  the  extraordinary 
sounds  which  saluted  my  ears  from 
a  distance,  that  I  was  approaching 
the  Crocodile  lagoon.     Inspired  by 
fresh  anxiety  to  overtake  her,  if  pos- 
sible, before  entering  on  that  fear- 
f i  .1  scene,  I  plied  my  utmost  strength, 
and,  at  a  bending  of  the  river,  was 
rewarded  for  all  my  labours  and 
anxiety,  by  a  view  of  the  tender 
b.irk  only  a  short  way  in  front.   Be- 
fore I  could  place  myself  at  her  side 
we  had  entered  the  dreadful  lake, 
a  id  the  placid  water  was  broken  into . 
a  thousand  ripples  by  the  countless 
multitudes  of  the  alligators  which 
inhabited  the  place.  The  noise  they 
made  was  of  the  most  appalling  de- 
scription.   Terrified  at  the  perilous 
situation  in  which  she  was  placed, 
t'tie  lovely  girl  uttered  a  scream  of 
joy  when  she  saw  me,  and  had  only 
self-possession  enough  to  step  from 
ter  own  canoe  into  mine,  when  she 
fell  down  in  a  state  of  insensibility, 
f  !'om  the  violence  of  her  contending 
feelings.     No  sooner  was  her  frail 
I  ark  deserted,  than  it  became  the 
object  of  a  fearful  battle  to  the  mon- 
sters of  the  deep.     A  crocodile  of 
pfbdigiotis  size  rushed  towards  the 
c  anoe  from  the  reeds  and  high  grass 
{ t  the  bank.    His  enormous  body 
f  welled ;  his  plaited  tail,  brandished 
high,  floated  upon  the  lagoon.     The 
1  vaters,  like  a  cataract,   descended 
J  rom  his  open  jaws.  Clouds  of  smoke 
rssued  from  his  nostrils.     The  earth 
rembled  with  his  thunder.   But  im- 
nediately  from^the  opposite  side  a 
rival  champion  emerged  from  the 
leep.     They  suddenly  darted  upon 
oach  other.     The  boiling  surface  of 
,he  lake  marked  their  rapid  course, 
md  a  terrific  conflict  commenced. 
Sometimes  they  sank  to  the  bottom, 
folded  together  in  horrid  wreaths. 
The  water  became  thick  and  disco- 
loured.    Again  they  rose  to  the  sur- 
face, and  their  jaws  clapt  together 
with  a  noise  that  echoed  through 
the  surrounding  forest.    Again  they 
sank,  and  the  contest  ended  at  the 
bottom  of  the  lake  ;  the  vanquished 
monster  making  his  escape  to  the 


sedges  at  the  shore.  The  conqueror 
now  directed  his  course  to  the  ca- 
noe. He  raised  his  head  and  shoul- 
ders out  of  the  water,  and  putting 
his  little  short  paws  into  the  boat,  he 
overturned  it  in  an  instant,  and,  in  a 
few  moments,  fragments  of  it  were 
swimming  about  in  all  directions. 
When  Nemrooma  saw  the  horrid 
scene,  she  clung  convulsively  to  my 
arm,  and  in  some  degree  impeded 
my  efforts  to  effect  our  escape.  I 
cautioned  her  to  be  still,  and  pushed 
with  all  my  force  towards  the  en- 
trance of  the  river  out  of  the  lagoon. 
But,  alas !  fortune  was  here  against 
us.  It  was  the  time  at  which  myriads 
upon  myriads  of  fish  take  their  course 
up  the  river ;  and,  as  the  stream  is 
shallowest  at  this  place,  the  croco- 
diles had  chosen  it  as  their  position 
to  intercept  their  prey.  The  whole 
water,  for  miles  on  each  side,  seem- 
ed alive  with  fish.  The  line  of  croco- 
diles extended  from  shore  to  shore ; 
and  it  was  the  most  horrific  sight  I 
ever  witnessed,  to  see  them  dash 
into  the  broken  ranks  of  the  fish, 
and  grind  in  their  prodigious  jaws  a 
multitude  of  the  largest  trouts,whose 
tails  flapped  about  their  mouths  and 
eyes,  ere  they  had  swallowed  them. 
The  horrid  noise  of  their  closing 
jaws — their  rising  with  their  prey, 
some  feet  upright  above  the  water — 
the  floods  of  foam  and  blood  rushing 
out  of  their  mouths,  and  the  clouds 
of  vapour  issuing  from  their  dis- 
tended nostrils,  were  truly  horrify- 
ing. Anxious  to  escape,  I  now  be- 
gan to  paddle  towards  the  shore  of 
the  lagoon,  in  order  to  land  and  wait 
till  the  army  of  fish  had  forced  their 
passage,  after  which,  I  concluded,  it 
would  be  easier  for  us  to  elude  the 
satiated  monsters ;  but  ere  we  had 
got  half  way  across  the  lake,  I  per- 
ceived we  were  pursued  by  two  of 
an  unusual  size.  From  these  escape 
by  flight  was  impossible.  They  ra- 
pidly gained  upon  us,  and  at  last  one 
of  them,  raising  himself  out  of  the 
water,  was  just  preparing  to  lay  his 
paw  upon  the  canoe,  when  I  dis- 
charged an  arrow,  which  luckily 
pierced  his  eye.  With  a  roar  of  min- 
gled rage  and  pain,  he  sank  below 
the  water,  and  left  me  to  prepare 
for  the  assault  of  his  companion. 
With  a  tremendous  cry,  he  came  up, 
and  darted  as  swift  as  an  arrow  un- 
der my  boat,  emerging  upright  on 


112 


Crocodile  Inland. 


[Jan. 


my  lee-quarter,  with  open  jaws,  and 
belching  water  and  smoke,  that  fell 
upon  me  like  rain  in  a  hurricane. 
Leaving  the  bow  to  the  skilful  Nem- 
rooma,  I  seized  my  club,  and  beat 
him  about  the  head,  and  kept  him  for 
a  few  minutes  at  a  distance.  I  saw, 
however,  he  was  making  prepara- 
tions for  his  final  spring,  his  mouth 
was  opened  to  a  fearful  width,  when 
an  arrow  struck  him  directly  on  the 
tongue,  and  pinned  it  to  his  jaw. 
He  shouted  as  he  felt  the  pain,  and 
darted  off,  no  doubt,  in  quest  of 
assistance.  I  shot  to  the  bank  with 
the  speed  of  lightning,  lifted  the  al- 
most fainting  Nemrooma  from  the 
canoe,  and  led  her  to  the  foot  of  an 
immense  magnolia,  which  I  perceived 
at  no  great  distance.  Before  we  left 
the  river,  however,  we  saw  a  prodi- 
gious number  of  crocodiles  gathered 
round  the  boat,  and  one  of  them  even 
crawled  into  it,  and  we  heard  our 
last  hope  of  safety  take  its  leave  in 
the  crash  of  its  breaking  sides,  as  it 
crumbled  into  fragments  beneath  the 
unwieldy  monster's  weight.  The 
shore,  I  was  aware,  was  also  the  re- 
sort of  incredible  multitudes  of 
bears.  Our  provisions  were  exhaust- 
ed, our  arrows  left  in  the  canoe,  and 
we  could  see  no  possibility  of  avoid- 
ing an  excruciating  death."  The 
narrator  here  stopt  for  a  moment, 
and  the  traveller,  breathless  with  in- 
terest, said  to  him,  "  For  God's  sake, 
tell  me,  sir,  how  you  got  safe  off?" 

Whilst  the  stranger  prepared  to  re- 
ply, I  took  advantage  of  the  pause  to 
look  round  the  room.  The  supper 
table  was  deserted.  The  passengers 
had  all  paid  their  reckoning,  and  the 
waiter  was  standing  expectingly  at 
the  corner  of  the  sideboard. 

"  How  we  got  safe  off?"  replied 
the  Indian  chief;  "  that's  just  the 
thing  that  puzzles  me,  and  1  thought 
you  might  perhaps  be  able  to  assist 
me." 


"  /  assist  you  ?"  said  the  traveller, 
"  how  is  that  possible  ?" 

"  Coach  is  quite  ready,  sir,"  inter- 
rupted the  waiter. 

"  The  fact  is,"  rejoined  the  young 
man,  "  I  have  just  got  to  that  point, 
in  a  tale  I  arn  writing  for  next 
month's  Blackwood,  and  curse  me  if 
I  know  how  to  get  naturally  away 
from  the  Crocodile  Island." 

"  Coach  can't  wait  another  mo- 
ment, sir,"  said  the  waiter;  "  sup- 
per, two  and  sixpence." 

"  Supper  I"  exclaimed  the  travel- 
ler, "  this  d— d  fellow  with  his  cock- 
and-a-bull  story,  about  being  king  of 
the  jackdaws,  or  kickshaws,  or  Lord 
knows  what,  has  kept  me  from  eat- 
ing a  morsel." 

"  Coachman  can't  wait  a  moment, 
sir." 

"  I  tell  you  I  haven't  tasted  a 
mouthful  since  I  left  Birmingham." 

"  You  can't  help  me  to  a  plan  for 
getting  the  young  people  off  the 
island  ?"  said  the  youth. 

"  May  the  devil  catch  both  of 
them,  and  a  hundred  crocodiles  eat 
every  bone  in  their  skins  !" 

"  Two  and  sixpence  for  supper, 
sir,"  said  the  waiter. 

"  Two  hundred  and  sixty  devils 
first,"  cried  the  traveller  in  a  pro- 
digious passion,  buttoning  up  his 
cloak  and  preparing  to  resume  his 
journey — "  let  that  infernal  Indian 
king,  who -is  only  some  lying  scrib- 
bler in  a  magazine,  pay  for  it  him- 
self, for  I'm  hanged  if  he  hasn't 
cheated  me  out  of  my  cold  beef,  and 
drank  every  drop  of  my  porter  to 
the  bargain." 

"  All  right,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
coachman  in  the  yard. 

"  All  right,"  replied  the  guard; 
"tsh!  tshl  ya!  hip— ts !  ts  !"— and 
the  half-famished  outside  passenger 
was  whirled  along  Corn  Market,  and 
over  Magdalen  Bridge,  at  the  rate  of 
eleven  miles  an  hour. 


The  Siege  of  Antwerp.  113 


THE   SIEGE   OF   ANTWERP. 
BY   LADY   EMMELINE   STUART   WORTLEY. 

ONCE  more  the  fierce  artillery 

Shakes  the  pale  earth  and  rends  the  sky; 

The  howitzers  their  harvests  reap—- 

Their jubilee  the  cannon  keep. 

The  sulphurous  gloom—  the  thunderous  crash, 

Burst  round  —  while  warrior-  weapons  clash  ! 

Still  rooted  to  their  guns  they  stand,  ' 

They  of  the  unswerving  heart  and  hand; 

Those  heroes  of  a  narrow'd  field, 

Who  cannot  quail,  —  who  will  not  yield  ! 

Well  may  ye  stand  as  mountains  there, 

Ye  lions,  on  your  frowning  lair  ; 
Ye  proud  defenders  of  a  trust, 

That  shall  not  crumble  into  dust; 

Or  if  ye  stand  —  or  if  you  fall  — 
Famous  ye  must  be,  and  ye  shall; 

For  if  ye  fall—  that  citadel, 
Your  arms  defended  long  and  well, 
Shall  give  to  ye  —  the  True  and  Brave, 
The  Soldiers  most  Majestic  Grave  1    • 
Ye  shall  be  honour'  d,  glorious  band  ! 
Breathing  Palladium  of  your  land. 
But  may  ye  fall  not  !  —  though  before 
Your  walls  streams  forth  the  Tricolor  ! 
(Which  still  retains  its  rainbow'd  hues, 
Though  steep'd  so  oft  in  crimsoning  dews 
Which  still  its  ray  of  white  retains, 
Though  darken'd  by  so  many  stains  !) 
Though  France's  leaguering  hosts  be  there, 
Where  is  their  conquering  Eagle  ?  Where  ! 
Who  led  them  in  all  triumph  on 
From  shore  to  shore  —  from  throne  to  throne  ? 
That  Eagle's  stormward  flight  is  done  ! 
And  set  for  him  is  Victory's  Sun  ! 

Where  England's  winged  leviathans, 
And  England's  ocean-veterans  ? 
The  hurricanes  against  them  rose, 
As  erst  against  their  scattered  foes, 
When  the  Armada  of  proud  Spain 
Threaten'  d  the  Sea-Kings  with  the  chain, 
Like  Xerxes'  fetters,  doom'd  to  prove 
Vain,  as  of  flax  and  frost-work  wove  ; 
Then  gird  ye  for  the  lengthen'd  fight, 
And  Victory,  Victory  be  with  right  ! 
Though  pent  in  your  bastion'd  den  of  war, 
Scanning  your  armed  foes  from  afar, 
Ye  !  whose  stern  bosoms  proudly  beat, 
Those  foes  with  clashing  swords  to  greet  ! 
But  though  the  sword  be  sheath'd,  the  shell 
Can  do  its  work  of  slaughter  well. 
Hark  !  how  the  city's  ribs  of  stone, 
And  old  foundations  seem  to  groan,— 
As  on  the  thickening  tempest  sweeps, 
With  sound  of  heavy-rushing  deeps. 
VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIII. 


$he  Siege  of  Antwerp. 

Mighty  Cathedral !     Shed  thou  round 
Breathings  to  make  this — holy  ground  ! 
Where  honour,  freedom,  justice  strive— 
"Whilst  their  devoted  champions  live ! 

Back,  ye  assailants  !  hence !  give  back ! 
Drear  Winter  howls  along  your  track  j 
Have  ye  forgotten  how  ye  met, 
When  your  Napoleon's  day-star  set  ? 
The  grasp  your  fiery  strength  that  numb'd, 
Where  Moscow's  palaced  pomp  succumb' d  ? 
So  !  on  yon  royal  fortress'  heights, 
What  mean  those  ghastly  flickering  lights  ? 
Recalling  faint  such  image  dire — 
For,  oh  ! — it  is — the  outburst  of  fire  ! 
And  spreading,  streaming,  gathering,  now, 
Forcing  the  haughty  flag  to  bow ; 
Red  conflagration  lights  the  skies  ; 
The  surging  flames  now  rock,  now  rise ; 
But  though  their  last  defence  may  bum, 
JTis  to  their  foes  their  fronts  they  turn! 
Still  shall  their  battle  thunders  boom, 
Though  from  their  fiery-circling  tomb ! 
They  stand — Batavia's  iron  sons — 
Fast  by  their  bastions  and  their  guns. 
And,  courage !— *nay — that  word  is  vain, 
But  Triumph !     Ye  shall  wear  no  chain. 
The  Avenger  and  his  hosts  are  near  ! 
The  royal  leader  shall  appear ! 
The  Arbiters'  embattled  line 
Hath  pass'd  the  deep  resounding  Rhine  ! 
Aye  Prussia's  squadron'd  legions  wait, 
To  ward  from  you  the  hour  of  fate. 
From  the  loud  Baltic's  shores  they  come, 
Soon  shall  their  war-steeds  reel  in  foam  j 
Then  cease  not  the  loud  cannonading, 
While  in  the  weltering  trenches  wading, 
The  Tricolor's  ten  thousands  pour 
Their  hostile  missiles,  more  and  more. 

Though  night  with  all  her  shadows  stoops, 
Above  the  thickly-serried  troops, 
They  scare  her  with  their  deadly  arts—- 
They cannot  scare  the  freemen's  hearts  I 
Honour  to  England's  old  allies, 
While  still  the  Lion-banner  flies  j 
Honour  to  those  whose  strengthen'd  hand, 
Wields  Freedom's  consecrated  brand; 
Who  in  the  struggle  and  the  strife, 
In  wrath  and  danger— death  and  life — 
Honour  themselves,  their  rights,  their  laws, 
Their  land,  their  king,  and  kingly  cause. ! 
December  13,  1832. 


1833.] 


future  Balance  of  Parties. 


FUTURE   BALANCE   OF   PARTIES. 


BEFORE  these  pages  issue  from 
th<}  press,  the  great  contest  which 
now  agitates  the  empire  will  be  ter- 
minated, and  the  effects  of  the  Re- 
form Bill  for  good  or  for  evil  incon- 
testable demonstrated.  It  is  a  mo- 
ment fraught  with  anxiety  to  all  the 
friends  of  their  country;  of  exul- 
tal  ion  and  joy  to  the  numerous  party 
of  the  Revolutionists  j  of  dismay  and 
apprehension  to  all  those  attached 
to  the  institutions  under  which  their 
fathers  have  lived,  and  England  has 
prospered.  To  us  who  have  long 
co  site  in  plated  these  events  through 
th«i  calm  medium  of  historical  re- 
flection, it  is  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  We  perceive  in  the  events 
which  are  passing  around  us  the 
exact  and  literal  accomplishment  of 
all  that  we  have  long  predicted  as 
the  result  of  the  Reform  Bill ;  and 
anticipate  with  more  certainty,  from 
the  accuracy  of  our  estimate  of  its 
efi'ects  in  the  commencement  of  the 
movement,  its  ultimate  and  certain 
extinction. 

That  the  great  bulk  of  the  mid- 
dling ranks  in  all  the  great  towns 
are  inclined  to  support  the  Move- 
ment party ;  that  they  have  brought 
in  the  Reform  candidates  out  of  gra- 
titude for  political  power  conferred, 
and  in  anticipation  of  revolutionary 
benefits  expected,  may  be  consider- 
ed as  now  proved  to  demonstration. 
With  a  few  exceptions,  the  import- 
ance of  which  shall  be  immediately 
pointed  out,  all  the  great  towns 
have  brought  in  persons  who  are,  or 
profess  to  be,  of  the  Movement  party. 
The  returns  from  the  counties  have 
not  yet  been  obtained  ;  but  we  are 
fsr  from  sanguine  as  to  their  result. 
Those  from  Ireland  will  exhibit  a 
vast  preponderance  of  furious  re- 
pealing Catholics ;  those  from  Scot- 
land, which  is  nearly  as  bad,  an  equal 
n  ajority  of  well  organized  and  sub- 
s'srvient  innovators ;  men  who  make 
a  game  of  revolution,  and  coolly  cal- 
calate,  it  is  to  be  feared,  how  long 
the  process  of  demolishing  our  in- 
stitutions may  maintain  them  at  the 
head  of  affairs.  The  tried  loyalty 
and  hereditary  right  feeling  of  the 
English  agricultural  counties  will  go 
fcir  to  stem  the  torrent  in  a  large 


part  of  the  heart  of  the  empire ;  but 
wherever  manufactures  prevail,  their 
usual  demoralizing  influence  will  be 
perceived  ;  and  every  where  the  fatal 
L.10  clause  has  let  in  a  flood  of  ene- 
mies to  the  constitution,  whom  it 
will  require  all  the  efforts  of  the 
friends  of  order,  and  no  small  change 
of  public  opinion  in  the  smaller  pro- 
prietors, to  keep  within  any  thing 
like  due  bounds.  There  is  no  con- 
cealing the  fact,  that  a  great  majori- 
ty, probably  two-thirds  of  the  new 
House  of  Commons,  will  represent 
what  may  now  be  called,  with  per- 
fect justice,  the  Revolutionary  party  j 
that  is,  the  large  body  who  consider 
the  Reform  Bill  as  only  a  means  to 
an  end ;  and  value  it  just  because  it 
opens  the  floodgates  to  that  torrent 
of  innovation  which  promises  soon, 
to  overwhelm  all  the  institutions  of 
the  empire,  and  subject  us,  if  not  so 
rapidly,  yet  not  the  less  surely,  to  all 
the  levelling  principles  of  revolu- 
tionary France. 

The  friends  of  the  constitution, 
and  among  these  we  number  nearly 
the  whole  old  Whig  as  well  as  all  the 
Tory  party: — all  those  who  attached 
themselves  to  particular  parties  in 
the  state,  in  the  perfect  understand- 
ing that  they  were  to  do  nothing  to 
break  up  its  fundamental  principles, 
—rare  in  the  utmost  alarm  at  this  por- 
tentous state  of  public  affairs ;  and 
numbers,  we  know,  of  the  most  ar- 
dent supporters  of  the  Reform  Bil 
among  the  higher  and  educated  clas- 
ses, inwardly  execrate  the  fatal  al- 
liance which  they  formed  with  the 
Revolutionists,  and  the  wide  door 
which  they  have  opened  to  a  flood 
of  innovations,  which  they  now  find 
themselves  totally  unable  to  prevent. 
Such  men  may  well  mourn  over  the 
fortunes  of  their  country,  by  them 
irrecoverably  blighted  j  its  constitu- 
tion by  them  sacrilegiously  destroy- 
ed ;  its  liberties  by  them  ultimately 
overthrown.  We  have  no  such  re- 
grets; we  now  experience  the  in- 
ward satisfaction  of  having  through- 
out discharged  our  duty;  resisted 
equally  the  seductions  of  Ministerial 
influence  and  the  menaces  of  popu- 
lar vengeance,  and  stood  by  our 
country  to  the  last,  when  hundreds 


lit 


Future  Balance  of  Parties. 


[Jan. 


of  thousands,  who  had  shared  more 
largely  in  its  blessings,  abandoned  it 
to  its  fate. 

There  is,  however,  no  room  for 
unmanly  despondency.  Our  readers 
know  whether  we  have  not  uni- 
formly taken  the  gloomiest  view  of 
the  effects  of  the  Reform  Bill,  and 
represented  its  passing  into  a  law  as 
the  commencement  of  incalculable 
evils  to  this  country,  and  to  none  more 
so  than  to  its  most  vehement  sup- 
porters. Although,  however,  the  re- 
sult has  proved  that  these  anticipa- 
tions were  too  well  founded,  yet  the 
same  views  lead  to  the  revival  of 
hope,  nay  of  well  grounded  confi- 
dence, in  the  future  triumph  of 
those  Conservative  principles,  with- 
out which  no  society  on  earth  ever 
yet  prospered,  and  which  the  pre- 
sent triumph  of  the  Revolutionists 
is  of  all  other  events  the  one  best 
calculated  to  accelerate. 

There  is,  in  the  first  place,  a  well- 
founded  confidence  to  be  placed  in 
the  superintendence  of  Providence, 
and  the  justice  of  the  cause  which 
we  support.  We  are  not  striving  to 
uphold  any  decayed  or  corrupted 
monarchy,  like  that  of  France  in 
1789,  or  any  tyrannical  and  oppres- 
sive government,  like  that  of  Charles 
I.  or  James  II.  We  are  supporting, 
on  the  contrary,  the  most  glorious 
monument  of  civilisation  which  the 
world  has  ever  seen;  institutions 
which  have  united,  to  a  degree  un- 
precedented in  any  former  age  or 
country,  the  vigour  of  popular  en- 
terprise with  the  steadiness  of  aris- 
tocratic determination — a  constitu- 
tion which  has  blended,  beyond  any 
other  which  ever  existed,  the  ut- 
most extent  of  popular  freedom  with 
the  highest  degree  of  public  order ; 
under  which  the  empire  has  grown 
grey  in  years  of  renown,  and  all  the 
classes  it  contains  attained  an  unpre- 
cedented degree  of  public  prospe- 
rity. Those  who  believe  in  the  ex- 
istence of  a  Supreme  Power,  and  the 
moral  government  which  it  exercises 
over  the  affairs  of  the  world,  can 
never  believe  that  such  institutions 
are  to  be  permanently  destroyed,  till 
those  who  share  in  their  blessings 
are  unworthy  of  them,  and  they 
have  ceased  to  promote  the  great 
ends  of  the  social  union.  Till  this 
is  the  case,  there  is  always  hope. 
Reflect  how  often  the  English  Con- 


stitution has  been  brought  to  a  worse 
extremity  than  that  to  which  its  ene- 
mies have  now  reduced  it.  Think  on 
the  Parliamentum  insanum,  the  wars 
of  the  Roses,  or  the  despotism  of 
Cromwell.  Such,  and  so  fleeting  is 
the  cloud  which  now  passes  over  the 
fair  face  of  England ;  and  as  bitter 
and  universal  as  was  the  repentance 
of  the  nation,  when  the  head  of 
Charles  dropped  from  the  scaffold, 
so  general  will  be  the  return  at  some 
future  time  to  those  better  feelings, 
which  ages  of  wisdom-had  produced, 
and  years  of  infatuation  have  over- 
whelmed. 

There  is,  in  the  next  place,  a  most 
important  ground  for  hope,  in  the 
vigorous,  manly,  and  in  many  places 
successful  stand,  which  the  Friends 
of  Liberty  have  made  against  the 
combined  efforts  of  Ministerial  in- 
fluence and  rabble  excitation.  There 
never,  in  truth,  was  an  Opposition 
placed  in  such  trying  circumstances, 
or  so  portentous  an  union  effected  to 
overwhelm  every  manly  and  inde- 
pendent feeling.  The  patriot,  in  ge- 
neral, is  supported  either  by  the 
Government  or  the  populace.  He  is 
either  applauded  by  those  whose 
weight  and  station  entitle  them  to 
most  respect,  or  by  the  vast  multi- 
tude of  his  fellow-countrymen,  who 
share  in  his  feelings  and  animate  his 
exertions.  At  this  time,  from  an  un- 
precedented combination,  these  op- 
posing forces  draw  the  same  way. 
The  attraction  of  the  sun  and  the 
moon  operates  in  the  same  direction, 
and  can  it  be  wondered  at  that  a 
flood-tide  is  the  consequence  ?  None 
of  the  ordinary  motives  which  influ- 
ence an  Opposition,  are  now  allowed 
to  operate  in  swelling  their  ranks  ; 
neither  the  applause  of  the  people, 
nor  the  favour  of  the  Government. 
Nothing  remains  but  the  naked  feel- 
ing of  Patriotism,  uncheered  by  the 
applause  of  the  multitude — unre-« 
warded  [by  the  smiles  of  the  great. 
But  if  this  unexampled  combination 
has  diminished  their  numbers,  it  has 
purified  their  ranks  and  ennobled 
their  cause.  It  is  now  separated 
from  all  the  passions  which  seduce 
and  taint  mankind ;  from  the  giddy 
love  of  popularity,  the  selfish  crouch- 
ing to  power,  the  disgraceful  shrink- 
ing from  danger.  The  Conserva- 
tives who  have  now  stood  forth  to 
defend  their  country  from  the  as- 


1833.] 


Future  Balance  of  Parties. 


117 


faults  of  the  Revolutionists,  are  men 
who  have  rejected  every  temptation, 
sind  braved  every  danger  at  the  call 
of  duty;  and  such  conduct,  even  in 
this  scene  of  wickedness,  will  not  go 
without  its  reward.  The  time  will 
rome  when  their  conduct  in  having 
«lone  so  will  extort  the  admiration 
of  a  grateful  world ;  and  even  at  this 
moment  of  party  triumph  and  as- 
turned  exultation,  it  is  envied  by  all 
umong  their  opponents  who  are 
worthy  of  the  name  of  men,  and 
hated  by  their  unworthy  followers 
JTom  the  bottom  of  their  hearts. 

It  is  this  superior  energy  and 
vigour  of  the  Conservative  party  in 
England,  which  constitutes  the  great 
difference  between  the  progress  of 
the  English  and  the  French  Revolu- 
tion. The  principles  of  anarchy 
have  been  just  as  strongly  at  work 
in  Great  Britain,  as  they  were  in 
France  forty  years  ago  ;  they  have 
been  urged  on  in  the  same  manner 
by  the  Government,  and  aided  by 
the  same  support  from  the  Execu- 
tive; but  nevertheless  the  progress 
of  dissolution  has  been  incompa- 
rably slower  in  this  country  than  it 
was  in  the  neighbouring  kingdom. 
The  cause  of  this  difference  is  to  be 
found  solely  in  the  superior  energy 
and  vigour  of  the  Conservative 
party.  Instead  of  flying  from  the, 
approach  of  danger,  and  leaguing 
with  the  enemies  of  their  country  to 
menace  its  independence,  the  friends 
of  order  in  England  have  resolutely 
fctood  by  its  fortunes ;  they  have 
met  its  enemies  wherever  they  ap- 
peared, in  the  Senate,  in  the  Press, 
at  the  elections  on  the  hustings;  and 
though  generally  overborne  by  num- 
bers, or  drowned  by  force,  they  have 
never  failed  to  assert  the  eternal  su- 
periority of  their  cause,  by  irrefra- 
gable arguments  and  manly  elo- 
quence. Such  conduct  makes  us 
proud  of  our  country  ;  it  forbids  us 
over  to  despair  of  its  fortunes,  and 
by  pointing  out  one  vital  point  of 
difference  between  our  convulsions 
;.nd  the  French  Revolution,  justifies 
the  hope  that  the  terrible  calamities 
i  n  which  the  latter  terminated,  may 
}>e  spared  to  its  inhabitants. 

The  Revolutionists  in  this  coun- 
try, from  the  Administration  down- 
wards, have  been  even  more  reek- 
Jess  in  their  measures,  and  incon- 
siderate in  their  changes,  than  the 
leaders  of  the  French  Revolution. 


They  have  none  of  the  excuses 
which  palliated  the  misgovernment 
of  the  Parisian  reformers,  because 
they  had  none  of  the  grievances 
which  there  existed  to  complain 
of;  and  the  bloody  beacon  exist- 
ed in  unshrouded  deformity  to  warn 
them  from  its  approach.  They 
have  urged  on  a  movement  as  fear- 
ful, impetuous,  and  ungovernable  as 
that  which  brought  Louis  XVI.  to 
the  scaffold.  What  the*n  has  so  long 
delayed  the  evil,  still  moderates  its 
dangers,  and  gives  the  most  des- 
ponding still  ground  to  hope  for 
their  country?  Nothing  but  the 
vigour  and  resolution  of  the  Conser- 
vative party;  the  universal  adhe- 
rence to  their  country  in  times  of 
danger;  the  patriotism,  talent,  and 
courage  of  the  nobility,  and  all  the 
higher  classes  in  the  state.  It  is  that, 
and  that  only,  which  has  hitherto 
acted  as  a  drag  on  the  wheels  of  the 
Revolution ;  which  has  as  yet  saved 
from  convulsions  and  bloodshed  the 
infatuated  multitude  who  urge 
it  on;  and  which,  undeterred  by 
danger,  unmoved  by  obloquy,  still 
pursues  its  glorious  course,  blessing 
and  to  be  blessed. 

In  the  third  place,  the  Conserva- 
tive party  have  good  cause  to  hope, 
from  the  evident  and  universal  im- 
pression which  they  have  made  on 
all  the  educated  classes  in  the  state. 
The  elections  for  Oxford,  Cam- 
bridge, and  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
demonstrate  what  every  person  ac- 
quainted with  the  society  of  persons 
of  education  in  every  part  of  Great 
Britain  has  long  known  to  be  the 
case,  that  the  present  Ministry  are 
with  that  class  the  most  unpopular 
that  ever  held  the  helm  of  affairs. 
The  Whig  candidates  could  not 
shew  themselves  in  Oxford  or 
Cambridge ;  and  at  Trinity  College, 
they  were  defeated  by  a  majority  of 
three  to  one.  Strong  in  the  Tower 
Hamlets,  Marylebone,  and  St  Giles's, 
— irresistible  among  the  weavers  of 
Manchester,  and  the  blacksmiths  of 
Birmingham,  they  could  not  venture 
a  struggle  with  the  educated  gentle- 
men of  England  even  at  the  Whig 
University  of  Cambridge.  This  is  a 
decisive  omen  as  to  the  future  fate 
of  the  empire.  Brute  strength,  phy- 
sical numbers,  cannot,  in  the  end, 
contend  with  intellectual  superior- 
ity ;  the  diamond  edge  of  genius  will 
sever  bonds  which  the  strength  of 


US  Future  Balance  of  Parties.  (Jan. 

millions  could  not  break.  The  arras    assailed,  will  each  affect  the  liveli- 


and  legs,  in  a  moment  of  intemper- 
ance, may  cease  to  obey  the  head ; 
but  the  eternal  subjection  of  matter 
to  mind  will  not  the  less,  in  the  end, 
be  asserted.  It  was  not  thus  at  the 
outset  of  the  French  Revolution ;  all 
the  educated  classes  there  urged  on 
the  movement,  and  their  heads  be- 
gan to  fall  before  they  were  con- 
vinced of  their  error;  but  the  su- 
perior intelligence  and  habits  of 
thought  of  England,  have  saved  it 
from  this  ruinous  infatuation.  The 
coming  storm  has  been  seen  by  the 
education  of  the  country ;  and  they 
have  set  themselves  manfully  to  re- 
sist it.  They  were  too  late  in  doing 
so  to  prevent  the  onset  of  the  storm, 
but  they  may  still  influence  its  direc- 
tion and  moderate  its  fury.  The  sway 
of  the  Revolutionary  party  is  rapidly 
subsiding  in  the  educated  classes ;  it 
3s  altogether  extinct  in  their  higher 
grades,  and  dying  out  in  the  lower. 
It  is  still  paramount  in  the  middling 
and  lower  orders,  because  they  are 
always  swayed  by  the  principle 
which  ten  years  before  influenced 
the  higher.  In  the  present  inunda- 
tion of  Movement  members  into  the 
House  of  Commons,  may  be  discern- 


hood  and  subsistence  of  millions. 
It  will  no  longer  be  the  political 
power  of  the  higher  orders  which 
will  be  tied  to  the  stake  to  be 
worried  by  the  dogs  of  revolution, 
but  the  fortune  and  subsistence  of 
large  masses  of  the  people ;  and  the 
triumph  of  the  Revolutionists  will 
be  dimmed  by  the  tears  of  the  or- 
phan, the  cries  of  the  destitute,  the 
wailings  of  the  dying.  When  those 
disastrous  events  occur,  as  occur 
they  will,  it  is  impossible  that  a 
large  portion  of  the  middling  and 
lower  orders  should  not  break  off 
from  the  leaders  who  have  ruined 
and  betrayed  them.  We  lament  the 
misery  which  will  then  be  created, 
we  shall  do  our  utmost  to  alleviate 
it,  so  far  as  we  can,  but  we  know 
that  it  is  unavoidable.  Misery  and 
suffering  must  tame  the  fierceness 
of  passion  in  nations  as  well  as  in- 
dividuals; the  laws  of  nature  are 
not  to  be  broken  with  impunity  j 
and  those,  who,  disregarding  the 
voice  of  wisdom,  will  yield  to  the 
tempter,  must  in  sackcloth  and  ashes 
repent  of  their  sins,  not  less  in  the 
political  than  the  moral  world. 

Are  these  the  speculations,  merely 
of  philosophy,  unsupported  by  ex- 


ed  the  natural  consequence  of  the     ot  pniiosopny,  unsupported  oy  ex- 
absurd  pseudo-liberality  which,  six     perience  ?  Look  at  Bristol,  and  say, 


or  eight  years  ago,  distinguished  so 
many  of  the  young  men  of  rank  and 
fortune  at  the  universities.  In  the 
opinions  entertained  by  their  suc- 
cessors at  this  time  is  to  be  found 
the  harbinger  of  a  brighter  day  to 
future  times,  and  the  mirror  of  public 
opinion,  after  a  long  interval  of  dis- 
aster and  suffering,  in  future  years. 
These  anticipations  must  be  still 
farther  strengthened  if  it  is  recollect- 
ed, in  the  fourth  place,  that  the  mid- 
dling orders,  in  whom  the  strength 
of  the  Revolutionary  party  now  lies, 
must  soon  be  exposed  to  individual 
suffering  and  misery  in  consequence 
of  the  infatuated  course  which  they 
have  pursued,  and  the  wicked  lead- 
ers whom  they  have  chosen  to  follow. 
All  the  great  interests  of  the  coun- 
try, and  with  them  all  the  small  in- 
terests of  the  country,  are  at  stake. 
The  Church  is  the  first  victim;  and  it 
has  spread  its  roots  too  far  through 
the  middling  classes,  not  to  excite  a 
general  and  heartfelt  feeling  of  regret 
and  indignation  when  it  is  despoiled 
of  its  ancient  inheritance.  The  Corn 
Laws,  and  the  Funds,  when  they  are 


what  lesson  does  it  teach  to  the 
British  people,  as  to  the  wisdom  to 
be  learnt  from  experience,  the  fatal 
effects  of  indulging  their  passions. 
Where  was  the  passion  for  Reform, 
and  the  desire  for  revolution,  so 
strong  as  in  that  devoted  city; 
where  is  it  now  so  completely  ex- 
tinguished, and  the  old  English  feel- 
ing so  thoroughly  revived  ?  Bristol 
has  passed  through  the  fiery  ordeal ; 
the  natural  result  of  revolutionary 
passions,  has  been  there  felt;  the 
city  hasbeen  burnt  and  ruined  ;  its  in- 
dustry and  commerce  are  rapidly  de- 
caying, and  its  wretched  inhabitants, 
taught  by  suffering,  have  abjured 
their  errors,  and  seek,  by  a  return  to 
their  ancient  principles,  to  procure 
a  return  of  their  ancient  prosperity. 
What  Bristol  has  suffered  and  learn- 
ed, the  empire  at  large  must  suffer 
and  learn;  and  when  the  terrible 
lesson  has  been  taught,  the  result 
will  be  the  same,  and  the  ffloomy 
night  of  revolution  will  be  followed 
by  the  glorious  morning  of  the  re- 
storation 
Lastly,  the  talentand  courage  which 


1833.] 


Future  Balance  of  Parties. 


lid 


has  burst  forth  among  the  young  and 
brilliant  leaders  of  the  Conservative 
band,  encourage  the  warmest  hopes 
of  the  fate  of  the  empire,  when  they 
arrive  at  such  a  station  as  to  rule  its 
councils.  Difficulties  and  dangers 
create  men;  and  the  ability  which 
in  ordinary  times  might  be  buried 
in  obscurity,  or  perhaps  lost  in  fri- 
^  olity,  is,  in  these  stirring  and  trying 
times,  called  to  a  nobler  sphere,  and 
trained  to  the  exercise  of  more  ani- 
mating duties.  It  is  with  feelings  of 
rio  ordinary  pride  that  we  notice  the 
brilliant  exertions  which  Scotland 
has  made  at  this  eventful  crisis.  Man- 
( hester  has  rejected  Mr  Hope ;  Rox- 
burghshire will  probably  do  the  same 
to  Lord  John  Scott.  These  events 
only  prove  the  total  unfitness  of  the 
(lass  to  whom  the  Reform  Bill  has 
g'iven  power,  to  exercise  it  to  their 
own  or  their  country's  advantage, 
and  sets  off  in  brighter  colours,  by 
the  force  of  contrast,  the  splendid 
talents  which  they  were  unable  to 
appreciate.  The  brilliant  eloquence, 
sound  constitutional  principles,  and 
enlarged  views  of  these  eminent 
young  men,  prove  how  fit  they  were 
to  form  the  brightest  ornaments  of 
the  Senate;  their  rejection,  the  mi- 
serable prospect  of  salvation  which 
the  Reform  Bill  affords  to  the  coun- 
try. But  let  them  not  be  discou- 
raged; the  time  will  come,  when 
they  will  speak  to  as  willing  as 
they  have  hitherto  found  adverse 
audiences  among  the  lower  orders, 
and  when  the  admiration  which 
they  have  universally  awakened  a- 
inong  the  educated  gentlemen  who 
rould  understand,  will  be  shared  by 
the  ignorant  multitude,  who  will 
then  have  learnt  by  suffering  to  ap- 
preciate them. 

Let  those  who  are  depressed  by 
the  portentous  strength  of  the  Revo- 
lutionary party  in  the  new  Parlia- 
ment, console  themselves  by  the  re- 
ilection  of  the  fleeting  nature  of  popu- 
lar opinion.  Let  them  recollect  what 
]  England  was  when  it  ran  mad  with 
democracy  in  1642,  and  when  it  was 
intoxicated  with  loyalty  in  1661.  Let 
them  reflect  on  the  revolutionary 
fervour  which  convulsed  France  in 
1789,  and  contemplate  the  whole 
National  Guard  of  Paris  six  years  af- 
ter combating  the  forces  of  the  Con- 
vention, to  restore  the  royal  authority 
i  n  that  afflicted  city.  Let  them  think 
of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  the  idol 
of  the  people,  the  pride  of  his  coun- 


try,  in  1815,   and   the  same  hero 
stoned  in  the  streets  of  London  in 
1830.    Let  them  call  to  mind  the  de- 
mocratic fervour  of  the  time  of  the 
Gracchi,  and  the  subsequent  reflec- 
tion of  Tiberius,  "  Oh  homines  ad 
servitutem  parati !     Let  them  recol- 
lect   the    transports    of   Paris  and 
France  at  the  triumph  of  the  barri- 
cades,   and  behold  France  in  two 
years  after  bearing  with  tranquillity 
the  despotic  ordinances  of  Marshal 
Soult,  and  preparing,  by  an  over- 
whelming majority  in  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies,  the  total  extinction  of 
the  Liberty  of  the  Press  !  Examples 
of  this  kind,  drawn  from  that  inex- 
haustible mine  of  political  wisdom, 
the  record  of  past  events,  are  fitted 
to  afford  consolation  to  the  rational 
and  upright  mind,  even  in  the  worst 
emergencies.  They  shew,  that  of  all 
fleeting  things,  the  opinion  of  the 
people  is  the  most  fleeting  j  that  mad- 
ness and  folly  bring  about  a  cer- 
tain and  speedy  retribution  in  the 
affairs  of  nations  as  well  as  indivi- 
duals ;  and  that  no  cause  is  hopeless 
to  those  who  have  the  vigour  to 
maintain,  and  the  courage  to  defend  it. 
The  duty  of  the  Conservative  band, 
who,  in  the  midst  of  the  general  de- 
mocratic madness,  find  a  place  in 
the  Legislature,  is  sufficiently  plain. 
Let  them  adhere  steadily  to  their 
principles;  recollect  that  on  them,  as 
the  sacred  band  of  Thebans,  the  sole 
hopes  of  their  country  now   rest; 
and  that,  victorious  or  vanquished, 
the  admiration  of  posterity  and  the 
gratitude  of  their  country  will  at- 
tend them  if  they  never  swerve  from 
the  path  of  duty.     Let  them  join  in 
no  coalitions  to  throw  out  the  Mi- 
nistry;   disgrace  themselves  by  no 
unions  for  a    momentary  triumph, 
with  the  Radicals ;  but  steadily  and 
uniformly    consider    Revolution  as 
the  demon  which  they  are  sent  there 
to  combat,   and,  by  the  blessing  of 
God,  will  ultimately  conquer.    By 
uniformly  adhering  to  this  principle, 
they  will  remain  perfectly  clear  of 
the  march  of  innovation,  and  all  its 
ruinous  excesses  and  consequences : 
they  will  have  nothing  to  reproach 
themselves  with  in  their  public  ca- 
reer ;  and  when  suffering  has  taught 
the  people  their  errors,  and  anguish 
has  tamed  their  passions,  it  is  to  them 
that  the  nation  will  .turn  with  tears 
of  repentance,  and  their  patriotism 
which  it  will  celebrate  in  strains  of 
exultation. 


120  Hymns  of  Life.  [Jan. 


HYMNS  OF  LIFE, 
BY  MRS  HEMANS. 

I. 
THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  LONELY  STUDENT. 

Soul  of  our  souls !  and  safeguard  of  the'world  ! 
Sustain—  Thou  only  cans't— the  sick  at  heart, 
Restore  their  languid  spirits,  and  recall 
Their  lost  affections  unto  Thee  and  Thine. 

WORDSWORTH. 

NIGHT — holy  night ! — the  time 
For  Mind's  free  breathings  in  a  purer  clime ! 
Night !— when  in  happier  hour  the  unveiling  sky 

Woke  all  my  kindled  soul, 
To  meet  its  revelations,  clear  and  high, 
With  the  strong  joy  of  Immortality  ! 

Now-  hath  strange  sadness  wrapp'd  me — strange  and  deep- 
And  my  thoughts  faint,  and  shadows  o'er  them  roll, 
E'en  when  I  deem'd  them  seraph-plumed,  to  sweep 

Far  beyond  Earth's  control. 

Wherefore  is  this  ? — I  see  the  stars  returning, 

Fire  after  fire  in  Heaven's  rich  Temple  burning, 

Fast  shine  they  forth — my  spirit-friends,  my  guides, 

Bright  rulers  of  my  being's  inmost  tides  j 

They  shine — but  faintly,  through  a  quivering  haze — 

Oh !  is  the  dimness  mine  which  clouds  those  rays  ? 

They,  from  whose  glance  my  childhood  drank  delight ! 

A  joy  unquestioning — a  love  intense — 

They,  that  unfolding  to  more  thoughtful  sight, 

The  harmony  of  their  magnificence, 

Drew  silently  the  worship  of  my  youth 

To  the  grave  sweetness  on  the  brow  of  truth ; 

Shall  they  shower  blessing,  with  their  beams  divine, 

Down  to  the  watcher  on  the  stormy  sea, 

And  to  the  pilgrim,  toiling  for  his  shrine, 

Through  some  wild  pass  of  rocky  Appennine, 

And  to  the  wanderer  lone, 

On  wastes  of  Afric  thrown, 
And  not  to  me  ? 

Am  I  a  thing  forsaken, 

And  is  the  gladness  taken 

From  the  bright-pinion' d  Nature,  which  hath  soared 
Through  realms  by  royal  eagle  ne'er  explored, 
And,  bathing  there  in  streams  of  fiery  light, 
Found  strength  to  gaze  upon  the  Infinite  ? 

And  now  an  alien ! — Wherefore  must  this  be  ? 

How  shall  I  rend  the  chain  ? 

How  drink  rich  life  again 

From  those  pure  stores  of  radiance,  welling  free  ? 
Father  of  Spirits !  let  me  turn  to  Thee  ! 

Oh!  if  too  much  exulting  in  her  dower, 
My  soul,  not  yet  to  lowly  thought  subdued, 

Hath  stood  without  Thee  on  her  Hill  of  Power— 
A  fearful  and  a  dazzling  solitude ! — 


1833.]  Hymns  of  Life.  121 

And  therefore  from  that  radiant  summit's  crown, 
To  dim  Desertion  is  by  Thee  cast  down ; 
Behold!  thy  child  submissively  hath  bow'd, 
Shine  on  him  thro'  the  cloud! 

Let  the  now  darken'd  earth  and  curtain'd  Heaven 
Back  to  his  vision  with  Thy  face  be  given  ! 

Bear  him  on  High  once  more, 

But  on  Thy  strength  to  soar, 

And  wrapt  and  still'd  by  that  o'ershadowing  might, 
Forth  on  the  empyreal  blaze  to  look  with  chasten'd  sight. 

Or  if  it  be,  that  like  the  ark's  lone  dove, 

My  thoughts  go  forth,  and  find  no  resting-place, 

No  sheltering  home  of  sympathy  and  love, 

In  the  responsive  bosoms  of  my  race, 

And  back  return,  a  darkness  and  a  weight, 

Till  my  unanswer'd  heart  grows  desolate  ; 

Yet,  yet  sustain  me,  Holiest ! — I  am  vow'd 

To  solemn  service  high ; 
And  shall  the  spirit,  for  thy  tasks  endow'd, 
Sink  on  the  threshold  of  the  sanctuary, 
Fainting  beneath  the  burden  of  the  day, 

Because  no  human  tone, 

Unto  the  altar- stone, 
Of  that  pure  spousal  Fane  inviolate, 
Where  it  should  make  eternal  Truth  its  mate, 
May  cheer  the  sacred  solitary  way  ? 

Oh  !  be  the  whisper  of  thy  voice  within, 
Enough  to  strengthen  !  Be  the  hope  to  win 
A  more  deep-seeing  homage  for  Thy  name, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  burning  dream  of  Fame  ! 
Make  me  Thine  only  ! — Let  me  add  but  one 
To  those  refulgent  steps  all  undefiled, 

Which  glorious  minds  have  piled 
Thro'  bright  self-offering,  earnest,  child-like,  low, 

For  mounting  to  Thy  throne ! 

And  let  my  soul,  upborne 

On  wings  of  inner  morn, 
Find,  in  illumined  secrecy,  the  sense 
Of  that  blest  work,  its  own  deep  recompense. 

The  dimness  melts  away, 

That  on  your  glory  lay, 
Oh !  ye  majestic  watchers  of  the  skies ! 

Through  the  dissolving  veil, 

Which  made  each  aspect  pale, 
Your  gladdening  fires  once  more  I  recognise ; 

And  once  again  a  shower 

Of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Power, 
Streams  on  my  soul  from  your  immortal  eyes. 
And,  if  that  splendour  to  my  sobered  sight 
Come  tremulous,  with  more  of  pensive  light ; 
Something,  tho'  beautiful,  yet  deeply  fraught, 
With  more  that  pierces  thro'  each  fold  of  thought, 

Than  I  was  wont  to  trace, 

On  Heaven's  unshadowed  face ; 
Be  it  e'en  so ! — be  mine,  tho'  set  apart 
Unto  a  radiant  ministry,  yet  still 
A  lowly,  fearful,  self-distrusting  heart ; 
Bow'd  before  Thee,  O  Mightiest !  whose  blest  will 
All  the  pure  stars  rejoicingly  fulfil 


122  The  Traveller's  Evening  Song.  [Jan. 

II. 

THE  TRAVELLER'S  EVENING  SONG. 

FATHER, 'guide  me  !  Day  declines, 
Hollow  winds  are  in  the  pines  ; 
Darkly  waves  each  giant-bough 
O'er  the  sky's  last  crimson  glow; 
Hush'd  is  now  the  convent's  bell, 
Which  erewhile  with  breezy  swell 
From  the  purple  mountains  bore 
Greeting  to  the  sunset-shore. 
Now  the  sailor's  vesper-hymn 

Dies  away. 
Father !  in  the  forest  dim 

Be  my  stay  I 

In  the  low  and  shivering  thrill 

Of  the  leaves,  that  late  hung  still  ; 

In  the  dull  and  muffled  tone 

Of  the  sea-wave's  distant  moan ; 

In  the  deep  tints  of  the  sky, 

There  are  signs  of  tempest  nigh. 

Ominous,  with  sullen  sound, 

Falls  the  closing  dusk  around. 

Father !  through  the  storm  and  shade 
O'er  the  wild, 

Oh !  be  Thou  the  lone  one's  aid- 
Save  thy  child ! 

Many  a  swift  and  sounding  plume 
Homewards,  through  the  boding  gloom, 
O'er  my  way  hath  flitted  fast, 
Since  the  farewell  sunbeam  pass'd 
From  the  chestnut's  ruddy  bark, 
And  the  pools,  now  low  and  dark, 
Where  the  wakening  night-winds  sigh 
Through  the  long  reeds  mournfully. 
Homeward,  homeward,  all  things  haste — 

God  of  might ! 
Shield  the  homeless  midst  the  waste, 

Be  his  light  I 

In  his  distant  cradle-nest, 
Now  my  babe  is  laid  to  rest; 
Beautiful  his  slumber  seems 
With  a  glow  of  heavenly  dreams, 
Beautiful,  o'er  that  bright  sleep, 
Hang  soft  eyes  of  fondness  deep, 
Where  his  mother  bends  to  pray, 
For  the  loved  and  far  away. — 
Father !  guard  that  household  bower, 

Hear  that  prayer ! 
Back,  through  thine  all-guiding  power, 

Lead  me  there ! 

Darker,  wilder,  grows  the  night—- 
Not a  star  sends  quivering  light 
Through  the  massy  arch  of  shade 
By  the  stern  old  forest  made. 


1833.]  The  Traveller's  Evening  Song.  123 

Thou!  to  whose  unslumbering  eyes 
All  my  pathway  open  lies, 
By  thy  Son,  who  knew  distress 
In  the  lonely  wilderness, 
Where  no  roof  to  that  blest  head 

Shelter  gave — 
Father  I  through  the  time  of  dread, 

Save,  oh !  save ! 


DESPAIR. 
BY  THE  HON.  AUGUSTA  NORTON. 

WHEN  forced  to  join  the  thoughtless  throng, 
And  listen  to  the  midnight  song ; 
When  forced  to  mingle  in  the  dance, 
Return  the  nod,  and  passing  glance 
Of  smiling  fair — I  do  but  dream 
I  am  the  thing  that  others  seem. 
What  though  the  lip  may  smile  at  will ! 
«  The  heart— the  heart  is  lonely  still !  " 

Consumption's  cheek  ne'er  looks  more  pure 
And  lovely,  than  when  past  all  cure ; 
And  yet  that  bloom,  so  fresh,  so  still, 
Has  lent  its  little  aid  to  kill, 
And  speaks  to  those  who  watch  its  hue 
Of  sickness,  death,  and  suffering  too ; 
Though  who,  just  viewing  aught  so  fair, 
Could  ever  dream  that  death  was  there  ! 

And  could  we  see  the  hearts  of  those, 
Who  haunt  the  crowd  to  drown  their  woes, 
Conceal'd  beneath  their  smiles,  we'd  find 
Despair — consumption  of  the  mind! 
As  sure  its  end — its  means  more  slow- 
Its  seeming  health  a  feverish  glow, 
Which  throws  around  a  fitful  light, 
Then  dies — and  leaves  it  doubly  night. 

Then,  when  you  see  me  smile  and  laugh 
With  those  who  pleasure's  goblet  quaff; 
Think,  though  you  see  me  drink  as  deep, 
"  Despair  may  smile,  but  cannot  weep — 
Nay,  smile  in  mockery,  alas  ! — 
As  bloom  can  o'er  the  features  pass, 
When  all  is  death  within— yet  feel 
A  pang  that  smile  can  but  conceal." 


124 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  I. 


[Jan. 


CHARACTERISTICS   OF   WOMEN.* 

No.  I. 

CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS- 


SHAKSPEARE. 


THE  female  character,  with  all  its 
attributes,  is  infinitely  shadowed  in 
the  pure  waters  of  poetry,  and  its 
divinest  beauty  has  been  revealed 
but  to  those  eyes  that  have  worship- 
ped 

"  All  the  uncertain  imagery  received 
Into  the  bosom  of  that  steady  lake." 

Uncertain!  So  it  seems  ere  we 
have  gazed  long  on  the  lovely  vi- 
sion ;  but  as  the  dream  deepens,  the 
hovering  clouds,  the  glimpsing  blue 
sky,  and  the  intermingling  sunshine 
assume  a  stationary  splendour,  and 
we  feel  how  pure  and  how  profound 
is  the  union  of  earth  with  heaven. 

In  the  works  of  the  great  poets, 
we  feel  "  how  divine  a  thing  a  wo- 
man may  be  made"  by  nature;  in 
those  of  the  mediocre  or  the  small, 
we  see  how  terrestrial  a  thing  she 
may  be  made  by  art.  Pope  was 
something  more  than  a  mediocre 
poet ;  but  though  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock  be  a  fine  fancy,  who  was  ever 
seriously  in  love  with  Belinda  ?  Dr 
Thomas  Browne  was  something  less 
than  a  mediocre  poet,  and  who  has 
not  yawned  till  he  could  yawn  no 
more,  in  reading  the  "  Paradise  of  Co- 
quettes ?"  The  Professor  made  his 
appeal  to  posterity,  as  the  "  Poet  of 
Woman ;"  and  with  a  fan  in  his  hand  ! 
The  passion  of  love  always  appeared 
to  him  in  the  light  of  a  flirtation.  The 
lover's  heart  was  broken  at  a  ball,  to 
find  his  mistress  engaged  three  set- 
deep  to  light  or  heavy  .dragoons. 
Bows  and  curtsies  of  stately  cere- 
monial, relieved  by  furtive  squeezes 
of  the  gloved  hand,  and  whispers  ad- 
dressed as  much  to  the  ear-rings  as 
the  ears,indistinctly  heard  in  the  noise 
of  fiddles,  shew  how  woman  may  be 
woo'd  and  won  in  a  fashionable 
assembly  ;  and  the  successful  suitor 
is  seen  strutting  in  black  satin 


breeches  and  white  silk  stockings  by 
the  side  of  his  betrothed,  as  they 
keep  pointing  their  toes  in  unison 
towards  a  sedan  chair.  The  sight  is 
pleasant  enough ;  but  a  shrewd  sus- 
picion arises  that  they— will  split 
upon  settlement,1}. 

'Twas  a  noble  ambition,  no  doubt, 
to  desire  to  be  esteemed  all  over  the 
wide  world,  "  the  Poet  of  Woman." 
For  woman  has  had  many  poets. 
Wherever  there  has  been  mischief 
there  has  been  woman ;  and  mis- 
chief is  the  soul  of  poetry.  But  for 
Helen,  Troy  had  not  been  taken;  but 
for  Eve,  there  had  been  no  Paradise 
Lost 

The  poet  of  woman  must  likewise, 
it  is  plain,  be  the  poet  of  man — other- 
wise he  is  but  the  bardling  of  bache- 
lors. Love  is  the  fountain  of  all  the 
passions.  Bear  witness, — Envy,  Jea- 
lousy, Hatred,  and  Revenge.  Shut 
your  eyes  and  think  for  a  single  mo- 
ment on  any  subject — even  the  na- 
tional debt — and  your  mind's  ear 
catches  the  rustle  of  a  gown  or  a 
petticoat.  All  men,  then,  are  more 
or  less  poets  of  women.  Every  heart 
that  beats  in  a  virile  breast  is  scrib- 
bled over  with  love-verses,  original 
or  fugitive.  Not  a  male  come  to  the 
age  of  puberty  who  has  not  his  bo- 
som-album. 

Suppose,  then,  that  in  a  Series  of 
Seventy  Articles  we  take  a  survey  of 
the  Heart's-delights  of  the  famous 
poets, — and  that  we  begin  with  Shak- 
speare's.  We  shall  follow  a  fair 
guide — a  lady  who  has  immortalized 
her  name  by  a  work  that  shews 
throughout  the  finest  insight  into  all 
the  virtues  of  her  sex,  and  the  fullest 
and  clearest  conception  of  all  the 
female  characters  Shakspeare  has 
sketched  in  a  few  lines  of  light,  or 
painted  in  perfect  portraiture  with 
all  the  hues  of  heaven. 


*  Characteristics  of  Women,   Moral,  Poetical,  and  Historical ;    with  fifty  vignette 
etchings.      By  TMrs  Jameson.      In  two  volumes.   London;   Saunders  and  Otley. 


1333.] 


Characters  Of  the  Affections. 


And  first,— Characters  of  the  Af- 
fections. Hermione,  Desdemona, 
Imogen,  Cordelia! 

The  Affections.!  What  are  they? 
Ask  your  heart,  when,  sad  or  glad,  it 
i  s  touched  by  thoughts  of  father, 
r  lother,  brother,  sister,  friend,  lover, 
a  nd  in  its  sadness  or  gladness  still 
f  >els  a  serenity  as  if  belonging  to 
tike  untroubleable  regions  of  the 
skUes.  Well  does  our  lady-guide  say, 
tha-t  "  characters  in  which  the  affec- 
tion s  and  the  moral  qualities  predo- 
inin^ate  over  fancy,  and  all  that  bears 
the  ihame  of  passion,  are  not,  when 
we  .meet  with  them  in  real  life,  the 
mos  t  striking  and  interesting,  nor  the 
easiest  to  be  understood  and  appre- 
ciated; but  they  are  those  on  which, 
3  a  th  e  long  run,  we  repose  with  in- 
creasing  confidence,  and  ever  new 
deligh*."  Beautiful  and  true.  Fancy 
oomes  and  goes  like  the  rainbow — 
passion  like  the  storm — transiently 
beautifying  or  subliming  the  clouds 
of  life.  But  affection  is  a  permanent 
light,  wi  thout  distinction  of  night  and 
day,  which  once  risen  never  sets,  and 
always  .in  mild  meridian, 

"  Seeming  immortal  in  its  depth  of  rest!" 

Happy  itsolf  in  the  consciousness  of 
its  endurance  in  spite  of  all  earthly 
ills,  it  is  happiness  to  behold  it,  for 
the  spirit's  deepest  desire  is  for 
peace. 

Yet  such  characters,  Mrs  Jameson 
observes,  "  art  not  easily  exhibited 
in  the  colours  «f  poetry.     The  less 
there  is  of  marked  impression  or  vi- 
vid colour  in  a  countenance  or  cha- 
racter, the  more  difficult  to  delineate 
it  in  such  a  manner  asr  to  captivate ' 
interest  us ;  but  when  vhat  is  do 
and  done  to  perfection,  it  is  the 
racle  of  poetry  in  painting, \r-  yi 
painting  in  poetry.     Only  Ra&^c 
and  Corregio  have  achieved  Ifyp 
case,   and   only  Shakspeare   " 
other."  Perhaps  this  is  entire  • 
yet  we  are  unwilling  to  thr 
would  rather  believe  that  tfu 
comparatively,  so  few  delightful  cha- 
racters of  this  kind  in  pottery  and 
painting,  because  poets  and  paint u  , 
have  so  seldom  tried  to  delineate 
them,  than  that  they  are  in  them- 
selves so  very  difficult  of  delineation 
in  the  hands  of  genius.     One  might 
almost  be  tempted  to  think,  that,  once 
conceived  and  felt,  they  would  draw 


125 

themselves,  and  serenely  speak  or 
smile  in  gentlest  fiction. 

Raffaelle  and  Corregio  excelled 
all  other  painters  in  such  delinea- 
tions; but  have  not  other  painters 
wrought  in  a  congenial  spirit — and 
sculptors  too — immortalizing  the  spi- 
ritual beauty  of  the  affections  ?  And 
though  Shakspeare  and  Spenser  have 
surpassed  all  other  mortal  men  in 
such  pictures  of  the  affections,  many 
hundred  visions  maybe  seen  gliding 
through  the  moonlight  umbrage  of 
poetry,  almost  perfect  in  their  peace- 
ful loveliness,  nor  unregarded  with 
entire  love. 

Yet  Mrs  Jameson  expresses  her- 
self so  finely  on  this  point,  that  we 
must  quote  her  words.  "  When,  by 
the  presence  or  the  agency  of  some 

feelings  and  affections  are  upturned 
from  the  depths  of  the  heart,  anil 
flung  to  the  surface,  the  painter  or 
the  poet  has  but  to  watch  the  work- 
ings of  the  passions,  thus  in  a  man- 
ner made  visible,  and  transfer  them 
to  his  page  or  his  canvass,  in  colours 
more  or  less  vigorous;  but  when  all 
is  calm  without  and  around,  to  dive 
into  the  profoundest  abysses  of  cha- 
racter — trace  the  affections  where 
they  lie    hidden,    like    the   ocean- 
springs — wind  into  the  most  intri- 
cate convolutions  of  the  heart — pa- 
tiently   unravel  its    most    delicate 
fibres,  and  in  a  few  peaceful  touches 
place  before  us  the  distinct  and  visi- 
ble result, — to   do    this  demanded 
power  of  another  and  a  rarer  kind.'* 
Eloquently  and  nobly  spoken ;  but 
is  this  indeed  the  truth  ?  Is  it  easier 
to   describe  storm   than  stillness — 
-thquake  and  eclipse  than  the  floor 
•lament  of  the  gentle  spring  ? 
Difficult — and  perhaps  to 
you  must  be  able — 
veil  to  do  the 

.  otftfir ;  or  if  that  be  going  too  far,  to 
"feerboth  equally,  and  each  more  in- 
tensely from  the  power  of  contract, 
liie-  worki  is  are 

visible,  but  the  painter  or  the  poet 
ve  suspect,  much  more  to^do 
.o  transfer  them  to 
his  page  or  canva**,  in  colours  more 
or  less^  vigorous ;"  to  sefev?*.  to  seize, 
to  grasp,  to  compound,  to  scatter- 
to  make  one  multitude 
convulse  the  whole  being  of  the  soul 
—to  shew  by  one  huge  heave,  that 
the  sea  of  sorrow  is  te-rcpested,  and 


126  Characteristics  of  Women. 

far  beyond  our  sight  tumbling  with 
billows. 

But  let  us  not  keep  our  readers  any 
longer  from  Mrs  Jameson's  admira- 
ble expositions  of  Shakspeare's "  Cha- 
racters of  the  Affections."  She  fine- 
ly and  truly  says,  that  "  Imogen,  Des- 
demona,  and  Hermione,  are  three 
women  placed  in  situations  nearly 
similar,  and  equally  endowed  with  all 
the  qualities  which  can  render  that 
situation  striking  and  interesting. 
They  are  all  gentle,  beautiful,  and 
innocent;  all  are  models  of  conjugal 
submission,  truth,  and  tenderness; 
and  all  are  victims  of  the  unfounded 
jealousy  of  their  husbands.  So  far 
the  parallel  is  close,  but  here  the  re- 
semblance ceases  ;  the  circumstances 
of  each  situation  are  varied  with 
wonderful  skill,  and  the  characters, 
which  are  as  different  as  it  is  possi- 
ble to  imagine,  conceived  and  discri- 
minated with  a  power  of  truth  and 
a  delicacy  of  feeling  yet  more  asto- 
nishing. Critically  speaking,  the 
character  of  Hermione  is  the  most 
simple  in  point  of  dramatic  effect — 
that  of  Imogen  the  most  varied  and 
complex.  Hermione  is  most  distin- 
guished by  her  magnanimity  and  her 
fortitude,  Desdemona  by  her  gentle- 
ness and  refined  grace,  while  Imogen 
combines  all  the  best  qualities  of 
both,  with  others  which  they  do  not 
possess;  consequently  she  is,  as  a 
character,  superior  to  either ;  consi- 
dered as  women,  I  suppose  the  pre- 
ference would  depend  on  individual 
taste." 

Hermione  is  "  a  queen,  a  matron, 
and  a  mother ;"  and  all  at  once,  in  the 
midst  of  all  those  dignities  and  sanc- 
tities, her  husband,  Leontes,  on  slight 
grounds,  believes  her  guilty  of  infi- 
elity  with  his  friend,  Polixenes. 
She  is  thrown  into  a  dungeon,  brought 
to  trial,  defends  herself  nobly,  and  is 
pronounced  innocent  by  the  oracle 
— swoons  away  with  grief — is  sup- 
posed dead — and  after  many  v^rs 
is  reconciled  to  her  husband.  Such, 
in  few  words,  is  the  dramatic  situa- 
tion. The  character  of  Hermione 
exhibits,  says  Mrs  Jameson,  "dignity 
without  prifi«,,love  without  passion, 
and  teuderness  without  weakness." 
It  rioes  so  indeed ;  and  never  did  cri- 
tic speak  more  truth  in  fewer  words. 


.ie  one  of 


m 

quired  perhaps 
effort  of  geniuSj 
a  Miranda,  or  a 
delineate  such  i 
form ;  to  develoj 
of  action  and  di 
description;  to  ] 
and  serious    bt 
dignity,  and  at 
strongest  hold 
our  imagination 
calm,  produce  t^ 
the  most  vivid  ir 
ternal  power  :— • 
the  character  of 
speare's  master 
"  Hermione  i 
mother  :   she  is 
royally  descend* 
a  grand  and  grat-t  j 
unforced,    yet  ((: 
are  in  all  her  d 
word  she  utters. 
racters,  of  whoi 

bially,  that  «  stil  ,  run  dee 

passions  are  np*" 

settled  mind  the  plea- 

sure, love  or  r  re    like  the 

springs  that  feet-  (h&  mount: 
penetrable,  unfi 
ible." 

Our  attention  is  then  direct 
the    many   lit  dies,    i 

over  the  Play,  v  1-  •  to  us 

part  of  the  cl    ractfr  of*  Hermione, 
through  the  i 
produces  on  a 
with  the  migh 
surpassing  beauty— 

"  -ousy 

Is  for  a  preciou  she  is  ran, 

Must  it  be  grea 

<f  If  one  by  one    ou  wedded  all  the  worlc!, 
Or  from  the  'J- 

good 

To  mafr*  a  perj        •  he  youklU'd 

Woul^  be  unparalleled." 
"  I  might  have  iook'd  upon  my  queen's 

full  eyes, 
Have  taken  treasures  from  her 


More  rich  for  • 

All  have  p< 
goodness  and 
who  had  lain 
her  bosom. 


her 


"To  conceive  a  character,  in  which 
there  enters  so  much  ofthe  negative;  re* 


I  dare  my  life  lay  Uo^,.,  M.^  ; 

Please  you  t*  accept  it,  that  the  queen  is 

spotless 
I*  the  eyes  of  heaven,  and  to  you. 


Ib33.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections* 


127 


Every  inch  of  woman  in  the  world, 
Ay,  every  dram  of  woman's  flesh,  is  false 
Ii  she  be  so." 

And  when  she  Is  spoken  of,  in  what 
language  of  boundless  respect  and 
devotion !  "  Most  sacred  lady,"  "  So- 
vereign," "  Dread  Mistress."  With 
what  feeling  does  she  receive  the  first 
intimation  of  her  husband's  jealous 
s  ispicions  ?  "  with  incredulous  asto- 
nishment." 

"  It  is  not  that,  like  Desdemona,  she 
does  not,  or  cannot  understand  ;  but  she 
will  not.  When  he  accuses  her  more 
plainly,  she  replies  with  a  calm  dignity— 

*  Should  a  villain  say  so — 
1  he  most  replenished  villain  in  the  world— 
F  e  were  as  much  more  villain ;  you,  my  lord^ 
I»o  but  mistake.' 

This  characteristic  composure  of  temper 
never  forsakes  her;  and  yet  it  is  so  deli- 
neated that  the  impression  is  that  of 
grandeur,  and  never  borders  upon  pride 
or  coldness  :  it  is  the  fortitude  of  a  gentle 
but  a  strong  mind,  conscious  of  its  own 
innocence.  Nothing  can  be  more  affect- 
ing than  her  calm  reply  to  Leontes,  who, 
i  i  his  jealous  rage,  heaps  insult  upon  in- 
sult, and  accuses  her  before  her  own  at- 
tendants, as  no  better  'than  one  of  those 
to  whom  the  vulgar  give  bold  titles.' 

'  How  will  this  grieve  you, 
1  Vhen  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge 
'Chat  you  have  thus  published  me  I -Gentle,  my 

lord, 

You  scarce  can  right  me  thoroughly  then, 
To  say  you  did  mistake.' 

"  Her  mild  dignity  and  saint-like  pa- 
tience, combined  as  they  are  with  the 
strongest  sense  of  the  cruel  injustice  of 
her  husband,  thrill  us  with  admiration  as 
well  as  pity ;  and  we  cannot  but  see  and 
feel  that  for  Hermione  to  give  way  to 
;ears  and  feminine  complaints  under  such 
i  blow,  would  be  quite  incompatible  with 
the  character.  Thus  she  says  of  herself, 
is  she  is  led  to  prison  : 

'  There's  some  ill  planet  reigns : 
I  must  be  patient  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favourable.  Good,  my  lords, 
I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  se^ 
Commonly  are ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew, 
Perchance,  shall  dry  your  pities ;  but  I  have 
That  honourable  grief  lodged  here,  that  burns 
Worse  thantears  drown.  Beseech  you  all,  my  lords, 
With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me ;  and  so 
The  king's  will  be  performed !' 

"  When  she  is  brought  to  trial  for  sup- 
posed crimes,  called  on  to  defend  herself, 
'  standing  to  prate  and  talk  for  life  and 
honour,'  before  who  please  to  come  and 
hear,  the  sense  of  her  ignominious  situa- 
tion—all its  shame  and  all  its  horror  press 
upon  her,  and  would  even  crush  her  mag- 
nanimous spirit,  but  for  the  consciousness 
of  her  own  worth  and  innocence,  and 


the  necessity  that  exists  for  asserting  and 

defending  both. 

'  If  powers  divine 

Behold  our  human  actions,  (as  they  do,) 
1  doubt  not,  then,  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience. 

For  life,  I  prize  it 
As  I  Aveigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare.    For 

honour — 

'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine, 
And  only  that  I  stand  for.' 

"  Her  earnest,  eloquent  justification  of 
herself,  and  her  lofty  sense  of  female  ho- 
nour, are  rendered  more  affecting  and  im- 
pressive by  that  chilling  despair,  that  con- 
tempt for  a  life  which  has  been  made  bit- 
ter to  her  through  unkindness,  which  is 
betrayed  in  every  word  of  her  speech, 
though  so  calmly  characteristic.  When 
she  enumerates  the  unmerited  insults 
which  have  been  heaped  upon  her,  it  is 
without  asperity  or  reproach,  yet  in  a  tone 
which  shows  how  completely  the  iron  has 
entered  her  soul.  Thus,  when  Leontes 
threatens  her  with  death  : 

'  Sir,  spare  your  threats : 
The  bug  which  you  would  fright  me  with  I  seek. 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity  : 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  fife,  your  favour, 
I  do  gi  ve  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone, 
But  know  not  how  it  went.    My  second  joy, 
And  first  fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 
I  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious.    My  third  com. 

fort, 

Star r'd  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast, 
The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth, 
Haled  out  to  murder.     Myself  on  every  post 
Proclaitn'd  a  strumpet  j  with  immodest  hatred, 
The  childbed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 
To  women  of  all  fashion.    Lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i'  the  open  air,  before 
I  have  got  strength  of  limit.    Now,  my  liege, 
Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive, 
That  1  should  fear  to  die  ?    Therefore,  proceed. 
But  yet  hear  this  ;  mistake  me  not.    No!  life, 
I  prize  it  not  a  straw  : — but  for  mine  honour, 
(Which  I  would  free,)  if  I  shall  be  condemn'd 
Upon  surmises ;  all  proofs  sleeping  else, 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake ;  1  tell  you, 
'Tis  rigour,  and  not  law.' 

On  one  point  the  character  of  Her- 
mione has  been  considered  open  to 
criticism ;  and  it  is  well  with  any 
character,  either  in  fiction  or  real 
life,  to  be  open  to  criticism  but  on 
one  point.  Open  to  criticism !  Shut, 
as  you  suppose,  all  doors  in  a  critic's 
face,  and  the  poor  prying  creature 
may  perhaps  find  one  off  the  latch, 
or  slightly  ajar,  or  but  loosely  lock- 
ed, or  weakly  bolted  ;  and  in  he  will 
prance,  like  a  savage  donkey,  to  bray 
among  Christians.  How,  it  is  asked, 
could  Hermione  have  obstinately  en- 
acted the  recluse  for  sixteen  years, 
nor  been  melted  by  her  husband's 
repentance  ?  Will  such  critics  be 
pleased  to  inform  us  how  long  she 
should  have  stood  out  ?  Four  years  ? 
six  ?  eight  ?  Shakspeare  chose  six- 
teen j  and  be  was  right  iu  so  choos* 


1'28  Characteristics  of  Women. 

ing,  had  it  been  for  no  other  reason 
than  to  bring  to  her  mother's  arms 
the  prettiest  of  pastorals,  Perdita. 
But  he  had  other  reasons  for  shew- 
ing; how 


"  Religion  hallowed  that  severe  sojourn." 

And  here  they  are,  "  in  thoughts 
that  breathe  and  words  that  burn." 
There  is  no  such  philosophical  criti- 
cism in  Schlegel,  nor  yet— so  far  as 
we  know — in  Goethe.  Woman  alone 
knows  the  heart  of  woman. 


No  I.  [Jan. 

with  which  Shakspeare  has  portrayed 
him,  be  considered  as  an  excuse.  Her- 
mione  has  been  openly  insulted :  he  to 
whom  she  gave  herself,  her  heart,  her 
soul,  has  stooped  to  the  weakness  and 
baseness  of  suspicion,  has  doubted  her 
truth,  has  wronged  her  love,  has  sunk  in 
her  esteem,  and  forfeited  her  confidence  : 
she  has  been  branded  with  vile  names ; 
her  son,  her  eldest  hope,  is  dead — dead 
through  the  false  accusation  which  has 
stuck  infamy  on  his  mother's  name;  and 
her  innocent  babe,  stained  with  illegiti- 
macy, disowned  and  rejected,  has  heen 
exposed  to  a  cruel  deatji.  Can  we  be- 
lieve that  the  mere  tardy  acknowledge- 
ment of  her  innocence  could  make  amends 
for  wrongs  and  agonies  such  as  these  ?  or 
heal  a  heart  which  must  have  bled  in- 


"  I  have  heard  it  remarked,  that  when 
she  secludes  herself  from  the  world  for 
sixteen  years,  during  which  time  she  is 
mourned  as  dead  by  her  repentant  hus- 
band, and  is  not  won  to  relent  from  her 
resolve  by  his  sorrow,  his  remorse,  his  wardly,  consumed  by  that  untold  grief, 
constancy  to  her  memory;  such  conduct,  '* which  burns  worse  than  tears  drown  ?' 
argues  the  critic,  is  unfeeling  as  it  is  in-  Keeping  in  view  the  peculiar  character 
conceivable  in  a  tender  and  virtuous  wo-  of  Hermione,  such  as  she  is  delineated,  is 
man.  Would  Imogen  have  done  so,  who  she  one  either  to  forgive  hastily  or  forget 
is  so  generously  ready  to  grant  a  pardon  nn\n\r\v  ">  am\  HI/MI^II  *v>a  «r.;/»K«-  :~  i. — 


before  it  be  asked?  or  Desdemona,  who 
does  not  forgive  because  she  cannot  even 
resent?  No,  assuredly  ;  but  this  is  only 
another  proof  of  the  wonderful  delicacy 
and  consistency  with  which  Shakspeare 
has  discriminated  the  characters  of  all 
three.  The  incident  of  Hermione's  sup- 
posed death  and  concealment  for  sixteen 
years,  is  not  indeed  very  probable  in  it- 
self, nor  very  likely  to  occur  in  every- day 
life.  But  besides  all  the  probability  ne- 
cessary for  the  purposes  of  poetry,  it  has 
all  the  likelihood  it  can  derive  from  the 
peculiar  character  of  Hermione,  who  is 
precisely  the  woman  who  could  and  would 
have  acted  in  this  manner.  In  such  a 
mind  as  hers,  the  sense  of  a  cruel  injury, 
inflicted  by  one  she  had  loved  and  trusted, 
without  awakening  any  violent  anger,  or 
any  desire  of  vengeance,  would  sink  deep 
— almost  incurably  and  lastingly  deep. 
So  far  she  is  most  unlike  either  Imogen 
or  Desdemona,  who  are  portrayed  as 
much  more  flexible  in  temper ;  but  then 
the  circumstances  under  which  she  is 
wronged  are  very  different,  and  far  more 
unpardonable.  The  self-created,  frantic 
jealousy  of  Leontes  is  very  distinct  from 
that  of  Othello,  writhing  under  the  arts 
of  lago ;  or  that  of  Posthumus,  whose 
understanding  has  been  cheated  by  the 
most  damning  evidence  of  his  wife's  infi- 
delity. The  jealousy  which  in  Othello 
and  Posthumus  is  an  error  of  judgment, 
in  Leontes  is  a  vice  of  the  blood :  he 
suspects  without  cause,  condemns  with- 
out proof;  he  is  without  excuse, — unless 
the  mixture  of  pride,  passion,  and  imagi- 
nation, and  the  predisposition  to  jealousy 


quickly?  and  though  she  might,  in  her 
solitude,  mourn  over  her  repentant  hus- 
band, would  his  repentance  suffice  to  re- 
store him  at  once  to  his  place  in  her 
heart  ?  to  efface  from  her  strong  and  re- 
flecting mind  the  recollection  of  his  mi- 
serable weakness  ?  or  can  we  fancy  this 
high-souled  woman — leftchildless  through 
the  injury  which  has  been  inflicted  on 
her,  widowed  in  heart  by  the  unworthi- 
ness  of  him  she  loved,  a  spectacle  of 
grief  to  all — to  her  husband  a  conti- 
nual reproach  and  humiliation — walking 
through  the  parade  of  royalty  in  the  court 
which   had   witnessed  her  anguish,  her 
shame,  her  degradation,  and  her  despair? 
Methinks  that  the  want  of  feeling,  na- 
ture, delicacy,  and  consistency,  would  lie 
in  such  an  exhibition  as  this.    In  a  mind 
like  Hermione'*,  where  the  strength  of 
feeling  is  founded  in  the  power  of  thought, 
and  where  there  is  little  of  impulse  or 
imagination, — «  the  depth,  but  not  the 
tumult  of  the  soul,' — there  are  but  two 
influences  which  predominate  over  the 
will, — time  and  religion.    And  what  then 
remained,  but  that,  wounded  in  heart  arid 
spirit,  she  should  retire  from  the  world  ? 
— not  to  brood  over  her  wrong?,  but  to 
study  forgiveness,  and  wait  the  fulfilment 
of  the  oracle  which  had  promised  the  ter- 
mination of  her  sorrows.    Thus  a  prema- 
ture reconciliation  would  not  only  have 
been  painfully  inconsistent  with  the  cha- 
racter, it  would  also  have  deprived  us  of 
that  most  beautiful  scene,  in  which  Hermi- 
one isdiscovered  to  herhusbandas  the  sta- 
tue or  image  of  herself.  And  here  we  have 
another  instance  of  that  admirable  art, 
with  which  the  dramatic  character  is  fitted 


1883.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections* 


to  the  circumstances  in  which  it  is  placed  : 
that  perfect  command  over  her  own  feel- 
ing?, that  complete  self-possession  neces- 
sary to  this  extraordinary  situation,  is  con- 
sistent with  all  that  we  imagine  of  Hermi- 
om; ;  in  any  other  woman  it  would  be  so 
incredible  as  to  shock  all  our  ideas  of  pro- 
bability." 

The  same  critics  who  found  fault 
with  Hermione  for  her  obstinate  and 
sullen  seclusion  of  sixteen  years, 
hare  found  a  stumbflngblock  in  the 
Living  Statue.  The  scene  is  extrava- 
gant, absurd,  unnatural,  incredible ; 
ani  so  it  is  to  critics  without  feeling, 
passion,  fancy,  imagination,  to  all  of 
wliich  that  wondrous  scene  appeals, 
and  over  all  of  which  it  triumphs. 
The  delusion  is  like  reality,  and  the 
reality  like  delusion,  and  in  delight 
they  both  are  dreadful.  The  sixteen 
years  are  swallowed  up  in  that  one 
moment.  Never  was  the  passion  of 
joy  so  tragic.  Had  Leontes  been  a 
nobler  being,  it  had  proved  mortal. 
But  our  words  are  tame — here  are 
paragraphs  poured  forth  in  true  in- 
spiration. 

*•'  This  scene,  then,  is  not  only  one  ofche 
most  picturesque  and  striking  instances  of 
stJge  effect  to  be  found  in  the  ancient  or 
modern  drama,  but,  by  the  skilful  manner 
in  which  it  is  prepared,  it  has,  wonderful 
as  it  appears,  all  the  merit  of  consistency 
and  truth.  The  grief,  the  love,  the  re- 
morse, and  impatience  of  Leontes,  are 
finely  contrasted  with  the  astonishment 
and  admiration  of  Perdita,  who,  gazing  on 
tie  figure  of  her  mother  like  one  entran- 
ced, looks  as  if  she  were  also  turned  to 
nr  arble.  There  is  here  one  little  instance 
o  tender  remembrance  in  Leontes,  which 
a  Ids  to  the  charming  impression  of  Her- 
mione's  character. 

'  Chide  me,  dear  stone  !  that  I  may  say  indeed 
Thou  art  Hermione ;  or  rather  thou  art  she 
1 1  thy  not  chiding,  for  she  was  as  tender 
A  5  infancy  and  grace. 

Thus  she  stood, 

E  ven  with  such  life  of  majesty,  (warm  life, 
A  s  now  it  coldly  stands,)  when  first  I  woo'd  her  !' 

The  effect  produced  on  the  (different  per- 
sons of  the  drama  by  this  living  statue — 
and  effect  which  at  the  same  moment  is, 
and  is  not  illusion — the  manner  in  which 
fie  feelings  of  the  spectators  become  en- 
tangled between  the  conviction  of  death 
end  the  impression  of  life,  the  idea  of  a  de- 
ception and  the  feeling  of  a  reality,  and  the 
<  xquisite  colouring^of  poetry  and  touches 
of  natural  feeling  with  which  the  whole 
is  wrought  up, — till  wonder,  expectation, 
und  intense  pleasure,  hold  our  pulse  and 
VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCJII. 


129 

breath    suspended  on    the  event, — are 
quite  inimitable. 
"  The  expressions  used  here  by  Leontes, 

'  Thus  she  stood, 

Even  with  such  life  of  majesty — warm  life. 
The  fixture  of  her  eye  has  motion  in'tj 
And  we  are  mock'd  with  art !' 

And  by  Polixenes, 

«  The  ^ery  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip,' 
appear  strangely  applied  to  a  statue,  such 
as  we  usually  imagine  it — of  the  cold 
colourless  marble  ;  but  it  is  evident  that 
in  this  scene  Hermione  personates  one  of 
those  images  or  effigies,  such  as  we  may 
see  in  the  old  gothic  cathedrals,  in  which 
the  stone,  or  marble,  was  coloured  after 
nature.  I  remember  coming  suddenly 
upon  one  of  these  effigies,  either  at  Basle 
or  at  Fribourg,  which  made  me  start :  the 
figure  was  large  as  life ;  the  drapery  of 
crimson,  powdered  with  stars  of  gold ;  the 
face,  and  eyes,  and  hair  tinted  after  the  life, 
though  faded  by  time ;  it  stood  in  agothic 
niche,  over  a  tomb,  as  I  think,  and  in  a 
kind  of  dim  uncertain  light.  It  would  have 
been  very  easy  for  a  living  person  to  re- 
present such  an  effigy,  particularly  if  it  had 
been  painted  by  that  'rare  Italian  master, 
Julio  Romano,'  who,  as  we  are  inform- 
ed, was  the  reputed  author  of  this  wonder- 
ful statue. 

"  The  moment  when  Hermione  descends 
from  her  pedestal  to  the  sound  of  soft 
music,  and  throws  herself  without  speak- 
ing into  her  husband's  arms,  is  one  of  in- 
expressible interest.  It  appears  to  me  that 
her  silence  during  the  whole  of  this  scene 
(except  where  she  invokes  a  blessing  on 
her  daughter's  head)  is  in  the  finest  taste 
as  a  poetical  beauty,  besides  Jbeing  an  ad- 
mirable trait  of  character.  The  misfor- 
tunes of  Hermione,  her  long  religious  se- 
el usion,  the  wonderful  and  almost  superna- 
tural part  she  had  just  enacted,  have  in- 
vested ker  with  such  a  sacred  and  awful 
charm,  that  any  words  put  into  her  mouth, 
must,  I  think,  have  injured  the  solemn  and 
profound  pathos  of  the  situation. 

"  There  are  several  among  Shak- 
speare's  characters  which  exercise  a  far 
stronger  power  over  our  feelings,  our 
fancy,  our  understanding,  than  that  of 
Hermione ;  but  not  one, — unless  perhaps 
Cordelia, — constructed  upon  so  high  and 
pure  a  principle.  It  is  the  union  of 
gentleness  with  power  which  constitutes 
the  perfection  of  mental  grace.  Thus, 
among  the  ancients,  with  whom  thegraces 
were  also  the  charities,  one  and  the 
same  word  signified  equally  strength 
and  virtue.  This  feeling,  carried  into 
the  fine  art?,  was  the  secret  of  the  an- 
tique grace— the  grace  of  repose.  The 
I 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  I. 


130 

same  eternal  nature — the  same  sense  of 
immutable  truth  and  beauty,  which  re- 
vealed  this  sublime  principle  of  art  to 
the  ancient  Greeks,  revealed  it  to  the 
genius  of  Shakspeare;  and  the  charac- 
ter of  Hermione,  in  which  we  have  the 
same  largeness  of  conception  and  delicacy 
of  execution, — the  same  effect  of  suffer- 
ing without  passion,  and  grandeur  with- 
out effort,  is  an  instance,  I  think,  that  he 
felt  within  himself,  and  by  intuition,  what 
we  study  all  our  lives  in  the  remains  of 
ancient  art.  The  calm,  regular,  classical 
beauty  of  Hermione's  character  is  the 
more  impressive  from  the  wild  and  gothic 
accompaniments  of  her  story,  and  the 
beautiful  relief  afforded  by  the  pastoral 
and  romantic  grace  which  is  thrown 
around  her  daughter  Perdita." 

The  character  of  Paulina  is  well 
understood  by  our  fair  critic,  who, 
in  several  places,  speaks  of  the  use 
Shakspeare  delighted  so  powerfully 
to  make  of  the  great  principle  of 
contrast.  She  observes,  that  it  is 
admirable  how  Hermione  and  Pau- 
lina, while  sufficiently  approximated 
to  afford  all  the  pleasure  of  contrast, 
are  never  brought  too  nearly  in  con- 
tact on  the  scene  or  in  the  dialogue. 
Only  in  the  last  scene,  when,  with 
solemnity  befitting  the  occasion, 
Paulina  wishes  the  majestic  figure  to 
"  descend,  and  be  stone  no  more," 
and  where  she  presents  her  daughter 
to  her,  "  Turn,  good  lady  !  our  Per- 
dita is  found."  To  have  don  e  other- 
wise, she  remarks,  would  have  been 
a  fault  in  taste,  and  would  have  ne- 
cessarily weakened  the  effect  of  both 
characters — either  the  serene  gran- 
deur of  Hermione  would  have  sub- 
dued and  overawed  the  fiery  spirit 
of  Paulina,  or  the  impetuous  temper 
of  the  latter  must  have  disturbed  in 
some  respect  our  impression  of  the 
calm,  majestic,  and  somewhat  melan- 
choly beauty  of  Hermione. 

Of  Perdita,  Mrs  Jameson  speaks 
in  another  part  of  her  work,  under  the 
class  of  "  Characters  of  Passion  and 
Imagination;"  but  we  cannot  resist 
the  temptation  of  introducing  here 
some  of  her  fine  sentences  concern- 
ing that  incomparable  "  union  of  the 
pastoral  and  romantic  with  the  clas- 
sical and  poetical,  as  if  a  Dryad  of 
the  woods  had  turned  shepherdess. 
The  perfections  with  which  the  poet 
has  so  lavishly  endowed  her,  sit  up- 
on her  with  a  certain  careless  and 
picturesque  grace,  '  as  though  they 


[Jan. 


had  fallen  upon  her  unawares.'  Thus 
Belphoebe,  in  the  Fairy  Queen,  issues 
from  the  flowering  forest  with  hair 
and  garments  all  besprinkled  with 
the  leaves  and  blossoms  they  had  en- 
tangled in  her  flight;  and  so  arrayed 
by  chance  and  *  heedless  hap,'  takes 
all  parts  with  '  stately  presence  and 
with  princely  port,'  most  like  to 
Perdita." 

'Tis  surely  the  loveliest  pastoral 
poem  in  the  world,  this  of  Florizel 
and  Perdita.  All  unknown  to  Her- 
mione, in  her  sad  seclusion,  has  her 
lost  child  been  leading  a  life  of  beau- 
tiful innocence  and  happiness ;  and 
the  princely  son  of  the  man  whom 
her  infatuated  husband  had  suspect- 
ed her  of  loving  too  well,  has  woo'd 
and  won  the  royal  shepherdess. 
There  is  something  infinitely  de- 
lightful in  such  an  alliance,  that 
finally  heals  and  restores,  and  brings 
all  disturbances  within  the  dominion 
of  reconciliation  and  peace. 

"  The  qualities  which  impart  to  Per- 
dita her  distinct  individuality,  are  the 
beautiful  combination  of  the  pastoral  with 
the  elegant— of  simplicity  with  elevation 
— of  spirit  with  sweetness.  The  exqui- 
site delicacy  of  the  picture  is  apparent. 
To  understand  and  appreciate  its  effective 
truth  and  nature,  we  should  place  Per- 
dita beside  some  of  the  nymphs  of  Ar- 
cadia, or  of  the  Italian  pastorals,  who, 
however  graceful  in  themselves,  when 
opposed  to  Perdita,  seem  to  melt  away 
into  mere  poetical  abstractions :  As,  in 
Spenser,  the  fair  but  fictitious  Floriinel, 
which  the  subtle  enchantress  had  moulded 
out  of  snow,  '  vermeil  tinctured,'  and 
informed  with  an  airy  spirit,  that  knew 
'  all  wiles  of  woman's  wits,'  fades  and 
dissolves  away,  when  placed  next  to  the 
real  Florimel,  in  her  warm,  breathing, 
human,  loveliness. 

"  Perdita  does  not  appear  till  the 
fourth  act,  and  the  whole  of  the  charac- 
ter is  developed  in  the  course  of  a  single 
scene,  (the  third,)  with  a  completeness 
of  effect  which  leaves  nothing  to  be  re- 
quired— nothing  to  be  supplied.  She  is 
first  introduced  in  the  dialogue  between 
herself  and  Florizel,  where  she  compares 
her  own  lowly  state  to  his  princely  rank, 
and  expresses  her  fears  of  the  issue  of 
their  unequal  attachment.  With  all  her 
timidity,  and  her  sense  of  the  distance 
which  separates  her  from  her  lover,  she 
breathes  not  a  single  word  which  could 
lead  us  to  impugn  either  her  delicacy  or 
her  dignity." 


1333.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


The  impression  of  her  perfect  beau- 
ty and  airy  elegance  of  demeanour 
--the  artless  manner  in  which  her 
innate  nobility  of  soul  shines  forth 
through  her  partial  disguise— her 
nitural  loftiness  of  spirit,  breaking 
o  it  when  she  is  menaced  and  revi- 
lt-d  by  the  king,  as  one  whom  his 
son  has  degraded  himself  by  merely 
looking  on — the  immediate  recollec- 
tion of  herself,  and  of  her  humble 
s;;ate ;  and  her  hapless  love,  so  full  of 
beauty,  tenderness,  and  nature— 
that  sense  of  truth  and  rectitude,  that 
upright  simplicity  of  mind  which 
disdains  all  crooked  and  indirect 
means,  and  would  not  stoop  for  an 
instant  to  dissemblance,  while  it  is 
mingled  with  a  noble  confidence  in 
rer  love,  and  in  her  lover — to  all 
tiese  delightful  traits  and  touches 
our  attention  is  turned  with  the 
£  nest  perception  of  the  natural  and 
poetical,  in  the  accompanying  ex- 
tracts, which  breathe  of  beauty  like 
the  groves  in  spring. 

"  This  love  of  truth,  this  conscientious- 
ness, which  forms  so  distinct  a  feature  in 
Me  character  of  Perdita,  and  mingles  with 
is  picturesque  delicacy  a  certain  firmness 
end  dignity,  is  maintained  consistently 
to  the  last.     When  the  two  lovers  fly 
together  from  Bohemia,  and  take  refuge 
in  the  court  of  Leontes,  the  real  father 
( f  Perdita,  Florizel,  presents  himself  be- 
f  jre  the  king  with  a  feigned  tale,  in  which 
he  has  been  artfully  instructed  by  the  old 
counsellor  Camillo.     During  this  scene, 
Perdita  does  not  utter  a  word.     In  the 
:  trait  in  which  they  are  placed,  she  can- 
not deny  the  story  which   Florizel  re- 
iates;  she  will  not  confirm  it.     Her  si- 
"ence,  in  spite  of  all  the   compliments 
and  greetings  of  Leontes,  has  a  peculiar 
md  characteristic  grace  ;  and  at  the  con- 
tusion of  the  scene,  when  they  are  he- 
rayed,  the  truth  bursts  from  her  as  if  in- 
itinctively,  and  she  exclaims  with  emo- 
tion, 

•  The  heavens  set  spies  upon  us— will  not  have 
Our  contract  celebrated.' 

"  After  this  scene  Perdita  says  very 
little.  The  description  of  her  grief,  while 
listening  to  the  relation  of  her  mother's 
death,  and  of  her  deportment  as  she 
stands  gazing  on  the  statue  of  Hermione, 
fixed  in  wonder,  admiration,  and  sorrow, 
as  if  she  too  were  marble — 

•  O  royal  piece ! 

There's  magic  in  thy  majesty,  which  has 
From  thy  admiring  daughter  ta'en  the  spirits. 
Standing  like  stone  beside  thee !' 


131 

are  touches  of  character  conveyed  indi- 
rectly, and  which  serve  to  give  a  more 
finished  effect  to  this  beautiful  picture." 

From  Hermione,  after  many  years 
of  sorrow  restored  to  life  and  light, 
turn  we  to  Desdemona,  after  a  few 
months'  bliss  delivered  into  the  dark- 
ness of  death  and  the  grave.  "  All 
that  can  render  sorrow  majestic  is 
gathered  around  Hermione— all  that 
can  render  misery  heart-breaking  is 
assembled  round  Desdemona!  The 
wronged  but  self-sustained  virtue 
of  Hermione  commands  our  venera- 
tion ;  the  injured  and  defenceless 
innocence  of  Desdemona  so  wrings 
the  soul,  *  that  all  for  pity  we  could 
die!'" 

Wordsworth's  fine  line  is  familiar 
to  all  ears. 

"  The  gentle  lady  married  to  the  Moor." 

Yet  Desdemona  displays  at  times, 
quoth  our  fair  critic,  "  a  transient 
energy,  arising  from  the  power  of 
affection;    but  gentleness   gives  the 
prevailing  tone  to  the  character.   So 
thought  Othello.  "  Then  of  so  gentle 
a  condition  !"      logo.    "  Aye,   too 
gentle."  Poison  presented  ina  flower! 
Yet  gentle  as  she  is — to  excess — to 
passiveness — to  non-resistance — it  is 
here  truly  said,  that  to  us  who  per- 
ceive her  character  as  a  whole,  the 
extreme  gentleness  is  portrayed  with 
such  exceeding  refinement,  that  the 
effect  never  approaches  to  feeble- 
ness.   If  it  ever  do,  Oh,  Heavens ! 
think  on  the  face  of  the  Moor  when 
madden'd  !      Desdemona  says,  that 
when  he  rolled  his  eyes,  he  was  "fa- 
tal then  ;"  so  it  would  seem  that  she 
had  seen  him  in  fits  before  he  thought 
of  smothering  her  with  pillow  and 
bolster.    Once  only  in  her  whole  life 
had  she   ever  prevaricated;  about 
the  handkerchief,  when  Othello  said, 
"there's  magic  in  the  web  of  it"   Nor 
do  we  remember  to  have  heard  the 
remark  Mrs  Jamieson  makes  on  that 
prevarication :— "  Desdemona,  whose 
soft  credulity,  whose  turn  for  the 
marvellous,  whose  susceptible  ima- 
gination   had    first     directed    her 
thoughts  and  affections  to  Othello,  is 
precisely  the  woman  to  be  frightened 
out  of  her  senses  by  such  a  tale  as 
this,  and  betrayed  by  her  fears  into 
a  momentary  tergiversation.    It  is 
most  natural  in  such  a  being,  and 
shows  us  that  even  in  the  sweetest 


Characteristics  of  Women.   No.  I. 

natures,  without  moral  energy  there 
can  be  no  completeness  and  consist- 
ency." Once  she  prevaricated,  and 
once  she  lied. 

"  Emilia.  O,  who  hath  done  this  deed  ? 

Des.    Nobody  ;  1  myself;  farewell ! 
Commend  me  to  my  kind  lord ;   O  fare- 
well !" 

Othello.  She's,  like  a  liar,  gone  to  burn- 
ing hell ! 
'Twas  I  that  kill'd  her." 


Lrte  a  liar  gone  to  burning  hell !  a 
jaundiced,  a  swarthy,  and  a  bloody 
judgment.  Was  ever  forgiveness  so 
taken  up,  before  our  very  eyes,  on 
angel  wings,  to  heaven ! 

We  would  not  for  all  the  world  say 
one  word  in  disparagement  of  Her- 
mionej  but  the  dignity  of  that 
"  Queen,  matron,  and  mother,"  ele- 
vating as  it  is,  and  most  noble,  af- 
fects us  not  so  profoundly  as  the  in- 
nocence— the  holy  ignorance  of  Des- 
demona. 

"  When  Othello  first  outrages  her  in 
a  manner  which  appears  inexplicable,  she 
seeks  and  finds  excuses  for  him.  She 
is  so  innocent,  that  not  only  she  cannot 
believe  herself  suspected,  but  she  cannot 
conceive  the  existence  of  guilt  in  others. 

*  Something,  sure,  of  state, 
Either  from  Venice,  or  some  unhatch'd  practice 
Made  demonstrable  here  in  Cyprus  to  him, 
Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit. 

'Tis  even  so— 

Nay,  we  must  think,  men  are  mot  gods, 
Nor  of  them  look  for  such  observances 
As  fit  the  bridal.' 

And  when  the  direct  accusation  of  crime 
is  flung  on  her  in  the  vilest  terms,  it 
does  not  anger  but  stun  her,  as  if  it 
transfixed  her  whole  being  :  she  attempts 
no  reply,  no  defence ;  and  reproach  or 
resistance  never  enter  her  thought; 

*  Good  friend,  go  to  him— for  by  this  light  of 

heaven 

I  know  not  how  I  lost  him  :  here  I  kneel  :— 
If  e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love, 
Either  in  discourse  of  thought  or  actual  deed ; 
Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense, 
Delighted  them  in  any  other  form ; 
Or  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever-did, 
And  ever  will,  though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggarly  divorcement,  love  him  dearly, 
Comfort  forswear  me  !  Unkindness  may  do  much, 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life, 
But  never  taint  my  love. 

"  Arid  there  is  one  stroke  of  consum- 
mate delicacy,  surprising,  when  we  re- 
member the  latitude  of  expression  pre- 
vailing in  Shakspeare's  time,  and  which 
he  allowed  to  his  other  women  general- 
ly ;  she  says,  on  recovering  fro;n  her  stu- 
pefaction— 

'  Am  I  that  name,  lago  ? 
logo.  What  name,  sweet  lady  ? 
Des.  That,  which  she  says  my  lord  did  say  I 
was. 


[Jan. 

So  completely  did  Shakspeare  enter  into 
the  angelic  refinement  of  the  character. 

"  Endued  with  that  temper  which  is 
the  origin  of  superstition  in  love  as  in 
religion, — which,  in  fact,  makes  love  it- 
self a  religion, — she  not  only  does  not 
utter  an  upbraiding,  but  nothing  that 
Othello  does  or  says,  no  outrage,  no  in- 
justice can  tear  away  the  charm  with 
which  her  imagination  had  invested  him, 
or  impair  her  faith  in  his  honour; 
'  Would  "you  had  never  seen  him !'  ex- 
claims Emilia. 


*  Des.  So  would  not  I !— my  love  doth  so  ap- 

prove  him, 

That  even  his  stubbornneis,his  checks  and  frowns, 
Have  grace  and  favour  in  them.'  " 

The  character  is  felt  rightly  by  this 
— her  most  eToquent  eulogist  of  her 
virtues — to  be  vitally  the  same  as  that 
of  Miranda.  Throughout  the  whole 
of  the  dialogue  appropriated  to  Des- 
demona,  there  is  not,  it  is  hinted,  one 
general  observation.  Words  are  with 
her  the  vehicle  of  sentiment,  and 
never  of  reflection;  just  as  they  al- 
ways are  with  the  Lady  of  the  En- 
chanted Isle,  and  with  no  other  of 
Shakspeare's  female  characters  of 
any  importance  or  interest — not  even 
Ophelia. 

"  Desdemona,  as  a  character,  comes 
nearest  to  Miranda,  both  in  herself  as  a 
woman,  and  in  the  perfect  simplicity  and 
unity  of  the  delineation  ;  the  figures  are 
differently  draped — the  proportions  are 
the  same.  There  is  the  same  modesty, 
tenderness,  and  grace;  the  same  artless 
devotion  in  the  affections,  the  same  pre- 
disposition to  wonder,  to  pity,  to  admire  ; 
the  same  almost  etherial  refinement  and 
delicacy ;  but  all  is  pure  poetic  nature 
within  Miranda  and  around  her :  Desde- 
mona is  more  associated  with  the  pal- 
pable realities  of  every-day  existence,  and, 
we  see  the  forms  and  habits  of  society 
tinting  her  language  and  deportment : 
no  two  beings  can  be  more  alike  in  cha- 
racter— nor  more  distinct  as  individuals.  * 

Othello,  beyond  all  doubt,  was  a 
blackamoor.  "  To  spells  and  mix- 
tures powerful  o'er  the  blood,"  her 
farther  simply  imputed  Desdemona's 
love,  and  lago,  with  devilish  malig- 
nity, to  another  cause,  "  aye  there's 
the  point."  But  Shakspeare  knew 
better — and  saw  how  it  was  beguiled 
into  her  bosom  by  "  disparity  of  age, 
character,  country,  complexion." 
We  who  are  admitted  into  the  se- 
cret, says  Mrs  Jameson ;  see  her 
love  rise  naturally  and  necessarily 


1833.] 

out  of  the  leading  propensities  of  her 
nature. 

'•'  At  the  period  of  the  story  a  spirit  of 
wild  adventure  had  seized  all  Europe. 
The  discovery  of  both  Indies  was  yet  re- 
cent; over  the  shores  of  the  western  he- 
misphere still  fable  arid  mystery  hung, 
with  all  their  dim  enchantments,  vision- 
ary terrors,  and  golden  promises ;  peril- 
ous expeditions  and  distant  voyages  were 
every  day  undertaken  from  hope  of  plun- 
der, or  mere  love  of  enterprise  ;  and  from 
these  the  adventurers  returned  with  tales 
of «  Antres  vast  and  desarts  wild— of  can- 
nibals that  did  each  other  eat — of  An- 
thropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads  did 
grow  beneath  their  shoulders.'  With  just 
such  stories  did  Raleigh  and  Clifford,  and 
their  followers,  return  from  the  New 
World :  and  thus  by  their  splendid  or 
fearful  exaggerations,  which  the  imperfect 
knowledge  of  those  times  could  not  re- 
fute, was  the  passion  for  the  romantic  and 
marvellous  nourished  at  home,  particu- 
larly among  the  women.  A  cavalier  of 
those  days  had  no  nearer,  no  surer  way 
to  his  mistress's  heart,  than  by  entertain- 
ing her  with  these  wondrous  narratives. 
What  was  a  general  feature  of  his  time, 
Shakspeare  seized  and  adapted  to  his  pur- 
pose with  the  most  exquisite  felicity  of 
effect.  Desdemona,  leaving  her  house- 
hold cares  in  haste,  to  hang  breathless  on 
Othello's  tales,  was  doubtless  a  picture 
from  the  life ;  and  her  inexperience  and 
her  quick  imagination  lend  it  an  added 
propriety:  then  her  compassionate  dis- 
position is  interested  by  all  the  disastrous 
chances,  hair-breadth  'scapes,  and  moving 
accidents  by  flood  and  field,  of  which  he 
has  to  tell ;  and  her  exceeding  gentleness 
and  timidity,  and  her  domestic  turn  of 
mind,  render  her  more  easily  captivated 
by  the  military  renown,  the  valour,  and 
lofty  bearing  of  the  noble  Moor — 

'  And  to  his  honours  and  his  valiant  parts 
Does  she  her  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate.' 

"  The  confession  and  the  excuse  for 
her  love  is  well  placed  in  the  mouth  of 
Desdemona,  while  the  history  of  the  rise 
of  that  love,  and  of  his  course  of  wooing, 
is,  with  the  most  graceful  propriety,  as 
far  as  she  is  concerned,  spoken  by  Othel- 
lo, and  in  her  absence.  The  last  two 
lines  summing  up  the  whole— 

'  She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd, 
And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them'— 

comprise  whole  volumes  of  sentiment  and 
metaphysics." 

#  *  *  •* 

"  I  will  only  add,  that  the  source  of  the 
pathos  throughout — of  that  pathos  which 
at  once  softens  and  deepens  the,  tragic 


Characters  oj'the  Affections, 


133 

effect — lies  in  the  character  of  Desde- 
mona. No  woman  differently  constituted 
could  have  excited  the  same  intense  and 
painful  compassion,  without  losing  some- 
thing of  that  exalted  charm,  which  invests 
her  from  beginning  to  end,  which  we  are 
apt  to  imp'ute  to  the  interest  of  situation, 
and  to  the  poetical  colouring,  but  which 
lies,  in  fact,  in  the  very  essence  of  the 
character.  Desdemona,  with  all  her  timid 
flexibility  and  soft  acquiescence,  is  not 
weak;  for  the  negative  alone  is  weak, 
and  the  mere  presence  of  goodness  and 
affection  implies  in  itself  a  species  of 
power; — power  without  consciousness, 
power  without  effort,  power  with  repose 
— that  soul  of  grace  !" 

You  have  seen  a  large  lustrous 
star,  shining  so  resplendently  that 
none  but  itself  was  regarded,  although 
many  other  fair  lights  were  around 
their  queen,  when  all  at  once  a  long 
deep  line  of  clouds,  that  had  arisen, 
you  knew  not  whence,  before  some 
strong  gust  in  the  upper  region,  has 
wholly  hidden  it,  and  brought  dark- 
ness over  all  the  heavens.  Dim  hours 
glimmer  by,  and,  lo  !  again  the  same 
luminary,  less  bright  but  not  less 
beauteous,  is  burning  in  the  zenith. 
Such  a  star  was  Hermione.  You 
have  seen  a  milder,  a  meeker  orb — 
dewy  in  its  first  rising — and  ere  long 
struggling  in  its  "innocent  bright- 
ness," through  melancholy  mists,  till 
strangled  by  a  savage  tempest.  An 
image  of  Desdemona!  And  when 
the  cloud-rack  is  driving  fast,  yet 
glimpses  of  blue  sky  are  intersper- 
sed peacefully  among  the  shifting 
congregation  of  vapours,  ever  and 
anon  an  Urn  of  Light  reappears  and 
retires,  now  with  a  mournful  and 
now  almost  with  a  joyful  beauty,  in 
its  lonely  pilgrimage  along  the  wood- 
ed ridges  of  the  mountains.  Imo- 
gen! 

Of  those  Three  Ladies,  which  is 
the  loveliest  and  the  best  ?  "  Of  all 
Shakspeare's  women,  considered  as 
individuals  rather  than  as  heroines, 
Imogen  is  the  most  perfect.  There 
is  no  female  portrait  that  can  be 
compared  to  Imogen  as  a  woman — 
none  in  which  so  great  a  variety  of 
tints  are  mingled  together  in  such 
perfect  harmony.  In  her  we  have 
all  the  fervour  of  youthful  tender- 
ness, all  the  romance  of  youthful 
beauty,  all  the  enchantment  of  ideal 
grace, — the  bloom  of  beauty,  the 
brightness  of  intellect,  and  the  dig- 


134 

nity  of  rank,  taking  a  peculiar  hue 
from  the  conjugal  character  which 
is  shed  over  all  like  a  consecration 
and  a  holy  charm."  It  is  thus  that 
this  delightful  writer  expresses  ge- 
nerally her  conception  of  a  character, 
and  then  she  proceeds  to  evolve  it, 
and  to  illustrate  it  by  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  apt  quotations. 

"  It  is  true,  that  the  conjugal  tender- 
ness of  Imogen  is  at  once  the  chief  sub- 
ject of  the  drama,  and  the  pervading  charm 
of  her  character;  but  it  is  not  true,  I 
think,  that  she  is  merely  interesting  from 
her  tenderness  and  constancy  to  her  hus- 
band. We  are  so  completely  let  into  the 
essence  of  Imogen's  nature,  that  we  feel 
as  if  we  had  known  and  loved  her  before 
she  was  married  to  Posthumus,  and 
that  her  conjugal  virtues  are  a  charm 
superadded,  like  the  colour  laid  upon  a 
beautiful  groundwork.  Neither  does  it 
appear  to  me,  that  Posthumus  is  un- 
worthy of  Imogen,  or  only  interesting  on 
Imogen's  account.  His  character,  like 
those  of  all  the  other  persons  of  the  drama, 
is  kept  subordinate  to  hers ;  but  this  could 
not  be  otherwise,  for  she  is  the  proper 
subject — the  heroine  of  the  poem.  Every 
thing  is  done  to  ennoble  Posthumus,  and 
justify  her  love  for  him  ;  and  though  we 
certainly  approve  him  more  for  her  sake 
than  for  his  own,  we  are  early  prepared 
to  view  him  with  Imogen's  eyes ;  and  not 
only  excuse,  but  sympathize  in  her  ad- 
miration of  one 

'  Who  sat  'mongst  men  like  a  descended  god.' 
*  *  *  * 

•  WhoAived  in  court,  which  it  is  rare  to  do, 
Most  praised,  most  loved : 
A  sample  to  the  youngest ;  to  the  more  mature 
A  glass  that  feated  them.' 

And  with  what  beauty  and  delicacy  is  her 
conjugal  and  matronly  character  discri- 
minated !  Her  love  for  her  husband  is  as 
deep  as  Juliet's  for  her  lover,  but  without 
any  of  that  headlong  vehemence,  that  flut- 
tering amid  hope,  fear,  and  transport — 
that  giddy  intoxication  of  heart  and  sense, 
which  belongs  to  the  novelty  of  passion, 
which  we  feel  once,  and  but  once,  in  our 
lives.  We  see  her  love  for  Posthumus 
acting  upon  her  mind  with  the  force  of 
an  habitual  feeling,  heightened  by  enthu- 
siastic passion,  and  hallowed  by  the  sense 
of  duty.  She  asserts  and  justifies  her 
affection  with  energy  indeed,  but  with  a 
a  calm  and  wife-like  dignity— 

'  Cym.   Thou  took'st  a  beggar,  wouldst  have 

made  my  throne 
A  seat  for  baseness. 

Imogen.  No,  I  rather  added  a  lustre  to  it. 

Cym.  O  thou  vile  one  ! 

Imogen,  Sir, 

It  is  your  fault  that  I  have  loved  Posthumus ; 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  I. 


[Jan. 


You  bred  him  as  my  playfellow,  and  he  is 
A  man  worth  any  woman :  overbuys  me 
Almost  the  sum  he  pays.' 

"  When  Posthumus  is  driven  into  ex- 
ile, he  comes  to  take  a  last  farewell  of  his 
wife : 

'  Imogen.  My  dearest  husband, 

I  something  fear  my  father's  wrath,  but  nothing 
(Always  reserved  my  holy  duty)  what 
His  rage  can  do  on  me.     You  must  be  gone, 
And  I  shall  here  abide  the  hourly  shot 
Of  angry  eyes :  not  comforted  to  live, 
But  that  there  is  this  jewel  in  the  world 
That  I  may  see  again. 

Posthumus.        My  queen  !  my  mistress ! 
O  lady,  weep  no  more  !  lest  I  give  cause 
To  be  suspected  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a  man.     I  will  remain 
The  loyal'st  husband  that  did  e'er  plight  troth. 
«  *  *  * 

Should  we  be  taking  leave 
As  long  a  term  as  yet  we  have  to  live, 
The  loathness  to  depart  would  grow — Adieu  ! 

Imogen.  Nay,  stay  a  little : 

Were  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself, 
Such  parting  were  too  petty. 

Look  here,  love, 

This  diamond  was  my  mother's :  take  it,  heart ; 
But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 
When  Imogen  is  dead !' 

"  Imogen,  in  whose  tenderness  there 
is  nothing  jealous  or  fantastic,  does  not 
seriously  apprehend  that  her  husband^vill 
woo  another  wife  when  she  is  dead.  It 
is  one  of  those  fond  fancies  which  women 
are  apt  to  express  in  moments  of  feeling, 
merely  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a  pro- 
testation to  the  contrary.  When  Pos- 
thumus leaves  her,  she  does  not  burst 
forth  in  eloquent  lamentation,  but  that 
silent,  stunning,  overwhelming  sorrow, 
which  renders  the  mind  insensible  to  all 
things  else,  is  represented  with  equal 
force  and  simplicity. 

'  Imogen.  There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death 
More  sharp  than  this  is. 

Cym.  O  disloyal  thing, 

That  shouldst  repair  my  youth !  thou  heapest 
A  year's  age  on  me. 

Imogen.  I  beseech  you,  sir, 

Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation ;  I 
Am  senseless  of  your  wrath ;  a  touch  more  rare 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

Cym.       Past  grace  ?  obedience  ? 

Imogen.  Past  hope,  and  in  despair — that  way 
past  grace.' " 

Imogen,  we  believe,  was  the  most 
beautiful  being  ever  beheld  by  Shak- 
speare. 

"  Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thoubecom'st  thy  bed!  fresh 

lily, 

And  whiter  than  the  sheets!  That  I 
might  touch ! 

But  kiss — one  kiss  !  Rubies  unparagoned 

How  dearly  they  do't  !  'Tis  her  breath- 
ing that 

Perfumes  the  chamber  thus.  The  flame 
o'  the  taper 

Bows  toward  her ;  and  would  underpeep 
her  lids 

To  see  the  enclos'd  lights  now  canopied 

Under  those  windows,  white  and  azure, 
laced 


1888.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tinct  ! 

*  *     *     *     On  her  left  breast, 

A  mole,  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson 

drop 
I'  th'  bottom  of  a  cowslip  ! 

*  *     *     *     Under  her  breast 
(Worthy  the  pressing)  lies  a  mole,  right 

proud 

Of  that  most  delicate  lodging — by  my  life 
I  kiss'd  it,  and  it  gave  me  present  hunger 
To  feed  again,  though  full." 

These  are  all  descriptions  of  her 
loveliness  given  by  the  licentious 
lachimo,  and  yet  how  its  purity  pu- 
rifies even  his  thoughts — how  the 
chaste  composure  of  her  sleep,  too 
holy  to  be  voluptuous,  subdues  his 
passion,  and  arrests  his  steps  in  ad- 
miration and  worship  1 

Secretly  wedded,  we  almost  for- 
get that  Imogen  is  not  a  virgin.  Mrs 
Jameson  remarks  that  the  stupid 
obstinate  malignity  of  Cloten,  and 
the  wicked  machinations  of  the 
Queen, 

"  A  father  cruel  and  step-dame  false, 
A  foolish  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady," 

justify  whatever  might  need  excuse 
in  the  conduct  of  Imogen — as  her 
concealed  marriage,  and  her  flight 
from  her  father's  court — and  serve 
to  call  out  several  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  striking  parts  of  her  cha- 
racter— particularly  that  decision  and 
vivacity  of  temper  which  in  her  har- 
monize so  beautifully  with  exceeding 
delicacy,  meekness,  and  submission. 
In  the  scene  with  her  detested  suitor 
there  is  at  first  a  careless  majesty  of 
disdain — but  when  he  dares  to  pro- 
voke her  by  reviling  the  absent  Pos- 
thumus,  her  indignation  heightens 
her  scorn,  and  her  scorn  sets  a  keen 
edge  on  her  indignation. 

And  here  we  cannot  omit  noticing 
another  of  those  fine  observations 
that  drop  so  naturally  from  the  mind 
of  feminine  genius.  "  One  thing 
more  must  be  particularly  remark- 
ed, because  it  serves  to  individualize 
the  character  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end  of  the  poem.  We  are  con- 
stantly sensible  that  Imogen,  besides 
being  a  tender  and  devoted  woman, 
is  a  princess  and  a  beauty,  at  the 
same  time  that  she  is  ever  superior 
to  her  position  and  her  external 
charms.  There  is,  for  instance,  a 
certain  airy  majesty  of  deportment 
— a  spirit  of  accustomed  command 
breaking  out  every  now  and  then— 


135 

the  dignity,  without  the  assumption 
of  rank  and  royal  birth." 

But,  in  few  words,  Posthumus  re- 
veals to  us  the  character  of  the  sin- 
less creature  he  had  in  his  delusion 
doomed  to  death. 

"  She   of  my  lawful   pleasure   me  re- 
strained, 
And  prayed  me  oft  forbearance ;   did  it 

with 

A  prudency  so  rosy,  the  sweet  view  on't 
Might  well  have  warm'd  Old  Saturn,  that 

I  thought  her 
As  chaste  as  unsunned  snow  !" 

It  was  not  to  be  thought  that  such 
a  critic  would  overlook  any  passages 
or  incidents  that  convey  strong  im- 
pression of  the  tenderness  of  Imo- 
gen for  her  husband  j  and  she  quotes 
several,  mentioning  at  the  same  time 
the  unobtrusive  simplicity  with 
which  they  are  introduced,  and  the 
perfect  unconsciousness  on  her  part, 
which  adds  to  the  effect.  Thus, 
when  she  has  lost  her  bracelet — 

"  Go,  bid  my  women  - 
Search  for  a  jewel,  that  too  casually 
Hath  left  mine  arm.     It  was  thy  mas- 
ter's :  'shrew  me 
If  I  would  lose  it  for  a  revenue 
Of  any  king  in  Europe.     I  do  think 
I  saw't  this  morning ;  confident  I  am, 
Last  night  'twas  on  mine  arm — Ihiss'dit. 
I  hope  it  has  not  gone  to  tell  my  lord 
That  I  kiss  aught  but  he." 

It  had  so"gone — and  our  know- 
ledge that  lachimo  had  stolen  it, 
makes  the  expression  of  that  hope 
not  only  natural  but  pathetic — which 
else  might  have  seemed  too  fantas- 
tical. 

When  she  opens  her  bosom  to 
meet  the  death  to  which  her  hus- 
band had  doomed  her,  she  finds  his 
letters  preserved  next  her  heart. 

"  What's  here  ? 

The  scriptures  of  the  loyal  Leonatus  ?— 
Soft,  we  'II  no  defence." 

The  baseness  and  folly  of  the  con- 
duct of  Posthumus  in  staking  his 
ring  on  the  virtue  of  his  wife,  ad- 
mits, says  our  admirable  critic,  of 
no  defence,  and  has  been  justly  cen- 
sured. But  on  proceeding  to  shew 
that  Shakspeare,  feeling  that  Pos- 
thumus needed  every  excuse,  has 
managed  the  quarelling  scene  be- 
tween him  and  lachimo  with  the 
most  admirable  skill,  she  makes  for 
him  an  excellent  defence — almost  a 


136 


Characteristics  of  Women.    Nu.  I. 


[Jan. 


justification.  ForPosthumus  is  not, 
as  in  the  original  tale,  the  challen- 
ger, but  the  challenged,  and  could 
hardly,  except  on  a  moral  principle 
much  too  refined  for  those  rude 
times,  have  declined  the  wager  with- 
out compromising  his  own  courage, 
and  his  faith  in  the  honour  of  Imo- 
gen. His  conduct,  therefore,  was 
foolish,  no  doubt;  but  it  was  not 
base — nor  was  his  order  to  Pisanio 
to  kill  her  cruel  (for  the  times); 
since  he  believed  on  damning  evi- 
dence, that  "  thy  mistress,  Pisanio, 
hath  played  the  strumpet  in  my  bed 
— the  testimonies  whereof  lie  bleed- 
ing in  me."  But  if  he  were  cruel  in 
commanding  her  to  be  killed,  re- 
member his  agony  over  the  bloody 
token  of  Imogen's  death,  in  the  field 
between  the  British  and  Roman 
camps.  Though  he  even  then  be- 
lieved her  guilty,  he  passionately 
desired  that  Pisanio  "  had  saved  the 
noble  Imogen  to  repent."  And  what 
makes  him  "  disrobe  himself  of  his 
Italian  weeds,  and  suit  himself  as 
does  a  British  peasant?"  He  answers 
— "  So  Til  die  for  thee,  O  Imogen, 
even  for  whom  my  life  is  every 
breath  a  death."  His  guilt  against  her 
still  believed  guilty,  he  longs  to 
cleanse  by  such  expiation.  There- 
fore,  honour  to  the  loyal  Leonatus. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  Imogen 
appears  more  admirable  in  the  inter- 
view with  the  false  Italian  who  at- 
tempts her  honour,  or  in  the  scene 
with  Pisanio,  near  Milford  Haven, 
when  she  is  told  she  is  to  die  for  in- 
fidelity to  her  husband's  bed. 

"  In  the  interview  between  Imogen 
and  lachimo,  he  does  not  begin  his  attack 
on  her  virtue  by  a  direct  accusation 
against  Posthumus;  but  by  dark  hints 
and  half-uttered  insinuations,  such  as  lago 
uses  to  madden  Othello,  he  intimates 
that  her  husband,  in  his  absence  from  her, 
has  betrayed  her  love  and  truth,  and  for- 
gotten her  in  the  arms  of  another.  All 
that  Imogen  says  in  this  scene  is  compri- 
sed in  a  few  lines — a  brief  question  or  a 
more  brief  remark.  The  proud  and  deli- 
cate reserve  with  which  she  veils  the  an- 
guish she  suffers,  is  inimitably  beautiful. 
The  strongest  expression  of  reproach  he 
can  draw  from  her,  is  only,  '  My  lord,  I 
fear,  hath  forgot  Britain.'  When  he  con- 
tinues in  the  same  strain,  she  exclaims  in 
an  agony,  '  Let  me  hear  no  more  !'  When 
he  urges  her  to  revenge,  she  asks,  with 
all  the  simplicity  of  virtue,, «  How  should 


I  be  revenged  ?'  And  when  lie  explains 
to  her  how  she  is  to  be  avenged,  her  sud- 
den burst  of  indignation,  and  her  imme- 
diate perception  of  his  treachery,  and  the 
motive  for  it,  are  powerfully  fine :  it  is 
riot  only  the  anger  of  a  woman  whose 
delicacy  has  been  shocked,  but  that  of  a 
princess  insulted  in  her  court. 

*  Away  !  I  do  contemn  mine  ears,  that  have 
So  long  attended  thee.  If  thou  weit  honourable, 
Thou  wouldst  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue,  not 
For  such  an  end  thou  seek'st,  as  base  as  strange. 
Thou  wrong'st  a  gentleman,  who  is  as  far 
From  thy  report,  as  thou  from  honour ;  and 
Solicit'st  here  a  lady  that  disdains 
Thee  and  the  devil  alike.' 

"  It  has  been  remarked  by  Hazlitt, 
that  (  her  readiness  to  pardon  lachimo's 
false  imputation,  and  his  designs  against 
herself,  is  a  good  lesson  to  prudes,  and 
may  show  that  where  there  is  a  real  at- 
tachment to  virtue,  there  is  no  need  of 
an  outrageous  antipathy  to  vice.' 

"  This  is  true ;  but  can  we  fail  to  per- 
ceive  that  the  instant  and  ready  forgive- 
ness of  Imogen  is  accounted  for,  and  ren- 
dered more  graceful  and  characteristic  by 
the  very  means  which  lachimo  employs 
to  win  it  ?  He  pours  forth  the  most  en- 
thusiastic praises  of  her  husband,  professes 
that  he  merely  made  this  trial  of  her  out 
of  his  exceeding  love  for  Posthumus,  and 
she  is  pacified  at  once ;  but  with  exceed- 
ing delicacy  of  feeling  she  is  represented 
as  maintaining  her  dignified  reserve  and 
her  brevity  of  speech  to  the  end  of  the 


Hazlitt's  remark  is  bad  and  false  ; 
Mrs  Jameson's  remark  is  good  and 
true  ;  Imogen  had  an  outrageous  an- 
tipathy to  vice ;  and  so  we  hope  has 
every  virtuous  woman,  when  soli- 
cited to  sin,  in  her  husband's  absence 
from  home  on  foreign  travel,  by  an 
audacious  villain  like  lachimo. 

"  We  must  also  observe  how  beauti- 
fully the  character  of  Imogen  is  distin- 
guished from  those  of  Desdemona  and 
Hermione.  When  she  is  made  acquaint- 
ed with  her  husband's  cruel  suspicions, 
we  see  in  her  deportment  neither  the 
meek  submission  of  the  former,  nor  the 
calm  resolute  dignity  of  the  latter.  The 
first  effect  produced  on  her  by  her  hus- 
band's letter  is  conveyed  to  the  fancy  by 
the  exclamation  of  Pisanio,  who  is  gazing 
on  her  as  she  reads : 

What  shall  I  need  to  draw  my  sword  ?    The  paper 
Has  cut  her  throat  already  !    No,  'tis  slander, 
Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword ! 

And  in  her  first  exclamations  we  trace 
besides  astonishment,  and  anguish,  and 
the  acute  sense  of  the  injustice  inflicted 
on  her,  a  flash  of  indignant  spirit  which 


1833.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


we  do  not  find  in  Desdemona  or  Her- 
mione. 

'  False  to  his  bed  !— what  is 't  to  be  false  ? 

To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  of  him  ? 

To  weep  'twixt  clock  and  clock  ?     If  sleep  charge 

nature, 

To  break  it  with  a  fearful  dream  of  him, 
And  cry  myself  awake  '—that's  false  to  his  bed, 
Is  it?' 

"  This  is  followed  by  that  affecting  la- 
mentation over  the  falsehood  and  injus- 
tice of  her  husband,  in  which  she  betrays 
no  atom  of  jealousy  or  wounded  self-love, 
but  observes,  in  the  extremity  of  her  an- 
guish, that  after  his  lapse  from  truth,  '  all 
good  seeming  would  be  discredited,'  and 
she  then  resigns  herself  to  his  will  with 
the  most  entire  submission." 

Imogen  has  now 

"   Forgot  that  rarest  treasure  of   her 

cheek, 

Exposing  it  unto  the  greedy  bite 
Of  common  kissing  Titan,  and  forgot 
Her  laboursome  and  dainty  trims  wherein 
She  made  great  Juro  angry," 

and  is  standing,  in  boy's  clothes,  be- 
fore the  cave  of  Belarius.  She  en- 
ters, and  how  perfectly  beautiful  the 
picture  in  the  few  following  lines ! 
Belarius  says  to  the  noble  boys, 
Guiderius  and  Averagas, 

'1  Stay  !  come  not  in ! 
But  that  it  eats  our  victuals,  I  should 

think 
Here  were  a  fairy! 

Guid.  What's  the  matter,  sir? 

Bel.  By  Jupiter,  an  angel !  or,  if  not, 
An  earthly  paragon !  Behold  divineness 
No  elder  than  a  boy ! 

Imo.  Good  masters,  harm  me  not : 
Before    I   enter'd   here,  I   called  ;  and 

thought 
To  have  begged  or  bought  what  I  have 

took :  Good  troth 
I  have  stolen  nought ;  nor  would  not, 

though  I  had  found 
Gold  strewed  o'the  floor.   There's  money 

for  my  meat : 

I  would  have  left  it  on  the  board,  so  soon 
As  I  had  made  my  meal,  and  parted 
With  prayers  for  the  provider. 

Guid.  Money,  youth? 

Arv.  All  gold  and  silver  rather  turn  to 

dirt! 

As  'tis  no  better  reckoned,  but  of  those 
Who  worship  dirty  gods ! 

Imo.  I  see  you  are  angry. 
Know,  if  you  kill  me  for  my  fault,  I  should 
Have  died,  had  I  not  made  it." 

But  what  heart  has  not  kindled  at 
the  sudden  love  and  friendship  of 
those  two  young  nobles  of  nature  for 
the  beautiful  boy  Imogen,  their  pity 


137 

for  poor  sick  Fidele,  and  their  sorrow 
for  his  supposed  death  J 

"Arv.    The  bird  is  dead, 
That  we  have  made  so  much  on  !    I  Lad 

rather 
Have  skipped  from  sixteen  years  of  age 

to  sixty, 
To  have  turned  my  leaping  time  into  a 

crutch, 
Than  have  seen  this  /" 

In  her  seeming  death  in  that  cave, 
Imogen  is  more  beautiful  even  than 
in  her  own  chamber,  when  lachimo 
describes  her  as  she  lies  in  sleep. 
All  gentlest  and  tenderest  epithets 
of  love,  and  sorrow,  and  pity,  are 
lavished  on  the  fair  Fidele,  then 
thought  to  be  a  corpse,  by  those 
young  poets,  and  princes,  and  para- 
gons of  nature.  And  when  they  have 
lightened  the  burden  of  their  sorrow, 
by  pouring  it  out  in  all  wildest  and 
most  wailing  lamentations,  yet  all 
"  beautiful  exceedingly"  in  the  ima- 
gery of  the  woods,  how  pure  and  deep 
the  moral  vein  that  sanctifies  their 
elegiac  song !  But  from  beneath*  all 
their  sweet  and  sad  bestrewments, 
she  who  is  their  sister  revives,  un- 
conscious of  having  lain  so  long  in 
that  perilous  swoon — "  Yes,  sir,  on 
Milford-haven ;  which  is  the  way?" 
The  most  touching  words  her  pale 
lips  could  have  uttered — and  we 
feel,  as  she  returns  to  sorrow  and 
suffering,  as  if  these  funereal  obse- 
quies had  been  celebrated  but  in  a 
dream ! 

Mrs  Jameson,  with  the  best  taste, 
says  but  little  of  Imogen  in  the  cave. 
She  alludes  to  the  preservation  of  her 
feminine  character  under  her  mas- 
culine attire,  her  delicacy,  her  mo- 
desty, and  her  timidity,  which  are 
all  managed  with  the  most  perfect 
consistency  and  unconscious  grace. 
Nor  must  we,  says  she,  forget  that 
her  "  neat  cookery,"  which  is  so 
prettily  eulogised  by  Guiderius — 

"  He  cut  our  roots  in  characters, 

And  sauced  our  broths,  as  Juno  had  been 

sick, 
And  he  her  dieter," 

formed  part  of  the  education  of  a 
princess  in  those  remote  times.  To 
say  more  of  such  painting  and  such 
poetry,  so  wild  as  almost  to  be,pre- 
ternatural,  and  yet  natural  all  over, 
and  of  wondrous  elevation,  she  her- 
self felt  would  be  worse  than  needless, 


138  Characteristics  of 

and  in  her  delight  and  admiration 
her  eloquent  lips  are  mute. 

But  we  must  give  the  beautiful 
conclusion  of  her  critique  :— 

"  The  catastrophe  of  this  play  has  been 
much  admired  for  the  peculiar  skill  with 
which  all  the  various  threads  of  interest 
are  gathered  together  at  last,  and  en- 
twined with  the  destiny  of  Imogen.  It 
may  be  added,  that  one  of  its  chief  beau- 
ties is  the  manner  in  which  the  character 
of  Imogen  is  not  only  preserved,  but 
rises  upon  us  to  the  conclusion  with  add- 
ed grace :  her  instantaneous  forgiveness  of 
her  husband  before  he  even  asks  it,  when 
she  flings  herself  at  once  into  his  arms, 

'  Why  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady  from 
you?' 

and  her  magnanimous  reply  to  her  father, 
when  he  tells  her,  that  by  the  discovery 
of  her  two  brothers  she  has  lost  a  king- 
dom— 

*  No— I  have  gain'd  two  worlds  by  it'— 

clothing  a  noble  sentiment  in  a  noble 
image,  give  the  finishing  touches  of  ex- 
cellence to  this  most  enchanting  portrait. 
"  On  the  whole,  Imogen  is  a  lovely  com- 
pound of  goodness,  truth,  and  affection, 
With  just  so  much  of  passion,  and  intel- 
lect, and  poetry,  as  serve  to  lend  to  the 
picture  that  power  and  glowing  richness 
of  effect  which  it  would  otherwise  have 
wanted ;  and  of  her  it  might  be  said,  if 
we  could  condescend  to  quote  from  any 
other  poet  with  Shakspeare  open  before 
us,  that  *  her  person  was  a  paradise,  and 
her  soul  the  cherub  to  guard  it.'  " 

We  come  now  to  Cordelia.  Words- 
worth says,  that  to  her 
"  The  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for 
tears." 

to  weep  over  a  flower,  would 
scarcely,  under  any  circumstances, 
except  association  with  miserable 
sufferings  of  the  heart,  be  becoming 
in  a  man  not  only  full-grown,  but 
"  somewhat  declined  into  the  vale 
of  years."  Yet  tears  flow  from  pro- 
found depths  j  and  we  wish  Words- 
worth, in  place  of  that  startling  as- 
sertion, would  express  some  of  those 
thoughts  inspired  by  the  sight  of 
"  the  meanest  flower  that  blows," 
that  are  "  too  deep  for  tears." 

They  would  probably  be  not  a  little 
lachrymose.  But  Mrs  Jameson  right- 
ly says,  that "  there  is  in  the  beauty  of 
Cordelia's  character,  an  effect  too  sa- 
cred for  words,  and  almost  *  too  deep 
for  tears;'  withinher  heart  isafathom- 


Women.    No.  I.  [Jan. 

less  well  of  purest  affection,  but  its 
waters  sleep  in  silence  and  obscurity. 
Every  thing  in  her  seems  to  lie  be- 
yond our  view,  and  affects  us  in  a 
manner  which  we  feel  rather  than 
perceive.  The  character  appears  to 
have  no  surface,  no  salient  points  on 
which  the  fancy  can  readily  seize; 
there  is  little  external  developement 
of  intellect,  less  of  passion,  and  still 
less  of  imagination."  It  is  completely 
made  out  in  the  course  of  a  few 
scenes,  and  we  are  surprised  to  find, 
that  in  these  few  scenes  there  are  ma- 
terials enough  for  twenty  heroines. 
She  then  gives  us  her  idea  of  Corde- 
lia's character : — 

"  It  appears  to  me  that  the  whole  cha- 
racter rests  upon  the  two  sublimest  prin- 
ciples of  human  action, — the  love  of  truth 
and  the  sense  of  duty ;  but  these,  when 
they  stand  alone,  (as  in  the  Antigone,) 
are  apt  to  strike  us  as  severe  and  cold. 
Shakspeare  has,  therefore,  wreathed  them 
round  with  the  dearest  attributes  of  our 
feminine  nature,  the  power  of  feeling  and 
inspiring  affection.  The  first  part  of  the 
play  shews  us  how  Cordelia  is  loved,  the 
second  part  how  she  can  love.  To  her 
father  she  is  the  object  of  a  secret  prefer- 
ence ;  his  agony  at  her  supposed  unkind- 
ness  draws  from  him  the  confession,  that 
he  had  loved  her  most,  and  '  thought  to  set 
his  rest  on  her  kind  nursery.'  Till  then  she 
had  been  '  his  best  object,  the  argument  of 
his  praise,  balm  of  his  age,  most  best,  most 
dearest!'  The  faithful  and  worthy  Kent 
is  ready  to  brave  death  or  exile  in  her  de- 
fence ;  and  afterwards  a  farther  impres- 
sion of  her  benign  sweetness  is  conveyed 
in  a  simple  and  beautiful  manner,  when 
we  are  told  that  *  since  the  lady  Cordelia 
went  to  France,  her  father's  poor  fool  had 
much  pined  away.'  We  have  her  sensi- 
bility '  when  patience  and  sorrow  strove 
which  should  express  her  goodliest;'  and 
all  her  filial  tenderness  when  she  com- 
mits her  poor  father  to  the  care  of  the 
physician,  when  she  hangs  over  him  as  he 
is  sleeping,  and  kisses  him  as  she  con- 
templates the  wreck  of  grief  and  majesty." 

We  have  then,  accompanied  by  il- 
lustrative quotations,"  unpretending 
but  admirable  remarks  on  Cordelia's 
mild  magnanimity,  as  it  shines  out 
in  her  farewell  to  her  sisters,  of 
whose  evil  qualities  she  is  perfectly 
aware, — in  the  modest  pride  with 
which  she  replies  to  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy — the  motives  with  which 
she  takes  up  arms,  "  not  for  ambition 
but  a  dear  father's  rights," — in  her 


]  833.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


calm  fortitude  and  elevation  of  soul 
arising  out  of  a  sense  of  duty,  after 
:ier  defeat,  and  lifting  her  out  of  all 
consideration  of  self,  while  she 
feels  and  fears  only  for  her  father. 
What  follows  is  more  striking,  and 
shews  how  genius  can  utter  senti- 
ments as  original  as  just,  even  on  a 
subject  that  is  felt,  if  not  understood, 
by  all  the  world. 

"  But  it  will  be  said  that  the  qualities 
here  exemplified — as  sensibility,  gentle- 
ness, magnanimity, — fortitude,  generous 
affection — are  qualities  which  belong,  in 
their  perfection,  to  others  of  Shakspeare's 
characters — to  Imogen  for  instance,  who 
unites  them  all :  and  yet  Imogen  and 
Cordelia  are  wholly  unlike  each  other. 
Even  though  we  should  reverse  their 
situations,  and  give  to  Imogen  the  filial 
devotion  of  Cordelia,  and  to  Cordelia  the s 
conjugal  virtues  of  Imogen,  still  they 
would  remain  perfectly  distinct  as  wo- 
men. What  is  it,  then,  which  lends 
to  Cordelia  that  peculiar  and  individual 
truth  of  character  which  distinguishes 
her  from  every  other  human  being? 

"  It  is  a  natural  reserve,  a  tardiness 
of  disposition  '  which  often  leaves  the 
history  unspoke  which  it  intends  to  do,' 
— a  subdued  quietness  of  deportment 
and  expression — a  veiled  shyness  thrown 
over  all  her  emotions, — her  language  and 
her  manner — making  the  outward  demon- 
stration invariably  fall  short  of  what  we 
know  to  be  the  feeling  within.  Not  only 
is  the  portrait  singularly  beautiful  and 
interesting  in  itself,  but  the  conduct  of 
Cordelia,  and  the  part  which  she  bears 
in  the  beginning  of  the  story,  is  rendered 
consistent  and  natural  by  the  wonderful 
truth  and  delicacy  with  which  this  pecu- 
liar disposition  is  sustained  throughout 
the  play." 

Many  have  written  well — ourselves 
mayhap  among  the  number  —  of 
Cordelia— none  better  than  Charles 
Lamb  and  Mrs  Jameson.  You  will 
find  our  account  of  her  character 
and  condition  in  Drake's  Life  of 
Shakspeare,  quoted  from  an  an- 
tique number  of  Maga.  The  Doc- 
tor calls  it  incomparable — but  here  is 
something  at  least  as  good— pardon 
the  harmless  vanity  of  a  simple  old 
man: — 

"  In  early  youth,  and  more  particular- 
ly if  we  are  gifted  with  a  lively  imagina- 
tion, such  a  character  as  that  of  Cordelia 
is  calculated  above  every  other  to  impress 
and  captivate  us.  Any  thing  like  noys- 


139 

tery,  any  thing  withheld  or  withdrawn 
from  our  notice,  seizes  on  our  fancy  by 
awakening  our  curiosity.  Then  we  are 
won  more  by  what  we  half  perceive  and 
half  create,  than  by  what  is  openly  ex- 
pressed and  freely  bestowed.  But  this 
feeling  is  a  part  of  our  young  life :  when 
time  and  years  have  chilled  us,  when  we 
can  no  longer  afford  to  send  our  souls 
abroad,  nor  from  our  own  superfluity  of 
life  and  sensibility  spare  the  materials  out 
of  which  we  build  a  shrine  for  our  idol — 
then  do  we  seek,  we  ask,  we  thirst  for  that 
warmth  of  frank,  confiding  tenderness, 
which  revives  in  us  the  withered  affections 
and  feelings,  buried  but  not  dead.  Then  the 
excess  of  love  is  welcomed,  not  repelled 
—it  is  gracious  to  us  as  the  sun  and  dew 
to  the  seared  and  riven  trunk,  with  its 
few  green  leaves.  Lear  is  old — "  four- 
score and  upward" — but  we  see  what  he 
has  been  in  former  days:  the  ardent  pas- 
sions of  youth  have  turned  to  rashness 
and  vvilfulness  ;  he  is  long  passed  that 
age  when  we  are  more  blessed  in  what 
we  bestow  than  in  what  we  receive. 
When  he  says  to  his  daughters  '  I  gave 
ye  all!'  we  feel  that  he  requires  all  in  re- 
turn, with  a  jealous,  restless,  exacting  af- 
fection which  defeats  its  own  wishes. 
How  many  such  are  there  in  the  world  ? 
How  many  to  sympathize  with  the  fiery, 
fond  old  man,  when  he  shrinks  as  if  pe- 
trified from  Cordelia's  quiet  calm  reply ! 

'  Lear.  Now  our  joy, 

Although  the  last  not  least— 
What  can  you  say  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters  ?    Speak  ! 

Cor.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Lear.  Nothing ! 

Cor.  Nothing. 

Lear.  Nothing  can  come  of  nothing— -speak 
again ! 

Cor.  Unhappy  that  I  am  !  I  cannot  heave 
My  heart  into  my  mouth.     I  love  your  majesty 
According  to  my  bond ;  nor  more,  nor  less.' 

"  Now  this  is  perfectly  natural.  Cor- 
delia  has  penetrated  the  vile  characters 
of  her  sisters.  Is  it  not  obvious  that  in 
proportion  as  her  own  mind  is  pure  and 
guileless,  she  must  be  disgusted  with 
their  gross  hypocrisy  and  exaggeration, 
their  empty  protestations,  their  '  plait- 
ed cunning ;'  and  would  retire  from  all 
competition  with  what  she  so  disdains 
and  abhors,— even  into  the  opposite  ex- 
treme ?  In  such  a  case,  as  she  says  her- 
self— 

«  What  should  Cordelia  do  ?— love  and  be  silent.' 

For  the  very  expressions  of  Lear— 

'  What  can  you  say  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters  ?' 

are  enough  to  strike  dumb  for  ever  a  ge- 
nerous, delicate,  but  shy  disposition,  such 
as  is  Cordelia's,  by  holding  out  a  bribe 
for  professions* 


140 

"  If  Cordelia  were  not  thus  portrayed, 
this  deliberate  coolness  would  strike  us  as 
verging  on  harshness  or  obstinacy ;  but 
it  is  beautifully  represented  as  a  certain 
modification  of  character,  the  necessary 
result  of  feelings  habitually,  if  not  natu- 
rally, repressed ;  and  through  the  whole 
play  we  trace  the  same  peculiar  and  indi- 
vidual disposition — the  same  absence  of 
all  display — the  same  sobriety  of  speech 
veiling  the  most  profound  affections — 
the  same  quiet  steadiness  of  purpose — 
the  same  shrinking  from  all  exhibition  of 
emotion. 

"  *  Tousles sentimens  naturels  ontleur 
pudeur,'  was  a  viva  voce  observation  of 
Madame  de  Stael,  when  disgusted  by  the 
sentimental  affectation  of  her  imitators. 
This  «  pudeur,'  carried  to  an  excess,  ap- 
pears to  me  the  peculiar  characteristic  of 
Cordelia.  Thus,  in  the  description  of 
her  deportment  when  she  receives  the 
letter  of  the  Earl  of  Kent,  informing  her 
of  the  cruelty  of  her  sisters  and  the 
wretched  condition  of  Lear,  we  seem  to 
have  her  before  us. 

*  Kent.  Did  your  letters  pierce  the  queen  to 
any  demonstration  of  grief  ? 

Gent.  Ay,  sir,  she  took  them,  and  read  them 

in  my  presence  : 

And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  stole  down 
Her  delicate  cheek.    It  seemed  she  was  a  queen 
Ora-  her  passion;  who,  most  rebel-like, 
Sought  to  be  king  over  her. 

Kent.  O  then  it  moved  her ! 

Gent.  Not  to  a  rage. 
Faith,  once  or  twice  she  heaved  the  name  of 

father 

Pantingly  forth,  as  if  it  pressed  her  heart, 
Cried,  Sisters !  sisters !  Shame  of  ladies — Sitters  ! 
What !  V  the  storm !   »'  the  night ! 
Let  pity  not  be  believed!  Then  she  shook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes  ; 

Then  away  she  started,  to  deal  with  grief  alone.' 

"  Here  the  last  line  —  the  image 
brought  before  us  of  Cordelia  starting 
away  from  observation,  «  to  deal  with 
grief  alone,' — is  as" exquisitely  beautiful  as 
it  is  characteristic. 

"  But  all  the  passages  hitherto  quoted 
must  yield  in  beauty  and  power  to  that 
scene,  in  which  her  poor  father  recogni- 
ses her,  and,  in  the  intervals  of  distraction, 
asks  forgiveness  of  his  wronged  child. 
The  subdued  pathos  and  simplicity  of 
Cordelia's  character,  her  quiet  but  in- 
tense feeling,  the  misery  and  humiliation 
of  the  bewildered  old  man,  are  brought 
before  us  in  so  few  words,  and  at  the  same 
time  sustained  with  such  a  deep  intui- 
tive knowledge  of  the  innermost  work- 
ings of  the  human  heart,  that  as  there  is 
nothing  surpassing  this  scene  in  Shak- 
speare  himself,  so  there  is  nothing  that 
can  be  compared  to  it  in  any  other  writer. 

'  Cor.  How  does  my  royal  lord  ?    How  fares 

your  majesty  ? 
Lear.  You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  oxit  of  the 

grave. 


Characteristics  of  Women.   No.  I. 


[Jan. 


Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss;  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead, 

Cor.  Sir,  do  you  know  me  ? 

Lear.  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know:  When  did  you 

die? 
Cor.  Still,  still  far  wide ! 

Phys.  He's  scarce  awake:  let  him  alone  awhile. 

Lear.  Where  have  I  been  ?      Where  am  I  ? 

Fair  daylight  ?— 

I  am  mightily  abused.  I  should  even  die  with  pity 
To  see  another  thus.     1  know  not  what  to  say. 
I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands.    Let's  see ; 
I  feel  this  pin  prick.    Would  I  were  assured 
Of  my  condition. 

Cor.  O  look  upon  me,  sir, 
And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me. 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Lear.  Pray,  dp  not  mock  me: 
I  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man, 
Fourscore  and  upwards ;  and  to  deal  plainly  with 

you, 

I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man, 
Yet  I  am  doubtful :  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is :  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments,  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night.  Do  not  laugh  at  me  ; 
For  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cor.  And  so  I  am,  I  am  ! 

Lear.  Be  your  tears  wet  ?  Yes,  'faith.  I  pray  you 

weep  not  : 

If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it. 
I  know  you  do  not  love  me ;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong  : 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 
Cor.  No  cause,  no  cause !' 

"  As  we  do  not  estimate  Cordelia's 
affection  for  her  father  by  the  coldness 
of  her  language,  so  neither  should  we 
measure  her  indignation  against  her  sis- 
ters by  the  mildness  of  her  expressions. 
What,  in  fact,  can  be  more  eloquently 
significant,  and  at  the  same  time  more 
characteristic  of  Cordelia,  than  the  single 
line  when  she  and  her  father  are  convey- 
ed to  their  prison— 

'  Shall  we  not  see  these  daughters  and  these 
sisters?' 

The  irony  here  is  so  bitter  and  intense, 
and  at  the  same  time  so  quiet,  so  femi- 
nine, so  dignified  in  the  expression,  that 
who  but  Cordelia  would  have  uttered  it 
in  the  same  manner,  or  would  have  con- 
densed such  ample  meaning  into  so  few 
and  simple  words  ? 

"  We  lose  sight  of  Cordelia  during  the 
whole  of  the  second  and  third,  and  great 
part  of  the  fourth  act ;  but  towards  the 
conclusion  she  reappears.  Just  as  our 
sense  of  human  misery  and  wickedness, 
being  carried  to  its  extreme  height,  be- 
comes nearly  intolerable,  '  like  an  engine 
wrenching  our  frame  of  nature  from  its 
fixed  place,'  then,  like  a  redeeming  angel, 
she  descends  to  mingle  in  the  scene, 
*  loosening  the  springs  of  pity  in  our 
eyes,'  and  relieving  the  impressions  of 
pain  and  terror  by  those  of  admiration 
and  a  tender  pleasure.  For  the  cata- 
strophe, it  is  indeed  terrible!  wondrous 
terrible  !  When  Lear  enters  with  Corde- 
lia dead  in  his  arms,  compassion  and  awe 
so  seize  on  all  our  faculties,  that  we  are 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


hft  only  to  silence  and  to  tears.  But  if  I 
ifiight  judge  from  my  own  sensations,  the 
C£  tastrophe  of  Lear  is  not  so  overwhelm- 
ing as  the  catastrophe  of  Othello.  We 
do  not  turn  away  with  the  same  feeling 
oi  absolute  unmitigated  despair.  Corde- 
lia is  a  saint  ready  prepared  for  heaven 
—our  earth  is  not  good  enough  for  her : 
and  Lear ! — O  who,  after  sufferings  and 
tortures  such  as  his,  would  wish  to  see 
h;s  life  prolonged?  What!  replace  a 
si  eptre  in  that  shaking  hand  ?— a  erovvn 
upon  that  old  grey  head,  on  which  the 
tempest  had  poured  in  its  wrath  ? — on 
which  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunders 
and  the  winged  lightnings  had  spent 
their  fury? — O  never,  never  ! 

<  Let  him  pass  !  he  hates  him 

That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  rough  world 

Stretch  him  out  longer.'  " 

In  an  introductory  dialogue  be- 
t  veen  Alda  and  Medon  (the  fair  cri- 
tic and  a  friend)  full  of  spirit  and 
grace,  Medon  asks,  "  do  you  really 
expect  that  any  one  will  read  this 
little  book  of  yours  ?"  and  Alda  an- 
swers, "no  one  writes  a  book  without 
a  hope  of  finding  readers,  and  I  shall 
find  a  few."  But  she  adds  fervently, 
"  out  of  the  fullness  of  my  own  heart 
and  soul  have  I  written  it.  In  the 
pleasure  it  has  given  me,  in  the  new 
and  various  views  of  human  nature 
it  has  opened  to  me,  in  the  beautiful 
and  soothing  images  it  has  placed  be- 
fore me,  in  the  exercise  and  im- 
provement of  my  own  faculties,  I 
have  already  been  repaid."  But  Me- 
don asks  how  she  could  choose 
"  such  a  threadbare  subject,"  hinting 
that  Alda  has  written  the  book  to 
Maintain  the  superiority  of  the  fe- 
male sex.  Some  of  Shakspeare's 
women,  he  allows,  are  fit  indeed  to 
'•  inlay  heaven  with  stars;"  but  very 
unlike  those  who  at  present  walk  up- 
on the  earth. 

Many,  doubtless,  after  Medon,  will 
call  the  "  subject  threadbare."  The 
heavens  themselves  have  to  many 
nyes  a  threadbare  look — not  abso- 
•solutely  tatter'd,  but  sorely  worn, 
iike  the  blue  surtout — the  more's  the 
pity — of  a  Polish  patriot  or  a  Spanish 
refugee.  In  the  same  predicament 

•eem  Shakspeare  and  the  sky. 
3ut  as  to  nobler  optics  "the  eternal 
lieavens  are  fresh  and  strong,"  so  are 
the  songs  of  the  Swan  of  Avon. 
Never,  till  now,  have  Shakspeare's 
female  characters,  except  when  like 
stars  they  "  were  out  in  twos  and 


141 

threes,"  been  done  justice  to  on  the 
luminous  page  of  philosophical  criti- 
cism. Mrs  Montague  was  a  woman 
of  much  merit  in  her  day;  but,  com- 
pared to  Mrs  Jameson,  was  as  an 
owl  to  a  nightingale.  True,  that 

"  Of  all  the  birds  that  I  do  see, 

The  owl  is  the  wisest  in  her  degree ;" 

and  her  degree  was  that  of  a  Doctor 
in  Civil  Law.  The  good  lady  dined 
out  and  in  on  the  credit  of  her  criti- 
cism, and  ought  to  have  been  thank- 
ful that  she  died  not  of  a  surfeit. 
Mrs  Jameson,  we  should  guess  from 
her  writings,  is  a  domestic  character, 
and  fond  of  "parlour  twilight."  She 
manifestly  belongs  to  no  coterie;  but 
there  is  no  society,  however  distin- 
guished, that  her  fine  genius,  talents, 
and  accomplishments,  would  not 
grace.  In  these,  her  exquisite  com- 
mentaries on  the  impersonations  of 
the  virtues  of  her  sex,  she  has  "done 
the  state  some  service,"  and  they 
will  know  it.  "  Long  experience  of 
what  is  called  the  world,  of  the  folly, 
duplicity,  shallowness,  selfishness, 
which  meet  us  at  every  turn,  too 
soon,"  she  well  says,  "  unsettles  our 
youthful  creed.  If  it  only  led  to  the 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  it  were 
well ;  if  it  only  taught  us  to  despise 
the  illusions,  and  retire  from  the 
pleasures  of  the  world,  it  would  be 
better.  But  it  destroys  our  belief,  it 
dims  our  perception  of  all  abstract 
truth,  virtue,  and  happiness ;  it  turns 
life  into  a  jest,  and  a  very  dull  one 
too.  It  makes  us  indifferent  to  beau- 
ty, and  incredulous  of  goodness ;  it 
teaches  us  to  consider  self  as  the 
centre  on  which  all  actions  turn, 
and  to  which  all  motives  are  to  be 
referred.  While  we  are  yet  young, 
and  the  passions,  powers,  and  feel- 
ings, in  their  full  activity,  create  to 
us  a  world  within,  we  cannot  fairly 
look  on  the  world  without— all  things 
then  are  good.  When  we  first  throw 
ourselves  forth,  and  meet  burrs  and 
briars  on  every  side,  which  stick  to  our 
very  hearts  j  and  fair  tempting  fruits, 
which  turn  to  bitter  ashes  in  the 
taste,  then  we  exclaim  with  impa- 
tience, all  things  are  evil.  But  at 
length  comes  the  calm  hour,  when 
they  who  look  beyond  the  superfi- 
cies of  things  begin  to  discern  their 
true  bearings ;  when  the  perception 
of  evil,  and  sorrow,  and  sin,  brings 
also  the  perception  of  some  opposite 


142 

good,  which  awakens  our  indulgence, 
or  the  knowledge  of  the  cause  which 
excites  our  pity." 

These  fine  sentiments,  so  finely 
expressed,  introduce  a  noble  eulo- 
gium  on  the  moral  and  philosophical 
genius  of  Shakspeare.  For  in  his 
pages,  says  this  gifted  lady,  the  crook- 
ed appears  straight,  the  inaccessible 
easy,  the  incomprehensible  plain. 
All  we  seek  for  is  found  there ;  his 
characters  combine  history  and  real 
life ;  they  are  complete  individuals, 
whose  hearts  and  souls  are  laid  open 
to  us — all  may  behold  and  judge  for 
themselves. 

"  Medon.  He  flattered  no  bad  passion, 
disguised  no  vice  in  the  garb  of  virtue, 
trifled  with  no  just  and  generous  princi- 
ple. He  can  make  us  laugh  at  folly,  and 
shudder  at  crime,  yet  still  preserve  our 
love  for  our  fellow  beings,  and  our  reve- 
rence for  ourselves.  He  has  a  lofty  and 
a  fearless  trust  in  his  own  powers,  and 
in  the  beauty  and  excellence  of  virtue ; 
and,  with  his  eye  fixed  on  the  load-star 
of  truth,  steers  us  triumphantly  among 
shoals  and  quicksands,  where  with  any 
other  pilot  we  had  been  wrecked ; — for 
instance,  who  but  himself  would  have 
dared  to  bring  into  close  contact  two 
such  characters  as  lago  and  Desdemona? 
Had  the  colours  in  which  he  has  arrayed 
Desdemona  been  one  atom  less  trans, 
parently  bright  and  pure,  the  charm  had 
been  lost ;  she  could  not  have  borne  the 
approximation:  some  shadow  from  the 
overpowering  blackness  of  his  character 
must  have  passed  over  the  sunbright  pu- 
rity of  hers.  For  observe,  that  lago's 
disbelief  in  the  virtue  of  Desdemona  is 
not  pretended,  it  is  real.  It  arises  from 
his  total  want  of  faith  in  all  virtue ;  he  is 
no  more  capable  of  conceiving  goodness, 
than  she  is  capable  of  conceiving  evil. 
To  the  brutal  coarseness  and  fiendish 
malignity  of  this  man,  her  gentleness  ap- 
pears only  a  contemptible  weakness ;  her 
purity  of  affection,  which  *  saw  Othello's 
visage  in  his  mind,1  only  a  perversion  of 
taste ;  her  bashful  modesty  only  a  cloak 
for  evil  prop  en  sites : — so  he  represents 
them  with  all  the  force  of  language  and 
self-conviction,  and  we  are  obliged  to 


Characteristics  of  Women.  No.  I. 


[Jan. 


listen  to  him.  He  rips  her  to  pieces  be- 
fore us — he  would  have  bedeviled  an 
angel !  yet  such  is  the  unrivalled,  though 
passive  delicacy  of  the  delineation,  that 
it  can  stand  it  unhurt,  untouched.  It  is 
wonderful ! — yet  natural  as  it  is  wonder- 
ful. There  are  still  people  in  the  world, 
whose  opinions  and  feelings  are  tainted 
by  an  habitual  acquaintance  with  the  evil 
side  of  society,  though  in  action  and  in- 
tention they  remain  right ;  and  who  with- 
out the  real  depravity  of  heart  and  ma- 
lignity of  intention  of  lago,  judge  as  he 
does  of  the  characters  and  productions  of 
others." 

Alda  is  then  asked  by  Medon,  if 
there  be  indeed  in  the  world  many 
"  women  in  whom  the  affections  and 
the  moral  sentiments  predominate," 
and  she  answers  many  such ;  for  the 
development  of  affection  and  senti- 
ment is  more  quiet  and  unobtrusive 
than  that  of  passion  and  intellect  and 
less  observed.  It  is  more  common 
too,  and  therefore  less  remarked; 
but  in  women  it  generally  gives  the 
prevailing  tone  to  the  character,  ex- 
cept where  vanity  has  been  made  the 
ruling  motive.  Alda,  therefore,  want- 
ed character  in  its  essential  truth,  not 
modified  by  particular  customs,  by 
fashion,  by  situation ;  she  wished  to 
illustrate  the  manner  in  which  the 
affections  would  naturally  display 
themselves  in  women,  whether  com- 
bined with  high  intellect,  regulated 
by  reflection,  and  elevated  by  imagi- 
nation, or  existing  with  perverted 
dispositions,  and  purified  by  the  mo- 
ral sentiments.  "  I  found  all  in  Shak- 
speare ;  and  his  delineations  of  wo- 
men, in  whom  the  virtuous  and  calm 
affections  predominate,  and  triumph 
over  shame,  fear,  pride,  resentment, 
vanity,  jealousy,  are  perfect  in  their 
kind,  because  so  quiet  in  their  ef- 
fect." 

How  nobly  Mrs  Jameson  has  dis- 
charged one  part  of  her  gracious  task 
we  have  now  seen  j — and  next  month 
we  shall  be  delighted  to  accompany 
her  in  her  exposition  of  the  Charac- 
ters of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


Printed  by  JBallantyne  and  Company,  Paul's  Work,  Edinburgh, 


BLACKWOOD'S 


EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCIV. 


FEBRUARY,  1833. 


VOL.  XXXIII, 


CHARACTERISTICS   OF  WOMEN.* 

No.  II. 


CHARACTERS   OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 
SIIAKSPEARE. 


MUCH  has  been  said  and  sung  in 
praise  of  this  our  era  or  age.  To  hear 
some  people  speak,  you  would  think 
it  tl  ie  most  illustrious  since  the  Flood ; 
that  not  till  now  had  the  human  soul 
reached  its  full  stature,  and  been 
firmly  knit  in  all  its  powers.  Accord- 
ing to  their  creed,  Sensation,  Percep- 
tion, Judgment,  Abstraction,  Taste, 
Imagination,  Genius,  Reason,  are  now 
all  as  excellent  faculties  as  they  ever 
can  be  in  mortal  nature.  Compared 
with  the  past,  the  present  is  a  glori- 
ous time,  and  we  can  only  hope  that 
its  glories  will  survive  in  the  future. 
Dawning  has  grown  meridian ;  nor  is 
there  need  of  another  sun  to  rise  on 
midday,  so  splendid  the  illumination 
of  the  mental  heavens.  "The  fond 
admirers  of  departed  worth,"  must 
moderate  their  enthusiasm  — hang 
down  their  heads  and  be  mute.  The 
"March  of  Intellect"  has  left, dwin- 
dled in  the  distance,  shapes  whose 
stature  once  seemed  to  reach  the  sky. 


We  smile  to  read  that  there  were 
giants  in  those  days ;  for  to  the  "large 
orbs  of  our  majestic  eyes,"  they  are 
but  pigmies.  Of  all  obsolete  beliefs, 
the  most  absurd  is  that  in  the  wisdom 
of  our  ancestors. 

But,  strange  to  note,  as  much  has 
been  said  and  sung  in  disparagement 
of  this  our  era  or  age.  It  has  been 
eloquently  lamented  that  the  ancient 
spirit  is  dead — dead  and  buried.  The 
"  Fancy's  Midwife"  is  a  sinecurist — 
for  she  is  called  on  to  assist  at  no 
new  births.  And  how  should  she, 
since  Fancy's  self  is  effete ;  and  her 
elder  sister,  Imagination,  once  so  pro- 
lific in  her  loveliness,  a  Polyanoiist 
with  all  her  Passions  of  old  ardent 
as  bridegrooms  and  affectionate  as 
husbands  in  that  long  honeymoon 
that  for  ages  knew  no  setting,  has 
been  by  her  lords  and  masters  "flung 
off  to  beggarly  divorcement?"  As 
for  Reason,  she  has  turned  her  eyes 
outwards  from  herself  and  her  own 


*  Characteristics  of  Women,  Moral,  Poetical,  and  Historical ;   with  fifty  vignette 
etchings.     By  Mrs  Jameson.     In  two  volumes.   London;   Saunders  and  Otley. 
VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIV.  K 


144  Characteristics  of 

being—become  "  of  the  earth,  earthy" 
—and  goes  by  steam  on  railroads 
with  prodigious  velocity,  along  mat- 
ter where  all  things  have  at  last  found 
their  level.  'Tis  an  age  of  mere  ma- 
chinery, and  all  its  pride  is  in  Dy- 
namics. 

They  who  "live  in  the  spirit  of  this 
creed,"  can  see  nothing  but  steam- 
engines.  Up  and  downfor  ever  before 
their  eyes  is  moving  a  prodigious 
piston.  Every  thing  seems  to  them 
to  have  life — nothing  to  have  soul. 
All  is  animated  and  in  motion,  but 
spirit  and  thought  are  denied  to  be 
anywhere  amidst  that  continual  clat- 
ter j  for 

*'  They  are  not  of  this  noisy  world,  but 
silent  and  divine." 

It  is  not  for  us  to  compose  such 
quarrels.  But  they  disturb  us  not, 
for  ours  is  the  perpetual  equanimity 
of  Thoughtful  Love.  The  "  soul  of 
the  world"  sometimes  changes  its 
outward  aspect,  although  its  inner 
self  be  unchanged;  and  sometimes, 
after,  change  wide  and  deep  has  ta- 
ken place  within  it,  externally  it 
looks  almost  the  same;  as,  after  a 
long  night's  unsuspected  thaw,  ice 
that  you  believed  could  sustain  an 
army,  sink*  treacherously  beneath 
your  feet,  and  then  you  begin  to  see 
water  floating  over  the  whole  lake 
that  is  fast  breaking  up  from  its  fro- 
zen slumber. 

Something  of  this  sort  may  be 
going  on  now.  There  may  be  a  break- 
ing up  of  old  bondage.  Like  a  freed- 
man,  the  human  mind  may,  with  the 
stately  steps  of  recovered  liberty,  be 
trampling  upon  its  chains.  But,  alas 
and  alackaday !  what  if  we  are  for- 
ced to  exclaim,  as  we  look  on  the 
vagaries  of  too  many  of  the  manu- 
mitted— 

"  See  the  blind  beggar  dance  !  the  crip, 
pie  sing!" 

For  our  own  single  and  simple 
selves,  no  faith  have  we  in  the  supe- 
riority of  this  age  over  the  ages  that 
have  preceded  it ;  nor  do  we  accuse 
it  either  of  any  inferiority;  being 
well  pleased  to  live  out  our  appoint- 
ed time  under  the  manifold  blessings 
of  a  merciful  Providence  scattered 
in  shower  and  sunshine  wide  over 
our  Father-Land.  Great  men  have 
leen  among  us ;  great  men  are  among 
us;  or  if  that  be  by  any  in  aught  de- 


Women.    No.  II. 


[Feb. 


nied,  hardly  has  the  trembling  of 
their  palls  subsided  into  the  utter  still- 
ness of  their  sepulchres.  Great  and 
shining  lights  are  for  ever  rising  and 
setting ;  but  to  some  eyes  they  look 
lustrous  only  when  burning  in  the 
beauty  of  life;  to  others,  it  would 
seem  that  they  must  be  sanctified  by 
the  mists  of  death,  before  they  can 
be  felt  to  be  objects  of  admiration 
or  worship. 

We  need  not  fear  to  say,  that  how- 
ever enlightened  in  much  may  be 
the  mind  of  that  man  who  indulges 
himself  in  scornful  or  contemptuous 
appreciation  of  the  moral  and  intel- 
lectual worth  of  this  age,  it  must  be 
in  much  dimmed  or  obscured ;  and 
that  a  still  deeper  darkness  must 
dwell  in  his  mind  who  thinks  him- 
self coeval  with  the  birth  and  reign 
of  the  only  true  light.  Both  are  blind. 
Yet,  perhaps,  though  the  "  laudator 
temporis  acti"  appear  the  more  par- 
donable, because  of  the  magnifying 
power  of  the  clouds  and  shadows 
resting  on  the  bygone  world,  which 
all  strangely  seems  to  belong  to 
the  imagination  where  all  is  invest- 
ed with  glory,  yet  we  cannot  over- 
look, in  his  love  and  honour  of  the 
dead,  his  coldness  and  injustice  to 
the  living ;  nor  forgive  the  envy  or 
the  jealousy  which  all  unknown  to 
himself  may  be  lurking  in  his  heart, 
and  making  him  thus  indifferent 
to  the  greatness  before  his  eyes,  or 
averse  to  gaze  on  its  splendour.  His 
reverence  of  the  dead  may  in  itself 
be  perfectly  pure;  but  not  so  his 
regard  for  the  living,  towards  whom 
he  may  look  as  objects  that  in  their 
eminence  and  altitude  "  intercept 
the  sun's  glad  beams,"  and  keep  his 
ambitious  spirit  in  the  shade.  Dead 
men  tell  no  more  tales — they  write 
no  more  poems.  But  great  geniuses 
who  are  walking  among  us  and  above 
us,  are  emerging  ever  and  anon  like 
suns,  bringing  or  brightening  the 
day,  and  he  wishes  they  were  dead  ; 
nay,  shudder  not  at  the  expression 
of  such  a  sentiment — for  is  it  not 
worse  to  wish  they  had  never  been 
born — and  worst  of  all  to  deny  or 
derogate  from  their  God-given  glory 
as  long  as  it  shines  high  in  the  firma- 
ment— admiring  it  more  freely  as  we 
perceive  it  about  to  set — and  lavish- 
ing our  admiration  on  the  "  mighty 
orb  of  song"  only  when  it  has  sunk 
for  ever  ? 


1833.1 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


The  people,  again,  who  praise  so 
extravagantly  and  erringly  the  pre- 
sent, are  in  general  not  so  unjust  to 
the  past  as  ignorant  of  it.  "  Out  of 
sight,  out  of  mind."  But  ear  and  eye 
a*e  for  ever  ministering  love,  and 
joy,  and  pride,  till  their  life  is  felt  to 
bs,  in  its  fulness,  the  only  life— their 
a.^e  the  only  age.  All  around  them 
a:e  bold  bright  breathing  realities; 
nor  dream  they  of  awaking  from 
their  tombs,  unsubstantial  phantoms. 
The  dead  have  buried  the  dead— let 
the  living  love  and  eulogize  the  li- 
ving—with their  lofty  heads  let  them 
all  strive  to  strike  the  stars. 

But  we  are  philosophers.  To  us 
there  is  no  past — no  present — no  fu- 
ture— no  Time.  We  are  a  man  but 
of  one  Idea — of  BEING.  We  are  hap- 
py or  miserable  according  to  the  light 
shining  on— is.  Has— has  been— is 
it.  It  is  lovely  or  terrible — good  or 
wicked— heaven  or  hell.  Homer — 
P  indar— Sophocles— Virgil  —  Dante 
—Milton  —  Shakspeare  —  Byron  — 
Wordsworth— Scott— all  are  ;  stand- 
ing together  like  great  trees— and  we 
in  our  worship  are  the  old  Druids. 

But  we  are  waxing  mystical.  All 
we  mean  to  say  is,  that  the  Good  and 
the  Fair  live  in  the  amalgamating  and 
immortalising  spirit  of  Love  —  and 
that  Love  has  but  to  open  its  eyes  to 
behold  the  Good  and  the  Fair,  of 
which  the  horizon  is  boundless.  But 
I  ove  may  be  moody  and  capricious ; 
may  wink  or  drop  its  eyelids,  or  look 
askance,  and  then  it  sees  imperfectly 
o ;  amiss ;  or  may  hold  its  hands  before 
it  s  all-seeing  orbs,till  its  brain  be  blind 
a  i  dust.  Then,  "  as  a  picture  to  a 
blind  man's  eyes,"  or  to  a  brute's,  is 
not  only  the  material  creation  but 
the  spiritual  too,  even  to  the  eyes  of 
I  ove;  and  this  life  loses  the  light  of 
poetry,  just  as  the  earth  is  darkened 
ty  a  Total  Sun  Eclipse. 

The  grand  secret,  then,  is  to  pre- 
serve in  us  the  spirit  of  Love.  That 
it  indeed 

«'  The    consecration    and     the    poet's 
dream  j" 

a  ad  that  dead  or  inert,  "  how  stale, 
fat,  and  unprofitable,  seem  to  us  all 
tlie  uses  of  this  world !"  and  unex- 
istent  the  world  of  imagination. 
While  that  lives,  and  moves,  and  has 
its  being,  it  never  wants  fitting  food  ; 
n  jr  need  ever  be  famished  or  satia- 
ted in  dearth  or  plenty— little  suffi- 


145 

cing — and  all  not  being  overmuch. 
But  how  many  causes  are  constantly 
at  work  to  smother  that  mounting 
flame !  Even  in  the  noblest  nature?, 
how  utterly,  at  times,  it  seems  to  be 
extinguished,  as  if  frost  were  on  the 
fuel  with  which  they  feed  it !  The 
more  comprehensive  it  is,  the  more 
intense;  for  while  it  gathers,  as  it 
spreads,  all  substances  in  which  the 
element  lurks,  the  very  atmosphere 
is  rarified,  and  there  is  no  vapour  to 
damp  the  fire.  But  see  how  men  of 
genius,  false  to  themselves  and  to  the 
cause  they  were  sent  to  champion, 
the  cause  of  truth,  narrow  their  sym- 
pathies, hedging  them  within  a  pale 
of  prejudices,  and  in  literature,  poetr 
ry,  and  philosophy,  and 
"  To  party  give  up  what  was  meant  for 
mankind  !" 

Thus,  there  are  richly  endued 
minds,  whose  sympathies  with  genius 
might  have  been  universal,  that  will 
admire  no  poetry  but  that  of  the 
Elizabethan  age.  Others  eschew 
Shakspeare,  and  kiss  the  toe  of  Pope, 
Many  are  all  for  Byron,  the  poet,  they 
say,  of  the  darker,  the  sterner,  and 
the  fiercer  passions.  Scott's  admi- 
rers are  all  chivalrously  disposed, 
while  the  Wordsworthians  worship 
the  stillness  of  nature  in  the  religion 
of  the  woods.  But  what  should  hin- 
der the  same  mind  from  being  eleva- 
ted by  delight  in  the  study  of  one 
and  all  of  the  great  masters  ?  Nor 
is  admiration  ofall  inconsistent  with, 
preference  of  one ;  according  to  that 
mysterious  constitution  of  each  in- 
dividual soul,  which,  though  the 
senses  are  nearly  the  same  in  all 
men,  gives  a  different  shape  and 
seeming  to  all  objects,  so  that  the 
same  rose  is  a  different  rose  to  every 
pair  of  eyes  in  this  world,  and  so  also 
is  the  rainbow. 

At  the  bottom  of  many  of  such 
prejudices  and  bigotries  lies  pride. 
By  exclusive  worship,  men  imagine 
they  elevate  the  character  of  its  ob- 
ject, and  likewise  their  own — or  ra- 
ther their  own  reputation.  "  There 
is  an  Idol !  You  think  it  mean ;  but 
we  tell  you  it  is  magnificent,  and  that 
what  you  think  clay  and  iron,  is  gold 
and  ivory.  Were  you  as  wise  as  we, 
you  too  would  fall  down  and  worship 
it,  as  we  do  in  spirit  and  in  truth." 
Converts  are  made ;  and  the  sect,  as 
it  is  enlarged,  becomes  more  and 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  II. 


146 

more  intolerant  alike  of  any  other 
faith  and  of  any  other  good  works, 
Goethe  was  a  great  man ;  but  his 
devotees  see  but  Goethe  in  the  uni- 
verse 

But  such  love,  though  narrow  and 
exclusive,  may  be  steadfast;  and, 
indeed,  is  sometimes  as  permanent 
as  it  is  passionate.  Weaker  minds 
fluctuate  in  their  affection  for  the 
beautiful,  and  in  poetry  change  their 
religion  every  year.  They  are  inca- 
pable of  attachment.  For  novelty  is 
the  charm  most  powerful  over  their 
whole  nature;  and  novelty  carries 
its  own  death-warrant  in  its  name. 
Fickle  in  literature  as  in  love,  they 
have  forgotten  in  autumn  the  lay  and 
the  lady  they  raved  about  in  spring. 
Rogers — Campbell  —  Moore  —  Sou- 
they — Scott — Byron — have  all  in, suc- 
cession had  their  day  of  dominion 
over  such  subjects,  who  now  do  no 
homage  to  those  "  grey  discrowned 
heads,"  but,  after  a  six  months'  alle- 
giance to  Barry  Cornwall,  have  paid 
their  court  on  bended  knee  to  the 
Kings  and  Queens  of  the  Annuals, 
and  finally  settled  down  into  chief 
contributors  to  their  own  Albums, 
where  they  reign  in  state  over  the 
royal  family  of  the  Fugitives  and  the 
Ephemeral  s.. 

Sad  and  sorry  are  we  to  think  that 
the  Love  of  Poetry  is  not  what  it 
should  be  in  the  land  where  the 
genius  of  Poetry  has  achieved  its 
highest  triumphs.  If  at  first  sincere, 
it  will  be  faithful  to  the  last.  For  it 
flows  not  from  sensibility  alone, 
but  from  reason, "  and  is  judicious  ;" 
it  may  be  chastened  without  being 
chilled;  and  a  tempered  delight,  such 
as  can  never  die,  arises,  in  the  course 
of  nature,  from  that  enthusiasm  that 
cannot  survive  the  season  of  youth. 
But  then,  as  Thought  is  the  chief 
element  of  the  imaginative  as  of  the 
moral  state  of  the  soul,  people  who 
give  up  thinking,  or  worse  still,  per- 
haps, who  turn  all  their  thoughts  into 
worldly  channels,  lose  not  only  their 
power  but  their  sense  of  the  poetical, 
and  become  aware  of  something  not 
a  little  absurd  in  Shakspeare. 

It  would  seem  as  if  the  multitude 
of  persons  who  give  up  thinking  al- 
together, as  they  advance  if  not  in 
life  at  least  in  years,  is  in  this  coun- 
try very  great;  and  we  have  but  to 
look  about  us  to  see  how  mighty  is 
the  number  of  those  who  do  think, 


[Feb. 

and  that  too  most  strenuously,  deli- 
vered up  bound,  soul  and  body,  to 
pursuits,  high  or  low,  of  worldly*  am- 
bition. To  them  Poetry  either  is  not, 
or  they  regard  it  but  as  a  matter  of 
amusement  or  moonshine;  or  they 
turn  from  it  with  scorn ;  or  they  de- 
sire to  forget  it  as  something  that 
they  know  to  be  too  high  for  them, 
and  reminding  them,  with  the  pain 
of  regret  and  shame,  of  their  better 
being  now  repressed  or  oppressed 
within  them  by  the  calls  or  necessi- 
ties of  the  lot  they  have  chosen  in 
life. 

Yet  apart  and  aloof  from  all  such, 
though  often  seeming  to  be  of  them, 
how  many  thousands  on  thousands 
of  pure,  high,  and  strong  spirits,  must 
there  be  in  this  our  Britain,  who  feel 
and  know  right  well  what  true  poe- 
try is,  and  who,  whether  famous  or 
obscure,  are  the  true  poets !  There 
may  be  some  defects  in  our  system 
of  education,  but  our  schools  and 
colleges  annually  send  forth  into  the 
walks  of  the  world  many  noble  youths 
who  have  drunk  at  the  well-heads  of 
inspiration.  There  may  be  some  de- 
fects, too,  in  our  system  of  domestic 
life,  but  round  how  many  happy 
hearths  are  the  Manners  and  the  Vir- 
tues assembled,  and  where  else,  in 
all  the  world,  are  maids  and  matrons 
so  innocent, .  so  thoughtful,  as  in 
British  homes  ? 

^The  Reading  Public  is  a  huge  un- 
wieldy blue-stocking,  but  the  Read- 
ing Private  is  a  slim-ankled  lady, 
with  hose  as  white  as  snow.  To  be 
praised  in  reviews,  and  magazines, 
and  newspapers,  may  be  all  very 
pleasant,  but  the  poet's  heart  must 
be  touched  with  divinest  joy  to  know 
that  his  lays,  if  true  to  nature,  will 
be  read  and  listened  to,  perhaps  with 
tears  and  sobs,  by  simple  spirits  in 
simple  dwellings,  where  all  life  is 
simple,  and  poetry  akin  to  religion. 

In  the  great  world  there  is  a  fa- 
shion in  poetry  as  in  all  other  things  ; 
yet  'tis  but  rarely  that  bad  poetry  is 
fashionable — at  least  in  our  country 
and  in  our  age.  But  not  unfrequent- 
ly  the  poetry  matronized  by  fashion 
is  sufficiently  so-so-ish;  and  in  those 
instances,  as  in  Byron's,  where  it  has 
been  of  the  highest  excellence,  cir- 
cumstances, accidental  or  extrinsic, 
have  kindled  the  rage  which  expired 
or  cooled,  when  they  ceased,  or  lost 
their  chief  power  of  excitement.  In 


1(533.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


tie  world  of  fashion  the  finest  things 
in  Byron  could,  except  by  the  few 
of  nobler  nature,  who  cannot  help 
bolonging  to  it,  have  been  but  very 
ir  iperfectly  understood  ;  and  though 
giorious  poetry  will  make  itself  felt 
almost  anywhere,  and  bursts  of 
passion  electrify  even  the  palsied  in- 
tc  convulsive  life,  yet  commonly  the 
most  questionable  passages  were 
most  spouted,  and  often  some,  of 
which  the  expression  was  as  imper- 
fect as  the  sentiment  was  false.  All 
who  know  what  poetry  is,  and  what 
fashion,  know  this — that  strains  of 
tl  e  very  highest  mood  would  in  that 
irrational  world  be  utterly  unintelli- 
gible ;  and  that  the  diviner  spirit  of 
poetry  never  there  received  even  a 
pretended  homage. 

But  the  true  love  of  true  poetry 
ii'iver  dies — and  we  wish  to  with- 
draw our  words,  if  we  said  that  it  is 
n  jt  strong  now  in  the  nation's  heart. 
But  it  is  deep,  not  loud.  And  we  are 
too  wise  a  people,  with  all  our  fol- 
lies, to  prate  about  poetry,  when  we 
should  be  employed  about  things 
prosaic.  How  many  libraries  there 
are  in  this  island  !  Few  containing 
fifty  volumes,  that  have  not  two  or 
three  of  poetry;  and  thousands  on 
thousands,  where  are  ranged  in  all 
honour  all  the  works  immortal  of  all 
the  great  sons  of  song.  Nor  of  them 
only,  but  of  the  POET^E  MINORES,  too, 
who,  however  they  may  dislike  the 
epithet,  are  distinguished  among  the 
millions  of  their  fellow-creatures,  by 
the  possession  of  some  portion  of 
that  divine  flame  of  which  no  spark 
ever  fell  without  something  beauti- 
ful beneath  it  springing  up  to  life. 

The  love  of  literature  in  a  nation 
s  >  highly  civilized  as  ours,  yet  so 
ardently  engaged  in  affairs  of  life,  is 
a  strong  steady  under-current  that 
keeps  flowing  constantly  on,  while 
t;ie  upper  waters  are  ruffled  or  tem- 
pested by  opposing  blasts  that  darken 
the  surface  or  whiten  it  with  spray. 
1 'bought,  Feeling,  Imagination,  have 
their  own  ample  and  serene  domain, 
vhere  they  are  not  indolent  or  idle, 
I  ut  alive  and  active  in  their  delight. 
Li  such  quiet  regions  there  is  better 
talk  than  about  the  "last  new  Poem." 
Good  books  win  their  way,  sooner 
or  later,  and  by  many  pleasant  paths, 
into  the  peaceful  repositories  of 
knowledge;  and  fine  thoughts  and 
jioble  sentiments  are  participated, 


147 

and  sympathized  with,  far  beyond 
what  humble  or  desponding  genius, 
unassured  of  its  sway  over  the  heart, 
might  hope  or  suspect.  The  restless 
desire  of  novelty  is  there  unknown ; 
books  are  valued  by  their  worth,  and 
that  worth  is  appreciated  by  their  ef- 
fect on  sound  heads  and  sincere 
hearts,  that  think  and  feel  for  them- 
selves, without  slavishness  as  with- 
out presumption.  A  good  book 
bought  and  paid  for  is  a  treasure  to 
the  enlightened  and  loving  mind  of 
one  not  rich  in  this  world's  goods ; 
it  is  not  perused  with  that  vain  and 
giddy  passion  of  curiosity  which  ex- 
pends itself  on  a  single  reading,  and 
never  more  returns  to  the  object  it 
burned  to  enjoy;  but  recurrence  is 
had  to  its  pages  in  many  an  hour  of 
leisure  from  household  cares  and 
duties,  and  the  thoughtful  spirit  over- 
flows again  and  again  with  a  new  and 
an  increased  delight. 

If  all  this  be  matter  of  fact,  it  is 
cheering  to  the  heart  of  the  benevo- 
lent critic ;  for  he  feels  assured,  that 
provided  he  but  pour  out  his  own 
opinions  and  sentiments  in  the  fer- 
vour of  truth,  on  any  subject  of  per- 
manent interest— on  any  good  book 
—new  or  old — in  few  hands  or  in 
all — his  effusions  will  give  gratifica- 
tion to  no  inconsiderable  number  of 
congenial  and  kindred  spirits.  It  is 
especially  so  with  Poetry.  It 
flourishes  in  immortal  youth.  Who 
ever  tired  of  reading  Homer,  or 
Spenser,  or  Milton,  or  Shakspeare  ? 
or  of  reading  what  has  been  written 
about  them  by  not  unworthy  critics  ? 
Why,  there  were  our  own  articles 
about  the  "  blind  old  man  of  Scio's 
rocky  isle,"  thrown  off,  each  at  a 
heat,  from  no  other  impulse  than 
that  of  admiration  and  wonder ;  and 
late  in  the  day  as  they  were  produ- 
ced, they  appear  to  have  been  per- 
used with  pleasure  by  many  who,  till 
thus  reminded  of  them,  had  forgot- 
ten Homer  and  his  Iliad. 

It  may  still  be  the  same  even  with 
Shakspeare.  The  Myriad-minded  has 
had  many  million  worshippers.  His 
tragedies  are  all  revelations.  But  not 
yet  have  the  mysteries  therein  been 
elucidated  beyond  need  of  farther 
light.  He  may  yet  be  more  clearly 
understood,  more  profoundly  felt 
— new  vistas  may  be  opened  up  in 
that  magnificent  umbrage,  shewing 
gleams  of  sea  or  shadows  of  moun- 


148 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  II. 


[Feb. 


tain— and  wider  become  our  visual 
span  over  the  Land  of  Faery.   Com- 
pare  Voltaire  with   Schlegel !   and 
what  advance  in  the  world's  know- 
ledge of  the  Prophet  and  Priest  of 
Nature  !     How  the  black-letter  dogs 
barked  at  the  Swan  of  Avon !    But 
what  was  the  worth  of  the  whole 
pack  in  estimation  with  the  wit  and 
wisdom  of  Charles  Lamb !     Samuel 
Johnson  himself,  though  one  of  the 
grandest  of  God's  creatures,  com- 
prehended not,  in  full,  the  genius  of 
the  greatest  of  all  poets.   He  passed 
from    reverence    to    disdain — from 
wonder  to  contempt — measuring  all 
he  found  there  by  the  standard  of 
his   own  experience   "  of  man,  of 
nature,  and  of  human  life,"  forgetting 
that  what  he  judged  was — Inspira- 
tion. For  how  long,  and  by  how  many, 
even  of  the  most  enlightened,  were 
Shakspeare's  women  thought  poor 
pictures  of  the  brighter  and  better 
half  of  humanity !  Considerate  per- 
sons sought  for  causes  to  account  for 
that  deplorable  deficiency;  and  the 
good-natured  easy  world  was  satis- 
fied with  the  explanation,   that  in 
those  days  female  characters  were 
enacted  by  boys,  and  that  therefore 
poor  Shakspeare  had  nothing  for  it 
but  to  accommodate  them  all  to  the 
capacities  of  such  representatives. 
But  the  blind  eyes  of  heresy  were 
couched,  and  she  became  a  true  be- 
liever in  the  angelical  being  of  wo- 
man, as  revealed  from  heaven  to  hea- 
ven's own  darling  genius  ;  and  in  the 
stainless  robes  of  their  flowing  beau- 
ty, arose  before  the  eyes  of  love  and 
pity,  Hermione,  and  Imogen,  and  Des- 
demona,  and  Cordelia,  and  the  rest, 
whose  aspect  is  as  the  calm  of  the  su- 
perior skies,  "  inaccessible  to  earth's 
pollution,"  though  saddened,  even 
in  that  their  own  region,  with  its 
mortal  troubles.    And  have  we  not 
again  seen,  how  female  genius  has 
rendered  "  the  beauty  still  more  beau- 
teous," and  shewn  in  woman's  heart, 
"even  in  the  lowest  depths  a  lower 
deep,"  of  love,  of  innocence,  of  vir- 
tue, of  religion  ? 

Exhausted  indeed!  What — and 
the  subject — Shakspeare !  The  char- 
acteristics of  women — exhausted!  No 
—not  till  Joanna  Baillie,  "Tragic 
Queen,"  has  dropt  her  lyre  for  ever 
— not  till  the  Hemans  has  ceased  her 
wild  and  melancholy  strains— not  till 
the  rich-toned  voice  of  fair  Landon 


be  mute— not  till  Caroline  Bowles 
has  joined  her  sister-seraphs  in  hea- 
ven! 

It  may  be  all  very  well  for  you  to 
say  so,  who  are  an  elderly  unmarried 
man,  with  a  worthy  widow  woman 
for  your  housekeeper.  No  doubt  she 
has  been  exhausted  long  since — and 
during  the  process  of  her  exhaustion, 
many  a  bottle,  too,  of  ratifia.  But  in 
woman's  heart  know  that  there  are  a 
thousand  springs  one  and  all  inex- 
haustible, though  they  keep  flowing 
for  ever.  Woe  to  the  hand  that  in- 
fuses bitterness  there,  for  in  nature 
they  are  most  sweet;  woe  to  the  hand 
that  muddies  them,  for  untroubled 
they  are  limpid  at  their  source  as 
when  given  back  in  dew  from  hea- 
ven to  earth,  dropt  tremblingly  on 
the  rose's  leaf  in  the  breathless  twi- 
light ! 

We  cannot  bid  farewell  to  the  "  Cha- 
racters of  the  Affections"  so  beauti- 
fully developed  in  our  last  Number 
by  the  most  enlightened  eulogist 
of  Shakspeare's  loveliest  idealities. 
Hermione ! 

"  A  perfect  woman,  nobly  plann'd 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command !" 

Yet  warning,  comforting,  and  com- 
manding all  in  vain — such  the  in- 
fatuated jealousy  of  her  unworthy 
lord.  'Tis  the  meanest— the  basest 
of  all  passions — when  causelessly  it 
inflames  a  narrow  and  a  shallow 
heart.  Invading  a  large  heart,  'tis 
like  a  grim  army  of  demons — terri- 
ble. Shall  conjugal  love  not  exulting- 
ly  enjoy  the  privilege  of  friendship  ? 
Next  to  her  husband  Leontes,  is  Po- 
lixenes,  the  brother  of  his  soul,  dear 
to  Hermione.  To  Sicily  sacred  is 
her  life— to  Bohemia  her  hand  is 
open.  Of  friendship  she  is  lavish 
as  of  love,  and  both  are  clear  as  day 
in  her  holy  innocence.  But  in  the 
midst  of  her  stately  happiness,  the 
Queen,  the  matron,  and  the  mother, 
is  covered  all  at  once  with  dishonour 
as  with  a  garment.  Odious  in  her  hus- 
band's eyes,  before  ours  she  waxes 
brighter  and  more  bright  "with  some- 
thing of  an  angel  light."  Disbelieved 
but  by  one  human  being,  she  appeals 
to  Heaven,  and  Heaven  declares  her 
sinless.  At  such  a  crisis  of  her  fate, 
conscience  communes  willingly  with 
the  sky,  and  we  are  not  startled  by 
the  sublime  fiction  of  the  response 
and  judgment  of  an  Oracle.  The 


18.33.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


heart  of  her  one  princely  boy  has 
burst — it  is  broken — and  he  is  dead 
of  the  passion  of  shame — not  for  his 
mother's  sake  so  much  as  his  fa- 
ther's'— 
— "  the  young  Prince,  whose  honourable 

thoughts, 
Thoughts  high  for  one  so  tender,  cleft  the 

heart 
Tiiat  could  conceive,  a  gross  and  foolish 

sire 
Blemished  his  gracious  dam !" 

Her  one  royal  girl  is  exposed  to  pe- 
rish ;  and  howtouchinglyis  that  story 
told  by  Antigonus,  soliloquizing  in  a 
d-isert  country  near  the  sea !  In 
tbe  lustre  of  virtue,  and  the  gloom 
of  agony,  the  childless  widow — for 
tl  ough  forgiving  her  husband  all,  she 
has  pronounced  a  solemn  divorce — 
retires  into  seclusion  from  love  and 
life,  deep,  dark,  and  incommunicable 
as  the  grave.  Into  that  sixteen  years' 
penance — not  for  her  own  sin,  for 
she  is  pure,  but  for  her  husband's, 
v>  ith  whom  she  doubtless  has  vowed 
to  be  reconciled  on  the  bed  of  death 
(but  Heaven  brings,  in  its  own  good 
time,  a  more  blissful  reconciliation) 
— imagination  fears,  in  its  reverence, 
e  pen  for  one  moment  to  enter.  It  could 
not  have  been  wholly  unhappy,  self- 
sustained  as  Hermione  was  by  her 
devotion  to  one  holy  purpose;  and 
that  she  acted  right  all  hearts  feel  on 
her  wondrous  reappearance  among 
the  living  as  from  the  dead.  That  is 
the  moment  when  we  should  have 
felt  that  Shakspeare  had  erred,  if 
erred  he  had,  in  that  her  long  sunless 
i  rnmurement.  But  our  whole  nature 
leaps  up  in  a  fit  of  joy,  to  hail  the 
apparition;  and,  seeing  that  Hermi- 
cne  lives,  we  forgive  Leontes,  and 
sympathize  with  his  undeserved  hap- 
piness, for  sake  of  her  standing  there 
serenely  and  spiritually  beautiful, 
whom  we  in  our  ignorance  had  idly 
mourned  as  long  ago  blended  with 
the  insensate  dust. 

When  Hermione  comes  down  from 
Hie  pedestal,  passionate  as  is  the 
>y  of  Leontes  witnessing  that  appa- 
i  ent  miracle,  it  is  but  on  her  alone 
1hat  we  gaze  and  think.  Paulina, 
]  tot  abruptly,  but  boldly,  as  was  na- 
tural  to  her  fearless  character,  says, 

"  Hark  a  little  while. 
Please  you  to  interpose,  fair  madam : 
kneel, 


149 

And  pray  your  mother's  blessing !  Turn, 

good  lady ! 
Our  Perdita  is  found. 

Herm.  You  gods,  look  down, 
And  from  your  sacred  vials  pour  your 

graces 
Upon  my  daughter's  head  !  Tell  me,  mine 

own, 
Where  hast  thou  been  preserved?  Where 

lived  ?  How  found 
Thy  father's  court  ?  For  thou  shalt  hear 

that  I, 

Knowing  by  Paulina  that  the  oracle 
Gave  hope  thou  wast  in  being,  have  pre- 
served 
Myself  to  see  the  issue." 

What  says  Hermione  to  Leontes 
on  their  reunion?  Not  one  word. 
But  Polixenes  says,  "  She  embraces 
him ;"  and  Camillo, "  She  hangs  upon 
his  neck  I  If  she  pertain  to  life,  let 
her  speak  too."  The  statue  has  stir- 
red— moved — descended — and  em- 
braced ;  but  it  is  yet  silent.  Camillo 
seems  almost  to  discredit  his  eyes. 
He  doubts  "  if  she  pertain  to  life." 
"  Let  her  speak !"  and  her  first  found 
words  are  a  prayer  to  the  gods  to 
bless  her  daughter.  She  does  not 
doubt  that  it  is  her  daughter.  The 
faithful  Paulina  has  told  her  it  is; 
and  the  Oracle,  who  had  pronoun- 
ced herself  innocent,  would  not,  she 
knew,  have  beguiled  her  with  false 
hopes  that  her  child  was  in  being. 
This  is  Hope — and  this  is  Faith — and 
this — the  peace  that  passeth  all  un- 
derstanding— is  their  reward. 

We  have  been  somewhat  too  hard 
on  poor  Leontes.  We  must  not  blame 
him  for  having  breathed  a  disease. 
He  has  dree'd  a  rueful  punishment. 
All  the  atonement  that  could  be  made 
for  his  crime  he  did  make — and  the 
heavens  had  been  long  hung  with 
black  over  his  head.  His  crown  was 
worthless  in  his  eyes — his  throne 
the  seat  of  misery.  Never  for  one 
day,  we  may  believe,  had  he  not  been 
haunted  by  the  ghost  of  his  little  son, 
who  died  of  a  broken  heart — of  the 
baby  exposed  in  the  wild,  and  never 
heard  of  any  more,  either  she  or  An- 
tigonus. When  Paulina  says  to  him, 
on  the  arrival  of  Florizel  at  his  court, 

"  Had  our  Prince, 
Jewel  of  children,  seen  this  hour,  he  had 

paired 
Well  with  this  lordj  there  was  not  full  a 

month 
Between  their  births* 


150  Characteristics  of 

Leonles.  Prythee,  no  more  ! 

Thou  k newest 
He  dies  to  ine  again  when  talked  of." 

Paulina!  thou  wast  bitter  there—and 
what  a  pang  was  thine,  Leontes ! 
We  almost  love  Leontes,  in  spite  of 
his  old  sin,  for  his  reception  of  Flo- 
rizel. 

"  Leontes.  The  blessed  gods 
Purge  all  infection  from  our  air,  whilst  you 
Do  climate  here  !  You  have  a  holy  father, 
A  graceful   gentleman;    against   whose 

person, 

So  sacred  as  it  i«,  I  have  done  sin ; 
For  which  the  heavens,  taking  angry  note, 
Have  left  me  issueless  ;  and  your  father's 

blessed 

(As  he  from  heaven  merits  it)  with  you, 
Worthy  his  goodness.  What  might  I  have 

been, 
Might  I  a  son  and  daughter  now  have 

lootid  on, 
Such  goodly  things  as  you  /" 

His  love  for  Hermione,  whom,  as 
Paulina  somewhat  harshly  tells  him, 
he  had  "  killed,"  suffers  no  abate- 
ment any  more  than  his  repentance 
and  his  remorse.  They  are  all  alike 
sincere.  The  memory  of  her  beauty 
is  fresh  as  ever  after  all  those  long, 
dreary,  and  dismal  years ;  and  when 
Paulina  says  to  him,  as  he  gazes  on 
Perdita,  ere  she  is  known  by  him  to 
be  his  daughter, 

"  Sir,  my  liege, 
Your  eye  hath  too  much  youth  in't;  not 

a  month 
'Fore  your  queen  died,  she  was  more 

worth  such  gazes 
Than  what  you  look  on  now  !" 

He  answers  meekly, 

"  I  thought  of  her 
Even  in  these  looks  I  made  /" 

And  how  could  he  help  it  ?  For  we 
are  told  afterwards  of  "  the  majesty 
of  the  creature  in  resemblance  of  the 
mother."  His  silence  on  first  behold- 
ing the  supposed  statue  of  Hermione, 
which  he  had  brought  Perdita  to 
look  at  along  with  him,  is  affecting  j 
his  ejaculations,  broken  and  passion- 
ate, are  so  too ;  and  when  Paulina, 
as  he  offers  to  kiss  the  statue,  tells 
him  to  refrain,  for  that  she  will  make 
it  move,  indeed  descend,  and  take 
him  by  the  hand,  while  all  who  think 
it  unlawful  business  may  depart, 
Leontes,  as  if  some  wild  dim  hope 


Women.    No.  II.  [Feb. 

were  preternaturally  beating  in  his 
heart,  says, 

"  Proceed ! 
No  foot  shall  stir." 

On  receiving  her  embrace,  he  utters 
but  a  very  few  words,  by  joy  struck 
mute.  It  would  be  unchristian  not 
to  forgive  Leontes. 

Sweet  IMOGEN  !  why  madest  thou 
with  Posthumus  a  clandestine  mar- 
riage? Because  the  queen  was  a 
wicked  and  cruel  stepmother,  and 
would  have  cared  no  more  to  poison 
thee  in  the  palace  than  a  rat.  No 
blame  attaches  to  a  daughter  on  ac- 
count of  any  virtuous  love-affair, 
who  has  a  bad  mother.  But,  besides, 
the  provocation  she  suffered  from 
that  clumsy  calf  Cloten  was  loath- 
some, and  loveable  was  the  embrace 
of  the  manly  Leonatus.  For  we  are 
assured  on  the  word  of  a  "  gentle- 
man," that  he  was 

"  a  creature  such 

As,  to  seek  through  the  regions  of  the 
earth 

For  one  his  like,  there  would  be  some- 
thing failing 

In  him  that  should  compare.     I  do  not 
think, 

So  fair  an  outward,  and  such  stuff  within, 

Endows  a  man  but  he." 

"  All  the  learning  that  his  time 

Could  make  him  the  receiver  of  he  took 

As  we  do  air,  fast  as  'twas  minister'd,  and 

In  his  spring  became  a  harvest  ;  lived  in 
court, 

(Which  rare  it  is  to  do,)  most  praised, 
most  loved ; 

A  sample  to  the  youngest;  to  the  more 
mature, 

A  glass  that  feated  them ;  and  to  the 
graver, 

A  child  that  guided  dotards  ;  to  his  mis- 
tress, 

For  whom  he  now  is  banish'd, — her  own 
price 

Proclaims  how  she  esteem'd  him  and  his 
virtue ; 

By  her  election  may  be  truly  read, 

What  kind  of  man  he  is." 

Fair  reader,  canst  thou  blame  Imo- 
gen ?  and  hear  how  tenderly  her 
husband  speaks  to  her  on  the  eve  of 
his  banishment. 

"  My  queen  !  my  mistress  ! 
O  lady !  weep  no  more;  lest  I  give  cause 
To  be  suspected  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a  man!" 

"  Write,  my  queen! 


1333.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


And  with  mine  eyes  I'll  drink  the  words 

you  send, 
Though  ink  be  made  of  gall !" 

1  Jut  to  deceive  her  father  !  The  very 
contrary  is  the  truth.  Cymbeline — 
t  econd-wife-ridden — wished  her  to 
marry  Cloten— but  Imogen  "  chose 
rii  eagle,  and  did  avoid  a  puttock." 
What  else  could  his  majesty  expect  ? 
She  tells  him  plainly,  in  justification 
of  herself  and  husband, 

"  Sir, 

]  t  is  your  fault  that  I  have  loved  Post- 
humus  : 

You  bred  him  as  my  play-fellow ;  and  he  is 
A  man,  worth  any  woman!" 

Is  she  too  bold  in  thus  speaking  the 
truth  to  her  father?  The  next  mo- 
ment her  heart  sinks,  and  when  he 
j.sks  her,  "  Art  thou  mad  ?"  She  an- 
swers— 

'  Almost,  sir  :  heaven  restore  me !  Would 

I  were 
A  neat-herd's  daughter !  and  my  Leon- 

atus 
Our  neighbour  shepherd's  son  \" 

The  Clandestine  Marriage,  then, 
is  vindicated  ?  It  is — sacredly.  For 
"  she  referred  herself  unto  a  poor 
but  worthy  gentleman."  And  though 
her  husband  is  under  ban,  Imogen 
will  not  suffer  even  the  Queen  to 
look  in  his  disparagement.  Pisanio 
informs  them  that  Cloten  had  drawn 
on  his  master,  who  rather  played  than 
fought,  and  the  soul  of  the  young 
wife  is  up,  as  she  says  sarcastically— 

'•  To  draw  upon  an  exile  !  O  brave  sir  ! 
]  would  they  were  in  Afric  both  together; 
Myself  by  with  a  needle,  that  I  might  prick 
.The  goer-back." 

1  laid— bride— wife—and  widow,  all 
in  one  bright  glimpse,  and  one  black 
f  loom  of  time  !  In  her  conjugal  af- 
fection dutiful  and  beautiful,  little 
doth  that  wicked  stepmother  know 
t>f  the  heart  of  Imogen. 

"Queen.  Weeps  she  still,  sayest  thou  ? 

Dost  thou  think  in  time 
J  he  will  not  quench,  and  let  instructions 

enter, 
"Where ^0%  now  possesses?" 

To  the  poisoner  rock-fast  love  de- 
serves no  better  name  than"/oJ/y  /" 
Lear,  indeed,  used  almost  the  same 
word — but  oh!  with  what  other 
r  leaning,  to  his  Cordelia! 

"  See  !  my  poor  fool  is  dead  !" 


151 

And  sets  it  so  very  bright  a  jewel  in 
the  crown  of  wedded  faith  to  turn  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  seducer  ?  It  sets  none 
at  all.  Nor  thought  Shakspeare  that 
it  did  ;  but  above  the  blackness  of 
lachimo's  guilt  the  soul  of  Imogen 
"  star-bright  appears."  The  cun- 
ning of  the  serpent  serves  to  shew  the 
simplicity  of  the  dove.  But  'tis,  a 
simplicity  stronger  to  guard  that  holy 
bosom,  than  a  sevenfold  shield  of 
ethereal  temper.  No  temptation  had 
she  to  sin.  The  "  yellow  lachimo" 
was  even  a  greater  fool  than  knave. 
He  knew  not  that 

"  Virtue  never  may  be  moved, 
Though  lewdness  court  her  in  the  shape 
of  heaven  !" 

But  in  her  dialogue  with  that  dunce, 
(and  clever  as  he  was  thought,  he 
was  the  Prince  of  Dunces,)  the  lady's 
whole  character  flashed  from  out  her 
burning  eyes,  while  they  withered 
the  libeller  of  her  liege-lord;  and 
her  whole  character  smiled  again  in 
the  softened  orbs,  as  from  his  false 
lips — true  at  least  in  this — she  lis- 
tened to  the  recital  of  her  husband's 
virtues.  We  carry  the  remembrance 
of  that  scene  along  with  us  when  we 
see  her  on  her  way  to  Milford- Ha- 
ven— reading  that  heart-cleaving  let- 
ter in  the  handwriting  of  her  own 
Leonatus — praying  passionately  — 
almost  proudly — and  scarce  upbraid- 
ingly  —  for  death  from  Pisanio's 
sword.  Yet  she  more  than  submits — 
she  desires  still  to  live.  -  Her  hus- 
band may  be  restored  from  his  dis- 
ease —  and  by  her  be  more  than 
forgiven.  To  love  like  her's  life  is 
«weet.  Therefore  she  becomes  Fi- 
dele,  and  an  inmate  of  the  outlaw's 
cave. 

"  Flowers  laugh  before  her  in  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  her  footing  treads  !" 

Her  presence  beautifies  the  savage 
scenery  of  the  forest;  and  the  spirit 
of  Love,  breathing  through  that  dim 
disguise,  pervades  the  heroic  hearts 
of  herunknown  brothers, uniting  the 
bold  and  bright  with  the  fearful  and 
the  fair,  in  the  mysterious  instinct  of 
nature.  She  seems  to  die,  and  that 
dirge  deepens  at  once  our  love  and 
our  sorrow,  as  we  think  of  her 
now  a  spirit  in  heaven.  So  profound 
and  perfect  is  our  pity,  as  we  listen 
to  that  poetry  and  that  music — a 
forest  hymn  indeed ! — that  we  are  ai- 


152  Characteristics  of 

most  reconciled,  even  as  Guiderius 
and  Arviragus  are,  to  Fidele's  death. 

"  Gui.  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 

Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages: 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Gui.  No  exorciser  harm  thee  ! 

Arv.  Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee! 

Gui.  Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee  ! 

Arv.  Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 

Both.  Quiet  consummation  have ; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave  !" 

We  remember  that  we  used  to 
think  of  old  that  Imogen's  passion 
on  finding  what  she  believed  was  the 
dead  body  of  Posthumus,  was  not 
enough  intense.  Boy- critics  then 
were  we  on  Shakspeare — now  we 
are  an  old  man.  What  is  the  truth  ? 
Imogen  has  awoke  from  a  poisoned 
swoon — and  has  been  bestrewed  with 
flowers  like  one  of  the  dead.  As  the 
swoon  has  gone,  on  comes  sleep. 
"  Faith,  I'll  lie  down  and  sleep  I" 
Something  human-like  is  beside  her 
on  the  ground ;  and  on  the  uncertain 
vision  she  says  to  herself,  "  but  soft ! 
no  bedfellow  !"  Then  seeing  that  it 
is  indeed  a  body,  she  utters  that 
beautiful  exclamation — 

"  O  gods  and  goddesses ! 
Those  flowers  are  like  the  pleasures  of  the 

world  j 
This  bloody  man  the  care  on't.    /  hope  I 

dream  /" 

For  a  while  longer  she  knows  not 
whether  she  be  or  be  not  in  the 
power  of  a  dream ;  all  she  knows  is, 
that  her  whole  being  is  possessed  by 
fear  and  trembling.  She  says, 

"  But  if  there  be 

Yet  left  in  heaven  as  small  a  drop  of  pity 
As  a  wren's  eye,  fear'd  gods,  a  part  of  it ! " 

Her  fancy — her  imagination — as  she 
lies  there  half-entranced — are  bewil- 
dered by  and  bewilder  her  passion — 
and  all  the  language  then  given  ut- 
terance to  in  her  strange  agony  is 
pitched  wild  and  high,  a  wonderful 
wailing  of  poetry. 

"  The  dream's  here  still !  it  is  even  when 
I  wake, 

"Without  me  as  within  me  /   not  imagined, 

felt. 
A  headless  man  /" 

At  that  moment  her  emotion  must 
be — horror.  In  it  all  her  senses  are 


Women.  No,  II.  [Feb. 

bound  up;  but  it  relaxes  its  hold, 
and  she  now  has  the  whole  miserable 
use  of  her  eyes.  "  The  garment  of 
Posthumus  !"  The  human  heart  can 
suffer  but  a  measure — in  hers,  it  has 
been  an  overflowing  one — of  any  one 
passion.  Her  actions,  her  words,  are 
now  calmer — they  shew  almost  com- 
posure— she  inspects  the  body  of  her 
husband  with  a  fearful  accuracy  of 
love. 

"  I  know  the  shape  of  his  leg ;  this  is  his 

hand; 

His  foot  Mercurial ;  his  Martial  thigh  ; 
The  brawns  of  Hercules  j  but  his  Jovial 

face— 
Murder  in  heaven  !  How  ?  '  Tis  gone  /" 

Had  she  seen  him  lying  unmutilated 
in  the  majestic  beauty  of  death,  she 
would  have  poured  out  her  heart  in 
tenderest  grief,  and  there  would 
have  been  more  of  what  is  common- 
ly called  pathos  in  her  lamentations. 
But  the  bloody  neck — the  sight,  the 
touch  of  that  extorts  but  one  wild  cry. 
"  Murder  in  heaven  !"  "  How  ?  'tis 
gone!"  Who  but  a  Siddons  could 
have  uttered  these  words  in  shrieks 
and  moans !  with  suitable  accom- 
paniment of  stony  eyeballs,  cl ay- 
white  face,and  the  convulsive  wring- 
ing of  agonized  hands !  Out  of  the 
ecstasy  of  horror,  and  grief,  and  pity, 
and  love,  and  distraction,  and  de- 
spair arise — indignation  and  wrath 
towards  his  murderers.  Pisanio  ! 
be  all  curses  darted  on  thee!  and 
that  "  irregulous  devil,  Cloten !"  All 
is  at  once  brought  to  light.  The  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  of  their  guilt 
is  "  strong  as  proof  of  Holy  Writ," 
or  rather  she  sees  the  murderers  re- 
vealed, as  in  a  lurid  flash  of  lightning. 
Forgery  I  poisoning !  assassination  ! 
"  Damned  Pisanio  I"  "  Pisanio !" 
"Pisanio!"  "Damned  Pisanio!" 
"  This  is  Pisanio's  deed !"  «  'Tis 
lie  and  Cloten!"  "Pisanio's  deed 
and  Cloten's !"  "  O,  'tis  pregnant, 
pregnant !"  Thus  she  clenches  the 
proof  of  their  guilt  by  the  iteration 
of  their  accursed  names,  the  very 
sound  of  every  syllable  composing 
them  being  to  her  ears  full  of  cruelty 
and  wickedness. 
"  Where  is  thy  head  9  where's  that  ?  Ah 

me  !   where's  that  ? 

Pisanio  might  have  killed  thee  at  the  heart, 
And  left  this  head  on  /" 

But,  had  his  heart  been  stabbed, 
and  his  breast  all  blood-bedabbled, 


1833.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


153 


would  her  woe  have  been  less  wild? 
Then  had  she  thought,  "he  might 
huve  spared  the  heart !"  Distracted 
tr  ough  she  be,  and  utterly  prostrate, 
what  a  majestic  image  crosses  her 
brain,  as  she  gazes  on  the  majestic 
corpse  I 
l(  From  this  most  bravest  vessel  of  the 

world 
Struck  the  main- top  !" 

"  O  !— 
Give  colour  to  my  pale  cheek  with  thy 

blood, 

T-iat  we  the  horrider  may  seem  to  those 
\\  iiich  chance  to  find  us  :  O,  my  lord ! 

my  lord!" 

Does  she  smear  her  face  with  his 
bl  ood  ?  A  desperate  fancy !  In  her 
horror  she  madly  desires  to  look  hor- 
rid;  and  all  this  world  being  terribly 
changed  to  her,  she  must  be  terribly 
clanged  too,  and  strike  with  affright 
"  those  which  chance  to  find  her." 
She  has  forgot  the  cave  and  its  dwell- 
ers, that,  as  she  was  recovering  from 
hor  swoon,  kept  glimmering  before 
her  eyes.  She  thinks  no  more  that 
si  e  "  was  a  cave-keeper,  and  cooked 
to  honest  creatures" — to  her  Guide- 
rias  and  Arviragus  have  ceased  to  be 
~-their  beautiful  images  are  razed 
out  from  her  brain.  She  cares  not  on 
what  part  of  the  wide  wild  world  she 
may  be  lying  now;  and  her  last 
words,  ere  once  more  stop  the  beat- 
ings of  her  heart,  are,  "  O,  my  lord ! 
my  lord!"  And  who  are  "  those 
who  chance  to  find  her?"  Lucius, 
a  captain,  and  other  officers,  and  a 
sr.  othsayer,  conversing  about  the  war. 
"  Lucius,  Soft,  ho  !  what  trunk  is  here, 
M  ithout  his  top  ?  The  ruin  speaks,  that 

sometime 

It  was  a  worthy  building  !  How!  a  page! 
Or  dead,  or  sleeping  on  him  ?     But  dead 

rather  : 

F'  »r  nature  doth  abhor  to  make  his  bed 
"With   the   defunct,  or  sleep   upon  the 

dead. 
L<  t's  see  the  boy's  face  !" 

So  felt  Lucius — a  veteran  Roman 
g(  neral.  But  Imogen,  a  young  Bri- 
tith  lady,  "abhorred  not  to  make 
he  r  bed  with  the  defunct,  or  sleep 
upon  the  dead;"  she  had  said  "but 
soft!  no  bedfellow!"  Believing  it 
w  is  her  husband's  corpse  she  laid 
down  her  head,  where  it  had  often 
lain  before,  and  there  found  obli- 
vi  m. 

Fidele  at  once  finds  favour  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Roman  Lucius  and  his 


attendants,  as  she  had  done  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Briton  Belarius  and  his 
princely  boys.  Lying  on  that  bloody 
pillow,  she  utters  these  most  touch- 
ing words. 

"  This  was  my  master, 
A  very  valiant  Briton,  and  a  good, 
That  here  by  mountaineers  lies  slain:— 

Alas! 
There  are  no  more  such  masters ;  I  may 

wander 

From  east  to  Occident,  cry  out  for  service, 
Try  many,  all  good,  serve  truly,  never 
Find  such  another  master." 

"  Lucius.  Thy  name  ? 

Imo.  Fidele,  sir. 

Luc.  Thou  dost  approve  thyself  the  very 

same : 
Thy  name  well  fits  thy  faith  ;  thy  faith 

thy  name. 
Wilt  take  thy  chance  with  me  ?  I  will  not 

say, 
Thou  shalt  be  so  well  master'd  j  but,  be 

sure, 

No  less  beloved. 
Go  with  me. 
Imo.      I'll  follow,  sir.     But  first,  an't 

please  the  gods, 

I'll  hide  my  master  from  the  flies,  as  deep 
As  these  poor  pick-axes  can  dig;  and 

when 
With  wild  wood-leaves  and  weeds  I  have 

strew'd  his  grave, 
And  on  it  said  a  century  of  prayers, 
Such  as  I  can,  twice  o'er,  I'll  weep,  and 

sigh; 

And  leaving  so  his  service,  follow  you, 
So  please  you  entertain  me. 
Luc.  Ay — good  youth  ; 

And  rather  father  thee  than  master  thee. 
My  friends, 
The  boy  hath  taught  us  manly  duties : 

let  us 

Find  out  the  prettiest  daizied  plot  we  can, 
And  make  him  with  our  pikes  and  parti- 
sans 
A  grave  !    Come*— arm  him  !  Boy,  he  is 

preferred 

By  thee  to  us  ;  and  he  shall  be  interred 
As  soldiers  can.  Be  cheerful;  wipe  thine 

eyes." 

The  scene  is  perfect.  The  flow 
and  ebb  of  passion  is  felt  by  us  to 
be  obeying,  like  the  sea,  the  mysteri- 
ous law  of  nature.  The  huge  waves 
of  woe  have  subsided  almost  into  a 
calm.  The  strength  of  love  is  now 
the  support  of  Imogen's  life — and 
the  sense  of  duty.  She  has  no 
wish  either  to  die  or  to  live;  but 
her  despair  is  no  longer  distrac- 
tion; and  having  grieved  till  she 
could  grieve  no  more,  and  reach- 
ed the  utmost  limits  of  sorrow,  there 


154  Characteristics  of 

she  is  willing  submissively  to  endure 
her  lot.  "  Leaving  so  his  service  !" 
not  till  with  her  own  fingers  she  had 
helped  to  dig  her  master's  grave! 
That  done,  and  he  buried,  "  I  follow 
you,  so  please  you  entertain  me." 
The  warrior  bids  her  "be  cheerful 
and  wipe  her  eyes ;"  and  we  can 
believe  that  Imogen  obeys  one  half 
of  the  injunction — that  she  does 
"wipe  her  eyes;"  but  as  to  being 
"  cheerful,"  never  more  may  a  smile 
visit  for  a  moment  that  beautiful 
countenance — though  Lucius,  look- 
ing on  it,  may  believe  that  his  page 
is  happy.  To  him  she  is  but  Fidele ; 
to  us — Imogen. 

It  is  wonderful  how  our  pity  is 
never  impaired  by  our  knowledge, 
all  the  while,  that  the  corpse  is  not 
that  of  Posthumus  but  Cloten's.  Per- 
haps we  forget  that  it  is  so ;  assured- 
ly there  is  no  interruption  given  to 
our  sympathy;  we  partake  in  the 
same  delusion,  which  is  only  dispel- 
led at  last,  to  our  great  relief,  by  the 
last  words  of  Lucius, 
"  Some  falls  are  means  the  happier  to 
arise." 

It  was  just  the  same  with  our  feel- 
ings for  Imogen  herself  in  the  forest- 
cave.  The  young  princes  believed 
her  dead — and  we,  though  we  knew 
she  was  but  in  a  swoon,  believed  so 
too  —  almost  sufficiently  for  any 
amount  of  sorrow.  The  thought  that 
Fidele  was  not  dead  but  sleeping, 
was  so  dim,  that  it  marred  not  the 
emotions  with  which  we  beheld  her 
funeral  rites,  and  heard  the  dirge 
chanted,  to  the  scattering  over  her 
fair  body  of  leaves  and  flowers. 

Poor  Cloten !  He  must  have  been 
a  fineanimal,  to  be  mistaken,  a  head- 
less trunk,  for  Posthumus.  He  met 
with  scurvy  usage  in  the  forest.  Gui- 
derius treated  him  rather  unceremo- 
niously, after  hunter's  fashion. 

"Re-enter  Guiderius  with  Cloten's  head. 
This  Cloten  was  a  fool  j  an  empty  purse, 
There  was  no  money  in't :  not  Hercules 
Could  have  knock'd  out  his  brains,  for  he 
had  none." 


Women.    No,  II. 


[Feb. 


"  Re-enter  Gidderius. 
1  have  sent  Cloten's  clctpoll  down  the 

stream, 
In  embassy  to  his  mother;  his  body's 

hostage 
For  his  return." 

But  what  took  him  so  far  from  home, 
and  into  such  salvage  places  ?  "  Post- 


humus, thy  head,  which  now  is 
growing  upon  thy  shoulders,  shall 
within  this  hour  be  off ;  thy  mistress 
enforced;  thy  garments  cut  to  pieces 
before  thy  face;  and  all  this  done, 
spurn  her  home  to  her  father,  who 
may,  haply,  be  a  little  angry  for 
such  rough  usage."  The  game  of 
heads  is  one  that  two  can  play  at; 
and  Guiderius  was  first  in  hand. 
But  why  did  not  Cloten  "  enforce 
his  mistress"  when  she  was  lying  in 
his  bosom  ?  Beyond  all  credibility,  she 
laid  herself  down  in  her  loveliness 
even  within  his  very  arms.  But  his 
courage  was  cooled — oh  !  the  craven 
— and  he  offered  not  to  take  even  the 
most  innocent  little  liberty  with  her 
peerless  person.  There  was  some 
excuse  for  his  frigidity — why  ? — for 
he  had  lost  not  only  his  heart  but  his 
head.  'Tis  a  pretty  piece  of  retribu- 
tive justice. 

"  Like  a  glory  from  afar,  like  a  reappear- 
ing star," 

Imogen  shews  herself,  at  the  close 
of  this  "  strange  eventful  history," 
in  Cymbeline's  tent.  A  gallant  com- 
pany, Cymbeline,  Belarius,  Guide- 
rius, Arviragus,  Pisanio  the  faithful, 
lords,  officers,  and  attendants,  Cor- 
nelius the  physician  and  ladies,  Lu- 
cius, lachimo,  the  soothsayer  and 
other  Roman  prisoners  guarded,  and 
behind  POSTHUMUS  and  IMOGEN.  A 
burst  of  sunshine  brightens  a  day  of 
storm.  There  are  glorious  revela- 
tions. 

"  Guiderius.     This  is  sure  Fidele  ! 
Imog.  to  Posth.      Why  did  you  throw 

your  wedded  lady  from  you  ? 

Think,  that  you  are  upon  a  rock ;  and  now 

Throw  me  again.         [Embracing  him.'] 

Belarius.  I,  old  Morgan, 

Am  that  Belarius  whom  you  sometime 

banished  : 

Mighty  sir, 
These  two  young  gentlemen,  that  call  me 

father, 
And  think  they  are  my  sons,  are  none  of 

mine; 

They  are  the  issue  of  your  loins,  my  liege, 
And  blood  of  your  begetting. 

Cymbeline.  O  Imogen  ! 

Thou  hast  lost  by  this  a  kingdom  ! 

Imogen.  No,  my  lord ; 

1    have   got   two   worlds   by't. — O   my 

gentle  brothers, 

Have  we  thus  met  ?    O  never  say  here- 
after, 
But  I  am  truest  speaker  ;  you  call'd  me 

brother, 


1833.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


When  I  was  but  your  sister ;  I  you  bro- 
thers, 
When  you  were  so  indeed. 

Cymbeline.     The  forlorn  soldier,  that 

so  nobly  fought, 
H-J  would  have  well  becomed  this  place, 

and  graced 
The  thankings  of  a  king. 

Posthumus.  I  am,  sir, 

The  soldier  that  did  company  these  three 
In  poor  beseeming." 

Cloten,  being  a  high-born  clown, 
had  honourable  death  and  honour- 
able burial.  The  Queen  is  dead— 
"  with  horror  madly  dying,  like  her 
life," — and  there  is  happy  ending. 

"Cymbeline.         Laud  we  the  gods  ; 
And  let  our  crooked  smokes  climb  to 

their  nostrils 
From  our  blessed  altars  !" 

The  "  Winter's  Tale"  and  "  Cym- 
beline," affect  us  with  the  same  kind 
of  interest.  They  are  kindred  crea- 
tions, "  alike,  but,  oh !  how  differ- 
ent!" They  are  the  two  most  de- 
lightful dramas  in  the  whole  world. 
Add  to  them,  "  As  you  like  it,"  "  The 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  and 
"  The  Tempest,"  and  you  have  the 
"  Planetary  Five,"  whom  all  eyes 
may  worship. 

But  the  "  Winter's  Tale"  and 
"  Cymbeline"  do  each  other  the 
most  resemble — beginning,  middle, 
and  end — and  their  spirit  is  beauty. 

In  each  the  story  opens  in  a  court 
— courts  of  no  common  character — 
the  Sicilian  and  the  British — but  at 
no  given  era — or  if  given,  obscurely 
and  uncertainly ;  as  if  no  chronology 
had  been  kept,  and  history  were 
not  even  so  much  as  an  "  old  alma- 
nack !" 

Hermione  and  Imogen  are  both  of 
royal  state — a  queen  and  a  princess. 
Both  are  wedded ;  but  the  one  is  a 
mother  and  a  matron, — the  other, 
though  a  bride,  looks  still  as  if  a  vir- 
gin. But  Hermione  had  once  been 
of  as  delicate,  as  fragile  form  as  Imo- 
gen, and  Imogen  in  a  few  years  will 
bo  as  stately  and  dignified  as  Her- 
mione. 

Both  are  suspected— believed  by 
tleir  lords,  to  be  guilty  of  incon- 
tinence—though pure  as  unfallen 
snow  in  its  white  cloud  in  heaven. 
Hermione  appeals  to  the  supernal 
powers,  and  an  oracle  proclaims  her 
innocence.  Imogen  has  fallen  on 
still  more  evil  times— and  for  her  the 


heavens  are  mute.  The  offended 
majesty  of  the  Sicilian  Queen  simu- 
lates death,  and  seeks  a  living  tomb. 
The  persecuted  simplicity  of  the 
British  Princess  takes  refuge  from 
her  lord's  injustice  in  a  cave  of  the 
forest.  After  many  long  silent  years, 
Hermione  descends,  a  living  statue 
from  its  pedestal,  and  receives  her 
husband  into  her  forgiveness.  A  few 
weeks  (or  but  days  ?)  of  wild  and 
woeful  wandering  brings  Imogen  to 
the  royal  tent,  and  to  the  bosom  of 
the  once  more  loyal  Leonatus.  Per- 
dita,  a  new  star,  rises  in  the  Sicilian 
skies — and  Guiderius  andArviragus, 
new  twin-stars,  are  bright  in  that  of 
Britain. 

As  nowhere  else  in  all  poetry  do 
we  so  sweetly  feel  "  that  lowly 
shepherd's  life  is  best,"  as  in  the 
pastoral  picture  of  Florizel  and  Per- 
dita,  so  nowhere  else  in  all  poetry  do 
we  so  strongly  feel  the  "  high  life  of 
a  hunter,"  as  when  we  behold  those 
princely  boys,  Guiderius  and  Arvira- 
gus,  bounding  along  the  silvan  rocks. 

But  turn  we  now  to  take  another 
fare  well  look  of  Desdemonaand  Cor- 
delia. 

The  "  gentle  Desdemona,  too," 
like  Imogen,  wedded  without  her 
father's  consent  oivknowledge ;  so  we 
believe  did  Juliet,  so  did  Jessica,  and 
so  fain  would  Perdita  have  done, 
and  mayhap,  had  Prospero  been  un- 
reasonable, even  Miranda.  Shak- 
speare  is  a  dangerous  author  to  young 
ladies  who  are  not  orphans.  Yet 
what  else  could  the  poor  dear  inno- 
cent affectionate  loving  young  crea- 
tures do  ?  Brabantio,  that  surly  old 
licenser  of  the  press,  would  never 
have  given  his  imprimatur  to  an 
essay  on  marriage  by  the  Moor. 
That's  flat.  Nobody  knew  that  better 
than  his  own  daughter — and  nature 
never  told  the  "  gentle  Desdemona" 
to  keep  all  her  gentleness  for  her 
sire.  None  of  the  "  wealthy  curled 
darlings  of  our  nation"  had  taken  her 
fancy,  her  feelings,  or  her  heart ;  but 
Brabantio,  though  right  in  calling  her 
"tender,  fair,  and  happy,"  was  wrong 
in  affirming  that  her  indifference  to 
them  proved  her  to  be  "  opposite  to 
marriage."  la^o  grossly  calls  Othello 
"a  black  ram,"  Brabantio  speaks  with 
disgust  of  his  "  sooty  bosom,"  and 
mine  Ancient  afterwards,  in  Cyprus, 
again  sarcastically  speaks  of  the 
«  Black  Othello."  All  that  w  very 


156 

well.    But  not  only  did  Desdemona 
see  "  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind," 
but  his  complexion,  as  long  as  he 
kept  his  temper,  does  not  appear  to 
have  been  generally  thought  repul- 
sive. People  at  large  who  knew  him 
express  no  surprise  or  astonishment 
at  hearing  that  the  noble  general  had 
married    a  beautiful  white  wife— 
even  the  "  divine"  Desdemona.  The 
fairest  women  are  seen  every  day 
marrying  what  must  always  seem  to 
us  the  ugliest  men,  and  for  love,  or 
if  not  for  love,  for  hatred — a  still 
more  unaccountable  case.     Nor  had 
those  ugliest  men — as  far  as  we  ever 
heard— seen    the    "  Anthropophagi, 
and  men  whose  heads  do  grow  be- 
neath their  shoulders,"   nor  could 
the  most  eloquent  of  them  have  de- 
livered a  speech,  composed  for  the 
occasion  by  a  literary  friend,  half  as 
long  as   Othello's,  in  the   Council 
Chamber,  even  with  the  assistance 
of  copious  notes  on  a  paper  that,  if 
observed,  might  appear  to  be  the 
lining  of  his  hat.  Where  is  the  won- 
der, then,  of  that  happening  once  on  a 
time  in  Venice,  which  is  perpetually 
happening,  without  one  circumstance 
of  alleviation,  in  London,  and  Man- 
chester, and  Liverpool,  and  Birming- 
ham, and  Bristol,  and  Edinburgh,  and 
Glasgow  (we  know  a  case  in  Paisley), 
namely,  that  an  ugly  elderly  gentle- 
man wins,  woos,  and  wears  a  beauti- 
ful young  lady,  fresh  and  fair  from 
a   boarding  school,  and  an  adept, 
though  a  novice  "  in  house  affairs  ?" 
But  in  good  truth  Othello  was  the 
finest  man  of  his  time — the  Captain 
of  the  Venetian  Six-Feet  Club.    He 
was  yet  in  his  prime— that  is, "  some- 
what declined  into  the  vale  of  years, 
but   that  not   much."     No   strong- 
bodied,  strong-minded,  strong-soul- 
ed,  strong-hearted  man  reaches  his 
true  prime  till  he  is  turned  of  forty  j 
and  he  keeps  in  it  till  sixty — being 
probably  at  seventy  threatened  with 
a  small  family  by  a  second  or  third 
wife.    Othello  was  also,  as  all  the 
world  knows,  the  most  eloquent  man 
of  the  age — "  Rude  am  I  in  speech, 
and  little  graced  with  the  set  phrase 
of  peace !"  So  Burke  used  to  speak  of 
"  my  poor  abilities."    But  hear  the 
Duke  of  Venice.    "  I  think  this  tale 
would  win  my  daughter  too,"  or  any 
other  woman.    He  was  the  bravest, 
and  the  most  victorious,  and  de- 
scended—we chance  to  know— from 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  II. 


[Feb. 


the  kingly  line  of  Gebel  el  Tuaric. 
For  how  many  hundred  years  did 
the  Moors  keep  marrying — or  worse 
—Spanish  ladies  in  the  Peninsula  ? 

The  "  gentle  Desdemona,"  then, 
stands  acquitted  of  all  blame,  in  every 
court  of  conscience,  and  honour,  and 
taste  in  Europe.  But  Othello  was  a 
modest  man,  and  had  within  him  the 
germs  of  fear,  and  doubt,  and  jea- 
lousy, which,  under  the  infusion  of 
the  bitter  waters  of  suspicion  poured 
upon  them  by  the  diabolical  cunning 
and  malignity  of  lago,  expanded  into 
a  huge  hideous  flower  ten  times 
blacker  than  the  "  sooty  bosom"  in 
which  that  deadly  nightshade  grew 
— and  thence  distraction,  delirium, 
danger,  despair,  and  death. 

Desdemona  was  truly  a  Character 
of  Affection — but  of  passion  too — and 
likewise  of  imagination.  In  her  na- 
ture affection  was  predominant — and 
she  was  purest  of  the  pure.  But  she 
would  not  "  be  left  behind,  a  moth 
of  peace," — an  unenjoyed -bride. 

"  If  he  go  to  the  war, 
The  rites  for  which  I  love  him  are  de- 
nied mej" 

and  she  blushes  not — nor  needed  she 
to  blush — in  making  that  avowal  in 
the  face  of  the  senate.  That  was 
passion — hallowed  passion.  And  wit- 
ness their  meeting  after  the  storm  in 
Cyprus  :— 

"  Oth.  O  my  fair  warrior  ! 

Des .  My  dear  Othello  ? 

Oth.  It  gives  me  wonder  great  as  my 

content, 
To  see  you  here  before  me.  O  my  soul's 

joy! 

If  after  every  tempest  come  such  calms, 
May  the  winds  blow  till  they  have  waken'd 

death ! 
And  let  the  labouring  bark  climb  hills  of 

seas, 

Olympus-high  ;  and  duck  again  as  low 
As  hell's  from  heaven !  If  it  were  now 

to  die, 
'Twere  now  to  be  most  happy  j  for  I 

fear 

My  soul  hath  her  content  so  absolute, 
That  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  unknown  fate. 

Desd.  The  heavens  forbid, 

But  that  our  loves  and  comforts  should 

increase, 
Even  as  our  days  do  grow! 

Oth.  Amen  to  that,  sweet  powers ! 
I  cannot  speak  enough  of  this  content, 
It  stops  me  here;  it  is  too  much  of  joy  ; 


1333.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


And  this,  and  this,  the  greatest  discord 

be,  [Kissing  her. 

That  e'er  our  hearts  shall  make." 
That  was  passion— hallowed  passion 
—but  a  fiend  was  to  blast  the  heaven 
it  brought  in  its  mingled  breath. 

"  lago.  O  you  are  well  tuned  now, 
But  I'll  set  down  the  pegs  that  make  this 

music  !" 

And  that  she  had  imagination,  she 
shewed  the  Moor  "  by  devouring  up 
his  discourse," 

"  Wherein  of  antres  vast,  and  desarts 

idle, 
!  3,0  ugh  quarries,  rocks,  and  hills  whose 

heads  touch  heaven, 
It  was  my  hint  to  speak." 

Some  one  has  said,  that  we  "  think 
us  little  of  the  persons  of  Shak- 
j;peare's  heroines  as  they  do  them- 
selves, because  we  are  let  into  the 
secrets  of  their  hearts,  which  are 
more  important."  The  remark  is  in 
uvery  way  poor.  In  what  great  tra- 
gic dramas  are  women  nobly  "  doing 
or  suffering  "  taken  up  about  their 
persons?  In  none;  and  in  all  we 
are  let  into  the  secrets  of  their 
hearts.  But  the  remark  is  not  true 
with  respect  to  us.  We  do  think 
very  much  of  their  persons,  and  so 
did  Shakspeare.  And  of  the  persons 
of  none  of  them  all  more  than  Des- 
demona's. 

"  Mon.  But,  good  lieutenant,  is  your 

general  wived? 
Cas.    Most     fortunately ;     he     hath 

achieved  a  maid, 

That  paragons  description,  and  wild  fame ; 
One  that  excels  the  quirks  of  blazoning 

pens, 

And  in  the  essential  vesture  of  creation, 
Does  bear  all  excellency." 

"  Cas.  He  has  had  a  most  favourable 

and  happy  speed : 
Tempests    themselves,    high    seas,   and 

howling  winds, 
The    gutter'd    rocks,    and    congregated 

sands, 
Traitors  ensteep'd  to  clog  the  guiltless 

keel, 

As  having  sense  of  beauty,  do  omit 
Their  mortal  natures,  letting  go  safely  by 
The  divine  Desdemona." 

"  Cas.   The  riches  of  the  ship  is  come 

on  shore ! 
Te  men  of  Cyprus,  let  her  have  your 

knees  : 
Hail  to  thee,  lady  !   and  the  grace  of 

heaven, 


157 

Before,  behind  thee,  and  on  every  hand, 
Enwheel  thee  round!" 

"  lago.   She  is  sport  for  Jove. 

Cas.    She's  a  most  exquisite   lady. 
An  inviting  eye ;  and  yet  metbinks  right 

modest. 
She  is  indeed  perfection." 

And  in  what  graceful  accomplish- 
ments befitting  her  gentle  condition 
did  Desdemona  not  excel  ? 

"  Is  free  of  speech,  sings,  plays,  and 
dances  well." 

"  So  delicate  with  her  needle  !  An  ad- 
mirable musician  !  O  she  will  sing  the 
savageness  out  of  a  bear  !  Of  so  high  and 
plenteous  wit  and  invention  '" 

Othello  himself  tells  us  so  the 
very  instant  he  had  said — 

"  Ay,  let  her  rot,  and  perish,  and  be 
damned  to-night !" 

On  both  sides  the  love  was  perfect 
love.  On  Othello's,  high  and  heroic, 
and  exulting  in  its  guardian  power  ex- 
tended like  a  shield  over  the  blessed 
object  of  a  new  delight.  On  Desde- 
mona's,  pure,  profound,  devoted,  and 
fearlessly  happy,  in  the  pride  of  ha- 
ving her  destiny  linked  with  that  glo- 
rious alien  who  was  the  pride  and 
the  prop  of  the  state.  Nature  made 
them  for  each  other — though  he  was 
sable,  and  she  exceeding  fair — his 
soul  made  of  fire,  and  hers  of  the 
moonlight — and  nothing  in  the  com- 
mon course  of  nature  hindered  that 
through  all  life  long  they  should  be 
blessed.  But  power  is  given  to  the 
Prince  of  the  Air  to  trouble  with 
perplexity  and  confusion  the  clearest 
and  the  noblest  spirits — and  he  had 
an  earthly  minister  of  his  will,  a  devil 
in  a  human  shape — ("  I  look  down 
towards  his  feet— but  that's  a  fable") 
—that  leered,  and  sneered,  and  in- 
sinuated, and  lied,  and  whispered 
Othello  into  a  murderer. 

Desdemona's  case  was  a  far  dif- 
ferent one,  indeed,  from  that  of  either 
Hermione  or  Imogen.  Hermione 
had  with  her  all  the  court.  Leontes 
was  furious,  but  not  terrible — his 
senseless  anger  wanted  the  dreadful- 
ness  of  deadly  wrath.  His  queen 
was  granted  a  public  trial.  And 
nobly  she  stood  up  in  her  own  de- 
fence. Appeal  being  made  to  the 
Oracle,  in  her  innocence  she  had  no- 
thing to  fear.  Her  dignity  was  that 
of  a  noble  nature  j  and  self-support- 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  II. 


158 

ed,  heaven-acquitted,  her  very  sta- 
ture seems  to  rise  before  our  imagi- 
nation at  the  reading  of  the  response. 
No  fears  have  we  for  her  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  her  hus- 
band's jealousy — we  foresee  her 
triumph.  Imogen  has  not  to  look 
on  the  face  of  Posthumus  while  he  is 
meditating  her  murder.  At  hearing 
of  that  letter  her  agony  is  great — but 
she  soon  sees  that  she  has  no  reason 
to  shudder  at  Pisanio's  sword.  Her 
adventures  are  wild ;  but  with  grief 
and  horror  are  mingled  comfort  and 
peace,  and  all  she  meets  sympathize 
with  her  in  her  known  and  unknown 
affliction.  Most  beautiful  is  her  cha- 
racter in  all  her  trials ;  but  her  very 
despair  seems  to  fade  into  melan- 
choly, like  mournful  music  or  moon- 
light. Nothing  happens  to  shake  our 
trust,  for  a  moment,  in  a  happy  end- 
ing ;  the  fair  pilgrim  we  know  well 
is  not  to  be  a  martyr ;  her  sufferings 
are  not  those  of  one  who  is  to  be 
herself  a  sacrifice.  But  Desdemona ! 
she  is  seen  to  be  circumvented,  al- 
most from  the  very  first  change  on 
the  Moor's  face,  with  inevitable 
doom.  For  a  while  she  herself  has 
no  fears,  for  she  knows  not  of  what 
she  is  suspected — that  she  is  sus- 
pected at  all ;  nor  can  she  be  made 
to  comprehend  that  in  Othello's  soul 
there  is  any  evil  thought  towards  her 
— her  innocence  being  so  perfect  that 
she  cannot  even  imagine  guilt. 

"  Emil  Pray  heaven,  it  be  state  mat- 
ters, as  you  think; 

And  no  conception,  nor  no  jealous  toy, 
Concerning  you. 
Des.  Alas,  the  day  !  I  never  gave  him 

cause. 
Emit.  But  jealous  souls  will  not  be 

answer'd  so  : 

They  are  not  ever  jealous  for  the  cause, 
But  jealous  for  they  are  jealous  :  'tis  a 

monster, 

Begot  upon  itself,  born  on  itself. 
Des.   Heaven  keep  that  monster  from 
Othello's  mind !" 

A  prayer  for  him,  not  for  herself — so 
blind  in  her  simplicity  is  the  most 
innocent  of  victims ! 

Even  after  she  can  no  longer  doubt 
that  "  this  monster  has  entered 
Othello's  mind,"  she  feels  but  for 
him  ;  and  all  her  demeanour  is  mark- 
ed by  a  "  sadder  cheer."  But  still 
she  is  happy,  so  profound  is  her  love. 
Erelong  she  becomes  very  mournful 


[Feb. 


to  think  of  the  change  from  the  days 
when  first 

"  She  loved  him  for  the  dangers  he  had 

past, 
And  he   loved  her  because   she  pitied 

them." 

And  then, as  if  stupified  by  his  dread- 
ful looks,  she  resigns  herself  with 
but  feeble  resistance  to  the  feeling  of 
her  fate. 

"  Des.  By  my  troth,  I'm  glad  on'r. 

Oth.  Indeed ! 

Des.  My  lord  ? 

Oth.   I  am  glad  to  see  you  mad. 

Des.  How,  sweet  Othello ! 

Oth.   Devil !  [Striking  her. 

DCS.  I  have  not  deserved  this. 

Oth.  O  devil!  devil! 

Des.  I  will  not  stay  to  offend  you. 

[  Going. 
Oth.  Hence !  avaunt ! 

[Exit  Desdemona." 

That  blow  (only  a  blackamoor  could 
have  struck  it)  has  killed  all  the 
strength  that  lodged  in  Desdemona's 
heart— but  love.  She  is  more  than 
passive  now — for  she  walks  in  the 
fear  of  the  shadow  of  death.  Sent 
for,  she  comes — "  My  lord  !  what  is 
your  will  ?" 

"  Oth.  Let  me  see  your  eyes ;  look  in 

my  face. 

Des.  What  horrible  fancy's  this  ?" 
Yet  in  the  midst  of  all  Othello's 

mortal  wrath,  foaming  with  surf,  she 

cannot  think  how  that  she  can  be 

its  cause ! 

"  If,  haply,  you  my  father  do  suspect, 
An  instrument  of  this  your  calling  back, 
Lay  not  the  blame  on  me  !M 

#  *  *  # 

"  I  hope  my  noble  lord  esteems  me  ho- 
nest."        *  *  * 
"  Alas !  what  ignorant  sin  have  I  com- 
mitted ! 

Oth.  What  committed? 
Impudent  strumpet ! 

Des.  By  heaven  !  you  do  me  wrong. 

Oth.  Are  you  not  a  strumpet  ? 

Des.  No ;  as  I  am  a  Christian  ! 
If  to  preserve  this  vessel  for  my  lord, 
From  any  other  foul  unlawful  touch, 
Be — not  to  be  a  strumpet,  I  am  none. 

Oth.  What,  not  a  whore  ? 

DCS.  No ;  as  I  shall  be  saved  ! 

Oth.  Is  it  possible? 

Des.  O,  heaven  forgive  us  ! 

Oth.  I  cry  your  mercy  then. 
I   took  you  for  that  cunning  whore  of 

Venice 
That  married  with  Othello." 


1833.]  Characters  of  the  Affections 

We  know  not  how  Hermione,  how 
luogen  would  have  stood  this;  but 
Desdemona,  on  waking  from  her 
half- sleep,  says  to  Emilia — 


159 


"  Pr'ythee,  to  night 

L  ly  on  my  bed  my  wedding-sheets — re- 
member !" 

She  knew  that  she  was  to  be  mur- 
dered— yet  in  her  the  love  of  life  at 
la^t  was  strong — and  piteously  does 
she  plead  to  the  roaring  sea — but  not 
sc  strong  as  her  love  of  her  own 
innocence — both  together  less  than 
her  love  of  Othello  ! 

"  Des.  A  guiltless  death  I  die! 
Entil.  O  who  hath  done  this  deed  ? 
Des.    Nobody;   I  myself ;  farewell ! 
Commend  me  to  my  kind  lord ;   O,  fare- 
well !  [Dies." 

The  lady  who  has  best  of  all  spo- 
ken of  Desdemona,  supplies  us  with 
a  farewell.  "  She  is  a  victim  con- 
secrated from  the  first" — "  an  offer- 
ing without  blemish" — alone  worthy 
of  the  grand  final  sacrifice ;  all  har- 
mony, all  grace,  all  purity,  all  ten- 
derness, all  truth,  all  forgiveness  ! 
'  CORDELIA  !  how  happened  it  in 
nature  that  thou  wert  o\vn  sister  to 
Goneril  and  Regan  ?  You  were  all 
three  brought  up  together — saw  the 
sa  ne  sights — heard  the  same  sounds 
• — danced  over  the  same  sward — • 
sh  pt  under  the  same  roof — were 
br^d  in  the  same  faith.  And  yet,  lo! 
a  Seraph  and  two  Fiends  ! 

O  Lear !  foolish  must  thou  have 
been,  even  before  old  age  came  upon 
th.;e,  never  once  to  have  suspected 
aught  of  evil  in  the  daughters  who 
af:  erwards  drove  thee  mad  I  No — 
it  shewed  thee  of  a  noble  naturs. 
Tl  eir  "  beauty  made  thee  glad ;" 
anl  a  father's  love,  boundless  and 
brght  as  a  cloudless  heaven,  in  its 
en  bracement,  believed  that  beauty 
to  be  virtue. 

The  old  king — we  may  well  sup- 
pose— had  no  doubts  of  the  equal 
fiiiil  affection  of  all  the  three.  'Twas 
but  a  fond  scheme  for  meting  out 
an  ong  them  his  dominions  in  equal 
ni(  asure.  He  expected  to  hear  from 
th<  ir  lips  but  various  expression  of 
the  same  superlative  love.  Viewed 
in  this  light,  there  is  nothing  to  find 
failt  with — nothing  absurd — in  the 
father's  fond  conceit.  And  how 
beautifully  do  they  all  three  speak  ! 

VOL.  XXXIII,  NO.  CCI7. 


"  Lear.  Tell  me,  my  daughters, 
(Since    no'.v   \ve  will  divest  us,  both  of 

rule, 

Interest  of  territory,  cares  of  state,) 
Which  of  you,  shall  we  say,  doth  love  us 

most? 

That  we  our  largest  bounty  may  extend 
Where  merit  doth  most  challenge  it.— 

Goneril, 
Our  eldest  born,  speak  first. 

Gon.  Sir,  I 

Do  love  you  more  than  words  can  wield 

the  matter, 

Dearer  than  eye-sight,  space,  and  liberty ; 
Beyond  what  can  be  valued,  rich  or  rare ; 
No  less  than  life,  with  grace,  health, 

beauty,  honour; 
As  much  as  child  e'er  lov'd,  or  father 

found. 
A  love,    that  makes   breath  poor,  and 

speech  unable ; 
Beyond  all  manner  of  so  much  I  love 

you. 
Cor.  What  shall  Cordelia  do?     Love, 

and  be  silent.  [Aside. 

Lear.  Of  all  these  bounds,  even  from 

this  line  to  this, 
With  shadowy  forests  and  with  cham- 

pains  rich'd, 
With  plenteous  rivers  and  wide-skirted 

meads, 

We  make  thee  lady :  To  thine  and  Al- 
bany's issue 

Be  this  perpetual. — What  says  our  se- 
cond daughter, 
Our  dearest  Regan,  wife  to   Cornwall  ? 

Speak. 
Reg.    I   am  made  of  that  self  metal 

as  my  sister, 
And  prize  me  at  her  worth.    In  my  true 

heart 

I  find,  she  names  my  very  deed  of  love ; 
Only  she  comes  too  short, — that  I  profess 
Myself  an  enemy  to  all  other  joys, 
Which  the  most  precious  square  of  sense 

possesses ; 

And  find,  I  am  alone  felicitate 
In  your  dear  highness'  love. 

Cor.     Then  poor  Cordelia  !      [Aside. 
And  yet  not  so ;  since,  I  ain  sure,  my 

love's 

More  richer  than  my  tongue. 
Lear.  To  thee,  arid  thine,  hereditary 

ever, 

Remain  this  ample  third  of  our  fair  king- 
dom ; 

No  less  in  space,  validity,  and  pleasure, 
Than  that  confirm 'd  on  Goneril. — Now, 

our  joy, 
Although  the  last,  not  least;  to  whose 

young  love 

The  vines  of  France,  and  milk  of  Bur- 
gundy, 
Strive  to  be  interess'd ;  what  can  you 

say,  to  draw 

I, 


160 


A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters? 

Speak. 

Cor.  Nothing,  my  lord. 
Lear.  Nothing? 
Cor.   Nothing. 
Lear.  Nothing  can  come  of  nothing; 

speak  again. 
Cor.  Unhappy  that  I  am,  I  cannot 

heave 
My  heart  into  my  mouth :  I  love  your 

majesty 
According  to  my  bond;  nor  more,  nor 

less. 
Lear.  How,    how,    Cordelia?    mend 

your  speech  a  little, 
Lest  it  may  mar  your  fortunes. 

Cor.  Good  my  lord, 

You  have  begot  me,  bred  me,  lov'd  me:  I 
Return  those  duties  back  as  are  right  fit, 
Obey  you,  love  you,  and  most  honour  you. 
Why  have  my  sisters  husbands,  if  they  say 
They  love  you,  all  ?  Haply,  when  I  shall 

wed, 
That  lord,   whose  hand  must  take  my 

plight,  shall  carry 
Half  my  love  with  him,  half  my  care,  and 

duty : 

Sure,  I  shall  never  marry  like  my  sisters, 
To  love  my  father  all. 

Lear.  But  goes  this  with  thy  heart? 
Cor.  Ay,  good  my  lord. 

Lear.  So  young,  and  so  untender  ? 
Cor.  So  young,  my  lord,  and  true. 
Lear.  Let  it  be  so,— Thy  truth  then 

be  thy  dower  : 

For,  by  the  sacred  radiance  of  the  sun  ; 
The  mysteries  of  Hecate,  and  the  night; 
By  all  the  operations  of  the  orbs, 
From  whom  we  do  exist,  and  cease  to  be ; 
Here  I  disclaim  all  my  paternal  care, 
Propinquity  and  property  of  blood, 
And  as  a  stranger  to  my  heart  and  me 
Hold  thee,  from  this,  for  ever.    The  bar- 
barous Scythian, 

Or  he  that  makes  his  generation  messes 
To  gorge  his  appetite,  shall  to  my  bosom 
Be  as  well  neighbour'd,  pitied,  and  re- 

liev'd, 
As  thou,  my  sometime  daughter." 

It  was  necessary  that  Cordelia 
should  speak,  so  as  to  waken  the 
wrath  of  Lear,  and  we  confess  we 
do  not  wonder  that  her  answer 
should  have  had  that  effect.  After 
the  ardent  protestations  of  her  sis- 
ters, it  must  have  been  felt  unna- 
turally cold  ;  and  her  father,  all  un- 
suspicious of  their  hypocritical  exag- 
gerations, must  have  been  expecting 
the  climax  from  his  Cordelia. "  Now, 
our  Joy  !  although  the  last,  not  least." 
Had  she  been  questioned  first,  she 
would  have  given  warmer  utterance 
to  her  love, 


Characteristics  of  Women.   No.  It  [Feb. 

"  Obey  you,  love  you,  "and  most  honour 
you," 

is  a  noble  epitome  of  filial  duties, 
and  might  satisfy  any  father.  But 
its  simplicity  seemed  tame  to  Lear's 
heated  brain,  with  the  sound  of  Re- 
gan's and  Goneril's  magniloquence 
in  his  ears ;  and  had  not  her  repug- 
nance to  their  false  and  hollow  rhe- 
toric been  so  strong  in  her  truthful 
heart,  Cordelia  would  not  have  been 
slow  to  soothe  her  old,  almost  do- 


ting father's  impatience,  by  giving  a 
warmer  glow  and  a  brighter  colour- 
ing than  was  her  wont  to  her  silver 
speech. 

The  Disinherited  undergoes  the 
indignity  of  rejection  from  Bur- 
gundy, whom  we  know  at  that  mo- 
ment she  did  not  love;  but  France, 
who  had  exchanged  hearts  with  her, 
says,  that  to  believe  aught  wrong  of 
her,  "  most  best,  most  dearest,  rea- 
son without  miracle  could  never 
plant  in  me."  We  see  a  crown  al- 
ready on  her  head.  How  beautiful- 
ly is  her  character  now  evolved  ! 

"  Cor.  I  yet  beseech  your  majesty,    ] 
(If  for  I  want  that  glib  and  oily  art, 
To  speak  and  purpose  not;  since  what  I 

well  intend, 
I'll  do't  before  I  speak,)  that  you  make 

known 

It  is  no  vicious  blot,  murder,  or  foulnese, 
No  unchaste  action,  or  dishonour'd  step, 
That  hath  depriv'd  me  of  your  grace  and 

favour : 
But  even  for  want  of  that,  for  which  I 

am  richer; 

A  still-soliciting  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
That  I  am  glad  I  have  not,  though,  not 

^    to  have  it, 
Hath  lost  me  in  your  liking. 

Lear.  Better  thou 

Had'st  not  been  born,  than  not  to  have 

pleas'd  me  better. 
France-  Is  it  but  this  ?  a  tardiness  in 

nature, 

"Which  often  leaves  the  history  un spoke, 
That  it  intends  to  do? — My  lord  of  Bur- 
gundy, 
What  say  you  to  the  lady  ?    Love  is  not 

love, 
When  it  is  mingled  with  respects,  that 

stand 
Aloof  from  the  entire  point.     Will  you 

have  her? 
She  is  herself  a  dowry. 

Bur.  Royal  Lear, 

Give  but  that  portion  which  yourself  pro- 

pos'd, 

And  here  I  take  Cordelia  by  the  hand, 
Diuhess  of  Burgundy. 


1833.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


161 


1  ear.    Nothing :     I  have   sworn  ;     I 

am  firm. 

1-ur.  I  am    sorry  then,  you  have  so 
lost  a  father, 

That  you  must  lose  a  husband. 
(  or.  Peace  be  with  Burgundy ! 

Sine  e  that  respects  of  fortune  are  his  love, 

I  shall  not  be  his  wife. 

France.    Fairest  Cordelia,    thou  art 
most  rich,  being  poor; 

Most  choice,  forsaken  ;  and  most  lov'd, 
despis'd  ! 

Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I  seize  upon  : 

Be  :t  lawful,  I  take  up  what's  cast  away. 

Goes,  gods  !  'tis  strange,  that  from  their 
cold'st  neglect 

My  love   should  kindle  to  inflam'd  re- 
spect.— 

Thy  dowerless  daughter,  king,  thrown  to 
my  chance, 

Is  (jueen   of  us,  of  ours,  and   our  fair 
France : 

Not  all  the  dukes  of  wat'rish  Burgundy 

Sim  1  buy  this  unpriz'd  precious  maid  of 
me. — 

Bid  them  farewell,  Cordelia,  though  un- 
kind : 

Thou  losest  here,  a  better  where  to  find." 

Cordelia  is  not  in  love.  But  love 
is  in  her — meek  and  gentle  love, 
wifdike  ere  yet  she  be  a  bride.  Her 
behiviour  already  proves  that  she 
spo  ve  the  sacred  truth  when  she 
said, 

"  Haply,  when  I  shall  wed, 
That  lord,  whose  hand  must  take  my 

plight,  shall  carry- 
Half  my  love  with  him,  half  my  care, 

and  duty : 

Sure,  I  shall  never  marry  like  my  sisters, 
To  jove  my  father  all." 

The  native  dignity  of  her  guileless- 
ness  and  innocence  seems  to  rise  in 
her  confiding  surrender  of  herself  to 
the  guardianship  of  France,  who  is 
himself  kingly  in  our  eyes,  as  he 
"  st  izes  upon  "  the  "  unprized  pre- 
cioi  s  maid,"  that  she  may  in  empiry, 
as  i,i  nature,  be  a  sovereign  Queen. 

"  T  sen  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form, 
She  vanishes  amid  the  storm." 

IS  ot  again,  till  the  middle  of  the 
foui  th  act,  do  we,  with  our  bodily 
eye; ,  behold  Cordelia.  But  during 
all  the  intermediate  terrors  and  hor- 
rors, her  visionary  image,  ever  and 
anon,  seems,  dovelike,  gliding  by; 
and  oh !  that  it  might  settle  down 
by  the  Old  Man's  side!  He  had  soon 
felt  iier  loss,  ere  yet  began  his  worst 
malady  and  all  its  miseries. 


"  Knight.  Since  my  young  lady's  going 
into  France,  sir,  the  fool  hath  much  pined 
away. 

Lear.  No  more  of  that  ;  I  have  noted  it 


When  his  heart  is  cut  —  cleft  by 
Goneril—  he  piteously  cries  — 

"  O  most  small  faulty 
How  ugly  didst  thou  in  Cordelia  shew  ! 
Which,   like   an    engine,    wrench'd   my 

frame  of  nature 
From  its  fix'd  place  j  drew  from  my  heart 

all  love, 
And  added  to  the  gall  !" 

Yet,  except  on  these  two  occa- 
sions, Lear  never  alludes  to  Corde- 
lia. In  his  insanity  he  has  forgotten 
her  utterly  —  she  is  to  him  as  if  she 
had  never  been  born.  "  Our  Joy  ! 
though  last,  not  least,"  has  dropt 
away  into  oblivion.  O  worst  be- 
reavement !  when  loss  of  reason  is 
loss  of  love  !  But  his  Cordelia  cornea 
flying  towards  him  now,  like  a  dove 
with  healing  under  her  wings.  She 
has  heard  all  —  she  has  shook 

"    The  holy  water  from   her   heavenly- 
eyes," 

and  crossed  the  sea  to  his  rescue. 

"   Cor.   Alack,  'tis  hej  why,  he  was 

met  even  now 

As  mad  as  the  vex'd  sea;  singing  aloud; 
Crown'd  with  rank  fumiter,  and  furrow 

weeds, 
With  harlocks,  hemlock,  nettles,  cuckoo- 

flowers, 

Darnel,  and  all  the  idle  weeds  that  grow- 
In  our  sustaining  corn.  —  A  century  send 

forth  ; 

Search  every  acre  in  the  high-grown  field, 
And  bring  him  to  our  eye.—  • 

(Exit  an  OFFICER.)  — 
What  can  man's  wisdom  do, 
In  the  restoring  his  bereaved  sense? 
He,  that  helps  him,  take  all  my  outward 

worth. 

Phy.  There  is  means,  madam  ; 
Our  foster-nurse  of  nature  is  repose, 
The  which  he  lacks  ;  that  to  provoke  in 

him, 

Are  many  simples  operative,  whose  power 
Will  close  the  eye  of  anguish. 

Cor.  All  bless'd  secrets, 

All  you  unpublish'd  virtues  of  the  earth, 
Spring  with  my  tears  !  be  aidant,  and  re- 

mediate, 
In  the  good  man's  distress  !  —  Seek,  seek 

for  him  ; 

Lest  his  ungovcrn'd  rage  dissolve  the  iiftJ 
That  wants  the  means  to  lead  it. 


162  Characteristics  of  Women. 

Enter  a  MESSENGER. 
Mess.  Madam,  news ; 

The  British  powers  are  marching  hither- 
ward. 

Cor.  'Tis   known   before;  our  prepa- 
tion  stands 

In  expectation  of  them O  dear  father, 

It  is  thy  business  that  I  go  about ; 

Therefore  great  France 

My  mourning,  and  important  tears,  hath 

pitied. 

No  blown  ambition  doth  our  arms  incite, 
But  love,  dear  love,  and  our  aged  father's 

right : 
Soon  may  I  hear  aud  see  him  ! 

[Exeunt." 

The  same  still,  serene,  heavenly 
being,  as  when  she  first  meekly  bore 
her  father's  curse  !  Even  now  the 
passion  of  pity  in  her  soul  is  pro- 
found rather  than  disturbed  —  it 
dwells  on  the  image  of  her  father's 
person,  as  it  had  been  described  to 
her,  crowned' with  that  rueful  dia- 
dem. Calmly  she  gives  her  orders 
"  to  search  every  acre  in  the  high- 
grown  fields" — and  calmly  she  pro- 
mises "  all  her  outward  worth  "  to 
those  who  shall  help  "  in  the  resto- 
ring of  his  bereaved  sense."  Calmly 
she  listens  to  the  Physician,  who 
holds  out  the  hope  of  the  restorative 
power  of  sleep  ;  and  calmly,  but  how 
devoutly,  she  prays — 

"  All  bless'd  secrets, 

All  you  unpublish'd  virtues  of  the  earth, 
Spring  with  my  tears  !  be  aidant,  and  re- 
mediate, 
In  the  good  man's  distress  !  " 

What  love,  grief,  pity,  forgiveness, 
in  that  one  word  "  good!"  No — not 
forgiveness.  For  she  had  never—- 
at no  time — felt  any  sense  of  injury 
towards  her  father.  Least  of  all — 
now! 

"  Cor.  O  thou  good  Kent,  how  shall  I 

live,  and  work, 
To  match  thy  goodness?  My  life  will  be 

too  short, 
And  every  measure  fail  me. 

Kent.   To  be  acknowledg'd,  madam,  is 

o'erpaid. 
All    my   reports   go   with   the    modest 

truth  ; 
Nor  more,  nor  clipp'd,  but  so. 

Cor.    Be  better  suited  ; 
These  weeds  are  memories  of  those  worser 

hours ; 
I  pr'ythee,  put  them  off. 

Kent.   Pardon  me,  dear  madam  ; 
Yet  to  be  known,  shortens  my  made  in- 
tent; 


No.  II.  [Feb. 

My  boon  I  make  it,  that  you  know  me 

not, 
Till  time  and  I  think  meet. 

Cor.   Then  be  it  so,  my  good  lord — 
How  does  the  king? 

(To  the  PHYSICIAN.) 
Phys.   Madam,  sleeps  still. 
Cor.   O  you  kind  gods, 
Cure  this  great  breach  in  his  abused  na- 
ture ! 
The  untuned  and  jarring  senses,  O,  wind 

up, 
Of  this  child-changed  father  ! 

Phys.   So  please  your  majesty, 
That  we  may  wake  the  king  ?  he  hath 

slept  long. 
Cor.  Be  govern'd  by  your  knowledge, 

and  proceed 

I'  the  sway  of  your  own  will.      Is  he  ar- 
rayed ? 
Gent.    Ay,   madam;   in  the  heaviness 

of  his  sleep, 
We  put  fresh  garments  on  him. 

Phys.  Be  by,  good  madam,  when  we 

do  awake,  him  ; 
I  doubt  not  of  his  temperance. 
Cor.   Very  well. 
Phys.  Please  you  draw  near. — Louder 

the  music  there. 
Cor.  O  my  dear  father  !  Restoration, 

hang 
Thy  medicine  on  my  lips ;  and  let  this 

kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms,  that  my  two 

sisters 

Have  in  thy  reverence  made ! 
Kent.    Kind  and  dear  princess  ! 
Cor.   Had  you  not  been  their  father, 

these  white  flakes 
Had  challenged  pity  of  them.   Was  this  a 

face 

To  be  exposed  against  the  warring  winds  ? 
To  stand  against   the  deep  dread- bolted 

thunder? 

In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 
Of  quick,  cross  lightning  ?  to  watch  (poor 

perdu  !) 

With  this  thin  helm?  Mine  enemy's  dog, 
Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood 

that  night 
Against  my  fire  :   And  wast  thou  fain, 

poor  father, 
To  hovel   thee  with  swine,  and  rogues 

forlorn, 

In  short  and  musty  straw  ?  Alack,  alack ! 
'Tis  wonder,  that  thy  life  and  wits  at 

once 
Had   not  concluded    all — He    wakes  ; 

spoak  to  him. 

P/iys.  Madam,  do  you  ;  'tis  fittest. 
Cor.    How  does  my  royal  lord  ?  How 

fares  your  majesty? 
Lear    You  do  me  wrong,  to  take  me 

out  o'  the  grave  :  — 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss ;  but  I  am  lound 


1833.] 


Upon   a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own 

tears 

Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 
Cor.   Sir,  do  you  know  me  ? 
Lear.  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know :  When 

did  you  die? 

Cor.   Still,  still,  far  wide! 
Phys.   He's    scarce   awake ;    let  him 

alone  awhile. 
LMT.  Where  have  I  heen  ?  Where  am 

I  ?_ Fair  daylight?— 
I  am  mightily  abus'd. — I  should  even  die 

with  pity, 
To  see  another  thus. — I  know  not  what 

to  say. — 
I  wJll  not  swear,  these  are  my  hands:— 

let's  see ; 
I  feel  this  pin  prick.     'Would  I  were  as- 

sur'd 
Of  ny  condition  ! 

G>r.    O,  look  upon  me,  sir, 
And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er 

me :  — 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Liar.  Pray,  do  not  mock  me: 
I  arr,  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man, 
Foui  score  and  upward  ;  and,  to  deal 

plainly, 

I  fear,  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Metl  inks,  I  should  know  you,  and  know 

this  man ; 

Yet  1  am  doubtful :   for  I  am  mainly  ig- 
norant 
What  place  this  is;  and  all  the  skill  I 

have 
Remembers  not  these  garments;  nor  I 

know  not 
Whe  %e  I  did  lodge  last  night:   Do  not 

!augh  at  me; 

For,  as  1  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  b ;  my  child  Cordelia. 
C(  r.  And  so  I  am,  I  am. 
Liar.  Be  your  tears  wet  ?  Yes,  'faith. 

I  pray,  weep  not : 
If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink 

it. 
I  kn  >w  you  do  not  love   me  ;  for  your 

sisters 

Havt ,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong : 
You  jave  some  cause,  they  have  not. 
C\r.   No  cause,  no  cause. 
Lc  tr.   Am  I  in  France? 
Ki  nt.   In  your  own  kingdom,  sir. 
Ltar.   Do  not  abuse  me. 
Plys.  Be  comforted,  good  madam  :  the 

!^reat  rage, 
You  see,  is  cur'd  in  him :  and  yet  it  is 

langer 
To  n  ake  him  even  o'er  the  time  he  has 

ost. 
Desire  him  to  go  in;  trouble  him  no 

more, 
Till  lurther  settling. 

Cor.  Will't  please  your  highness  walk  ? 


Characters  of  the  Affections.  163 

Lear.  You  must  hear  with  me : 
Pray  now,  forget  and  forgive  :    I  am  old, 


and  foolish. 

[Exeunt   LEAR,   CORDELIA,  Phy- 
sician, and  Attendants." 

Has  Lear  been  shewn,  for  the  first 
time,  to  Cordelia's  eyes — asleep  ? 
So  it  seems  to  us. 

"  Cor.  Is  he  arrayed  ? 

Gent.   Ay,  madam ;   in  the  heaviness 

of  his  sleep, 

We  put  fresh  garments  on  him." 
She  had  not  been  suffered,  angel  of 
niercy  though  she  was,  to  look  on 
her  father  in  a  madman's  garb  !  The 
same  calm  Cordelia !  How  consider- 
ate to  Kent  I 

"  Be  better  suited, 
These  weeds  are  memories  of  those  worser 

hours. 
I  pr'ythee,  put  them  off." 

Kent  had  been  telling  her  the 
whole  woful  story  while  his  Lord 
the  King  was  sleeping.  Implicitly 
as  a  child  she  delivers  up  her  hope- 
ful and  trustful  soul  to  the  Physi- 
cian. "  Very  well !" 

While  music  is  playing  that  it  may 
compose  his  sleep,  she  lets  fall  her 
kisses,  with  words  holy  as  them- 
selves— and  the  touch  awakens  an 
agony  of  passion.  Cordelia  is  calm 
no  longer,  and  breaks  out  into  vehe- 
ment questionings  of  pity,  wonder, 
and  indignation — but  prevalent  is 
still  the  pity — her  sisters  are  soon 
forgotten — all  his  most  abject  and 
rueful  sufferings  crowd  upon  her, — 
till—"  he  wakes,"— and  then,  with 
her  high  characteristic  calmness  and 
composure,  commanding  down  the 
gush  of  tenderness  that  must  at  that 
moment  have  been  choking  her  ut- 
terance, she  merely  says  to  the  Phy- 
sician— "  speak  to  him  !"  But  idle 
indeed  all  commentaries  on  such  re- 
velations. 

Cordelia  is  a  conqueror.  Disease 
and  madness  sink  before  her  power. 
In  the  spiritual  kingdom  she  is 
mighty  to  save.  But  in  the  war 
fought  with  weapons  of  clay,  the 
Merciful  cannot  cope  with  the  Cruel. 
Hate  and  Sin  triumph  over  Love  and 
Piety ;  and  Lear,  half-restored  to  his 
poor  wits  and  wholly  to  his  right  af- 
fections, and  his  ministering  angel, 
are  prisoners  "  to  these  daughters 
and  these  sisters,"  and  that  ambitious 
Bastard,  their  savage  paramour. 


!*  Characteristics  of  Women.  No.  II.  [Feb. 

"  Edm.  Some  officers  take  them  away :      doomed,  shines  like  a  place  of  ver- 
nal and  summer  joy. 


good  guard  ; 
Until   their  greater    pleasures    first    be 

known, 
That  are  to  censure  them. 

Cor.   We  are  not  the  first, 
Who,  with  best  meaning,  have  incurr'd 

the  worst. 

For  thee,  oppressed  king,  am  I  cast  down  ; 
Myself  could  else  out -frown  false  fortune's 

frown 

Shall   we  not  see   these  daughters,  and 

these  sisters  ? 
Lear.   No,   no,    no,    no!   Coine,   let's 

away  to  prison  : 
We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'the 

cage: 
When   thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,    I'll 

kneel  down, 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness  :    So  we'll 

live, 
And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and 

laugh 

At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 
Talk  of  court  news  ;  and  we'll  talk  with 

them  too, — 
Who  loses,  and  who  wins;    who's   in, 

who's  out ; — 

And  take  upon  us  the  mystery  of  things, 
As  if  we  were  God's  spies  :  And  we'll 

wear  out, 
In  a  wall'd  prison,  packs  and  sects  of 

great  ones, 

That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon. 
Edm.  Take  them  away. 
Lear.  Upon  such    sacrifices,  my  Cor- 
delia, 
The  gods  themselves  throw  incense.  Have 

I  caught  thee  ? 
He,  that  parts  us,  shall  bring  a  brand 

from  heaven, 
And  fire  us  hence,  like  foxesl  Wipe  thine 

eyes; 
The  goujeers  shall  devour  them,  flesh  and 

fell, 
Ere  they  shall  make  us  weep  :   we'll  see 

them  starve  first. 

Come.  [Exeunt  LEAR  and  COR- 

DELIA, guarded." 

What  a  blessed  change  has  been 
wrought  on  poor  old  Lear!  No 
more  he  cries 

"  the  tempest  in  my  mind 
Doth  from  my  senses  take  all  feeling  else, 
Save  what  beats  here." 

He  has  forgotten  the  hovel  on  the 
heath— the  creature  "  crown'd  with 
rank  furaiter,"  "  singing  aloud,"  "  as 
mad  as  the  vext  sea" — he  will  not 
think  of  those  "  unnatural  hags." — 
"  No— no— no—no"— but  the  pri- 
son to  which  he  and  his  Cordelia  are 


"  We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'the 
cage." 

And  to  higher  thoughts  than  of  plea- 
santness and  peace,  "  the  aged  mo- 
narch's soul  awoke."  The  very  es- 
sence of  his  being  seems  to  have 
come  sublimed  from  the  furnace  of 
affliction.  A  loftier  occupation  shall 
be  his  in  his  dungeon,  than  he  had 
ever  dreamt  of  in  his  palace. 

"  And  take  upon  us  the  mystery  of  things, 
As  if  we  were  God's  spies !" 

As  if — saith  Samuel  Johnson — so- 
lemnly—  we  were  angels  commis- 
sioned to  survey  and  report  the  lives 
of  men,  and  were  consequently  en- 
dowed with  the  power  ot  prying  in- 
to the  original  motives  of  action  and 
the  mysteries  of  conduct. 

"  Enter  LEAR,  with  CORDELIA  dead  in  his 
arms;  EDGAR,  Officer,  and  Others. 
Lear.  Howl,  howl,  howl,  howl ! — O, 
you  are  men  of  stones ; 

Had   I  your  tongues  and  eyes,    I'd  use 
them  so 

That  heaven's  vault  should  crack: — O, 
she  is  gone  for  ever! — 

I  know  when  one  is  dead,  and  when  one 
lives  ; 

She's  dead  as  earth  : — Lend  me  a  look- 
ing-glass; 

If  that  her  breath  will  mist  or  stain  the 
stone, 

Why,  then  she  lives." 


"  And  my  poor  fool  is  hang'd  ! — No,  no, 
no  life ! 


Do  you   see  this?  Look  on  her, — look, 

— her  lips, — 
Look  there,  look  there  !—         [He  dies." 

Almost  every  word  spoken  by 
Cordelia  have  we  here  set  down; 
how  few  they  are — butin  power  how 
mighty !  Well  and  beautifully  does 
the  gifted  lady,  whose  work  has  been 
lying  before  us  while  we  have  been 
writing,  say,  that  "  if  Lear  be  the 
grandest  of  Shakspeare's  Tragedies, 
Cordelia,  in  herself,  as  a  human  be- 
ing, governed  by  the  purest  and  ho- 
liest impulses  and  motives,  the  most 
refined  from  all  dross  of  selfishness 
and  passion,  approaches  nearest  to 
perfection ;  and  in  her  adaptation,  as 


1833.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


165 


a  dramatic  personage,  to  a  determi- 
nate plan  of  action,  may  be  pro- 
nounced altogether  perfect.  Amid 
the  awful,  the  overpowering  interest 
ol  the  story;  amid  the  terrible  con- 
vulsions of  passion  and  suffering, 
and  pictures  of  moral  and  physical 
wretchedness,  which  harrow  up  the 
scul,  the  tender  influence  of  Corde- 
li;i,  like  that  of  a  celestial  visitant,  is 
felt  and  acknowledged  without  being 
quite  understood.  Like  a  soft  star 
tl  at  shines  for  a  moment  from  be- 
hind a  stormy  cloud,  and  the  next 
is  swallowed  up  in  tempest  and 
dirkness,  the  impression  it  leaves 
is  beautiful  and  deep, — but  vague. 
From  the  simplicity  with  which  the 
character  is  dramatically  treated,  and 
tl  e  small  space  it  occupies,  few  are 
a'vare  of  its  internal  power  or  its 
wonderful  depth  of  purpose.  If  Cor- 
d  ^lia  remind  us  of  any  thing  on  earth, 
it  is  of  one  of  those  Madonnas  in  the 
o  d  Italian  pictures,  *  with  downcast 
eyes  beneath  th'  Almighty  dove ;' 
and  as  that  heavenly  form  is  con- 
nected with  our  human  sympathies 
o  ily  by  the  expression  of  maternal 
tt  nderness  or  maternal  sorrow,  even 
so  Cordelia  would  be  almost  too  an- 
gelic, were  she  not  linked  to  our 
e  irthly  feelings,  bound  to  our  very 
hearts,  by  her  filial  love,  her  wrongs, 
her  suffering,  and  her  tears." 

In  the  story  of  King  Lear  and  his 
Three  Daughters,  as  it  is  related  in 
the  "  delectable  and  mellifluous " 
romance  of  Perce  Forest,  and  in  the 
Chronicle  of  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth, 
the  conclusion  is  fortunate.  Mrs 
Jameson  says  that  she  supposes  "it 
if  by  way  of  amending  his  errors,  and 
bringing  back  this  daring  innovator 
to  sober  history,  that  it  has  been 
thought  fit  to  alter  the  play  of  Lear 
for  the  stage  as  they  have  altered 
Fomeo  and  Juliet.  They  have  con- 
verted the  seraph-like  Cordelia  into 
a  puling  love-heroine,  and  sent  her 
off  victorious  at  the  end  -of  the  play, 
--exit  with  drums  and  colours  fly- 
ii  ig— to  be  married  to  Edgar"  This 
last  is  rather  too  bold  a  stroke  for  a 
v-ife,  seeing  that  Cordelia  has  a  hus- 
band already— the  King  of  France. 
I1- lit  him,  we  presume,  they  put  out 
of  the  way  by  death,  or  divorce ;  and 
Cordelia  walks  off  in  the  character 
cf  the  Widow  Bewitched. 

We  have  never  been  so  fortunate 
as  to  read  this  version  of  the  story, 


nor  yet  to  see  it  acted ;  but  we  be- 
lieve the  original  sinner  was  Tate,  of 
the  firm  of  Tate,  Brady,  and  Co.  Dr 
Johnson  observes,  "  that  though  the 
important  moral,  that  villainy  is 
never  at  a  stop,  that  crimes  lea'd  to 
crimes,  and  at  last  terminate  in  ruin, 
be  incidentally  enforced,  yet  Shak- 
speare  has  suffered  the  virtue  of 
Cordelia  to  perish  in  a  just  cause, 
contrary  to  the  natural  ideas  of  jus- 
tice, to  the  hope  of  the  reader,  and 
what  is  yet  more  strange,  to  the  faith 
of  the  Chronicler."  And  he  seems 
surprised  that  this  conduct  is  justi- 
fied by  the  Spectator,  who  blames 
Tate  for  giving  Cordelia  success  and 
happiness  in  the  alteration,  and  de- 
clares that  in  his  opinion  "  the  tra- 
gedy has  lost  half  its  beauty."  Sa- 
muel sides  with  Tate  against  Shak- 
speare  and  Addison.  But  though. 
Samuel — in  this  case — be  in  the 
wrong,  we  cannot  but  respect  and 
love  the  high-minded  and  tender- 
hearted heretic.  "  A  play,"  quoth 
he,  "  in  which  the  wicked  prosper, 
and  the  virtuous  miscarry,  may 
doubtless  be  good,  because  it  is  a 
just  representation  of  the  common 
events  of  human  life;  but  since  all 
reasonable  beings  naturally  love  jus- 
tice, I  cannot  easily  be  persuaded 
that  the  observation  of  justicehnakes 
a  play  worse  ;  or  that  if  other  excel- 
lencies are  equal,  the  audience  will 
not  always  rise  better  pleased  from 
the  final  triumph  of  persecuted  vir- 
tue. In  the  present  case,  the  public 
has  decided.  Cordelia,  from  the  time 
of  Tate,  has  always  retired  with  vic- 
tory and  felicity.  And  if  my  sensa- 
tions could  add  any  thing  to  the 
general  suffrage,  I  might  relate  I  was 
many  years  ago  so  shocked  with  Cor- 
delia's death,  that  I  know  not  whe- 
ther I  ever  endured  to  read  again 
the  last  scenes  of  the  play  till  I  un- 
dertook to  revise  them  as  an  editor." 
Too  harrowing  had  been  the  hor- 
ror— too  dreadful  the  terror — the 
pity  too  severe,  to  the  shuddering 
soul  of  him,  rightly  called  the  great 
English  Moralist.  He  could  not  en- 
dure to  see  Lear  enter  with  Corde- 
lia dead  in  his  arms — to  hear  him 
utter  "  O  my  poor  fool  is  hanged!" 
He  was  afraid  to  read  those  scenes 
— glad  to  escape  from  the  belief  that 
such  wretchedness  could  be  in  this 
world — happy  to  see  sunshine  stream 
down  at  last  from  the  black  sky,  and 


166 


Characteristics  of  Women.    A~0.  II. 


[Feb. 


settle  into  a  spot  of  peace  on  the  bo- 
som of  the  green  earth.  For  sake  of 
such  relief  from  pathos  too  intense, 
he  was  willing  to  sacrifice  the  most 
awful  triumph  ever  achieved  by  the 
genius  of  mortal  man  over  the  dark- 
est mysteries  of  our  nature. 

Blame  him  not — rather  let  him 
have  our  reverence.  Neither,  surely, 
is  he  to  be  found  fault  with  for  say- 
ing, that  "  since  all  reasonable  be- 
ings love  justice,  he  cannot  easily 
be  persuaded  that  the  observation  of 
justice  makes  a  play  worse."  It 
must  always  make  it  better.  But  is 
there  here  any  injustice?  To  the 
last  moment  of  her  life  Cordelia  was 
happy— 

"  Fair  creature !  to  whom  Heaven 
A  calm  and  sinless  life,  with  love,  hath 
given !" 

A  few  days  of  what  we  might  call 
misery  were  all  she  ever  suffered. 
She  could  not  change  insanity  into 
perfect  health — but  she  said — 

"  O  my  dear  father !  Restoration,  hang 
Thy  medicine  on  ray  lips  j  and  let  this 

kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms,  that  my  two 

sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made !" 

And  Restoration  came  at  that  invo- 
cation, and  did  her  bidding ;  so  that, 
when  afterwards  sent  to  prison  to- 
gether, Lear  said  they  two  would 
sing  there,  like  "  birds  i'  the  cage !" 
And  so  they  did ;  till  a  slave  stole  in 
upon  their  holy  communion,  and 
Cordelia  in  a  moment  was  murder* 
ed — and  sent  to  bliss. 

"  O  fairest  flower  !  no  sooner  blown  than 
blasted !" 

For  not  till  then  was  the  beauty  of 
Cordelia's  bein<*  full-blown,  under 
the  sunshine  of  joy  and  the  dews  of 
pity — it  was  perfect — and  in  its  per- 
fection ceased  to  be  on  earth,  and 
was  transferred  to  heaven. 

"  Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'eri  thy  wages." 

What  were  they — her  wages  ?  Bless- 
ings from  her  father's  quieted  eyes  ! 
the  still  delight  of  duty  unconscious 
of  its  own  grandeur  in  the  depth  of 
love ! 

Schlegel  speaks  well — "  after  sur- 
viving so  many  sufferings,  Lear 
can  only  die  in  a  tragical  manner 


from  his  grief  for  the  death  of  Cor- 
delia; and  if  he  is  also  to  be  saved, 
and  to  pass  the  remainder  of  his 
days  in  happiness,  the  whole  loses 
its  meaning.  According  to  Shak- 
speare'splan,the  guilty,  it  is  true,  are 
all  punished,  for  wickedness  destroys 
itself;  but  the  auxiliary  virtues  are 
everywhere  too  late,  or  overmatch- 
ed by  the  cunning  activity  of  malice. 
The  persons  of  the  drama  have  only 
such  a  faint  belief  in  providence  as 
heathens  may  be  supposed  to  have  ; 
and  the  poet  here  writes  to  shew  us 
that  this  belief  requires  a  wider 
range  than  the  dark  pilgrimage  on 
earth  to  be  established  in  its  utmost 
extent."  Most  true.  Only  the  light 
from  beyond  the  grave  can  enable 
our  eyes  to  see  into  the  mystery  of 
the  darkness  in  which  all  things  on 
this  side  of  it  are  shrouded  ;  and 
poetical  justice  itself  can  only  be  felt 
in  the  spirit  of  religion. 

Charles  Lamb,  alluding  to  Tate's 
botchings,  says  well — "  It  is  not 
enough  that  Cordelia  is  a  daughter, 
she  must  shine  as  a  lover  too." 
"Where  is  her  husband  ?  He  seems 
to  have  come  with  her  across  the 
Channel — but  to  have  been  recalled 
by  some  sudden  disturbances  in 
France.  Nobody  doubts  that  Cor- 
delia was  a  perfect  wife.  That  is 
implied  in  her  filial  piety.  But  her 
conjugal  duties  were  for  a  while  to 
lie  dormant  and  forgotten — along 
with  her  lord  and  their  mutual  love. 
She  was  sent  on  a  higher  mission— 
and  in  Nature's  holiest  cause  she 
was  a  martyr.  "  A  happy  ending!*' 
exclaims  Mr  Lamb — "  as  if  the  living 
martyrdom  that  Lear  had  gone 
through — the  flaying  of  his  feelings 
alive,  did  not  make  a  fair  dismissal 
from  the  stage  of  life,  the  only  deco- 
rous thing  for  him.  If  he  is  to  live 
and  be  happy  after,  if  he  could  sus- 
tain the  world's  burden  after,  why 
all  this  pudder  and  preparation — 
why  torment  us  with  all  this  unne- 
cessary sympathy  ?  As  if  the  child- 
ish pleasure  of  getting  his  gilt  robes 
and  sceptre  again  could  tempt  him  to 
act  over  again  his  misused  station 
— as  if,  at  his  years  and  with  his  ex- 
perience, any  thing  was  left  but  to 
die!" 

Characters  of  the  Affections  !  Her- 
mione,  Imogen,  Desdemona,  and 
Cordelia !  Farewell.  May  we  now 
be  permitted  to  philosophize  ? 


1 6.33.]  Characters  of  the  Affections. 

The  language  of  ethical  writers 
in  general  seems  to  oppose  the  idea 
of  making  the  Affections  objects  of 
moral  approbation. 

Thus  Dr  Reid,  (Essay  V.,  Chap.  5,) 
speaks  unequivocally: — "  If  virtue 
ai  d  vice  be  a  matter  of  choice,  they 
must  consist  in  voluntary  actions,  or 
in  fixed  purposes  of  acting  according 
to  a  certain  rule,  when  there  is  op- 
portunity, and  not  in  qualities  of  mind 
which  are  involuntary." 

Thus  Mr  Stewart,  (  Outlines,  257, 
2£8,)  more  explicitly  still :— "  The 
pi  opriety  or  impropriety  of  our  con- 
duct depends  in  no  instance  on  the 
strength  or  weakness  of  the  affection, 
but  on  our  obeying  or  disobeying  the 
dictates  of  reason  and  of  conscience." 
In  connexion  with  which  he  says, 
"  our  affections  were  given  us  to  ar- 
rest our  attention  to  particular  ob- 
jects, whose  happiness  is  connected 
w  th  our  exertions;  and  to  excite 
ar  d  support  the  activity  of  the  mind, 
when  a  sense  of  duty  might  be  in- 
sufficient for  the  purpose." 

Both  these  writers  here  speak 
what  may  be  considered  as  the  re- 
ceived language  of  moralists.  They 
are  not  proposing  new  views,  but 
referring  to  acknowledged  princi- 
ples. 

In  all  these  observations  it  is  laid 
down  as  an  unquestionable  maxim, 
that  in  order  to  constitute  virtue, 
th 're  must  be  in  the  mind  of  the 

agent  at  the  time  a  knowledge  of  his 

conformity  with  the  rule  of  virtue. 

It  is  further  represented  by  Dr  Reid, 

th  it  to  make  any  thing  right,  it  must 

be    matter   of    choice   or    election, 

which  the  affections  are  not. 

Now,  we  cannot  help  thinking,  that 

notwithstanding  both  these  maxims, 

which  would  exclude  the  affections, 

generally  speaking,   from  morality, 

th^y  are  nevertheless  esteemed,  and 

justly  esteemed,    by  the    common 

sentiment  of  mankind,  as  the  great 

constituents  of  virtue. 

Let  us  speak  first  of  a  class  of  af- 
fections which  are  uniformly  looked 

upon  with  the  highest  respect,  and 

m  >st  decided  moral  approbation — 

those  which  regard  parents ;  and  we 

would  ask,  whether  a  child  whose 

mind  is  much  filled  with  these  affec- 
tions, is  full  of  reverence,  of  fond  and 

grateful  feeling,  towards    those   to 

whom  it  seems  to  itself  to  owe  all 

things,  tenderly  fearful  to  give  them 

pain,  and  only  solicitous  to  do  their 


167 

pleasure,  does  or  does  not  bear  a  mind 
of  which  the  state  itself,  considered 
without  respect  to  the  particular  ac- 
tions it  suggests,  but  regarded  as  a 
frame  of  mind,  (only  with  confidence 
that  it  is  sufficiently  sincere  and  fixed 
to  produce  its  own  actions  when  oc- 
casion may  arise,)  is  not  an  object  of 
moral  approbation  ?  Now  there  can 
be  but  one  answer,  that  the  filial 
piety  of  such  a  child  would  be  the 
object  of  our  very  purest  and  highest 
and  most  delighted  praise.  Yet  in. 
such  a  mind  there  shall  be  no  consi- 
deration that  these  feelings  are  right, 
and  that  feelings  different  from  these 
would  be  wrong.  There  shall  be  no- 
thing but  the  pure  and  simple  inspira- 
tion of  affection.  Still  less  would  there 
be  in  such  a  temper  of  mind,  and  in 
all  the  feelings  that  sprung  up  in  it, 
any  thing  of  election  or  choice.  The 
very  supposition  that  they  are  affec- 
tions, precludes  all  choice.  The  acts 
indeed  are  matter  of  choice,  but  they 
derive  their  worth  and  character 
solely  from  the  motive,  in  which 
there  is  here  no  choice;  and  even 
these  are  not  considered  by  the 
mind  by  any  rule  of  right,  but  are 
tried  merely  how  far  they  accord 
with  the  feelings  that  are  in  the 
heart. 

Now,  this  single  case,  if  it  be  ad- 
mitted, will  entirely  set  aside  the 
absolute  authority  of  those  two 
principles  which  we  have  cited  from 
Dr  Reid  and  Mr  Stewart,  and  which 
are  very  commonly  admitted.  It 


will  shew  that  these  rules  require  to 
be  explained,  and  to  be  much  re- 
stricted in  their  application  ;  that  if 
they  are  useful,  it  is  in  particular 
cases ;  but  that  as  absolute  tests  of 
morality,  in  which  sense  they  are 
proposed,  they  do  not  hold  good;— 
since  here  is  a  case  of  a  very  high 
moral  order,  in  which  they  are  to- 
tally inapplicable.  And  this  case,  it 
will  be  observed,  though  proposed 
as  a  single  one,  is  merely  the  re- 
presentative of  a  very  extensive  or- 
der of  moral  cases, — all  those  of  pure, 
good,  rightly-directed  native  affec- 
tion. The  instance  of  a  mind  so  per- 
fectly pure  and  good  as  we  have  sup- 
posed, is  a  rare  one,  but  such  do  oc- 
cur ;  and  it  would  be  no  vindication, 
but  the  strongest  objection,  to  a 
theory  of  morals,  that  it  would  not 
include  those  cases,  however  rare, 
which  were  rare  only  from  the  height 
of  moral  excellence  they  implied.  We 


168 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  II. 


[Feb. 


have  represented  nearly  the  only 
case  in  which  it  is  supposable  that 
the  mind  may  be  full  of  spontaneous 
goodness,  without  having  yet  begun 
to  judge  itself  by  any  rule  of  right 
and  wrong.  But  the  same  will  hold 
of  innumerable  affections.  Does  it 
diminish  the  merit  of  gratitude  in 
our  eyes,  that  it  comes  as  a  sponta- 
neous and  irresistible  movement 
upon  the  heart  ?  Or  do  we  approve 
more  of  him  who  measures  the  re- 
turns of  kindness  which  he  will 
make,  precisely  to  what  the  kindness 
done  requires,  than  of  him  whose 
unsatisfied  feelings  persuade  him 
that  he  has  never  done  enough  ? 
Imagine  him  who  fights  in  his  coun- 
try's battles,  and  to  whom  nothing 
that  his  power  can  do  seems  suffi- 
cient to  satisfy  his  longing  desire  to 
render  her  service;  only  admitting 
that  his  desire  is  for  her,  and  not  for 
himself.  Or  suppose  any  of  the  acts 
of  kindness  which  one  human  being 
renders  to  another.  Does  the  quick 
strong  impulse  from  which  it  flows, 
take  away  the  ground  of  approbation, 
or  does  it  constitute  it  ? 

It  is  true  that  passing  emotions  of 
right  feeling  are  not  virtue ;  nor  is  a 
single  good  affection.  But,  suppose 
any  man,  who  in  all  the  various  re- 
lations of  life  feels  kindly,  warmly, 
generously,  and  who  in  performing 
all  its  offices  is  influenced  by  the 
pleasure  he  feels,  and  by  a  sense  of 
natural  aversion  to  that  which  would 
be  contrary  to  his  just,  kind,  right 
feelings — should  we  withhold  our 
esteem  from  such  a  man,  and  say 
that  his  feelings  had  no  moral  qua- 
lity because  they  were  involuntary  ? 
or  his  actions,  because  they  were 
prompted  by  his  feelings,  and  not 
measured  to  a  known  rule  of  right  ? 

We  are  inclined  to  think,  that  by 
far  the  greater  part  of  the  moral  ap- 
probation and  disapprobation  we  be- 
stow in  life,  is  given  from  recogni- 
sing the  presence  or  absence  of  such 
right  affections. 

If  the  nature  of  man  be  truly  con- 
sidered, and  the  purport  of  the  great- 
er part  of  the  moral  instruction  which 
he  receives,  and  the  moral  discipline 
he  passes  through,  it  will  be  found 
that  the  great  object  of  all  is  to  frame 
him  to  right  feelings.  Are  these  feel- 
ings right  and  moral  only  because 
they  have  been  formed  in  the  mind 
against  nature  ?  And  do  they  lose 
their  character  when  by  greater  hap- 


piness of  disposition,  and  of  the  cir- 
cumstances of  life,  they  are  found 
there  unforced,  springing  up  in  the 
very  bounty  of  nature  ? 

The  most  perfect  regulation  of  the 
mind  towards  the  Supreme  Being, 
is  a  regulation  of  feelings.  Does  it 
diminish  in  our  esteem  the  regard 
due  to  the  most  perfect  piety,  that  it 
was  from  the  beginning  a  predomi- 
nant feeling  in  the  soul  ? — and  that 
it  has  not  been  slowly  framed,  by 
thought,  self-conquest,  and  the  exer- 
cises of  religion  ? 

This  cursory  notice  of  some  of  the 
more  important  dispositions  of  our 
nature  may  serve  to  satisfy  us  that 
there  is  some  great  defect  in  those 
ethical  theories,  which  represent 
volition,  and  the  conscious  reference 
to  a  rule  of  right,  as  necessary  to 
constitute  a  proper  object  of  our 
moral  approbation.  To  us  it  would 
appear  more  consonant  to  our  natu- 
ral feelings  and  to  truth  to  say,  that 
if  it  had  been  possible  for  man,  con- 
stituted as  he  is,  to  have  been  from 
his  birth  good,  without  any  con- 
sideration that  he  was  so,  or  any 
temptation  of  evil  entering  into  his 
mind  to  tell  him  that  he  had  a  con- 
science,— if  all  his  affections  for  earth 
and  heaven  could  have  been  right, 
and  pure,  and  strong,  and  all  in  their 
just  proportion,  so  that  every  allure- 
ment to  ill  that  could  have  been 
offered  to  him  should  have  appeared 
not  matter  of  deliberation  but  of  ab- 
horrence,— that  this  state,  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  ethical  maxims  in 
question,  must  be  without  any  merit 
or  claim  to  praise,  would  have  been 
in  truth  the  highest  moral  state  con- 
ceivable. These  maxims  then  can- 
not be  supported. 

But,  constituted  as  human  nature 
is,  this  state  is  not  possible.  In  man 
good  is  mixed  with  evil,  and  it  is 
this  mixture  which  gives  occasion  to 
all  ethical  enquiry.  The  contention 
between  good  and  evil  is  that  strife 
of  which  conscience  is  the  umpire. 
It  is  reflection  on  the  tendencies  of 
these  two  opposite  forces  that  gives 
rise  to  a  rule  of  right.  It  is  the  al- 
lurement which  both  good  and  evil 
offer  to  the  mind,  that  makes  virtue 
a  matter  of  volition  and  choice. 
From  this  mixed  state,  then,  and  this 
subjection  of  human  nature  to  two 
different  powers,  arises  a  great  de- 
partment of  morality.  And,  as  it  ap- 
pears to  us,  all  that  has  been  usually 


.1833.] 


Characters  of  the  Affections. 


taken  into  account  in  the  disquisi- 
tions of  ethical  writers. 

Between  these  two  different  powers 
the  human  will  must  make  election, 
determining  itself  to  good.  To  en- 
lighten the  mind  to  choose,  and  to 
strengthen  it  in  its  adherence  to  right 
choice,  has  been  the  great  object  of 
all  moralists.  It  is  the  most  import- 
ant object,  undoubtedly,  for  it  is 
when  man  wavers,  or  when  he  has 
fallen,  that  he  needs  aid  ;  and  those 
affections  which  are  right  from  the 
beginning,  rather  seem  to  dispense 
with  such  succour.  To  this  situation, 
then,  of  man  tempted  and  struggling, 
the  attention  of  speculative  and  prac- 
tical moralists  has  been  principally 
directed,  and  to  this  the  greater  part 
of  their  technical  language  bears  re- 
ference. The  most  marked  term, 
especially,  of  their  whole  language, 
"  moral  obligation,"  refers  to  this 
state  solely,  and  to  this  the  answer- 
ing word  of  ordinary  language,  con- 
science, seems  in  like  manner  to 
apply. 

The  consideration  of  the  differ- 
ence between  the  spontaneous  virtue 
of  right  affections,  and  that  virtue 
which  arises  in  the  struggles  of  dif- 
ficult duty,  appears  to  explain  the 
defective  and  partial  view  which 
some  writers  have  taken  of  the  whole 
of  morality. 

Virtue  appears  for  the  most  part 
to  be,  in  ethical  language,  a  term  of 
very  undefined  application.  It  is  of 
very  comprehensive  significance,  but 
is  sometimes  used  with  a  tendency 
to  one  meaning  in  preference,  and 
sometimes  to  another,  so  as  to  pro- 
duce seeming  contradictions  among 
different  writers,  using  the  word  not 
in  the  same  sense.  Thus  some  speak 
of  virtue  as  equivalent  with  the  exact 
discharge  of  all  moral  obligation. 
But  our  natural  sentiment  prompts 
us  to  use  it  in  a  more  extended  sense. 
Surely  such  affections  as  those  of 
which  we  have  spoken  are  called 
by  us  virtuous.  But  we  are  apt  to 
apply  this  name  especially  to  de- 
scribe with  force  and  warmth  the 
highest  exertions  of  our  moral  na- 
ture. These  highest  exertions  occur 
when  some  opposition  is  overcome. 
And  it  appears  to  us  that  generally 
we  apply  this  highest  description  of 
moral  superiority  to  those  cases 
where  the  temptations  of  evil  are 
overcome,  or  where  weaknesses, 
known,  or  presumed,  of  our  inferior 


169 

nature,  are  greatly  vanquished.  Thus 
in  the  struggle  of  the  soul,  when 
strong  passion  pulls  against  the  sense 
of  duty  and  against  the  nobler  affec- 
tions, but  these  triumph,  this  is  one 
of  the  cases,  where  we  emphatically 
apply  the  name  of  virtue  to  that  mo- 
ral power  in  the  mind  which  has 
maintained  it  from  falling.  But  at 
the  same  time  it  never  occurs  to  us 
to  qualify  our  approbation  from  con- 
sidering that  the  sense  of  duty  was 
not  the  sola  principle  on  its  own  side, 
and  that  it  had  to  divide  with  high 
and  generous  feelings  the  honour  of 
the  victory.  So,  too,  when  the  natu- 
ral prompting  of  the  higher  feelings 
is  withstood  by  the  weakness  of  the 
inferior  nature,  and  rises  above  it, 
we  then  willingly  give  the  name  of 
virtue  ;  as  to  those  who,  on  great 
occasions,  under  a  lofty  passion, 
have  gone  voluntarily  to  death,  ex- 
amples such  as  that  of  Decius,  who, 
agreeably  to  a  superstition  of  his 
people,  when  the  fortune  of  a  great 
battle  was  going  against  them,  rode 
unarmed  into  the  ranks  of  the  enemy, 
devoting  himself  for  his  country.  On 
the  other  hand,  cases  may  be  cited 
where  the  allurement  to  weakness  is 
from  feelings  good  and  right  in  them- 
selves, but  which  interfere  with  a 
higher  claim,  and  which  are  sacrificed 
simply  to  the  austere  and  inflexible 
sentiment  of  duty,  examples  which 
also  belong  to  high  virtue. 

On  the  whole,  it  would  appear, 
that  the  great  extent  to  which  the 
virtues  of  men  bear  the  marks  of  this 
our  mixed  nature,  has  led  ethical 
writers  to  consider  them  solely  with 
respect  to  it,  as  the  most  illustrious 
examples  of  virtue  do  arise  from  it, 
and  as,  in  the  greater  number  of  man- 
kind, virtue  cannot  have  place  except 
by  deliberate  resistance  to  evil  pro- 
pensities. But  it  appears,  at  the 
same  time,  that  there  is  no  reason 
whatever,  for  that  exclusion  of  the 
affections  from  the  place  of  virtue. 
On  the  contrary,  a  more  accurate 
examination  shews  that  virtuous  af- 
fections may  exist,  and  receive  high 
moral  approbation, withoutany  regard 
to  the  struggle  with  evil  or  inferior 
propensities  ;  that  they  have  the 
character  of  virtue  when  they  aid 
the  sense  of  duty  in  resisting  a 
crime  ;  and  that  they  have  the  same 
character,  when,  in  their  pure  native 
strength,  they  triumph  over  the  weak- 
nesses of  mortal  nature. 


170 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


[Feb. 


TOM  CRINGLE  S  LOG. 

CHAP.  XVIII. 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  WAVE. 

"  O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  pur  souls  as  free. 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear  the  billow's  foam, 
Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  our  home. 
These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway — 
Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey." 

The  Corsair. 


AT  three  o'clock  next  morning, 
about  an  hour  and  a  half  before  day- 
dawn,  I  was  roused  from  my  cot  by 
the  gruff  voice  of  the  boatswain  on 
deck — "  All  hands  up  anchor." 

The  next  moment  the  gunroom 
steward  entered  with  a  lantern, 
which  he  placed  on  the  table— 
"  Gentlemen,  all  hands  up  anchor,  if 
you  please." 

"  Botheration  !"  grumbled  one. 

"  Oh  dear  !"  yawned  another. 

"  How  merrily  we  live  that  sailors 
be!"  sung  another  in  a  most  doleful 
strain,  and  in  all  the  bitterness  of 
heart  consequent  on  being  roused 
out  of  a  warm  nest  so  unceremo- 
niously. But  no  help  for  it;  so  up 
we  all  got,  and  opening  the  door  of 
my  berth,  I  got  out,  and  sat  me 
down  on  the  bench  that  ran  along 
the  starboard  side  of  the  table. 

For  the  benefit  of  the  uninitiated, 
let  me  describe  a  gunroom  on  board 
of  a  sloop  of  war.  Everybody  knows 
that  the  captain's  cabin  occupies  the 
after  part  of  the  ship ;  next  to  it,  on 
the  same  deck,  is  the  gunroom.  In 
a  corvette,  such  as  the  Fireband,  it 
is  a  room, as  near  as  may  be,  twenty 
feet  long  by  twelve  wide,  and  lighted 
by  a  long  scuttle,  or  skylight,  in  the 
deck  above.  On  each  side  of  this 
room  runs  a  row  of  small  chambers, 
seven  feet  long  by  six  feet  wide, 
boarded  off  from  the  main  saloon,  or, 
in  nautical  phrase,  separated  from  it 
by  bulkheads,  each  with  a  door  and 
small  window  opening  into  the  same, 
and,  generally  speaking,  with  a  small 
scuttle  in  the  side  of  the  ship  towards 
the  sea.  These  are  the  officers'  sleep- 
ing apartments,  in  which  they  have 
each  a  chest  of  drawers  and  basin- 
stand  ;  while  overhead  is  suspended 
a  cot,  or  hammock,  kept  asunder  by  a 
wooden  frame,  six  feet  long  by  about 
two  broad,  slung  from  cleats  nailed 
to  the  beams  above  by  two  lan- 


yards fastened  to  rings,  one  at  the 
head,  and  the  other  at  the  foot;  from 
which  radiate  a  number  of  smaller 
cords,  which  are  fastened  to  the 
canvass  of  the  cot;  while  a  small  strip 
of  canvass  runs  from  head  to  foot 
on  each  side,  so  as  to  prevent  the 
sleeper  from  rolling  out.  The  di- 
mensions of  the  gunroom  are,  as  will 
be  seen,  very  much  circumscribed 
by  the  side  berths ;  and  when  you 
take  into  account,  that  the  centre  is 
occupied  by  a  long  table,  running 
the  whole  length  of  the  room,  flanked 
by  a  wooden  bench,  with  a  high  back 
to  it  on  each  side,  and  a  large  clumsy 
chair  at  the  head,  and  another  at  the 
foot,  not  forgetting  the  sideboard  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  (full  of  knives, 
forks,  spoons,  tumblers,  glasses,  &c. 
&c.  &c.,  stuck  into  mahogany  sock- 
ets,) all  of  which  are  made  fast  to  the 
deck  by  strong  cleats  and  staples, 
and  bands  of  spunyarn,  so  as  to  pre- 
vent them  fetching  way,  or  moving, 
when  the  vessel  pitches  or  rolls,  you 
will  understand  that  there  is  no  great 
scope  to  expatiate  upon,  free  of  the 
table,  benches,  and  bulkheads  of  the 
cabins.  While  I  sat  monopolizing 
the  dull  light  of  the  lantern,  and  ac- 
coutring myself  as  decently  as  the 
hurry  would  admit  of,  I  noticed  the 
officers,  in  their  night-gowns  and 
night- caps,  as  they  extricated  them- 
selves from  their  coops  ;  and  pictu- 
resque-looking subjects  enough  there 
were  amongst  them,  in  all  conscience. 
At  length,  that  is  in  about  ten  mi- 
nutes from  the  time  we  were  called, 
we  were  all  at  stations — a  gun  was 
fired,  and  we  weighed,  and  then 
stood  out  to  sea,  running  along  about 
four  knots,  with  the  land-wind  right 
aft.  Having  made  an  offing  of  three 
miles  or  so,  we  outran  the  Terral, 
and  got  becalmed  in  the  belt  of 
smooth  water  between  it  and  the 
sea-breeze.  It  was  striking  to  see 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


tie  three  merchant-ships  gradually 
d  -aw  out  from  the  land,  until  we 
were  all  clustered  together  in  a 
b  inch,  with  half  a  gale  of  wind  curl- 
iisg  the  blue  waves  within  musket- 
s  lot,  while  all  was  long  swell  and 
smooth  water  with  us.  At  length 
the  breeze  reached  us,  and  we  made 
sail  with  our  convoy  to  the  south- 
ward and  eastward,  the  lumbering 
merchantmen  crowding  every  inch 
of  canvass,  while  we  could  hardly 
keep  astern,  under  close-reefed  top- 
s  tils,  jib,  and  spanker. 

"  Pipe  to  breakfast,"  said  the  cap- 
t;iin  to  Mr  Yerk. 

"  A  sail  abeam  of  us  to  windward !" 

"  What  is  she  ?"  sung  out  the  skip- 
per to  the  man  at  the  mast-head 
vho  had  hailed. 

"  A  small  schooner,  sir;  she  has 
fired  a  gun,  and  hoisted  an  ensign 
aid  pennant." 

"  How  is  she  steering  ?" 

"  She  has  edged  away  for  us,  sir." 

"  Very  well.— Mr  Yerk,  make  the 
s'gnal  for  the  convoy  to  stand  on." 
Then  to  the  boatswain — "  Mr  Cat- 
well,  have  the  men  gone  to  break- 
fust?" 

"  No,  sir,  but  they  are  just  going." 

"  Then  pipe  belay  with  breakfast 
for  a  minute,  will  you  ?  All  hands 
make  sail!" 

"  Crack  on,  Mr  Yerk,  and  let  us 
overhaul  this  small  swaggerer." 

In  a  trice  we  had  all  sail  set,  and 
vrere  staggering  along  on  the  larboard 
t  ick,  close  upon  a  wind.  We  hauled 
cut  from  the  merchant-ships  like 
s  noke,  and  presently  the  schooner 
vas  seen  from  the  deck. — "  Go  to 
Ireakfast  now."  The  crew  disap- 
peared, all  to  the  officers  and  signal- 
Kian. 

The  first  lieutenant  had  the  book 
cpen  on  the  drum  of  the  capstan  be- 
f  >re  him.  "  Make  our  number/'  said 
tiie  captain.  It  was  done.  "  What 
does  she  answer  ?" 

The  signalman  answered  from  the 
f  >re  rigging,  where  he  had  perched 
Mmself \vith  his  glass — "  She  makes 
t  ic  signal  to  telegraph,  sir — 3,  9,  2, 
at  the  fore,  sir" — and  so  on;  which 
t  anslated  was  simply  this — "  The 
"Wave,  with  dispatches  from  the  ad- 
miral." 

«  Oh,  ho,"  said  N ;  "  what  is 

s'ie  sent  for  ?  Whenever  the  people 
have  got  their  breakfast,  tack,  and 
s-und  towards  her,  Mr  Yerk." 


171 

The  little   vessel   approached. — 
"  Shorten  sail,  Mr  Yerk,  and  heave 
the  ship  to,"  said  the  captain  to  the 
first  lieutenant. 
"  Ay,  ay,  sir." 
"  All  hands,  Mr  Catwell." 
Presently  the  boatswain's  whistle 
rung  sharp  and  clear,  while  his  gruff 
voice,  to  which  his  mates  bore  any 
thing  but  mellow  burdens,  echoed 
through  the  ship — "All  hands  shorten 
sail — fore   and  mainsails  haul  up — 
haul  down  the  jib — in  topgallant  sails 
— now  back  the  main  topsail." 

By  heaving  to,  we  brought  the 
Wave  on  our  weather  bow.  She  was 
now  within  a  cable's  length  of  the 
corvette;  the  captain  was  standing 
on  the  second  foremost  gun,  on  the 
larboard  side.  "  Mafarne," — to  his 
steward, — " hand  menp  my  trumpet." 
He  hailed  the  little  vessel.  "  Ho,  the 
Wave,  ahoy !" 

Presently  the  responding  "  hillo" 
came  down  the  wind  to  us  from  the 
officer  in  command  of  her,  like  an 
echo — "  Run  under  our  stern  and 
heave  to,  to  leeward." 
"  Ay,  ay,  sir." 

As  the  little  vessel  came  to  the 
wind,  she  lowered  down  her  boat, 
and  Mr  Jigmaree,  the  boatswain  of 
the  dockyard  in  Jamaica,  came  on 
board,  and  touching  his  hat,  present- 
ed his  dispatches  to  the  captain. 
Presently  he  and  the  skipper  retired 
into  the  cabin,  and  all  hands  were 
inspecting  the  Wave  in  her  nexv  cha- 
racter of  one  of  his  Britannic  Majes- 
ty's cruisers.  When  I  had  last  seen 
her  she  was  a  most  beautiful  little 
craft,  both  in  hull  and  rigging,  as  ever 
delighted  the  eye  of  a  sailor ;  but  the 
dockyard  riggers  and  carpenters  had 
fairly  bedeviled  her,  at  least  so  far 
as  appearances  went.  First,  they 
had  replaced  the  light  rail  on  her 
gunwale,  by  heavy  solid  bulwarks 
four  feet  high,  surmounted  by  ham- 
mock nettings,  at  least  another  foot, 
so  that  the  symmetrical  little  vessel, 
that  formerly  floated  on  the  foam 
light  as  a  sea-gull,  now  looked  like 
a  clumsy  dish-shaped  Dutch  dogger. 
Her  long  slender  wands  of  masts, 
which  used  to  swig  about,  as  if  there 
were  neither  shrouds  nor  stays  to 
support  them,  were  now  as  taught 
and  -stiff  as  church  steeples,  with 
four  heavy  shrouds  of  a  side,  and 
stays  and  back-stays,  and  the  Devil 
knows  what  all. 


172 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Feb. 


"  Now,"  quoth  Tailtackle,  "  if 
them  heave1  emtaughts  at  the  yard 
have  riot  taken  the  speed  out  of  the 
little  beauty,  I  am  a  Dutchman." 
Timotheus,  I  may  state  in  the  by- 
going,  was  not  a  Dutchman;  he  was 
fundamentally  any  thing  but  a  Dutch- 
man; but  his  opinion  was  sound,  and 
soon  verified  to  my  cost.  Jigmaree 
now  approached. 

"  The  captain  wants  you  in  the 
cabin,  sir,"  said  he.  I  descended, 
and  found  the  skipper  seated  at  a 
table  with  his  clerk  beside  him,  and 
several  open  letters  lying  before  him. 
"  Sit  down,  Mr  Cringle."  I  took  a 
chair.  "  There— read  that,"  and  he 
threw  an  open  letter  across  the  table 
to  me,  which  ran  as  follows  : — 

"  SIR, 

"  The  Vice-Admiral,  commanding 
on  the  Jamaica  station,  desires  me 
to  say,  that  the  bearer,  the  boatswain 
of  the  dockyard,  Mr  Luke  Jigmaree, 
has  instructions  to  cruise  for,  and  if 
possible  to  fall  in  with  you,  before 
you  weather  Cape  Maize,  and  falling 
in  with  you,  to  deliver  up  charge  of 
the  vessel  to  you,  as  well  as  of  the 
five  negroes,  and  the  pilot,  Peter 
Mangrove,  who  are  on  board  of  her. 
The  Wave  having  been  armed  and 
fitted  with  every  thing  considered 
necessary,  you  are  to  man  with  thirty- 
five  of  your  crew,  including  officers, 
and  to  place  her  under  the  command 
of  Lieut.  Thomas  Cringle,  who  is  to 
be  furnished  with  a  copy  of  this 
letter  authenticated  by  your  signa- 
ture, and  to  whom  you  will  give 
written  instructions,  that  he  is  first 
of  all  to  cruise  in  the  great  Cuba 
channel,  until  the  14th  proximo,  for 
the  prevention  of  piracy,  and  the 
suppression  of  the  slave-trade  car- 
ried on  between  the  island  of  Cuba 
and  the  coast  of  Africa,  and  to  de- 
tain and  carry  in  to  Havanna,  or 
Nassau,  New  Providence,  all  vessels 
having  slaves  on  board,  which  he  may 
have  reason  to  believe  have  been 
shipped  beyond  the  prescribed  limits 
on  the  African  coast,  as  specified  in 
the  margin  ;  and  after  the  14th  he  is 
to  proceed  direct  to  New  Providence 
if  unsuccessful,  there  to  land  Mr 
Jigmaree,  and  the  dockyard  Negroes, 
and  await  your  return  from  the 
northward,  after  having  seen  the 
merchantmen  clear  of  the  Caicos 


passage.  When  you  have  rejoined 
the  Wave  at  Nassau,  you  are  to  pro- 
ceed with  her  as  your  tender  to 
Crooked  Island,  and  there  to  await 
instructions  from  the  Vice- Admiral, 
which  shall  be  transmitted  by  the 
packet  to  sail  on  9th  proximo,  to  the 
care  of  the  postmaster.  I  have  the 
honour  to  be,  sir,  your  obedient 
servant, 

tt .         t  Sec 

"  To  the  Hon.  Capt.  N -, 

«  &c.  &c.  &c." 

To  say  sooth,  I  was  by  no  means 
amorous  of  this  independent  com- 
mand, as  an  idea  had,  at  the  time 
I  speak  of,  gone  abroad  in  the  navy, 
that  lieutenants,  commanding  small 
vessels,  seldom  rose  higher,  unless 
through  extraordinary  interest,  and  I 
took  the  liberty  of  stating  my  re- 
pugnance to  my  captain. 

He  smiled,  and  threw  over  another 
letter  to  me ;  it  was  a  private  one 
from  the  Admiral's  Secretary,  and 
was  as  follows : — 

"(Confidential.') 
"  MY  DEAR  N 

"  The   Vice-Admiral   has  got    a 

hint  from  Sir  ,  to  kick  that 

wild  splice,  young  Cringle,  about  a 
bit.  It  seems  he  is  a  nephew  of  Old 
Blue  Blaze's,  and  as  he  has  taken  a 
fancy  to  the  lad,  he  has  promised  his 
mother  that  he  will  do  his  utmost  to 
give  him  opportunities  of  being 
knocked  on  the  head,  for  all  of  which 
the  old  lady  has  professed  herself 
wonderfully  indebted.  As  the  puppy 
has  peculiar  notions,  hint,  directly  or 
indirectly,  that  he  is  not  to  be  per- 
manently bolted  down  to  the  little 
Wave,  and  that  if  half  a  dozen  skip- 
pers (you,  my  darling,  among  the 
rest)  were  to  evaporate  during  the 
approaching  hot  months,  he  may 
have  some  small  chance  of  t'other 
swab.  Write  me,  and  mind  the 
claret  and  cura^oa.  Put  no  address 
on  either;  and  on  coming  to  anchor, 
send  notice  to  old  Wiggins,  in  the 
lodge  at  the  Master  Attendant's,  and 
he  will  relieve  you,  and  the  pics  de 
Gallop  some  calm  evening,  of  all 
farther  trouble  regarding  them. — 
Don't  forget  the  turtle  from  Crooked 
Island,  and  the  cigars. 

"  Always,  my  dear  N , 

"  Yours  sincerely, 


*    r!iisfnm_'hniieo  nffip.ora. 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


"  Oli,  I  forgot.  The  Admiral  begs 
you  will  spare  him  some  steady  old 
hands  to  act  as  gunner,  boatswain, 
&<.— elderly  men,  if  you  please,  who 
will  shorten  sail  before  the  squall 
stiikes  him.  If  you  float  him  away 
with  a  crew  of  boys,  the  little  scamp 
will  get  bothered,  or  capsized,  in  a 
jifly.  All  this  for  your  worship's  go- 
vernment. How  do  you  live  with 
your  passenger — prime  fellow,  an't 

he  ?     My  love  to  him.   Lady is 

dying  to  see  him  again." 

"Well,  Mr  Cringle,  what  say  you  ?" 

•'  Of  course,  I  must  obey,  sir ; — 
highly  flattered  by  Mr  Secretary's 
good  opinion,  any  how."  The  cap- 
tain laughed  heartily. 

'  It  is  nearly  calm,  I  see.  We 
must  set  about  manning  this  seventy- 
four  for  you,  without  delay.  So, 
co  .Tie  along,  Captain  Cringle."  When 
we  got  on  deck,  it  was,  as  he  said, 
nearly  calm. 

"<  Hail  the  Wave  to  close,Mr  Yerk," 

said  N .  "  Lower  away  the  boat, 

and  pipe  away  the  yaulers,  boat- 
swain's mate." 

Presently  the  captain  and  I  were 
on  the  Wave's  deck,  where  I  was 
much  surprised  to  find  no  less  per- 
sonages than  Pepperpot  Wagtail,  and 
Paul  Gelid,  Esquires.  Mr  Gelid, 
a  conch,  or  native  of  the  Bahamas, 
wi  A  the  same  yawning,  drawling,  long- 
legged  Creole,  as  ever.  He  had  been 
ill  with  fever,  and  had  asked  a  pass- 
age to  Nassau,  where  his  brother 
was  established.  At  bottom,  how- 
ever, he  was  an  excellent  fellow, 
warm-hearted,  honourable,  and  up- 
right. As  for  little  Wagtail— oh,  he 
was  a  delight! — a  small  round  man, 
with  all  the  Jamaica  Creole  irritabi- 
lity of  temper,  but  also  all  the  Ja- 
maica warmth  of  heart  about  him — 
sti  aightforward,  and  scrupulously 
conscientious  in  his  dealings, but  de- 
voted to  good  cheer  in  every  shape. 
Ho  had  also  been  ailing,  and  had 
adventured  on  the  cruise  in  order  to 
rezruit.  I  scarcely  know  how  to 
describe  his  figure  better  than  by 
comparing  his  corpus  to  an  egg,  with 
his  little  feet  stuck  through  the  bot- 
to.n ;  but  he  was  amazingly  active 
w  thai. — Both  the  captain  and  my- 
ee.f  were  rejoiced  to  see  our  old 
friends;  and  it  was  immediately  fixed 
tint  they  should  go  on  board  the 
corvette,  and  sling  their  cots  along- 
side of  Bang,  so  long  as  the  courses 


of  the  two  vessels  lay  together.  This 
being  carried  into  execution,  we  set 
about  our  arrangements ;  our  pre- 
cious blockheads  at  the  dock-yard 
had  fitted  a  thirty-two  pound  car- 
ronade  on  the  pivot,  and  stuck  two 
long  sixes  one  on  each  side  ot  the  little 
vessel.  I  hate  carronades,  especi- 
ally small  guns.  I  had,  before  now, 
seen  thirty-two  pound  shot  thrown 
by  them,  jump  off  a  ship's  side  with 
a  rebound  like  a  football,  when  a 
shot  from  an  eighteen-pounder  long 
gun  went  crash  at  the  same  range 
through  both  sides  of  the  ship,  whip- 
ping off  a  leg  and  arm,  or  aiblins  a 
head  or  two,  in  its  transit. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  I,  "  don't 
shove  me  adrift  with  that  old  pot 
there — do  lend  me  one  of  your  long 
brass  eighteen-pounders." 

"  Why,  Master  Cringle,  what  is 
your  antipathy  to  carrouades  ?" 

"  I  have  no  absolute  antipathy  to 
them,  sir — they  are  all  very  well  in 
their  way.  For  instance,  sir,  I  wish 
you  would  fit  me  with  two  twelve- 
pound  carronades  instead  of  those 
two  popgun  long  sixes.  These,  with 
thirty  muskets,  and  thirty-five  men 
or  so,  would  make  me  very  com- 
plete." 

"  A  modest  request,"  said  Captain 

"  Now,  Tom  Cringle,  you  have 
overshot  your  mark,  my  fine  fellow," 
thought  I;  but  it  was  all  right,  and 
that  forenoon  the  cutter  was  hoisted 
out  with  the  guns  in  her,  and  the 
others  dismounted  and  sent  back  in 
exchange;  and  in  fine,  after  three 
days'  hard  work,  I  took  the  com- 
mand of  H.B.M.  schooner,  Wave, 
with  Timothy  Tailtackle  as  gunner, 
the  senior  midshipman  as  master, 
one  of  the  carpenter's  crew  as  car- 
penter, and  a  boatswain's-mate  as 
boatswain,  a  surgeon's  mate  as  sur- 
geon, the  captain's  clerk  as  purser, 
and  thirty  foremast-men,  besides  the 
blackies,  as  the  crew.  But  the  sailing 
of  the  little  beauty  had  been  regu- 
larly spoiled.  We  could  still  in  light 
winds  weather  on. the  corvette,  it  is 
true,  but  then  she  was  but  a  slow 
top;  unless  it  blew  half  a  gale  of 
wind,  as  for  going  any  thing  free, 
why  a  sand  barge  would  have 
beaten  us. — We  kept  company  with 
the  Firebrand  until  we  weathered 
Cape  Maize.  It  was  about  five  o'- 
clock in  the  afternoon,  the  corvette 
was  about  half  a  mile  on  our  lee-bow 


174 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Feb. 


when,  while  walking  the  deck,  after 
an  early  dinner,  Tailtackle  came  up 
to  me. 

"  The  Commodore  hashove  to,  sir." 

"  Very  like,"  said  I ;  "  to  allow  the 
merchant-ships  to  close,  I  presume." 

"  A  gun,"  said  little  Reefpoint. 
'*  Ah — what  signal  now  ?" — It  was 
the  signal  to  close. 

"Pat  the  helm  up  and  run  down 
to  him,"  said  I.  It  was  done — and 
presently  the  comfortable  feeling  of 
bowling  along  before  it,  succeeded 
the  sharp  yerking  digging  motion  of 
a  little  vessel,  tearing  and  pitching 
through  a  head  sea,  close  upon  a 
wind.  The  water  was  buzzing  under 
our  bows,  and  we  were  once  more 
close  under  the  stern  of  the  corvette. 
There  was  a  boat  alongside  ready 
manned.  The  captain  hailed,  "  I 
send  your  orders  on  board,  Mr  Crin- 
gle, to  bear  up  on  your  separate 
cruise."  At  the  same  moment,  the 
Firebrand's  ensign  arid  pennant  were 
hoisted — we  did  the  same — a  gun 
from  the  Commodore — ditto  from  the 
tidy  little  Wave — and  lo !  Thomas 
Cringle,  esquire,  launched  for  the 
first  time  on  his  own  bottom. 

By  this  time  the  boat  was  along- 
side, with  Messieurs  Aaron  Bang, 
Pepper  pot  Wagtail,  and  Paul  Gelid 
— the  former  with  his  cot,  and  half  a 
dozen  cases  of  wine,  and  some  pigs, 
and  some  poultry,  all  under  the 
charge  of  his  black  servant. 

"  Hillo,"  said  I—"  Mr  Wagtail  is 
at  home  here,  you  know,  Mr  Bang, 
and  so  is  Mr  Gelid;  but  to  what 
lucky  chance  am  I  indebted  for  your 
society,  my  dear  sir  V" 

"  Thank  your  stars,  Tom— Cap- 
tain Cringle — I  beg  pardon,  and  be 
grateful  ;  I  am  sick  of  rumbling, 
tumbling  in  company  with  these 
heavy  tools  of  merchantmen,  so  I 

entreated  N to  let  me  go  and 

take  a  turn  with  you,  promising  to 
join  the  Firebrand  again  at  Nassau." 

"  Why,  I  am  delighted," — and  so  I 
really  was.  "  But,  my  dear  sir — I 
may  lead  you  a  dance,  and,  peradven- 
ture,  into  trouble— a  small  vessel 
may  catch  a  Tartar,  you  know." 

"D—n  the  expense,"  rejoined  my 
jovial  ally;  "why,  the  hot  little  epi- 
curean Wagtail,  and  Gelid,  cold  and 
frozen  as  he  is,  have  both  taken  a 
fancy  to  me— and  no  wonder,  know- 
ing my  pleasant  qualities  as  they  do 
—ahem;  so,  for  their  sakes,  I  volun- 


teer on  this  piece  of  knight- errantry 
as  much  as" 

"  Poo — you  be  starved,  Aaron 
dear,"  rapped  out  little  Wagtail  j 
[<  you  came  here,  because  you 
thought  you  should  have  more  fun, 
and  escape  the  formality  of  the  big 
ship,  and  eke  the  captain's  sour 
claret." 

"  Ah,"  said  Gelid, "  my  fine  fellow," 
with  his  usual  Creole  drawl,  "  you 
did  not  wait  for  my  opinion.  Ah— 
oh— why,  Captain  Cringle,  a  thou- 
sand pardons.  Friend  Bang,  there, 
swears  that  he  can't  do  without 
you ;  and  all  he  says  about  me,  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  humbuo- 
-ah." 

"  My  lovely  yellowsnake,"  quoth 
Aaron,  "  and  my  amiable  dumpling, 
gentlemen  both,  now,  do  hold  your 
tongues. — Why,  Tom,  here  we  are, 
never  you  mind  how,  after  half  a 
quarrel  with  the  skipper — will  you 
take  us,  or  will  you  send  us  back, 
like  rejected  addresses?" 

"  Send  you  back,  my  boys !  No, 
no,  too  happy  to  get  you."  Another 
gun  from  the  corvette.  "  Firebrands, 
you  must  shove  off.  My  compli- 
ments, Wiggins,  to  the  captain,  and 
there's  a  trifle  for  you  to  drink  my 
health,  when  you  get  into  port."  The 
boat  shoved  off — the  corvette  filled 
her  maintopsail.  "  Put  the  helm 
down — ease  off  the  mainsheet — stand 
by  to  run  up  the  squaresail.  How 
is  her  head,  Mr  Tailtackle  ?" 

Timothy  gave  a  most  extraordi- 
nary grin  at  my  bestowing  the  Mister 
on  him  for  the  first  time. 

"  North-west,  sir." 

"  Keep  her  so" — and  having  bore 
up,  we  rapidly  widened  our  distance 
from  the  Commodore  and  the  fleet. 
All  men  know,  or  should  know,  that 
on  board  of  a  man-of-war,  there  is 
never  any  "  yo  heave  oh'ing."  That 
is  confined  to  merchant  vessels.  But 
when  the  crew  are  having  a  strong 
pull  of  any  rope,  it  is  allowable  for 
the  man  next  the  belaying  pin,  to 
sing  out,  in  order  to  give  unity  to 
the  drag,  "  one — two — three,"  the 
strain  of  the  other  men  increasing 
with  the  figure. 

The  tack  of  the  mainsail  had  got 
jammed  somehow,  and  on  my  desi- 
ring it  to  be  hauled  up,  the  men, 
whose  province  it  was,  were  unable 
to  start  it.  "  Something  foul  aloft," 
said  I.  Tailtackle  came  up.  "  What 


183^.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


are  you  fiddling  at,  men?  Give  me 
here  —  one  —  two — three."  Crack 
went  the  strands  of  the  rope,  under 
the  paws  of  the  Titan,  whereby  the 
head  of  the  outermost  sailor  pitched 
righ ;  into  Gelid'a  stomach,  knocked 
him  over,  and  capsized  him  head 
foremost  into  the  wind  sail  which 
was  let  down  through  the  sky-light 
into  the  little  well  cabin  of  the 
schooner. 

It  so  happened  that  there  was  a 
bucket  full  of  Spanish  brown  paint 
standing  on  the  table  of  the  cabin, 
right  below  the  hoop  of  the  canvass 
funnel,  and  into  it  popped  the  august 
pate  of  Paul  Gelid,  Esquire. 

Bang  had,  in  the  meantime,  caught 
him  by  the  heels,  and  with  the  as- 
sista  ice  of  Pearl,  the  handsome  negro 
formerly  noticed,  who,  from  his 
steadiness,  had  been  spared  to  me  as 
a  quartermaster,  the  conch  was  once 
more  hoisted  on  deck,  with  a  scalp 
of  red  paint,  reaching  down  over  his 
eyes. 

"  I  say,"  quoth  Bang,  "  Gelid,  my 
daring,  not  quite  so  smooth  as  the 
real  Macassar,  eh  ?  Shall  I  try  my 
hand — can  shave  beautifully — eh?" 

"  Ah,"  drawled  Gelid,  "  lucky  my 
head  was  shaved  in  that  last  fever, 
Aaron  dear.  Ah— let  me  think— yon 
tall  man — yon  sailor-fellow — ah — do 
me  the  favour  to  scrape  me  with 
your  knife — ah — and  pray  call  my 
servant."  Timothy,  to  whom  he  had 
addressed  himself,  set  to,  and  scra- 
ped the  red  paint  off  his  poll;  and 
having  called  his  servant,  Chew 
Chev,  handed  him  over  to  the  negro, 
who,  giving  his  arm  to  him,  helped 
him  below,  and  with  the  assistance  of 
Cologne  water,  contrived  to  scrub 
him  decently  cltan.  As  the  evening 
fell,  the  breeze  freshened;  and  du- 
ring the  night  it  blew  strong,  so  that 
from  the  time  we  bore  up,  and  part- 
ed company  with  the  Firebrand,  un- 
til day-dawn  next  morning,  we  had 
run  150  miles  or  thereby  to  the 
northward  and  westward,  and  were 
then  on  the  edge  of  the  Great  Baha- 
ma B  ink.  The  breeze  now  failed  us, 
and  v/e  lay  roasting  in  the  sun  until 
midd  ly,  the  current  sweeping  us  to 
the  northward,  and  still  farther  on  to 
the  bank,  until  the  water  shoaled  to 
three  fathoms.  At  this  time  the  sun 
was  Mazing  fiercely  right  overhead; 
and  Yom  the  shallowness  of  the 
water,  there  was  not  the  smallest 

VOL,  XXXIII,  NO,  CCIV. 


175 

swell,  or  undulation  of  the  surface. 
The  sea,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
was  a  sparkling  light  green,  from  the 
snow-white  sand  at  the  bottom,  as  if 
a  level  desert  had  been  suddenly  sub- 
mersed under  a  few  feet  of  crystal 
clear  water,  and  formed  a  cheery 
spectacle,  when  compared  with  the 
customary  leaden,  or  dark  blue  colour 
of  the  rolling  fathomless  ocean.  It 
was  now  dead  calm. — "Fishing  lines 
there — Idlers,  fishing  lines,"  said  I ; 
and  in  a  minute  there  were  forty  of 
them  down  over  the  side.  In  Eu- 
rope, fish  in  their  shapes  partake  of 
the  sedate  character  of  the  people 
who  inhabit  the  coasts  of  the  seas  in 
which  they  swim — at  least  I  think  so. 
The  salmon,  the  trout,  the  cod,  and 
all  the  other  tribes  of  the  finny  people, 
are  reputable  in  their  shapes,  and 
altogether  respectable-looking  crea- 
tures. But,  within  the  tropics,  Dame 
Nature  plays  strange  vagaries ;  and 
here,  on  the  great  Bahama  Bank, 
every  new  customer,  as  he  flounder- 
ed in  on  deck — no  joke  to  him,  poor 
fellow — elicited  shouts  of  laughter 
from  the  crew.  They  were  in  no 
respect  shaped  like  the  fish  of  our 
cold  climates ;  some  were  all  head — 
others  all  tail — some,  so  far  as  shape 
went,  had  their  heads  where,  with 
all  submission,  I  conceived  their  tails 
should  have  been ;  and  then  the  co- 
lours, the  intense  brilliancy  of  the 
scales  of  these  monstrous-looking  ani- 
mals !  We  hooked  up  a  lot  of  boni- 
tos,  lOlbs  a-piece,  at  the  least.  But 
Wagtail  took  small  account  of  them. 
"  Here,"  said  Bang,  at  this  moment, 
"  by  all  that  is  wonderful,  look  here !" 
And  he  drew  up  a  fish  about  a  foot 
long,  with  a  crop  like  a  pigeon  of 
the  tumbler  kind,  which  began  to 
make  a  loud  snorting  noise. 

"  Ah,"  drawled  Gelid,  "  good  fish, 
with  claret  sauce." 

"  Daresay,"  rejoined  Aaron  ;  "  but 
do  your  Bahama  fish  speak,  Paul,  eh  ?" 

I  have  already  said  that  the  water 
was  not  quite  three  fathoms  deep, 
and  it  was  so  clear  that  I  could  see 
down  to  the  very  sand,  and  there 
were  the  fish  cruising  about,  in  great 
numbers. 

"  Haul  in,Wagtail— you  have  hook- 
ed him,"  and  up  came  a  beautiful 
black  grouper,  about  four  pounds 
weight. 

"  Ah,  there  is  the  regular  jiggery- 
jiggery,"  sung  out  little  Ileefpoint, 

M 


176 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Feb. 


at  the  same  moment,  as  he  in  turn 
began  to  pull  up  his  line.  "  Stand 
by  to  land  him,"  and  a  red  snapper, 
like  a  gigantic  gold  fish,  for  all  the 
world,  was  hauled  on  board ;  and  so 
we  carried  on,  black  snappers,  red 
snappers,  and  rock  fish,  and  a  vast 
variety,  for  all  of  which,  however, 
Wagtail  had  names  pat,  until  at 
length  I  caught  a  most  lovely  dol- 
phin— a  beauty  to  look  at — but  dry, 
terribly  dry  to  eat.  I  cast  it  on  the 
deck,  and  the  chameleon  tints  of  the 
dying  fish,  about  which  so  many  lies 
have  been  said  and  sung,  were  just 
beginning  to  fade,  and  wax  pale,  and 
ashy,  and  deathlike,  when  (for  I  had 
kneeled  down  on  deck)  I  felt  another 
strong  jiggery-jiggery  at  my  line, 
which  little  Reefpoint  had,  in  the 
mean  time,  baited  afresh.  "Zounds! 
I  have  caught  a  whale — a  shark  at  the 
very  least" — and  I  pulled  him  in, 
hand  over  hand. 

*'  A  most  noble  Jew  fish,"  said  I. 
"  A  Jew  fish!"  responded  Wag- 
tail. 

"  A  Jew  fish !"  said  Aaron  Bang. 
«  A  Jew  fish  !"  said  Paul  Gelid. 
"My   dear    Cringle,"    continued 
Wagtail,  "  when  do  you  dine  ?" 
«  At  three,  as  usual." 
0  Then,  Mr  Reefpoint,  will  you 
have  the  great  kindness  to  cast  off 
your  sink,  and  hook  that  splendid 
fellow  by  the  tail — only  through  the 
gristle — don't  prick  him  in  the  flesh 
— and  let  him  meander  about  till 
half  past  two  ?"    Reefy  was  half  in- 
clined to  be  angry  at  the  idea  of  his 
Majesty's  officer  being  converted  in- 
to a  cook's  mate.    "  Why,"  said  I, 
"  we  shall  put  him  in  a  tub  of  water, 
here  on  deck,  Mr  Wagtail,  if  you 
please." 

"  God  bless  me,  no !"  quoth  the 
gastronome.  "  Why,  he  is  strong  as 
an  eagle,  and  will  smash  himself 
to  mummy  in  half  an  hour  in  a 
tub.  No — no — see,  he  weighs  twelve 
pounds  at  the  very  lightest.  Lord ! 
Mr  Cringle,  I  am  surprised  at  you." 
The  fish  was  let  overboard  again, 
according  to  his  desire,  and  haul- 
ed in  at  the  very  moment  he  indi- 
cated by  his  watch,  when,  having 
seen  him  cut  up  and  cleaned,  with 
•his  own  eyes — I  believe  I  may  say 
with  his  own  hands— he  betook  him- 
self to  bis  small  crib  to  dress. 

At  dinner  our  Creole  friend  was 
very  entertaining.    Sang  drew  him 


out,  and  had  him  to  talk  on  all  his 
favourite  topics,  in  a  most  amusing 
manner.  All  at  once  Gelid  lay  back 
on  his  chair. 

"  My  God,"  said  he,  "  I  have  bro- 
ken my  tooth  with  that  confounded 
hard  biscuit — terrible— really ;  ah  !" 
— and  he  screwed  up  his  face,  as  if 
he  had  been  eating  sour  crout,  or  had 
heard  of  the  death  of  a  dear  friend. 

"  Poo,"  quoth  Aaron,  "  any  comb- 
maker  will  furnish  you  forth  as  good 
as  new;  those  grinders  you  brag  of 
are  not  your  own,  Gelid,  you  know 
that." 

"  Indeed,  Aaron,  my  dear,  I  know 
nothing  of  the  kind;  but  this  I 
know,  that  I  have  broken  a  most 
lovely  white  front  tooth,  ah  !" — 

"  Oh,  you  be  hanged,"  said  Aaron ; 
"  why,  you  have  been  bechopped  any 
time  these  ten  years,  I  know." 

The  time  wore  on,  and  it  might 
have  been  half  past  nine  when  we 
went  on  deck. 

It  was  a  very  dark  night — Tail- 
tackle  had  the  watch.  "  Any  thing 
in  sight,  Mr  Tailtackle  ?" 

"  Why,  no,  sir ;  but  I  have  just  ask- 
ed your  steward  for  your  night-glass, 
as,  once  or  twice — but  it  is  so  thick — 
Pray,  sir,  how  far  are  we  oif  the  Hole 
in  the  Wall?" 

"  Why,  sixty  miles  at  the  least." 
The  Hole  in  the  Wall  is  a  very  re- 
markable rock  in  the  Crooked  Island 
Passage,  greatly  resembling,  as  the 
name  betokens,  a  wall  breached  by 
the  sea,  or  by  battering  cannon,  which 
rises  abruptly  out  of  the  water,  to  a 
height  of  forty  feet. 

"  Then,"  quoth  Tailtackle,  "  there 
must  be  a  sail  close  aboard  of  us,  to 
windward  there." 

"Where?"  said  I.  "Quick, send 
for  my  night-glass. " 

"  I  have  it  here  in  my  hand,  sir." 

"  Let  me  see" — and  I  peered 
through  it  until  my  eyes  ached  again. 
I  could  see  nothing,  and  resumed 
my  walk  on  the  quarterdeck.  Tail- 
tackle,  in  the  mean  time,  continued 
to  look  through  the  telescope,  and  as 
I  turned  from  aft  to  walk  forward,  a 
few  minutes  after  this — "  Why,  sir, 
it  clears  a  bit,  and  I  see  the  object 
that  has  puzzled  me  again." 

"  Eh  ?  give  me  the  glass" — in  a 
second  I  caught  it.  "  By  Jupiter,  you 
say  true,  Tailtackle !  beat  to  quar- 
ters— quick — clear  away  the  long 
gun  forward  there!"  AH  was  bustle 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


for  a  minute.  I  kept  my  eye  on  the 
object,  but  I  could  not  make  out 
moi-e,  than  that  it  was  a  strange  sail  ,• 
I  could  neither  judge  of  her  size  nor 
her  rig,  from  the  distance,  and  the 
extreme  darkness  of  the  night.  At 
length  I  handed  the  glass  to  Tail- 
tackle  again.  We  were  at  this  time 
standing  in  towards  the  Cuba  shore, 
wit  i  a  fine  breeze,  and  going  along 
sev  3n  knots,  as  near  as  could  be. 

"  Give  the  glass  to  Mr  Jigmaree, 
Mr  Tail  tackle,  and  come  forward 
here,  and  see  all  snug." 

The  long  gun  was  slewed  round — 
both  carronades  were  run  out,  all 
throe  being  loaded,  double  shotted, 
anc  carefully  primed — the  whole 
crew,  with  our  black  supernumera- 
rief ,  being  at  quarters. 

"  I  see  her  quite  distinct  now,  sir," 
sucg  out  Timotheus. 

"  Well,  what  looks  she  like  ?" 

*'  A  large  brig,  sir,  by  the  wind  on 
the  same  tack — you  can  see  her  now 
without  the  glass — there — with  the 
naked  eye." 

I  looked,  and  certainly  fancied  I 
saw  some  towering  object  rising  high 
and  dark  to  windward,  like  some 
mighty  spectre  walking  the  deep, 
but  I  could  discern  nothing  more. 

"  She  is  a  large  vessel,  sure  enough, 
sir,"  said  Timothy  once  more — "  now 
she  is  hauling  up  her  courses,  sir- 
she  takes  in  topgallant  sails — why, 
she  is  bearing  up  across  our  bows, 
sir — mind  she  don't  rake  us." 

"  The  deuce !"  said  I.  I  now  saw 
the  chase  very  distinctly  bear  up. 
"  I  ut  the  helm  up— keep  her  away 
a  Mt — steady — that  will  do — fire  a 
shot  across  her  bows,  Mr  Tailtackle— 
and,  Mr  Reefpoint,  shew  the  private 
signal."  The  gun  was  fired,  and  the 
lights  shewn,  but  our  spectral  friend 
wa;all  darkness  and  silence.  "Mr 
SCE  rfemwell,"  said  I  to  the  carpenter, 
"  st  and  by  the  long  gun.  Tailtackle, 
I  don't  like  that  chap — open  the  ma- 
ga*  ine."  By  this  time  the  strange  sail 
was  on  our  quarter — we  shortened 
sail,  while  he,  finding  that  his  ma- 
nce  ivre  of  crossing  our  bows  had  been 
foi:  ed  by  our  bearing  up  also,  got  the 
for  3tack  on  board  again,  and  set  his 
topgallant  sails,  all  very  cleverly.  He 
was  not  far  out  of  pistol-shot.  Tail- 
tacde,  in  his  shirt  and  trowsers,  and 
feh  shoes,  now  stuck  his  head  up 
the  main  hatchway. 


177 

jetting 

the  hatches  on,  sir—that  fellow  is 
not  honest,  sir — I  don't  like  him." 

"  Never  mind,  Mr  Tailtackle,  never 
mind.  Forward  there ;  Mr  Jigmaree, 
slap  a  round  shot  into  him,  since  he 
won't  speak,  or  heave  to — right  be- 
tween his  masts,  do  you  hear — Are 
you  ready  ?" —  "  All  ready,  sir."  — • 
"  Fire."  The  gun  was  fired,  and  si- 
multaneously we  heard  a  crash  on 
board  the  strange  sail,  followed  by 
a  piercing  yell,  similar  to  what  the 
negroes  raise  over  a  dead  comrade, 
and  then  a  long  melancholy  howl. 

"  A  slaver,  and  the  shot  has  told, 
sir,"  said  Mr  Handlead,  the  master. 

"  Then  we  shall  have  some  fun  for 
it,"  thought  I.  I  had  scarcely  spoken, 
when  the  brig  once  more  shortened 
sail  j  and  the  instant  that  the  foresail 
rose,  he  let  fly  his  bow  gun  at  us— • 
then  another,  another,  and  another. 

"  Nine  guns  of  a  side  as  I  am  a 
sinner,"  quoth  Jigmaree ;  and  three 
of  the  shot  struck  us,  mortally  wound- 
ed one  poor  fellow,  and  damaged 
poor  little  Reefy  by  a  splinter  in  the 
side. 

"  Stand  by,  men — take  good  aim- 
fire" — and  we  again  let  drive  the  long 
gun  and  carronade;  but  our  friend 
was  too  quick  for  us,  for  by  this 
time  he  had  once  more  hauled  his 
wind,  and  made  sail  as  close  to  it  as 
he  could  stagger.  We  crowded  every 
thing  in  chase,  but  he  had  the  heels 
of  us,  and  in  an  hour  he  was  once 
more  nearly  out  of  sight  in  the  dark 
night,  right  to  windward. 
"  Keep  at  him,  Mr  Jigmaree  j"  and 
as  I  feared  he  was  running  us  in 
under  the  land,  I  dived  to  consult 
the  chart.  There,  in  the  cabin,!  found 
Wagtail,  Gelid,  and  Bang,  sitting 
smoking  on  each  side  of  the  small 
table,  with  some  brandy  and  water 
before  them. 

"  Ah,"  quoth  Gelid,  «  ah !  fighting 
a  little  ?  Not  pleasant  in  the  evening, 
certainly." 

"  Confound  you,"  said  Aaron, 
"  why  will  you  bother  at  this  awk- 
ward moment  ?" 

Meanwhile,  Wagtail  was  a  good 
deal  discomposed. 

"My  dear  fellow,  hand  me  over 
that  deviled  biscuit." 

Bang  handed  him  over  the  dish, 
slipping  into  it  some  fragments  of 
ship  biscuit,  as  hard  as  flint.  All  this 


178 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Feb. 


time  I  was  busy  poring  over  the 
chart.  Wagtail  took  up  a  piece  and 
popt  it  into  his  mouth. 

"Zounds, Bang — my  dear  Aaron, 
what  dentist  are  you  in  league  with  ? 
Gelid  first  breaks  his  pet  fang,  and 

now  you" 

"  Poo,  poo,"  quoth  his  friend, "  don't 
bother  now — hillo — what  the  deuce 
— I  say,  Wagtail— Gelid,  my  lad,  look 
there" — as  one  of  the  seamen,  with 
another  following  him,  brought  down 
on  his  back  the  poor  fellow  who  had 
been  wounded,  and  laid  his  bloody 
load  on  the  table.  To  those  who  are 
unacquainted  with  these  matters,  it 
may  be  right  to  say,  that  the  cap- 
tain's cabin,  in  a  small  vessel  like  the 
Wave,  is  very  often  in  an  emergency 
used  as  a  cockpit — and  so  it  was  in 
the  present  instance. 

"  Beg  pardon,  captain  and  gentle- 
men," said  the  surgeon,  "but  I  must, 
I  fear,  perform  aiTugly  operation  on 
this  poor  fellow.  1  fancy  you  had 
better  go  on  deck,  gentlemen." 

Now  I  had  an  opportunity  to  see 
of  what  sterling  metal  my  friends 
were  at  bottom  made.  Mr  Bang  in  a 
twinkling  had  his  coat  off. 

"  Doctor,  I  can  be  of  use,  I  know 
it — no  skill,  but  steady  nerves," — al- 
though he  had  reckoned  a  leetle  with- 
out his  host  here, — "  and  I  can  swathe 
a  bandage  too,  although  no  surgeon," 
said  W'agtail. 

Gelid  said  nothing,  but  he  was  in 
the  end  the  best  surgeon's  mate 
amongst  them.  The  poor  fellow, 
Wiggins,  one  of  the  captain's  gigs, 
and  a  most  excellent  man,  in  quarter- 
deck parlance,  was  now  laid  on  the 
table — a,  fine  handsome  young  fel- 
low, faint  and  pale,  very  pale,  but 
courageous  as  a  lion,  even  in  nis  ex- 
tremity. It  appeared  that  a  round 
shot  had  shattered  his  leg  above  the 
knee.  A  tourniquet  had  been  ap- 
plied on  his  thigh,  and  there  was  not 
much  bleeding. 

"  Captain,"  said  the  poor  fellow, 
while  Bang  supported  him  in  his 
arms — "  I  shall  do  yet,  sir  j  indeed  I 
have  no  great  pain." 

All  this  time  the  surgeon  was  cut- 
ing  off  his  trowsers,  and  then,  to  be 
sure,  a  terrible  spectacle  presented 
itself.  The  foot  and  leg,  blue  and 
shrunk,  was  connected  with  the  thigh 
by  a  baud  of  muscle  about  two 
inches  wide,  and  an  inch  thick  ;  that 
fined  away  to  a  bunch  of  white  ten- 


dons or  sinews  at  the  knee,  which 
again  swelled  out  as  they  melted  into 
the  muscles  of  the  calf  of  the  leg ; 
but  as  for  the  bone,  it  was  smashed 
to  pieces  at  the  knee,  leaving  white 
spikes  protruding  from  the  shattered 
limb  above,  as  well  as  from  the  shank 
beneath.  The  doctor  gave  the  poor 
fellow  a  large  dose  of  laudanum, 
in  a  glass  of  brandy,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  amputate  the  limb  high 
up  on  the  thigh.  Bang  stood  the 
knife  part  of  it  very  steadily,  but  the 
instant  the  saw  rasped  against  the 
shattered  bone,  he  shuddered. 

"  I  am  going,  Cringle—can't  stand 
that — sick  as  a  dog" — and  he  was  so 
faint  that  I  had  to  relieve  him  in  sup- 
porting the  poor  fellow.  Wagtail  had 
also  to  go  on  deck,  but  Paul  Gelid 
remained  firm  as  a  rock.  The  limb 
was  cut  off,  and  the  arteries  taken 
up  very  cleverly,  and  the  surgeon 
was  in  the  act  of  slacking  the  tourni- 
quet a  little,  when  the  thread  that 
fastened  the  largest,  the  femoral  ar- 
tery, suddenly  gave  way — a  gush  like 
the  jet  from  a  fire-engine  took  place. 
The  poor  fellow  had  just  time  to  cry 
out,  "  Take  that  cold  hand  off  my 
heart!"  when  his  chest  collapsed, his 
jaw  fell,  and  in  an  instant  his  pulse 
stopped. 

"  Dead  as  Julius  Caesar,  captain," 
said  Gelid,  with  his  usual  delibera- 
tion. Dead  enough,  thought  I ;  and  I 
was  leaving  the  cabin  to  resume  my 
post  on  deck,  when  I  stumbled 
against  something  at  the  ladder 
foot. 

"  Why,  what  is  that  ?"  grumbled  I. 

"  It  is  me,  sir,"  said  a  small  faint 
voice. 

"  You !  who  are  you  ?" 

"  Reefpoint,  sir." 

"  Bless  me,  boy,  what  are  you  do- 
ing here  ?  Not  hurt,  I  liope  ?" 

"  A  little,  sir — a  graze  from  a  splin- 
ter, sir — the  same  shot  that  struck 
poor  Wiggins  knocked  it  off,  sir." 

"  Why  did  you  not  go  to  the  doc- 
tor, then,  Mr  Reefpoint  ?" 

"  I  waited  till  he  was  done  with 
Wiggins,  sir ;  but  now,  since  it  is  all 
over  with  him,  I  will  go  and  be  dress- 
ed." His  voice  grew  fainter  and 
fainter,  until  I  could  scarcely  hear 
him.  I  got  him  in  my  arms,  and 
helped  him  into  the  cabin,  where,  on 
stripping  the  poor  little  fellow,  it  was 
found  that  he  was  much  hurt  on  the 
right  side,  just  above  the  hip.  Bang's 


1333.]  Tom 

k  nd  heart,  for  by  this  time  a  glass 
or  water  had  cured  him  of  his  faint- 
noss,  shone  conspicuous  on  this  oc- 
casion. 

"Why,  Reefy— little  Reefy— you 
are  not  hurt,  my  man — Surely  you 
are  not  wounded — such  a  little  fel- 
low,— I  should  have  as  soon  thought 
of  firing  at  a  musquitto." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  but  I  am ;  see  here." 
— Bang  looked  at  the  hurt,  as  he  sup- 
ported the  wounded  midshipman  in 
his  arms. 

"  God  help  me,"  said  the  excel- 
lent fellow,  "  you  seem  to  me  fitter 
for  your  mother's  nursery,  my  poor 
dear  boy,  than  to  be  knocked  about 
in  this  coarse  way  here."  Reefy,  at 
this  moment,  fell  over  into  his  arms, 
in  a  dead  faint. 

"  You  must  take  my  birth,  with  the 
Ciptain's  permission,"  said  Aaron, 
while  he  and  Wagtail  undressed  him 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  placed 
him  in  the  narrow  crib. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  sir,"  moan- 
ec.  little  Reefpoint;  "  were  my  mo- 
ther here,  sir,  she  would  thank  you 
too." 

Stern  duty  now  called  me  on  deck, 
ar  d  I  heard  no  more.  The  night  was 
still  very  dark,  and  I  could  see  no- 
thing of  the  chase,  but  I  made  all  the 
sail  I  could  in  the  direction  which  I 
calculated  she  would  steer,  trusting 
that,  before  morning,  we  might  get 
ai  other  glimpse  of  him.  In  a  little 
while  Bang  came  on  deck. 

"I  say,  Tom,  now  since  little  Reefy 
is  asleep — what  think  you — big  craft 
that — nearly  caught  a  Tartar — not 
vory  sorry  he  has  escaped,  eh?" 

"  Why,  my  dear  sir,  I  hope  he  has 
net  escaped;  I  hope,  when  the  day 
breaks,  now  that  we  have  less  wind, 
that  we  may  have  a  tussle  with  him 
y<t." 

"  No,  you  don't  wish  it,  do  you, 
i-(  ally  and  truly  ?" 

"Indeed,  I  do,  sir;  and  the  only 
thing  which  bothers  me  is  the  peril 
that  you  and  your  friends  must  ne- 
ci  'ssarily  have  to  encounter." 

"  Poo,  poo,  don't  mind  us,  Tom, 
dm't  mind  us;  but  an't  he  too  big 
f(  r  you,  Tom  ?" 

He  said  this  in  such  a  comical  way, 
that,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  could  not 
hi'lp  laughing. 

"  Why,  we  shall  see ;  but  attack 
h:  m  I  must,  and  shall,  if  I  can  get  at 
jiim.  However,  we  shall  wait  till 


&  Lo<j. 


179 


morning  ;  so  I  recommend  your  turn- 
ing in,  now  since  they  have  cleared 
away  the  cockpit  out  of  the  cabin  ; 
so  good  night,  my  dear  sir,  I  must 
stay  here,  I  fear." 

"  Good  night,  Tom  ;  God  bless  you. 
I  shall  go  and  comfort  Wagtail  and 
Paul." 

I  was  at  this  time  standing  well  aft 
on  the  larboard  side  of  the  deck, 
close  abaft  of  the  tiller-rope,  so  that, 
with  no  earthly  disposition  to  be  an 
eavesdropper,  I  could  neither  help 
seeing  nor  hearing  what  was  going 
on  in  the  cabin,  as  the  small  open 
skylight  was  close  to  my  foot.  All 
vestiges  of  the  cockpit  had  been 
cleared  away,  and  the  table  was  laid 
for  supper.  Wagtail  and  Gelid  were 
sitting  on  the  side  I  stood  on,  so  that 
I  could  not  see  them,  although  I 
heard  every  word  they  said.  Pre- 
sently Bang  entered,  and  sat  down, 
opposite  his  allies.  He  crossed  his 
arms,  and  leant  down  over  the  table, 
looking  at  them  steadily. 

"  My  dear  Aaron,"  I  could  hear  lit- 
tle Wagtail  say,  "  speak,  man,  don't 
frighten  a  body  so." 

"  Ah,  Bang,"  drawled  out  Paul, 
"jests  are  good,  being  well-timed; 
what  can  you  mean  by  that  face  of 
yours  nowy  since  the  fighting  is  all 
over  ?" 

My  curiosity  fairly  overcame  my 
good  manners,  and  I  moved  round 
more  amidships,  so  as  to  command 
a  view  of  both  parties,  as  they  sat 
opposite  each  other  at  the  narrow 
table. 

Bang  still  held  his  peace  for  an- 
other minute;  at  length,  in  a  very 
solemn  tone,  he  said,  "  Gentlemen,  do 
you  ever  say  your  prayers  ?"  I  don't 
know  if  I  mentioned  it  before,  but 
Aaron  had  a  most  musical  deep  mel- 
low voice,  and  now  it  absolutely 
thrilled  to  my  very  soul. 

Wagtail  and  Paul  looked  at  him, 
and  then  at  each  other,  with  a  most 
absurd  expression  —  between  fear 
and  jest—  between  crying  and  laugh- 
ing —  but  gave  him  no  answer. 

"  Are  you,  my  lads,  such  block- 
heads as  to  be  ashamed  to  acknow- 
ledge that  you  say  your  prayers  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Gelid,  "  why,  ah  no—- 
not —  that  is"  - 

"  Oh,  you  Catholics  are  all  so  bi- 
goted, —  I  suppose  we  should  cross 
ourselves,  eh  V"  said  Wagtail  hastily. 

"  I  am  a  Catholic,  Master  Wag- 


180 


torn  Cringle's  Log. 


[Feb. 


tail,"  rejoined  Bang—"  better  that 
than  nothing.  Before  sunrise,  we 
may  both  have  proved  the  truth  of 
our  creeds,  if  you  have  one  ;  but  if 
you  mean  it  as  a  taunt,  Wagtail,  it 
does  discredit  to  your  judgment  to 
select  such  a  moment,  to  say  nothing 
of  your  heart.  However,  you  can- 
not make  me  angry  with  you,  Pep- 
perpot,  you  little  Creole  wasp,  do  as 
you  will."  A  slight  smile  here  curled 
Aaron's  lip  for  an  instant,  although 
he  immediately  resumed  the  solemn 
tone  in  which  he  had  previously  spo- 
ken.— "But  I  hoped  that  two  such 
old  friends,  as  you  both  have  been  to 
me,  would  not  altogether  make  up 
their  minds  in  cold  blood,  if  adverti- 
sed of  their  danger,  to  run  the  chance 
of  dying  like  dogs  in  a  ditch,  without 
one  preparatory  thought  towards  that 
tremendous  Being,  before  whom  we 
may  all  stand  before  morning." 

"  Murder  !"  quoth  Wagtail,  fairly 
frightened ;  "  are  you  really  serious, 
Aaron  ?  I  did  not — would  not,  for 
the  world,  hurt  your  feelings  in  ear- 
nest, my  dear;  why  do  you  desire 
so  earnestly  to  know  whether  or  not 
I  ever  say  my  prayers  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't  bother,  man,"  rejoined 
Bang,  resuming  his  usual  friendly 
tone;  "you  had  better  say  boldly 
that  you  do  not,  without  any  round- 
aboutation." 

"  But  ^why,  my  dear  Bang,  why 
do  you  ask  the  question  ?"  persisted 
Wagtail,  in  a  deuced  quandary. 

"  Simply,"— and  here  our  friend's 
toice  once  more  fell  to  the  low 
deep  serious  tone  in  which  he  had 
opened  the  conference, — "  simply  be- 
cause, in  my  humble  estimation,  if 
you  don't  say  your  prayers  to-night, 
it  is  three  to  one  you  shall  never 
pray  again." 

"  The  deuce !"  said  Pepperpot, 
twisting  himself  in  all  directions,  as 
if  his  inexpressibles  had  been  nailed 
to  his  seat,  and  he  was  trying  to  es- 
cape from  them. "  What,  in  the  devil's 
name,  mean  you,  man  ?" 

"  I  mean  neither  more  nor  less 
than  what  I  say.  I  speak  English, 
don't  I  ?  I  say,  that  that  pestilent 
young  fellow  Cringle  told  me  half 
an  hour  ago,  that  he  was  determined, 
as  he  words  it,  to  stick  to  this  Guinea- 
man,  who  is  three  times  his  size, 
has  eighteen  guns,  while  Master 
Tommy  has  only  three ;  and  whose 
crew,  I  will  venture  to  say,  triples 


our  number ;  and  the  snipe,  from 
what  I  know  of  him,  is  the  very  man 
to  keep  his  word — so  what  say  you, 
my  darling,  eh  ?" 

"  Ah,  very  inconvenient,  ah, — I 
shall  stay  below,"  said  Paul. 

"So  shall  I,"  quoth  Pepperpot; 
"  won't  stick  my  nose  on  deck,  Aaron 
dear,  no,  not  for  the  whole  world." 

"  Why,"  said  Bang,  in  the  same 
steady  low  tone,  "  you  shall  do  as 
you  please,  ah," — and  here  he  very 
successfully  imitated  our  amigo  Ge- 
lid's  drawl — "  and  as  best  suits  you, 
ah ;  but  I  have  consulted  the  gunner, 
an  old  ally  of  mine,  who,  to  be  plain 
with  you — ah — says  that  the  danger 
from  splinter  wounds  below,  is  much 
greater  than  from  their  musketry  on 
deck — ah — the  risk  from  the  round 
shot  being  pretty  equal — ah — in  either 
situation."  At  this  announcement  you 
could  have  jumped  down  either  Wag- 
tail's or  Gelid's  throat,— Wagtail's 
for  choice, — without  touching  their 
teeth.  "  Farther, the  aforesaid  Timo- 
thy, and  be  hanged  to  him,  deponeth, 
that  the  only  place  in  a  small  vessel 
where  we  could  have  had  a  mode- 
rate chance  of  safety  was  the  Run, — 
so  called,  I  presume,  from  people 
running  to  it  for  safety ;  but  where 
the  deuce  this  sanctuary  is  situated 
I  know  not,  nor  does  it  signify 
greatly,  for  it  is  now  converted  into 
a  spare  powder  magazine,  and  of 
course  sealed  to  us.  So  here  we 
are,  my  lads,  in  as  neat  a  taking 
as  ever  three  unfortunate  gentlemen 
were  in,  in  this  weary  world.  How- 
ever, let  us  go  to  bed — time  enough 
to  think  on  all  this  in  the  morning, 
and  I  am  consumedly  tired." 

I  heard  no  more,  and  resumed  my 
solitary  walk  on  deck,  peering 
every  now  and  then  through  the 
night  glass,  until  my  eyes  ached 
again.  The  tedious  night  at  length 
wore  away,  and  the  grey  dawn  found 
me  sound  asleep,  leaning  out  at  the 
gangway.  They  had  scarcely  begun 
to  wash  down  the  decks,  when  we 
discerned  our  friend  of  the  prece- 
ding night,  about  four  miles  to.wind- 
ward,  close  hauled  on  the  same  tack, 
apparently  running  in  for  the  Cuba 
shore,  as  fast  as  canvass  could  carry 
him.  If  this  was  his  object,  we  had 
proved  too  quick  for  him,  as  by  cast- 
ing off  stays,  and  slacking  shrouds, 
and,  in  every  way  we  could  think  of, 
loosening  the  rigid  trim  of  the  little 


18£;3.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


verse],  we  had  in  a  great  measure 
recovered  her  sailing;  so  when  he 
foi  nd  he  was  cut  off  from  the  land, 
he  -esolutely  bore  up,  took  in  his  top- 
gallant-sails, hauled  up  his  courses, 
fired  a  gun,  and  hoisted  his  large 
Spmish  ensign,  all  in  regular  man- 
of-war  fashion.  By  this  time  it  was 
broad  daylight,  and  Wagtail,  Gelid, 
and  Bang,  were  all  three  on  deck, 
performing  their  morning  ablutions. 
As  for  myself,  I  was  well  forward, 
ne  ir  the  long  gun.  Pegtop,  Mr  Bang's 
blrck  valet,  came  up  to  me. 

i(  Please,  Massa  Captain,  can  you 
sp  ire  me  any  muskets  ?" 

'  Any  muskets  ?"  said  I ;  "  why, 
half  a  dozen  if  you  choose." 

c  De  wery  number  my  massa  told 
m<;  to  hax  for.  Tank  you,  Massa  Cap- 
tain." And  forthwith  he  and  the  other 
two  black  servants  in  attendance  on 
W  igtail  and  Gelid,  each  seized  his  two 
m  iskets  out  of  the  arm-chest,  with 
ttn  corresponding  ammunition,  and, 
like  so  many  sable  Robin  Crusoes, 
w<;re  stumping  aft,  when  I  again  ac- 
costed the  aforesaid  Pegtop. 

"  I  say,  my  man,  now  since  you 
hrve  got  the  muskets,  does  your 
mister  really  intend  to  fight?" 
The  negro  stopped  short,  and  faced 
right  round,  his  countenance  ex- 
pi  essing  very  great  surprise  and 
wonderment.  "  Massa  Bang  fight  ? 
Massa  Aaron  Bang  fight?"  and  he 
looked  up  in  my  face  with  the 
most  serio-comic  expression  that 
cculd  be  imagined.  "  Ah,  massa," 
continued  the  poor  fellow, — "  you  is 
j(king — surely  you  is  joking — my 
massa  Aaron  Bang  fight  ?  Oh  massa, 
surely  you  can't  know  he — surely 
you  never  see  him  shoot  snipe,  and 
wild-duck — oh  dear,  why  him  kill 
wild-duck  on  de  wing — ah,  me  of- 
ten see  him  knock  down  teal  wid 
si  igle  ball,  one  hundred — ah,  one 
hundred  and  fifty  yards — and  man 
surely  more  big  mark  den  teal  ?" 

"  Granted,"  I  said ;  "  but  a  teal  has 
n  )t  a  loaded  musket  in  its  claws,  as 
a  Spanish  buccaneer  may  have — a 
s  nall^difference,  Master  Pegtop,  in 

"  None  at  all,  master,"  chimed  in 
P  ?gtop  very  energetically—"  I  my- 
slief,  Gabriel  Pegtop,  Christian  man 
as  me  is,  am  one  of  de  Falmouth 
biack  shot.  Ah,  I  have  been  in  de 
woods,  wid  Massa  Aaron — one  time 


181 

paticular,  when  dem  wery  debils, 
Sambo  Moses,  Corromantee  Tom, 
and  Eboe  Peter,  took  to  de  bush,  at 
Crabyaw  estate — after  breakfast — 
ten  black  shot — me  was  one — go  out 
along  wid  our  good  massa,  Massa 
Aaron.  Oh  Lord,  we  walk  troo  de 
cool  wood,  and  over  de  hot  cleared 
ground,  six  hour,  when  every  body 
say, — '  No  use  dis,  Massa  Bang— all 
we  tired  too  much — must  stop  here 
— kindle  fke — cook  wittal.'  '  Ah, 
top  dem  who  hab  white  liver/  said 
Massa  Aaron;  'you, Pegtop,  take  you 
fusee  and  cutlass,  and  follow  me, 
my  shild' — Massa  Aaron  alway  call 
me  him  shild,  and  troo  enough,  as 
parson  Calaloo  say,  him  family  wery 
much  like  Joseph  coat — many  co- 
lour mong  dem,  Massa — though 
none  quite  so  deep  as  mine  eider" — 
and  here  the  negro  grinned  at  his 
own  jest.  "  Well,  I  was  follow  him, 
or  rader  was  go  before  him,  opening 
up  de  pass  wid  me  cutlass,  troo  de 
wery  tangle  underwood.  We  walk 
four  hour — see  no  one — all  still  and 
quiet — no  breeze  shake  de  tree — oh, 
I  sweat  too  much — dem  hot,  Massa 
— sun  shine  right  down,  when  we 
could  catch  glimpse  of  him — yet  no 
trace  of  de  runaways.  At  length,  on 
turning  corner,  perched  on  small 
platform  of  rock,  overshadowed  by 
plumes  of  bamboos,  like  ostrich 
feather  lady  wear  at  de  ball,  who 
shall  we  see  but  dem  wery  dividual 
dem  rascail  I  was  mention,  stand- 
ing all  tree,  each  wid  one  carabine 
pointed  at  us,  at  him  shoulder,  and 
cutlass  at  him  side  ?  *  Pegtop,  my 
boy,'  said  Massa  Aaron,  '  we  is  in 
for  it — follow  me,  but  don't  fire.' 
So  him  pick  off  Sambo  Moses — 
oh !  cool  as  one  cucumber.  '  Now,' 
say  he, '  man  to  man,' — and  wid  dat 
him  tro  him  gun  on  de  ground, 
and  drawing  him  cutlass,  we  push 
up — in  one  moment  him  and  Cor- 
romantee Tom  close.  Tom  put  up 
him  hand  to  fend  him  head — whip 
— 'ah — massa  cutlass  shred  de  hand 
at  de  wrist,  like  one  carrot— down 
Tom  go — atop  of  him  jump  Massa 
Aaron.  I  master  de  leetle  one,  Eboe 
Peter,  and  we  carry  dem  both  pri- 
soners into  Falmouth. — Massa  Aaron 
fight?  Ah,  Massa,  no  hax  dat  ques- 
tion again." 

"  Well,  but  will  Mr  Gelid  fight  ?" 
said  I. 


Tom  Cringle  s  Log. 


182 

"  I  tiuk  him  will  too— great  friend 
of  MassaBang — good  duck-shot  too 
— oh  yes,  titik  Massa  Paul  will  fight." 
"  Why,"  said  I,  "  your  friends  are 
all  heroes,  Pegtop— will  Mr  Wagtail 
fight  also  ?"  He  stole  close  up  to  me, 
and  exchanged  his  smart  Creole  gib- 
berish for  a  quiet  sedate  accent,  as 
he  whispered — 

"  Not  so  sure  of  he — nice  little  fat 
man,  but  too  fond  of  him  belly. 
When  I  wait  behind  Massa  Aaron 
chair,  Pegtop  sometime  hear  funny 
ting.  One  gentleman  say — *  Ah,  dat 
month  we  hear  Lord  Wellington  take 
Saint  Sebastian — when  dat  is,  what 
time  we  hear  dat  news,  Massa  Wag- 
tail?' him  say. — 'Eh,'  say  Massa  Wag- 
tail— '  oh,  we  hear  of  dem  news,  dat 
wery  day  de  first  of  de  ringtail 
pigeon  come  to  market.'  Den  again, 
'Dat  big  fight  dem  had  at  soch  an- 
oder  place,  when  we  hear  of  dat, 
Massa  Wagtail?' — say  somebody  else. 
— *  Oh,  oh,  de  wery  day  we  hab  dat 
beautiful  grouper  wid  claret  sauce  at 
Massa  Whiffle's.'  Oh,  make  me  laugh 
to  hear  white  gentleman  mark  great 
fight  in  him  memory  by  what  him 
eat  de  day  de  news  come;  so  Massa 
Captain  Cringle,  me  no  quite  sure 
weder  massa  Wagtail  will  fight  or 
no." 

So  saying,  Pegtop,  Chew  Chew, 
and  Yampea,  each  shouldered  two 
muskets  a-piece,  and  betook  them- 
selves to  the  after  part  of  the  schoon- 
er, where  they  forthwith  set  them- 
selves to  scour,  and  oil,  and  clean 
the  same,  in  a  most  skilful  manner. 
I  expected  the  breeze  would  have 
freshened  as  the  day  broke,  but  I 
was  disappointed  ;  it  fell,  towards  six 
o'clock,  nearly  calm.  Come,  thought 
I,  we  may  as  well  go  to  breakfast; 
and  my  guests  and  I  forthwith  sat 
down  to  our  morning  meal.  We  had 
scarcely  finished  it,  when  the  rush- 
ing of  the  water  past  the  run  of  the 
little  vessel,  and  the  steadiness  with 
which  she  skimmed  along,  shewed 
that  the  light  air  had  freshened. 

Presently  Tailtackle  came  down. 
"  The  breeze  has  set  down, sir;  the 
strange  sail  has  got  it  strong  to 
windward,  and  brings  it  along  with 
him  cheerily." 

"  Beat  to  quarters,    then,    Tail- 
tackle  ;  all  hands  stand  by  to  shorten 
sail.     How  is  she  standing  ?" 
"  Right  down  for  us,  sir." 
I  went  on  deck,  and  there  was  the 
Guineaman  about  two  miles  to  wind- 


[Feb. 


ward,  evidently  cleared  for  action, 
with  her  decks  crowded  with  men, 
bowling  along  steadily  under  her 
single  reefed  topsails. 

I  saw  all  clear.  Wagtail  and  Gelid 
had  followed  me  on  deck ;  and,  to 
my  great  surprise,  were  now  busy 
with  their  black  servants  inspecting 
the  muskets.  But  Bang  still  re- 
mained in  the  cabin.  I  went  down. 
He  was  gobbling  his  last  plantain, 
and  forking  up  along  with  it  most 
respectable  flitches  of  bacon-ham 
when  I  entered. 

I  had  seen  before  I  left  the  deck 
that  an  action  was  now  unavoidable, 
and  judging  from  the  disparity  of 
force,  I  had  my  own  doubts  as  to  the 
issue.  I  need  scarcely  say  that  I 
was  greatly  excited.  It  was  my  first 
command  :  My  future  standing  in 
the  service  depended  on  my  conduct 
now, — and,  God  help  me,  I  was  all 
this  while  a  mere  lad,  riot  more  than 
twenty-one  years  old.  A  strange 
indescribable  feeling  had  come  over 
me,  and  an  irresistible  desire  to  dis- 
burden my  mind  to  the  excellent  man 
before  me.  I  sat  down. 

"  Hey  day,"  quoth  Bang,  as  he 
laid  down  his  coffee-cup  ;  "  why 
Tom,  what  ails  you?  You  look 
deuced  pale,  my  boy." 

"  Up  all  night,  sir,"  said  I ;  "  wea- 
ried enough,  I  can  tell  you." 

I  felt  a  strong  tremor  pervade  my 
whole  frame  at  this  moment ;  and  I 
was  impelled  to  speak  by  some  un- 
known impulse,  which  I  could  not 
account  for  nor  analyse. 

"  Mr  Bang,  you  are  the  only  friend 
whom  I  could  count  on  in  these 
countries ;  you  know  all  about  me 
and  mine,  and  I  believe  would  will- 
ingly do  a  kind  action  to  my  father's 
son." 

"  What  are*  you  at,  Tom,  my  dear 
boy  ?  come  to  the  point,  man." 

"  I  will.  I  am  distressed  beyond 
measure  at  having  led  you  and  your 
excellent  friends, Wagtail  and  Gelid, 
into  this  danger;  but  I  could  not 
help  it,  and  I  have  satisfied  my  con- 
science on  that  point;  so  I  have  only 
to  entreat  that  you  will  stay  below, 
and  not  unnecessarily  expose  your- 
selves. And  if  I  should  fall— may  I 
take  this  liberty,  my  dear  sir,"  and  I 
involuntarily  grasped  his  hand, — "  if 
I  should  fall,  and  I  doubt  if  I  shall 
ever  see  the  sun  set  again,  as  we  are 
fearfully  overmatched"——— 
Bang  struck  in — - 


S3  J.J 


Tom  Cringles  Loy. 


)  if  our  friend  bo  too  big— 
\\  hy  not  be  oft'  then  ?  Pull  foot,  man, 
ei  ?— Havannah  under  your  lee?" 

"  A  thousand  reasons  against  it, 
my  dear  sir.  I  am  a  young  man  and 
a  young  officer,  my  character  is  to 
make  in  the  service— No,  no,  it  is 
impossible — an  older  and  tried  hand 
might  have  bore  up,  but  I  must 
fght  it  out.  If  any  stray  shot  carries 
me  off,  my  dear  sir,  will  you  take" — 
Mary,  I  would  have  said,  but  I  could 
not  pronounce  her  name  for  the 
soul  of  me — "  will  you  take  charge 
cf  her  miniature,  and  say  I  died  as  I 
have" —  A  choking  lump  rose  in  my 
throat,  and  I  could  not  proceed  for  a 
second ;  "  and  will  you  send  my  wri- 
ting desk  to  my  poor  mother,  there 
are  letters  in" —  The  lump  grew 
I  igger,  the  hot  tears  streamed  from 
r.iy  eyes  in  torrents.  I  trembled  like 
an  aspen  leaf,  and  grasping  my  ex- 
cellent friend's  hand,  1  sunk  down 
on  my  knees  in  a  passion  of  tears, 
end  wept  like  a  woman,  while  I  fer- 
^  ently  prayed  to  that  great  God  in 
A /hose  almighty  hand  I  stood,  that  I 
night  that  da^.do  my  duty  as  an  Eng- 
lish seaman.  Bang  knelt  by  me,  and 
wept  also.  Presently  the  passion  was 
Ci  uelled.  I  rose,  and  so  did  he. 
"  Before  you,  my  dear  sir,  I  am 

not  ashamed  to  have" 

"  Don't  mention  it — my  good  boy 
— don't  mention  it ;  neither  of  us,  as 
the  old  general  said,  will  fight  a  bit 
the  worse." 

I  looked  at  him.  "  Do  you  then 
mean  to  fight  ?"  said  I. 

"To  be  sure  I  do — why  not?  I  have 
no  wife.  Fight  ?  To  be  sure  I  do." 

"  Another  gun,  sir,"  said  Tail- 
tackle,  through  the  open  skylight. 
Now  all  was  bustle,  and  we  hasten- 
i-.d  on  deck.  Our  antagonist  was 
r,.  large  brig,  three  hundred  tons  at 
the  least,  a  long  low  vessel,  paint- 
ed black,  out  and  in,  and  her  sides 
round  as  an  apple,  with  immensely 
f-quare  yards.  She  was  apparent- 
ly full  of  men.  The  sun  was 
getting  high,  and  she  was  coming 
i  lown  fast  on  us,  on  the  verge  of  the 
<  lark  blue  water  of  the  sea  breeze. 
J  could  make  out  ten  ports  and  nine 
j:uns  of  a  side.  I  inwardly  prayed 
1hey  might  not  be  long  ones,  but  I 
was  not  a  little  startled  to  see  through 
the  glass  that  there  were  crowds  of 
i  aked  negroes  at  quarters,  and  on 
1  he  forecastle  and  poop.  That  she 
was  a  contraband  Guineaman,  I  had 


already  made  up  my  mind  to  be- 
lieve; and  that  she  had  some  fifty 
hands  of  a  crew,  I  also  considered 
likely;  but  that  her  captain  should 
have  resorted  to  such  a  perilous  mea- 
sure, perilous  to  themselves  as  well 
as  to  us,  as  arming  the  captive  slaves, 
was  quite  unexpected,  and  not  a  lit- 
tle alarming,  as  it  evinced  his  deter- 
mination to  make  the  most  desperate 
resistance. 

Tailtackle  was  standing  beside  me 
at  this  time,  with  his  jacket  off,  his 
cutlass  girded  on  his  thigh,  and  the 
belt  drawn  very  tight.  All  the  rest  of 
the  crew  were  armed  in  a  similar 
fashion ;  the  small-arm-men  with 
muskets  in  their  hands,  and  the  rest 
at  quarters  at  the  guns  ;  while  the 
pikes  were  cast  loose,  from  the  spars 
round  which  they  had  been  stopped, 
with  the  tubs  of  wadding,  and  boxes 
of  grape,  all  ready  ranged,  and  every 
thing  clear  for  action. 

"  Mr  Tailtackle,"  said  I,  "  you  are 
gunner  here,  and  should  be  in  the 
magazine.  Cast  off  that  cutlass ;  it  is 
not  your  province  to  lead  the  board- 
ers." The  poor  fellow  blushed,  ha- 
ving, in  the  excitement  of  the  mo- 
ment, forgotten  that  he  was  anything 
more  than  captain  of  the  Firebrand's 
maintop. 

"  Mr  Timotheus,"  said  Bang, 
"  have  you  one  of  these  bodkins  to 
spai^  ?" 

Timothy  laughed.  "  Certainly,  sir ; 
but  you  don't  mean  to  head  the 
boarders,  sir — do  you  ?" 

"Who  knows,  now  since  I  have 
learned  to  walk  on  this  dancing  cork 
of  a  craft  ?"  rejoined  Aaron,  with  a 
grim  smile,  while  he  pulled  off  his 
coat,  braced  on  his  cutlass,  and  tied 
a  large  red  cotton  shawl  round  his 
head.  He  then  took  off  his  necker- 
chief and  fastened  it  round  his  waist, 
as  tight  as  he  could  draw. 

"  Strange  that  all  men  in  peril — on 
the  uneasiness  like,"  said  he,  "should 
always  gird  themselves  as  tightly  as 
they  can."  The  slaver  was  now 
within  musket  shot,  when  he  put  his 
helm  to  port,  with  the  view  of  pass- 
ing under  our  stern.  To  prevent 
being  raked,  we  had  to  luff  up  sharp 
in  the  wind,  and  fire  a  broadside. 
I  noticed  the  white  splinters  glance 
from  his  black  wales ;  and  once 
more  the  same  sharp  yell  rung  in 
our  ears,  followed  by  the  long  me-« 
lancholy  howl,  already  described. 

"  We  have  pinned  some  of  the 


184 

poor  blacks  again,"  said  Tailtackle, 
who  still  lingered  on  deck;  small 
space  for  remark,  for  the  slaver  again 
fired  his  broadside  at  us,  with  the 
same  cool  precision  as  before. 

"  Down  with  the  helm,  and  let  her 
come  round,"  said  I ;  "  that  will  do — 
master,  run  across  his  stern — out 
sweeps  forward,  and  keep  her  there 
—get  the  other  carronade  over  to 
leeward — that  is  it — now,  blaze  away 
while  he  is  becalmed — fire,  small- 
arm-men,  and  take  good  aim." 

We  were  now  right  across  his 
stern,  with  his  spanker  boom  within 
ten  yards  of  us;  and  although  he 
worked  his  two  stern-chasers  with 
great  determination,  and  poured 
whole  showers  of  musketry  from  his 
rigging,  and  poop,  and  cabin-win- 
dows, yet,  from  the  cleverness  with 
which  our  sweeps  were  pulled,  and 
the  accuracy  with  which  we  were 
kept  in  our  position,  right  athwart 
his  stern,  our  fire,  both  from  the  can- 
non and  musketry,  the  former  loaded 
with  round  and  grape,  was  telling,  I 
could  see,  with  fearful  effect. 

Crash—"  There,  my  lads,  down 
goes  his  maintopmast — pepper  him 
well,  while  they  are  blinded  and 
confused  among  the  wreck.  Fire 
away — there  goes  the  peak,  shot 
away  cleverly,  close  by  the  throat. 
Don't  cease  firing,  although  his  flag 
be  down — it  was  none  of  his  doing. 
There,  my  lads,  there  he  has  it  again ; 
you  have  shot  away  the  weather  fore- 
topsail  sheet,  and  he  cannot  get  from 
under  you." 

Two  men  at  this  moment  lay  out 
on  his  larboard  foreyard-arm,  appa- 
rently with  the  intention  of  splicing 
the  sheet,  and  getting  the  clew  of 
the  foretopsail  once  more  down  to 
the  sheaf-block;  if  they  had  suc- 
ceeded in  this,  the  vessel  would 
again  have  fetched  way,  and  drawn 
out  from  under  our  fire.  Mr  Bang 
and  Paul  Gelid  had  all  this  time.been 
firing  with  murderous  precision, 
from  where  they  had  ensconced 
themselves  under  the  shelter  of  the 
larboard  bulwark,  close  to  the  taf- 
fril,  with  their  three  black  servants 
in  the  cabin,  loading  the  six  mus- 
kets, and  little  Wagtail,  who  was  no 
great  shot,  sitting  on  the  deck,  hand- 
ing them  up  and  down. 

'<  Now,  Mr  Bang,"  cried  I,  "  for 
the  love  of  Heaven" — and  may  Hea- 
ven forgive  me  for  the  ill-placed  ex- 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[Feb. 


clamation — "  mark  these  two  men — 
down  with  them !" 

Bang  turned  towards  me  with  all 
the  coolness  in  the  world — "  What, 
those  chaps  on  the  end  of  the  long 
stick?" 

"  Yes— yes,"  (I  here  spoke  of  the 
larboard  foreyardarm,)  "  yes,  down 
with  them."  He  lifted  his  piece  as 
steadily  as  if  he  had  really  been 
duck-shooting. 

"  I  say,  Gelid,  my  lad,  take  you 
the  innermost." 

"  Ah !"  quoth  Paul.  They  fired— 
and  down  dropped  both  men,  and 
squattered  for  a  moment  in  the  wa- 
ter, like  wounded  waterfowl,  and 
then  sank  for  ever,  leaving  two  small 
puddles  of  blood  on  the  surface. 

"  Now,  master,"  shouted  I,  "  now 
put  the  helm  up  and  lay  him  along- 
side— there — stand  by  with  the  grap- 
nels— one  round  the  backstay — the 
other  through  the  chainplate  there— 
so, — you  have  it."  As  we  ranged  un- 
der his  counter — "  Mainchains  are 
your  chance,  men — boarders,  follow 
me."  And  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
moment  I  jumped  into  the  slaver's 
main  channel,  followed  by  twenty- 
eight  men.  We  were  in  the  act  of 
getting  over  the  netting  when  the 
enemy  rallied,  and  fired  a  volley  of 
small  arms,  which  sent  four  out  of 
the  twenty-eight  to  their  account, 
and  wounded  three  more.  We  gain- 
ed the  quarter-deck,  where  the  Spa- 
nish captain,  and  about  forty  of  his 
crew,  shewed  a  determined  front, 
cutlass  and  pistol  in  hand — we  char- 
ged them— they  stood  their  ground. 
Tailtackle,  (who,  the  moment  he 
heard  the  boarders  called,  had  jump- 
ed out  of  the  magazine,  and  followed 
me,)  at  a  blow  cut  the  Spanish  cap- 
tain down  to  the  chine ;  the  lieute- 
nant, or  second  in  command,  was 
my  bird,  and  I  had  disabled  him  by 
a  sabre-cut  on  the  sword-arm,  when 
he  drew  his  pistol,  and  shot  me 
through  the  left  shoulder.  I  felt  no 
pain,  but  a  pinch,  as  it  were,  and 
then  a  cold  sensation,  as  if  water 
had  been  poured  down  my  neck. 

Jigmaree  was  close  by  me  with  a 
boarding-pike,  and  our  fellows  were 
fighting  with  all  the  gallantry  inhe- 
rent in  British  sailors.  For  a  moment 
the  battle  was  poised  in  equal  scales. 
At  length  our  antagonists  gave  way, 
when  about  fifteen  of  the  slaves,  na- 
ked barbarians,  who  had  been  ranged 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


185 


with  muskets  in  their  hands  on  the 
forecastle,  suddenly  jumped  down 
icto  the  waist  with  a  yell,  and  came 
tc  the  rescue  of  the  Spanish  part  of 
i\  e  crew. 

I  thought  we  were  lost.  Our  people, 
all  but  Tail  tackle  and  Jigmaree,  held 
buck.  The  Spaniards  rallied,  and 
fc  light  with  renewed  courage,  and  it 
was  now,  not  for  glory,  but  for  dear 
li-re,  as  all  retreat  was  cut  off  by  the 
pirting  of  the  grapnels,  or  warps, 
that  had  lashed  the  schooner  along- 
si  de  of  the  slaver,  for  the  Wave  had  by 
this  time  forged  ahead,  and  lay  across 
tlie  brig's  bows,  in  place  of  being  on 
Ii3r  quarter,  with  her  foremast  jam- 
ired  against  the  slaver's  bowsprit, 
V(  hose  spritsail  -  yard  crossed  our 
deck  between  the  masts.  We  could 
not  therefore  retreat  to  our  own  ves- 
sol  if  we  had  wished  it,  as  the  Spa- 
niards had  possession  of  the  waist 
a  id  forecastle ;  all  at  once,  however, 
a  discharge  of  round  and  grape 
c  -ashed  through  the  bowsprit  of  the 
brig,  and  swept  off  three  of  the  black 
a  ixiliaries  before  mentioned,  and 
wounded  as  many  more,  and  the 
next  moment  an  unexpected  ally  ap- 
peared on  the  field.  When  we  board- 
e  i,  the  Wave  had  been  left  with  only 
Peter  Mangrove ;  the  five  dockyard 
negroes ;  Pearl,  one  of  the  captain's 
gigs,  the  handsome  black  already  in- 
troduced on  the  scene ;  poor  little 
Reefpoint,who,as  already  stated,  was 
badly  hurt;  Aaron  Bang, Paul  Gelid, 
and  Wagtail.  But  this  Pearl  without 
price,  at  the  very  moment  of  time 
vrhen  I  thought  the  game  was  up, 
j  imped  on  deck  through  thebowport, 
cutlass  in  hand,  followed  by  the  five 
Hack  carpenters  and  Peter  Man- 
grove, after  whom  appeared  no  less 
a  personage  than  Aaron  Bang  him- 
s  alf,  and  the  three  blackamoor  valets, 
a  11  armed  with  boarding-pikes.  Bang 
f  ourished  his  cutlass  for  an  instant. 
"  Now,  Pearl,  my  darling,  shout  to 
them  in  Coromantee, — shout;"  and 
forthwith  the  black  quartermaster 
i  ung  out, "  Coromantee  Sheik  Coco- 
1  so,  kockernony  populorum  fiz ;" 
which,  as  I  after  wards  learned,  being 
i  iterpreted,  is,  "  Behold  the  sultan 
Cocoloo,  the  greatostrich,  with  afea- 
tier  in  his  tail  like  a  palm  branch; 
1'ght  for  him,  you  sons  of  female 
<,ogs."  In  an  instant  the  black  Spa- 
i  ish  auxiliaries  sided  with  Pearl,  and 
Bang,  and  the  negroes,  and  joined 
ia  charging  the  white  Spaniards, 


who  were  speedily  driven  down  the 
main  hatchway,  leaving  one  half  of 
their  number  dead,  or  badly  wound- 
ed, on  the  blood- slippery  deck.  But 
they  still  made  a  desperate  defence, 
by  firing  up  the  hatchway.  I  hailed 
them  to  surrender. 

"  Zounds,"  cried  Jigmaree,  "there's 
the  clink  of  hammers ;  they  are  knock- 
ing off  the  fetters  of  the  slaves." 

"  If  you  let  the  blacks  loose,"  I 
sung  out  in  Spanish,  "  by  the  Hea- 
ven above  us,  I  will  blow  you  up,  al- 
though I  should  go  with  you !  Hold 
your  hands,  Spaniards !  Mind  what 
you  do,  madmen!" 

"  On  with  the  hatches,  men," 
shouted  Tailtackle.  They  had  been 
thrown  overboard,  or  put  out  of  the 
way ;  they  could  nowhere  be  seen. 
The  firing  from  below  continued. 

"  Cast  loose  that  carronade  there ; 
clap  in  a  canister  of  grape — so— now 
run  it  forward,  and  fire  down  the 
hatchway."  It  was  done,  and  taking 
effect  amongst  the  pent  up  slaves, 
such  a  yell  arose— oh  God !  oh  God! — 
I  never  can  forget  it.  Still  the  ma- 
niacs continued  firing  up  the  hatch- 
way. 

"  Load  and  fire  again."  My  people 
were  now  furious,  and  fought  more 
like  incarnate  fiends  broke  loose 
from  hell,  than  human  beings. 

"  Run  the  gun  up  to  the  hatchway 
once  more."  They  ran  the  carron- 
ade so  furiously  forward,  that  the 
coaming  or  ledge  round  the  hatch- 
way was  split  off,  and  down  went 
the  gun,  carriage  and  all,  with  a 
crash,  into  the  hold.  Presently  smoke 
appeared  rising  up  the  fore  hatch- 
way. 

"  They  have  set  fire  to  the  brig; 
overboard  ! — regain  the  schooner,  or 
we  shall  all  be  blown  into  the  air 
like  peels  of  onions !"  sung  out  little 
Jigmaree.  But  where  was  the  Wave  ? 
She  had  broke  away,  and  was  now  a 
cable's  length  ahead,  apparently  fast 
leaving  us,  with  Paul  Gelid  and 
Wagtail,  and  poor  little  Reefpoint, 
who,  badly  wounded  as  he  was,  had 
left  his  hammock,  and  come  on  deck 
in  the  emergency,  making  signs  of 
their  inability  to  cut  away  the  hal- 
yards ;  and  the  tiller  being  shot 
away,  the  schooner  was  utterly  un- 
manageable. 

"  Let  fall  the  foresail,  men—down 
with  the  foretack— cheerily  now— 
get  way  on  the  brig,  and  overhaul 
the  Wave  promptly,  or  we  are  lost," 


186 

cried  I.  It  was  done  with  all  the 
coolness  of  desperate  men.  I  took 
the  helm,  and  presently  we  were 
once  more  alongside  of  our  own 
vessel.  Time  we  were  so,  for  about 
one  hundred  and  fifty  of  the  slaves, 
whose  shackles  had  beenknocked  off, 
now  scrambled  up  the  fore  hatchway, 
and  we  had  only  time  to  jump  over- 
board, when  they  made  a  rush  aft ; 
and  no  doubt,  exhausted  as  we  were, 
they  would  have  massacred  us  on  the 
spot,  frantic  and  furious  as  they  evi- 
dently were  from  the  murderous 
fire  of  grape  that  had  been  directed 
down  the  hatchway.  • 

But  the  fire  was  as  quick  as  they 
were.  The  cloud  of  smouldering 
smoke  that  was  rising  like  a  pillar  or 
cloud  from  the  fore-hatchway,  was 
now  streaked  with  tongues  of  red 
flame,  which,  licking  the  masts  and 
spars,  ran  up  and  caught  the  sails  and 
rigging.  In  an  instant,  the  flames 
spread  to  every  part  of  the  gear 
aloft,  while  the  other  element,  the 
sea,  was  also  striving  for  the  mastery 
in  the  destruction  of  the  doomed 
vessel;  for  our  shot,  or  the  fall  of 
the  carronade  into  the  hold,  had  start- 
ed some  of  the  bottom  planks,  and 
she  was  fast  settling  down  by  the 
head.  We  could  hear  the  water  rush- 
ing in  like  a  mill  stream.  The  fire 
increased — her  guns  went  off  as  they 
became  heated — she  gave  a  sudden 
heel — and  while  five  hundred  human 
beings,  pent  up  in  her  noisome  hold, 
split  the  heavens  with  their  piercing 
death-yells,  down  she  went  with  a 
heavy  lurch,  head  foremost,  right  in 
the  wake  of  the  setting  sun,  whose 
level  rays  made  the  thick  dun 
wreaths  that  burst  from  her  as  she* 
disappeared,  glow  with  the  hue  of 
the  amethyst;  and  while  the  whirl- 
ing clouds,  gilded  by  his  dying  radi- 
ance, curled  up  into  the  blue  sky, 
in  rolling  masses,  growing  thinner 
and  thinner,  until  they  vanished  away, 
even  like  the  wreck  whereout  they 
arose, — and  the  circling  eddies,  crea- 
ted by  her  sinking,  no  longer  spark- 
led and  flashed  in  the  red  light, — 
and  the  stilled  waters  where  she  had 
gone  down,  as  if  oil  had  been  cast  on 
them,  were  spread  out  like  polished 
silver,  shining  like  a  mirror,  while  all 
around  was  dark  blue  ripple, — a  puff 
of  fat  black  smoke,  denser  than  any 
we  had  yet  seen,  suddenly  emerged 
with  a  loud  gurgling  noise,  from  out 
}he  deep  bosom  of  the  calmed  sea, 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


[Feb. 


and  rose  like  a  balloon,  rolling  slowly 
upwards,  until  it  reached  a  little  way 
above  our  mast-heads,  where  it  melt- 
ed and  spread  out  into  a  dark  pall, 
that  overhung  the  scene  of  death,  as 
if  the  incense  of  such  a  horrible  and 
polluted  sacrifice  could  not  ascend 
into  the  pure  heaven,  but  had  been 
again  crushed  back  upon  our  devo- 
ted heads,  as  a  palpable  manifesta- 
tion of  the  wrath  of  Him  who  hath 
said—"  Thou  shalt  not  kill." 

For  a  few  moments  all  was 
silent  as  the  grave,  and  I  felt  as  if 
the  air  had  become  too  thick  for 
breathing,  while  I  looked  up  like  an- 
other Cain. 

Presently,  about  one  hundred  and 
fifty  of  the  slaves,  men,  women,  and 
children^  who  had  been  drawn  down 
by  the  vortex,  rose  amidst  number- 
less pieces  of  smoking  wreck,  to  the 
surface  of  the  sea  ;  the  strongest  yell- 
ing like  fiends  in  their  despair,  while 
the  weaker,  the  women,  and  the 
helpless  gasping  little  ones,  were 
choking,  and  gurgling,  and  sinking  all 
around.  Yea,  the  small  thin  expiring 
cry  of  the  innocent  sucking  infant 
torn  from  its  sinking  mother's  breast, 
as  she  held  it  for  a  brief  moment 
above  the  waters,  which  had  already 
for  ever  closed  over  herself,  was 
there. — But  we  could  not  perceive 
one  single  individual  of  her  white 
crew ;  like  desperate  men,  they  had 
all  gone  down  with  the  brig.  We 
picked  up  about  one  half  of  the 
miserable  Africans,  and — my  pen 
trembles  as  I  write  it  —  fell  neces- 
sity compelled  us  to  fire  on  the 
remainder,  as  it  was  utterly  impos- 
sible for  us  to  take  them  on  board. 
Oh  that  I  could  erase  such  a  scene 
for  ever  from  my  memory !  One 
incident  I  cannot  help  relating.  We 
had  saved  a  woman,  a  handsome 
clear-skinned  girl,  of  about  sixteen 
years  of  age.  She  was  very  faint 
when  we  got  her  in,  and  was  lying 
with  her  head  over  a  port-sill,  when  a 
strong  athletic  young  negro  swam  to 
the  part  of  the  schooner  where  she 
was.  She  held  down  her  hand  to 
him;  he  was  in  the  act  of  grasping 
it,  when  he  was  shot  through  the 
heart  from  above.  She  instantly 
jumped  overboard,  and,  clasping  him 
in  her  arms,  they  sank,  and  disap- 
peared together.  "  Oh,  woman, 
whatever  may  be  the  colour  of  your 
skin,  your  heart  is  of  one  only !"  said 
Aaron. 


1633.]  To  the  Year  1832.  187 

Soon  all  was  quiet;  a  wounded  tastic  tricks  placed  by  the  worm  of 

black  here  and  there  was  shriek-  a  day— by  weak  man,  in  his  little 

ing-   in  his  great  agony,  and  strug-  moment  of  power  and  ferocity.  I  said 

gling  for  a  moment  before  he  sank  something— ill  and  hastily.     Aaron 

into  his  watery  grave  for  ever;  a  was  close  beside   me,  sitting  on  a 

few  pieces  of  wreck  were  floating  carronade  slide,  while  the  surgeon 

and  sparkling  on  the  surface  of  the  was  dressing  the  pike  wound  in  his 

deep    in  the    blood-red   sunbeams,  neck.   He  looked  up  solemnly  in  my 

which  streamed  in  a   flood  of  glo-  face,  and  then  pointed  to  the  blessed 

rious  light  on  the  bloody  deck,  and  luminary,  that  was  now  sinking  in 

shattered  hull,  and  torn  rigging  of  the  sea,  and  blazing  up  into  the  re- 

tho  Wave,  and  on  the  dead  bodies  splendent  heavens — "   Cringle,  for 

and  mangled  limbs  of  those  who  had  shame—for  shame— your  impatience 

fallen;  while  a  few  heavy  scattering  is    blasphemous.      Remember    this 

drops  of  rain  fell  sparkling  from  a  morning — and  thank  Him" — here  he 

passing  cloud,  as  if  Nature  had  wept  looked  up  and   crossed    himself— 

in  pity  over  the  dismal  scene ;  or  "  thank    Him   who   has    mercifully 

as  if  they  had  been  blessed  tears,  brought  us  to  the  end  of  this  fearful 

shed  by  an  angel,  in  his  heavenward  day,  that  you  have  seen  the  sun  set 

course,  as  he  hovered  for  a  moment,  once  more  /" 
ai  d  looked  down  in  pity  on  the  fan- 

TO  THE  YEAR  1832. 

THOU  art  gone  to  the  past,  wicked  Year, 

Dark  period  of  trouble  and  dread ! 
The  curse  of  a  nation  has  stamp'd  thy  career, 
Thou  hast  left  her,  in  tumult,  in  shame,  and  in  fear; 

Her  anathema  rests  on  thine  head ! 
Then  begone  to  the  past,  wicked  Year ! 

Oh,  ne'er  from  the  records  of  Time 

Oblivion  thy  foul  page  shall  sever ; 
To  futurity,  mark'd,  through  each  country  and  clime, 
As  the  reign  of  disorder,  dishonour,  and  crime, 

A  rebuke  and  a  hissing  for  ever, 
Thou  shalt  live  to  the  outstretch  of  time ! 

Thou  hast  left  us  a  token  of  woe, 
Thou  hast  open'd  the  floodgates  of  wrath, 

Thou  hast  trampled  the  noble,  exalted  the  low, 

The  throne  and  the  altar  reel  under  thy  blow ; 
Thy  successor  shall  tread  in  thy  path, 

And  redeem  thy  dark  earnest  of  woe  ! 

Oh  !  what  hast  thou  left  us,  dark  Year  ? 

Wild  thoughts  of  destruction  and  evil, 
For  the  land,  of  thy  seed,  the  black  harvest  shall  bear, 
Indignation  and  anguish,  confusion  and  fear, 

While  fiends  in  thy  harvest-home  revel ! 
And  this  thou  hast  left  us,  dark  Year. 

Dost  thou  sink,  unendear'd,  to  the  grave  ? 

Hast  thou  died  without  glory,  dark  Year  ? 
Ask  the  yells  of  the  madman,  blasphemer,  and  knave, 
Their  hoarse  lo  paeans  to  thee  as  they  rave, 

And  their  plaudits  resound  o'er  thy  bier, 
Meet  homage  to  hallow  thy  grave ! 

Oh  !  would  that  Oblivion,  dark  Year, 

Could  smother  thy  deeds  in  her  breast ! 
Then  England,  in  hope,  might  renew  her  career, 
Again  look  to  Heaven,  in  faith,  love,  and  fear, 

For  the  blessings  wherewith  she  was  bless'tl— 
But  thy  blight  is  upon  her,  dark  Year  ! 

SHARON,  Jan.  1,  1833.  M.  H. 


188 


Scotch  and  Yankees, 


[Feb. 


SCOTCH  AND  YANKEES.      A  CARICATURE. 
BT  THE  AUTHOR  OF  ANNALS  OF  THE  PARISH,  &C, 

CHAPTER  VII. 


"  WELL,  I  guess,  squire,  that  I 
aint  such  a  snag  in  the  stream  that 
you  need  have  tried  whether  you 
could  make  a  pancake  of  my  head. 
Howsomever  I  am  glad  to  see  you; 
but,  I  guess,  yours  is  a  pretty  con- 
siderable disappointment;  for  our 
Tavy  is,  as  you  sees,  almighty  ob- 
stinacious." 

"  Oh,"  replied  the  young  Glasgo- 
wegian,  "  I  think  not  of  her ;  I  have 
changed  my  mind." 

"  That  there  is  a  right  good  move," 
replied  Peabody,  "  for  as  she  aint 
going  to  have  you,  you  can't  do  bet- 
ter than  not  have  her ;  but,  squire,  I 
have  been  making  my  calculations 
— What  would  you  think  of  the  old 
ladye  for  a  spec.  ?" 

Shortridge  stepped  two  paces 
back,  and  exclaimed — "  Mrs  Clatter- 
penny  !  are  you  in  earnest  ?" 

Peabody  coolly  and  seriously  an- 
swered, "  She's  a  shocking  clever, 
nice  woman,  is  that  there  old  ladye, 
my  cousin,  though  she  ben't  college 
learned." 

"  How  could  such  an  imagination," 
exclaimed  the  young  man,  "  enter 
your  head?" 

"  Because  she  is  tarnation  rich," 
replied  Peabody. 

"  Ah,  you  Yankees,"  said  the  son 
of  the  Lord  Provost  of  Glasgow — 
"  you  Yankees  are  a  money-seeking 
people;  who  but  you  would  think 
of  riches  in  affairs  of  the  heart  ?" 

The  old  man  made  no  immediate 
reply  to  this,  but,  as  if  he  snuffed  a 
smell  in  the  air,  said,  "  Well,  that's 
slick ;  but  I  guess  it  was  an  affair  of 
the  purse  that  brought  you  a-court- 
ing  to  our  Tavy,  and  therefore, 
squire,  as  one  purse  is  as  good  as 
another,  so  be  they  are  of  one  big- 
ness, you  might  do  worse  than  take 
Dame  Clatterpenny  under  the  arm. 
You  came  with  her  in  that  there  ket- 
tle-ship, and  I  reckon  you  knows 
somewhat  'bout  her." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Shortridge  drily, 
"  I  know  her  worth." 

Upon  this  Peabody  turned  round 
briskly,  and  said— 


"  How  much,  squire,  may  it  be  ?" 

"  Ah,  Mr  Peabody,  she's  too  well 
stricken  in  years." 

"  I  guess  not,  for  a  spec.,"  replied 
the  citizen.  "I'd  have  you,  squire,  to 
do  think  on't,  for  though  she  ben't  so 
young  as  an  angel,  she  aint  quite  so 
everlasting." 

Shortridge  thought  to  himself  that 
many  a  young  man  had  shot  at  worse 
game,  and  half  seriously  said — 

"  How  old  do  you  think  she  is  ?" 

"  Why,  in  the  way  of  such  a  trade," 
said  Peabody,  "  I  calculate  a  year  or 
two  don't  signify  nothing." 

"  But  how  can  I  make  love  to  her  ?" 
said  Shortridge  more  gravely.  "  No, 
no,  it  won't  suit;  it  would  be  so 
queer;  it's  no  go." 

"  Now,  I  say,  squire,  if  you  think 
prudent,  I'll  bet  a  goose  to  a  gallon 
of  punch  that  we'll  make  a  match 
on't  in  less  than  no  time  and  jemini." 

"  But,"  replied  Shortridge  seri- 
ously, "what  would  my  acquaintance 
say?" 

This  put  mettle  in  the  old  man, 
and  he  replied  with  redoubled  ener- 
gy— 

"  Why  let  them  do  their  damndest. 
Come,  come,  squire,  don't  be  'femi- 
nate;  and  if  so  be  as  you  aint  so 
bold  as  to  speak  for  yourself,  Til  be 
'sponsible  for  you,  and  speak  to  her 
right  away  to  see  how  the  land  lies, 
while  you  make  your  own  calcula- 
tions." 

This  proposition,  which  seemed  at 
first  so  absurd,  by  iteration  appeared 
to  the  young  man  not  quite  so  un- 
likely as  it  at  first  seemed ;  and  in- 
stead of  going  back  with  Peabody  to 
Fludyer  Street,  he  walked  with  him 
towards  Buckingham  Palace,  dis- 
coursing, as  they  went  along,  from 
less  to  more  about  the  wealth  of  Mrs 
Clatterpenny.  For  good  and  substan- 
tial reasons,  best  known  to  himself, 
the  Vermont  farmer  urged  her  me- 
rits with  all  his  eloquence,  and  said 
not  a  word  of  the  news  that  he  had 
received  that  morning  from  Mr 
M'Gab,  respecting  his  own  priority 
of  claim,  or  the  more  formidable 


1833.]  Scotch  and  Yankees. 

c  aimant  that  might  be  found  in  Vir- 
ginia.   In  truth,  Mr  Peabody  was  an 


189 


excellent  relation;  he  saw  that  his 
cousin  had  come  to  London  on  a 
profitless  errand,  and  thought  that 
she  might  not  be  so  inaccessible  to 
t  le  addresses  of  Mr  Shortridge  as  if 
siie  had  been  the  real  heiress,  and 
he  concluded  that  the  case  of  Short- 
ridge  was  not  greatly  different.  The 
disparity  of  years  never  once  occur- 
red to  him;  indeed,  why  should  it  ? 
for  there  is  no  greater  harm  in  a 
young  lady  marrying  an  old  man 
than  there  is  in  a  young  man  marry- 
ing an  old  woman.  Mr  Shortridge 
in  time  thought  so  too;  and  saw, 
since  the  proposition  was  made, 
many  amiable  qualities  in  Mrs  Clat- 
terpenny  which  he  had  not  before 
discovered.  Thus,  it  came  to  pass 
that  before  he  returned  along  the 
walk  with  the  Vermont  farmer,  he 
thought  that  he  might  make  many 
more  wrongheaded  journeys  to  Lon- 
don than  if  he  took  Mr  Peabody's  sug- 
gestion into  consideration. 

In  the  mean  time,  Mr  Tompkins, 
whom  we  have  too  long  neglected, 
was  not  quite  at  his  ease.  He  had 
sieard  of  the  death  of  Hector  Dhu,  in 
which  he  felt  so  much  interest,  and 
he  thought  that  it  was  very  oppor- 
tunely that  it  should  have  so  hap- 
pened at  the  time  it  did,  and  Octa- 
via  in  London. 

Just  at  that  moment  he  recol- 
lected he  had  heard  from  an  ac- 
quaintance that  Mr  Threeper  the 
advocate  from  Edinburgh  was  in 
town.  All  night  he  had  spent  as 
comfortlessly  as  the  old  lady ;  and 
he  rose  betimes,  determined  to  take 
the  advice  of  Mr  Threeper. 

Accordingly,  as  soon  as  he  had 
finished  breakfast,  he  went  to  the 
hotel  in  Parliament  Street,  where  he 
understood  the  gentleman  was  stay- 
ing. The  waiter,  however,  told  him 
that  he  was  gone  out  to  breakfast, 
when  he  called ;  but  the  porter  re- 
collected that  he  had  only  gone 
to  Mrs  Clatterpenny's  in  Fluyder 
Street ;  whereupon,  with  Yankee 
breeding,  he  resolved  to  follow  him 
to  that  domicile.  But,  when  he  ar- 
rived there,  the  bird  was  flown. 
Mr  Threeper  and  the  old  lady  had 

§one  to  pay  the  visit  which  we  have 
escribed. 
Mr  Tompkins,  somewhat  disap- 


pointed, prolonged  his  walk  into  the 
Park,  meditating  on  his  situation, 
and  resolving  to  seek  Mr  Threeper 
there  in  the  course  of  a  short  time. 
But  when  he  was  returning  from  the 
door,  he  mat  Pompey,  the  black  ser- 
vant, at  the  inn,  enquiring,  with  a 
forensic  wig-box  in  his  arm,  for  Mrs 
Clatterpenny. 

Tompkins,  with  Virginian  brevity 
towards  negroes,  told  Pompey  to 
enquire  for  her  at  that  house,  al- 
though he  saw  by  the  direction  on 
the  box  that  it  was  for  Alexander 
Threeper,  Esq.  advocate,  Pitt  Street, 
Edinburgh.  He  might  have  told 
Pompey  to  carry  it  to  the  hotel ;  but 
it  was  not  consistent,  as  he  con- 
ceived, with  the  relative  position  of 
himself  and  the  negro.  Thus  it  hap- 
pened, that  when  Mrs  Clatterpenny 
and  Mr  Shortridge  had  returned 
from  their  encounter  in  the  Park,  the 
black  servant,  with  Mr  Threeper's 
wig-box,  was  in  the  house  waiting 
for  her  return.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, intrude  upon  her  attention 
while  Mr  Shortridge  was  with  her ; 
but  when  that  young  gentleman  went 
away,  he  made  himself  known,  and 
his  errand. 

Mrs  Clatterpeimy,  at  all  times  de- 
lighted with  a  little  gossip,  especially 
with  servants,  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  which  was  afforded  to 
her  by  the  appearance  of  Pompey. 
She  never  recollected  that  he  spoke 
such  unintelligible  English ;  and  de- 
sired the  maid  to  shew  him  up.  In- 
deed, his  call  was  most  propitious; 
for  the  intelligence  which  she  had 
received  of  the  aunt  in  Virginia 
had  greatly  discomposed  her ; — her 
thoughts  were  floating  wild  like  the 
carry  and  the  clouds  of  a  stormy 
day.  More  than  an  hour  would 
elapse  before  Dr  Johnny  would  be 
relieved  from  the  lecture,  which  he 
had  gone  to  hear ;  and  Mr  Threeper 
eschewed  her,  as  she  thought,  en- 
tirely. All  her  projects  were  castles 
in  the  air ;  every  one  had  vanished ; 
and  she  was  most  forlorn;  so  that 
nothing  could  happen  more  oppor- 
tunely than  the  news  of  Pompey 
being  in  the  house,  and  bringing 
with  him  the  box  containing  the 
professional  wig  and  gown  of  Mr 
Threeper. 

She  desired  him  to  be  shewn  up; 
and  while  ehe  thus  aloud  lamented 


190 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


[Feb. 


the  calamities  that  had  overtaken 
her,  the  negro  was  ascending  the 
stairs. 

"  Woe's  me  !"  said  she,  "  misfor- 
tune, like  old  maids,  never  pays  a 
visit  without  a  tribe  of  others  gal- 
lanting along  with  her ;  what  am  I 
to  do,  beguiled  of  my  birthright  by 
an  auntie  in  Virgeny  and  two  sons  ? 
It's  a  resurrection  —  a  dream  —  a 
vision — and  a  mystery  in  the  watch- 
es of  the  night.  Then  our  Johnny 


to  be  flung  over  the  ramparts  of  the 
brig  by  that  Yankee  Doodle  dam- 
sel, his  own  cousin  !  It's,  however, 
some  comfort,  that  I  have  a  com- 
panion in  affliction ; — poor,  waff  Mr 
Threeper,  what  will  become  of  him  ? 
what  will  he  do  with  his  wig  and 
gown  now?" 

But  at  that  moment  Pompey  en- 
tered with  the  box  for  Mr  Threeper, 
and  what  ensued  we  shall  presently 
relate. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


POMPEY  set  down  the  box  on  the 
floor,  and  with  a  droll  sidelong  look 
at  Mrs  Clatterpenny,  raised  himself 
into  an  erect  posture  behind  it. 

"  Come  away,  black  lad;  what's 
your  errand  ?" 

Pompey  did  not  immediately  reply 
to  her ;  but  slyly  said  aside,  in  an 
under  voice — "  Ah !  the  old  lady  has 
got  a  drop  in  eye.  Missy,  missy,  me 
beg  missy,  dis  box  is  for  the  gen- 
tleman ;  and  was  no  recollect  at  our 
hos." 

"  Oh  aye,  so  it  is,"  replied  Mrs 
Clatterpenny ;  "  it  contains  the  or- 
naments of  his  profession, — his  wig 
and  gown.  Well,  you  may  leave  it 
and  go  down  stairs  ;  and  I'll  hear 
what  he  directs  about  it  in  a  short 
time  ;  for  it's  no  consistent  with  the 
course  of  nature  that  he  should  not 
be  soon  here." 

Pompey  turned  to  go  down  stairs 
at  this ;  but  she  continued— 

"  Black  lad,  I  trow  that  ye  have 
na  been  lang  from  the  niggers.  I'll 
no  say  that  ye're  one  yourself;  for 
there's  a  great  difference  between 
a  crow  and  a  blackbird.  Like's  an 
ill  mark.  And,  although  it  maun  be 
allowed  that  ye're  a  little  high  in  the 
colour,  I  would  not  just  take  it  on 
me  to  say  that  ye're  a  nigger." 

Pompey  did  not  very  clearly  un- 
derstand this ;  indeed  he  thought 
the  meaning  very  different ;  and, 
looking  a  little  queer  at  her,  said — 

"  Vhat  you  think,  Missy  ?  You 
go  to  bed  ?  Ah  !  missy,  de  strong 
waters  dam  strong." 

"  What's  that  ye're  saying  ?"  said 
she ;  "  canna  ye  no  learn  to  speak 
the  English  language,  and  make  a 
Christian  of  yourself  " 


"  Oh,  Missy,  me  dat  already." 

"  Aye,  aye,  where  do  ye  come 
frae  ?" 

"  Me  come  from  what  you  call 
Charles  Town." 

"  Poor  lad,  that's  in  the  wilds  of 
America;  it's  but  a  black  Christian- 
ity ye  would  learn  there."  , 

While  our  heroine  was  in  the 
midst  of  this  discourse  with  Pom- 
pey, the  servant  girl  of  the  house 
came  in  with  a  note,  and  delivered 
it  without  speaking  to  Mrs  Clatter- 
penny,  who  looked  at  the  super- 
scription with  some  surprise;  and, 
as  the  maid  went  away  without 
speaking,  she  requested  Pompey 
also  to  retire  to  the  stair-head  till 
she  would  see  what  the  letter  was 
about. 

Pompey,  who  was  impressed  with 
an  idea  that  she  had  taken  a  little  too 
much,  did  however  as  she  requested; 
but  there  was  a  kind  of  laughing 
curiosity  in  his  visage,  as  he  quitted 
the  room,  which  shewed  that  he  was 
not  done  with  the  discourse  she  had 
opened  ;  but  he  disappeared  ;  and 
she  walked  towards  the  window, 
holding  the  letter. 

"  Please  peace  arid  the  king,"  said 
she,  "  what  can  this  be  about  ?  It's 
for  Mr  Threeper.  Odd,  I'll  open't." 
Accordingly,  she  undid  the  seal,  and 
read  aloud,  but  not  continuously,  as 
follows  : 

"  Eminent  advocate  from  Edin- 
burgh— acquainted  with  the  feudal 
law.  My  relationship  to  Hector 
Dhu  of  Ardenlochie — would  ask 
your  professional  advice." 

At  this  the  old  lady  gave  a  vehe- 
ment interject!  on.  "Advice!"  said 
she,  walking  about  agitated,  Pom- 


1833.] 

pey,  mimicking  her  agitation,  looked 
in  at  the  door  for  an  instant,  and 
drew  out  his  head  again. 

"  I  declare,"  said  she,  "  this  is  a 
treasonable  correspondence  ;"  and, 
looking  at  the  box,  she  added—"  I 
ought  not  to  stand  upon  trifles  now. 
If  I  were  to  see  Mr  Tompkins,  and 
pass  myself  off  in  the  wig  and  gown 
for  Mr  Threeper,  I  might  get  at  the 
bottom  of  this  gunpowder  plot/' — 
And,  going  towards  the  door,  she 
said — 

"  Black  lad,  do  you  know  if  the 
gentleman  that  the  letter  came  from 
is  in  the  house?" 

•«  Es,  missy;  he  wait,"  said  Pom- 
pey. 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mrs  Clatter- 
penny,  "just  step  and  say  to  him 
from  me,  that  Mr  Threeper  will  see 
him." 

Pompey  again  withdrew,  and  Mrs 
Clatterpenny  in  a  flurry  drew  out  the 
wi^  and  gown  from  the  box,  and  had 
arrayed  herself  in  them,  when  Pom- 
pey shewed  in  Mr  Tompkins  to  her 
and  retired. 

u  Your  name  is  Tompkins  ?" 

11  It  is,  sir,"  replied  the  gentleman, 
with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  I  am  not  to  be  seen,"  said  she, 
"commonly at  this  time  of  the  day, 
for  I  divide  the  hours,  and  this  is 
commonly  set  apart  for  my  philoso- 
phical studies.  Do  you  know,  sir, 
that  I  have  made  a  considerable  dis- 
covery this  morning  ?  Seeing  that 
black  man,  I  had  a  notion  with  other 
folks  that  he  was  come  of  the  seed 
of  Cain;  but  when  I  thought,  sir, 
how  all  the  old  world  was  drowned 
but  those  that  were  with  Noah,  I 
could  not  divine  how  the  nigger  kind 
came  to  be  saved  ;  but  the  discovery 
I  have  made  anent  them  is  most  plea- 
sant. Sir,  do  you  know  that  I  could 
wager  a  plack  to  a  bawbee  that  some 
of  the  seed  of  Cain  creepit  into  the 
Ark  with  the  unclean  beasts  ?" 

The  physiognomy  of  Tompkins  was 
rather  excited  than  softened  by  this 
speech,  and  he  said  to  himself, 
"  Strange-looking  fish  this  !  But  the 
lav/  has  its  curiosities  as  well  as  the 
otlier  learned  professions."  He  then 
said  aloud,  "  Hearing,  sir,  of  your  ar- 
riv  il  in  London,  I  have  presumed  to 
call  on  you  with  these  papers;  they 
relate  to  family  concerns  of  some 
importance — a  property  in  Scotland." 

Mrs  Clatterpenny  took  the  papers, 
VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIV. 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


191 


and  looking  aside  from  Mr  Tomp- 
kins, trembled  from  head  to  foot, 
yet  at  the  same  time  affecting  the  ut- 
most indifference,  said,  "  Is  the  pro- 
perty considerable  ?" 

"I  have  always  understood  so," 
replied  the  young  Virginian. 

"  That  will  increase  the  difficul- 
ties of  the  case,"  said  she  ;  "however, 
leave  the  papers  with  me,  and  I  will 
'vestigate  them  ;  but  I  have  doubts," 
and  she  shook  her  head  and  the  wig 
in  a  most  professional  manner. 

"Then,"  said  Tompkins,  "then 
you  have  heard,  possibly,  that  Mr 
Peabody  from  Vermont,  and  Mrs 
Clatterpenny  of  Edinburgh,  are  also 
claimants  ?" 

"  Oh,  is  it  the  Ardenlochie  estate  ? 
I  have  heard  something  of  that  pro- 
perty ;  but  Peabody  has  not  a  leg  to 
stand  on ;  as  for  Mrs  Clatterpenny, 
she's  under  a  respondent!,  and  has  a 
revisidendo." 

"You  surprise  me,"  said  Tomp- 
kins ;  "  is  that  possible  ?" 

"  Every  thing,  sir,  is  possible,"  said 
Mrs  Clatterpenny ;  "  that's  a  maxim 
of  law ;"  and  softening  her  voice,  she 
added,  to  herself,  but  loud  enough 
to  be  heard,  "  He  has  not  given  me  a 
fee,  and  this  is  the  first  consultation 
—I  observe,  sir,"  added  she  louder, 
"  that  you  have  neglected  to  indorse 
the  fee." 

Tompkins,  greatly  astonished,  ex- 
claimed, "  strange  eccentricity!"  and 
he  added  aloud  to  her,  "  As  it  is  less 
an  opinion  thaa  an  examination,  I 
deferred." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  she ;  "  but  we 
of  the  Scotch  bar  never  demur  till 
we  are  fee'd,  the  same  being  accord- 
ing to  the  books  of  sederunt  and  ses- 
sion, founded  on  the  statute  of  limit- 
ations." 

"  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons," 
said  Mr  Tompkins,  "  I  came  unpre- 
pared." 

At  this  moment  she  was  observed 
to  listen,  and  then  she  cried, — "  Eh, 
gude  be  wi'  me !  there's  his  own 
foot  on  the  stair;"  but  her  expe- 
dients were  not  exhausted,  and  she 
exclaimed  aloud,  which  he  thought 
in  character,  "  But,  sir,  call  again, 
sir,  for  I've  a  case  in  point." 

Mr  Tompkins,  scarcely  able  to  pre- 
serve his  gravity,  went  away,  ex- 
claiming to  himself,  "  a  delicate  hint 
to  come  better  prepared." 

As  soon  as  the  door  was  shut,  Mrs 

N 


192 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


[Feb 


Clatterpenny  restored  the  wig  and 
gown  hastily  into  the  box,  and  placed 
herself,  with  the  papers  in  her  hand, 
in  a  meditative  posture,  in  an  elbow- 
chair  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room. 
Her  fears  were  quite  right ;  the  foot- 
step she  had  heard  on  the  stair  was 
that  of  the  advocate ;  she  had  pre- 
pared herself  to  receive  him,  and  he 
presently  entered  the  room. 

"  Oh,  Mr  Threeper,"  cried  she, 
"  but  ye're  come  in  the  nick  of  time ! 
Who  do  ye  think  has  been  here  ;  and 
what  have  I  no  done  ?  These  are  all 
the  lad  Tompkins's  papers  and  pedi- 
grees. What  do  ye  advise  me  about 
slipping  them  into  the  fire  ?" 

"  Explain  yourself,"  said  Mr 
Threeper,  astonished  at  what  she 
could  mean. 

The  answer  was — "  No  woman 
but  myself  could  have  won  such  a 
victory.  Ye  see,  here  was  I,  groan- 
ing in  the  affliction  of  an  aunty  in 
Virginy,  with  two  children,  that  ye 
have  brought  on  me,  when  our  ser- 
vant lass  delivered  two  lines  from 
Mr  Tompkins,  wanting  your  advice, 
you  know.  Being  in  the  way,  and  we 
being  in  partnership,  to  save  the 
money,  I  just  put  on  your  wig  and 


gown  there,  and  passed  myself  to 
the  lad  frae  Virginy,  who  gave  me 
these  papers,  thinking  I  was  you." 

Mr  Tbreeper,  in  the  utmost  con- 
sternation, cried,  "  Did  he  take  you 
forme?" 

But  she  parried  this  question  by 
saying,—"  Had  he  known  you  as 
well  as  I  do,  he  would  ne'er  have 
done  any  such  thing;  but  he  was 
surprised  at  the  jurisdiction  I  main- 
tained, for  I  quoted  to  him  maxims 
of  law,  and  gave  him  an  opinion  of 
counsel  in  the  most  judicious  man- 
ner." 

Mr  Threeper  smote  his  forehead, 
and  exclaimed  with  indescribable 
vexation — "  He  will  speak  of  it, 
thinking  his  consultation  was  with 
me !  My  professional  character  is 
blasted  for  ever !" 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs  Clatter- 
penny,  "  it  was  impossible  for  your- 
self to  have  done  better.  I  sustain- 
ed your  part  with  great  ability.  No 
— I  cannot  think  how  I  managed  as 
I  did;  I  was  just  confounded  at  my 
own  learning  and  judgment.  But 
come,  look  at  the  papers,  for  he'll  be 
back  soon  wi'  money  in  hand  for  a 
fee— think  of  that,  Mr  Threeper." 


CHAPTER  IX. 


We  are  in  a  moralizing  vein,  and 
it  is  but  right  that  we  should  allow 
the  courteous  reader  to  partake  of 
our  solemn  wisdom.  The  case  of 
Mrs  Clatterpenny  was  now  ticklish. 
It  seemed  doubtful  if  in  any  way  she 
could  realize  the  inducement  which 
she  held  out  to  Mr  Threeper  to  take 
her  case  in  hand,  conscious  of  no 
longer  being  able  to  make  herself 
heir,  and  told  in  plain  terms  that 
Miss  Peabody  would  not  have  Dr 
Johnny.  The  aspects  of  her  fortune 
at  this  juncture  were  truly  dismal, 
nor  were  the  prospects  of  Mr  Three- 
per more  brilliant ;  he  found  that  the 
bargain  he  had  made  with  the  old 
lady  was  of  no  avail — the  chance  of 
heirship  had  vanished,  and  with  it 
half  the  bargain,  and  the  other  moiety 
had  been  scared  away  by  the  rejec- 
tion of  poor  Johnny. 

However,  as  Mrs  Clatterpenny  had 
by  a  most  strange  yet  characteristic 
manoeuvre  acquired  possession  of 
Mr  Tompkins's  papers,  Mr  Threeper 


agreed  that  they  were  worthy  of 
perusal;  and  for  that  purpose  he 
retired  with  the  old  lady  to  her  bed- 
room, where  for  some  time  he  ear- 
nestly employed  himself  in  search- 
ing their  meaning. 

When  a  considerable  time  had 
elapsed,  and  Mrs  Clatterpenny  saw 
that  he  had  nearly  read  the  papers, 
she  enquired  dolorously  what  he 
thought  of  Mr  Tompkins's  right. 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr  Threeper,  "  it  is 
clear, — it  admits  not  of  a  doubt." 

"  Dear  me,"  replied  the  old  lady, 
"  how  could  you  ever  pass  yourself 
off  to  me  as  a  man  of  law  and  learn- 
ing, and  no  to  be  able  to  make  a 
doubt?" 

"  Come,  come,  Mrs  Clatterpenny," 
said  the  molested  advocate,  "  a  truce 
with  idle  talk— this  is  no  trifle  to 
you,  and  I  assure  you  it  is  not  to  me 
—we  have  incurred  prodigious  ex- 
pense ;  I  have  lost  my  time." 

"  And  whose  fault  was  that?" 
cried  the  lady.  "  I'm  sure,  had  ye 


1833.] 

•no  been  in  a  needful  condition,  puir 
body,  ye  ne'er  would  hae  come  sae 
far  afield  with  me." 

"  I  tell  you,  madam,"  exclaimed 
Tlreeper,  angrily,  "  our  situation 
cannot  be  worse !" 

"  I'm  blithe  to  hear  you  s,ay  so," 
was  her  answer;  "  for  the  next 
•change  will  mend  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr  Threeper,  patheti- 
cally, "  if  we  survive  existing  cir- 
cumstances." 

"  Survive !"  exclaimed  Mrs  Clat- 
rter penny.  "  Oh,  but  ye  have  a  faint 
heart;  oh,  but  ye're  of  little  faith, 
and  void  of  understanding.  For  my 
part,  while  there  is  life  there  is  hope; 
and  I  have  had  a  thought  in  my  head 
for  some  time,  ever  since  I  mis- 
doubted the  inheritance,  and  espe- 
cia  ly  since  our  Johnny  got  his  ditty 
fro  n  Miss" 

•*  What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  Mr 
Tli  -eeper,  awakening  from  his  asto- 
nishment; upon  which  the  old  lady, 
loodng  very  knowing,  went  up  to 
hin ,  and,  with  an  emphatic  whisper, 
said — "  Will  you  give  me  an  opinion 
of  counsel  free  gratis,  and  I'll  tell  you 
a  secret  ?"  and  she  drew  her  lips  to- 
gether, and  appeared  very  brimful. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  lawyer  indig- 
nantly, "  I  wish  to  hear  no  more  of 
your  secrets." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  she,  "  but 
this  ye  will  allow  is  something  solid." 

"  Indeed !"  replied  Mr  Threeper. 
"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  You  confess,"  replied  Mrs  Clat- 
terpenny,  "  we're  both  at  the  bottom 
of  despair?" 

"  I  do— I  can  see  no  hope." 

"  But  promise  to  advise  me." 

*'  My  advice  is  worth  nothing." 

"  Ye  never  said  a  truer  word," 
said  Mrs  Clatterpenny ;  "  but  in  my 
happier  days  it  was  valued  at  twa 
red  guineas  every  time  we  had  a 
conl abulation  in  your  library." 

M  r  Threeper,  without  affecting  to 
hav«  heard  her,  enquired  what  she 
woild  be  at. 

"  What  would  you  think,"  said 
she,  "  of  counselling  me  in  this  sore 
distress  and  straitened  circumstan- 
ces'  

"  To  do  what  ?"  said  the  lawyer, 
half  seriously  and  half  vexedly,  to 
whi(  h  Mrs  Clatterpenny  said,  look- 
ing 5  side  from  him — 

"  To  make  myself  winsome  in  the 
sight  of  old  cousin  Peabody  ?  I  don't 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


193 


think,  Mr  Threeper,  it's  a  head-sha- 
king accidence  at  all ;  and  surely  you 
must  allow  it  would  be  a  most"  hard 
case  were  you  and  me, after  perilling 
life  in  coming  to  London  town,  to 
return  home,  you  with  your  finger  in 
your  mouth,  and  I  no  better?" 

"  Our  voyage,"  cried  Mr  Threeper, 
ardently,  "  was  rational,  compared 
to  this.  How  could  such  an  imagi- 
nation enter  your  head  ?" 

"  Just  by  the  course  of  nature," 
said  Mrs  Clatterpenny.  "  But,  in 
sobriety,  don't  you  think  I  might  do 
worse  than  accept  the  hand  and  af- 
fections of  Mr  Peabody  ?" 

At  this  question  Mr  Threeper 
looked  very  grave,  and  said,  "  has  he 
indeed  made  you  such  an  offer  ?" 

"  There's  time  enough  for  a  point- 
blank,"  said  she. 

"  True— but  has  he  shewn  you 
any  signs  ?"  said  the  astonished  law- 
yer. 

"  Goodness  me!  Mr  Threeper," 
was  the  reply,  "  would  you  expect 
him  to  fall  on  his  bended  knees,  and 
make  a  declaration  of  flames  and 
darts?  My  expectations  are  more 
moderate." 

"  If  what  you  tell  me  be  true,"  re- 
plied he,  "  I  think  you  ought  to  ac- 
count yourself  in  your  jeopardy  the 
most  fortunate  of  womankind." 

"  In  a  sense,  no  doubt,"  said  she ; 
"  but  ye  know,  Mr  Threeper,  that  at 
his  time  of  life,  and  the  years  of  dis- 
cretion that  I  have  reached,  changes 
must  be  wrought  by  prudent  hand- 
ling. Old  folk  in  this  world,  as  the 
lawyers  well  know,  woo  by  pac- 
tions." 

"  Do  you  expect  me,"  said  he,  "  to 
be  your  negotiator  ?  No,  madam,  I 
have  been  guilty  of  absurdities 
enough  with  you  already." 

"  With  me,  Mr  Threeper !— ye 
never  was  guilty  of  an  absurdity 
with  me  1" 

"  Pshaw !"  cried  Mr  Threeper,  and 
flounced  away,  just  at  the  moment 
that  Peabody  was  standing  on  the 
landing-place  of  her  parlour  to  speak 
to  her  for  Squire  Shortridge.  He 
looked  at  Threeper  as  he  passed 
down,  but  said  nothing ;  only  he  re- 
marked to  himself,  as  he  saw  him 
bouncing  down  stairs, — "  Well,  he 
is  as  nimble  as  a  pea  fried  without 
butter;"  and  in  the  course  of  a 
minute,  Mrs  Clatterpenny,  in  a 
great  flustration,  joined  him,  crying, 


194 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


[Feb. 


"  Sweet  Mr  Peabody,  but  this  is  a 
vastly  warm  day;"  and  having  by 
this  time  opened  the  door  of  her 
parlour,  she  added,  "  I'm  tired  off 
my  feet." 

«  Well,  if  so  be,"  cried  he,  «  I  ex- 
pect  you  should  sit  down." 

She  said  to  herself,  "  He  does  not 
offer  me  a  chair ;  but  it's  a  case  of  ex- 
tremity, and  I  must  not  be  standing 
on  trifles. — Mr  Peabody,  will  ye  no 
be  seated?"  With  that  the  old 
gentleman  took  a  chair  and  seated 
himself;  upon  which  she  added — 
"  Now,  Mr  Peabody,  that's  what  I 
like.  I  like  to  see  friends  among 
friends  make  themselves  at  home." 
But  the  American,  without  noticing 
her  observation,  fanned  himself  with 
his  broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  and 
ejaculated — 

"  Well,  I  guess  it  be  tarnation 
warmer  here  than  in  Vermont." 

"  I  dinna  misdoubt  it,"  replied 
Mrs  Clatterpenny ;  "  for  by  every 
thing  I  have  heard,  Vermont  must  be 
a  most  pleasant  country,  a  perfect 
land  of  Canaan,  besides  flowing  with 
milk  and  honey; — ye'll  have  hills 
there?" 

"  I  guess  we  have,"  said  Mr  Pea- 
body,  "  and  tarnal  big  ones  too." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  she,  "  high  and 
most  romantical.  How  weel  content 
I  would  be  to  spend  my  latter  end 
in  Vermont, skipping  upon  the  moun- 
tains, and  barkening  in  the  valleys 
to  the  singing  of  nightingales,  and 
poets,  and  such  other  fouls ;  and  I'm 
sure,  cousin  Peabody,  from  what  I 
discern  of  your  taste  and  under- 
standing, your  house  must  be  in  a 
very  airy  situation." 

"  Itben't  though,"  cried  he, "  being 
in  a  hollow,  as  you  see,  between 
neighbour  Timpson's  fen  and  deacon 
Screechwell's  cedar  swamp." 

None  daunted  by  the  intelligence, 
the  loving  dame  exclaimed, — "  Dear 
me,  does  cedar  grow  so  near  your 
habitation?  Oh,  but  it  must  be  a 
scriptural  tabernacle,  putting  us  aye 
in  mind  of  the  cedars  of  Lebanon 
and  Solomon's  Temple.  No  doubt 
there  are  great  guns  of  the  gospel 
there  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  reckon,"  said  Mr  Peabody; 
"  religion  is  in  popularity  in  Vermont 
at  present." 

"  Oh,"  replied  his  cousin,  "  but 
that's  a  comely  thing  !  for  since  you 
lost  poor  dear  Mrs  Peabody,  ye  have 


been  feeding  on  thin  fodder.  I  have, 
for  seven  long  years  and  more,  known 
what  it  is  to  be  a  lanerly  widow ; 
but  it's  no  the  fortune  of  woman- 
kind to  change  their  condition  at 
pleasure  ;  you  men  of  the  male  sect 
have  a  great  advantage  over  us." 

Mr  Peabody  thought  that  this  was 
the  proper  juncture  for  putting  in  a 
word  for  his  friend  the  squire. 

"  Well,  I  calculate,  talking  of  mar- 
rying for  a  second  spell,  that  Mr 
Shortridge,  what  came  cargo  with 
you,  is  a  dreadfullest  proper  fellour." 
"  What's  that  ye  say  of  him  ?"  cried 
the  lady. 

"  Well  I  do  say  it,"  replied  Pea- 
body  ;  "  and  if  he  ben't,  there  are  no 
snakes  in  Virginia." 

"  It  would  have  been  well  for  us 
had  there  never  been  an  auntie 
there." 

At  this  moment,  Pompey,  who  had 
begun  to  grow  impatient  at  being 
kept  so  long,  opened  the  door  softly, 
and  seeing  the  pathetic  posture  of  the 
two  cousins,  exclaimed  softly,  look- 
ing with  white  eyes — "  What's  iss  ? 
my  eye !"  But  he  withdrew  his  head 
at  the  same  moment.  He  had  seen 
however,  enough  to  excite  his  curi- 
osity, and  he  again  gently  opened  the 
door  and  looked  in.  What  he  beheld 
to  attract  his  attention  so  particu- 
larly we  know  not,  but  he  inserted 
his  whole  body,  and  with  soundless 
feet  fairly  went  into  the  room,  and 
placed  himself  behind  their  chairs, 
^  listening  to,  without  much  under- 
standing the  drift  of  their  discourse ; 
for  it  is  quite  unnecessary,  when  man 
or  woman  is  actuated  by  a  genuine 
curiosity,  to  understand  what  others 
may  be  saying.  This  endowment  Pom- 
pey had  in  the  highest  degree  of  per- 
fection; and,on  the  present  occasion, 
it  was  in  some  measure  excited  by 
the  previous  opinion  that  he  had 
formed  of  the  condition  of  Mrs  Clat- 
terpenny. Observing  that  the  raw- 
ness of  the  morning  air,  in  coming 
across  the  Park,  had  made  her  com- 
plexion of  a  glowing  red  and  purple, 
while  the  tidings  she  had  received 
from  Mr  Threeper,  respecting  her 
cunt  in  Virginia,  had  filled  her  eyes 
with  water,  Pompey  had  made  a  very 
natural  conclusion  from  her  appear- 
ance at  that  time,  for  her  looks  had 
received  no  improvement  by  the 
tidings  which  she  had  learned  of  so 
near  and  dear  a  relation  being  found. 


(333.1  Scotch  and  Yankees.  103 

But  it  is  time  to  resume  the  thread     entrance  of  the  blackamoor  has  obli- 
o."  our  discourse,  which  the  stealthy     ged  us  to  suspend. 


CHAPTIR  X. 


WITHOUT  observing  that  Pompey 
was  behind  them,  and  listening,  Mrs 
Clatterpenny  continued — "  Talking 
of  second  marriages,  Mr  Shortridge 
is  no  a  commodity  for  my  money. 
No  no,  dear  cousin  Peabody,  if  ever 
I  make  a  change,  and  it's  no  a  small 
matter  that  would  tempt  me,  my 
taste  would  choose  something  more 
tc  the  purpose,  for  he's  ower  young." 
"  I  expect,"  said  Peabody,  "  that 
h«'s  older  than  you  think,  and  you 
bi-n't  yourself  so  old  in  my  eyes  as 
you  look" — at  the  same  time  he  turn- 
ed aside  mumbling,  "  though  ugly 
enough  to  stop  a  sawmill  or  a  nig- 
ger's burial." 

"  What  you  say,"  replied  Mrs  Clat- 
terpenny, "  is  a  most  just  observe. 
I  have  aye  been  thought  vastly 
younger  than  I  look  like;  I  was  even 
more  so  when  in  my  teens." 

Mr  Peabody  looked  askance  at  her, 
and  said  to  himself,  "  That's  a  boun- 
cer." Presently,  however,  he  added, 
in  a  more  conciliatory  key,  "  But 
don't  you  think  the  squire  a  ter- 
rible smart  man  ?  I  know  he  is." 

"  Oh,  oh,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  he's 
jealous  of  Mr  Shortridge,  'cause  we 
came  in  the  same  ship.  No,  no, 
sweet  Mr  Peabody,  it  will  be  long 
to  the  day  or  my  fancy  fix  on 
him;  if  ever  I  make  another  choice, 
I'll  choose  a  sober  sensible  man 
lit  e  you ;  and  I  think  I  would  pre- 
fer an  American,  for  they  say  that 
th  3  'mericans  make  the  best  of  hus- 
bands." 

The  Vermont  farmer  looked  at 
her  queerly,  and  then  said,  "  I  guess 
tint  Scotch  women  make  the  best  of 
wives." 

This  return  of  the  compliment 
quite  overwhelmed  the  modesty  of 
Ms  Clatterpenny,  and  she  cried,  co- 
vering her  cheek  with  her  hand,  and 
presenting  her  palm  towards  Mr 
Ptabody,  and  averting  her  head, 
"  Oh,  spare  my  blushes!" 

•'  There  is  no  occasion  to  blush  at 

all,"  said  he,  "  unless  you  like  it; 

but  I  have  an  omnipotent  wish  to 

sp^ak  of  that  'ere  Glasgow  squire." 

•'  Speak  not  of  him/'  exclaimed 


she,  with  a  languishing  sigh  ;  "  oh, 
my  too  combustible  heart !" 

At  this  crisis  she  laid  her  hand  on 
Mr  Peabody's ;  and  Pompey  from 
behind,  with  a  leering  look,  put  his 
head  between  them. 

"  The  devil !"  cried  Mr  Peabody, 
starting  off  apart. 

"  Oh  missy,  oh  massa  1"  cried  Pom- 
pey, looking  at  the  astonished  pair. 
"  I'll  faint,"  cried  she  ;  "  hold  out 
your  arms,  sweet  Mr  Peabody,  that 
I  may  faint  in  them." 

Peabody,  however,  gave  an  up- 
ward look,  and  she  fell  into  the  arms 
of  Pompey,  upon  which  she  uttered 
a  shrill  scream,  and  ran  off,  followed 
by  the  negro,  while  the  Yankee,  look- 
ingknowingly  after  them,  said  coolly, 
— u  Well,  this  be  pretty  special  too  ; 
and  yet  I  expect  she  has  the  rights 
on't.  A  woman  of  her  years  to  take 
up  with  the  squire,  would  be  an 
Ethiopian  shame ;  but  I  reckon,  had 
he  been  of  as  good  an  age  as  I,  she 
would  have  come  to.  But  here  is 
her  'torney  at  law;  I'll  speak  to  him. 
— Mister — I  say,  mister,  if  so  be  you 
ha'n't  cause  for  scudding,  I  would 
like  to  talk  a  word  or  so  with  you 
concerning  our  cousin  Dame  Clatter- 
penny's  circumstance,  because,  you 
see,  she  is  my  relation." 

At  this  summons,  Mr  Threeper, 
who  was  on  the  landing-place,  enter- 
ed the  room,  and  said, "  At  your  ser- 
vice, Mr  Peabody." 

As  if  the  old  man  was  at  a  loss 
what  to  say,  he  eyed  the  advocate 
from  top  to  toe,  and  then  continued, 
— "  I  expect,  mister,  that  cousin 
Clatterpenny  has  been  glomrified 
some  at  my  claim  to  them  'ere  lands 
in  Scotland  State." 

Mr  Threeper  drew  himself  up 
erectly,  and  said  with  a  supercilious- 
ness worthy  of  his  profession,  ta- 
king a  pinch  of  snulF,  at  the  sanio 
time, — "  Oh  my  dear  sir,  don't  de- 
ceive yourself;  your  claim  is  worth 
nothing." 

"  That's  plain,  I  guess,"  replied 
Mr  Peabody.  "  If  I  was  not  some- 
how by  instinct  thinking  so  myself, 
or  I  am  a,  cranberry ;  and  bottle  mu 


196 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


[Feb 


for  gin  in  a  Rotterdam  greybeard, 
if  I  would  go  to  pursue  cousin  Clat- 
terpenny  with  law,  if  so  be  as  how 
we  could  settle  it  friendly." 

Mr  Threeper  pricked  up  his  ears 
at  this ;  it  seemed  in  accordance 
with  what  the  old  lady  had  been 
bespeaking  his  counsel  for,  and  he 
ejaculated  to  himself,-—"  Ah !  what's 
this?" 

Mr  Peabody  continued — 
"  Now,  you  think  her  as  valuable 
as  nothing;  but  I'd  give  my  male 
cow  and  three  heifers,  to  have  an- 
other such  in  my  house  at  Mount 
Pisgah,  State  of  Vermont." 

"  Is  this  possible  ?"  cried  the  advo- 
cate aloud.  "Yes,  Mrs  Clatterpenny 
is  indeed,  a  most  surprising  woman, 
— shrewd,  discerning,  nimble  for  her 
years ;  managing  in  her  cares  every 
shilling  she  spends,  and  she  sees  both 
sides  of  it  before  she  parts  with  it.  I 
Tinow  few  like  her." 

Peabody  replied  "  that  she  indeed 
took  care  of  Number  One. — And  so 
you  think,"  said  he, "  that  her  claim  to 
be  inheritor  is  better  than  mine  after 
all  ?" 

Mr  Threeper  hesitated  a  little, 
and  throwing  back  his  head,  with 
professional  sapience  replied,-— 
"  Upon  that  subject,  the  integrity  of 
my  gown  denies  me  freedom  of 
speech;  but  this  I  know,  and  may 
say  to  you  as  her  kinsman,  that  ac- 
cording to  the  evidence  given  in, 
she  has  quite  as  good  a  chance  of 
establishing  her  claim,  as  you  have 
of  proving  yours.  More  it  becomes 
not  me  to  say ;  less  perhaps  had  been 
more  prudent." 

The  Vermont  farmer  looked  a  little 
grave  at  this,  and  after  pondering 
well  for  a  short  time,  he  said — 

"  Which,  now,  in  your  opinion,  (I 
does  not  ask  your  opinion  according 
to  law,)  but  which  would  you  com- 
mend for  she  and  I  to  do — to  half 
stakes,  to  go  to  law,  or  to  'spouse  ?" 
To  this  Threeper  promptly  replied 
— "  I  could  never  advise  her  to  go 
half  with  you.  As  for  going  to  law,  it 
is  not  graceful  among  relations." 

"  Well,"  said  the  American,  "  you 
a'n'tthe  first  man  who  didn't  magnify 
his  own  trade." 

"  But,"  continued  Mr  Threeper, 
without  changing  his  posture,  and 
looking  like  a  dungeon  of  wit,  "  if 
Mrs  Clatterpenny  herself  has  not 
strong  objections  to  coming  again 


under  the  conjugal  yoke,  why,  I 
think"— and  he  stopped  at  these 
words,  suddenly  arrested  in  thought. 
"Now,  mister,"  said  Peabody, 
waiting  for  his  explanation,  "  and 
what  may  that  think  be  ?" 

The  Edinburgh  lawyer  replied 
very  adroitly,  "  it  would  be  a  happy 
way  of  putting  an  end  to  family  dif- 
ferences." 

«  I  calculate,"  said  Peabody,  "  it 
might  be  the  beginning  of  family 
differences ;  but,  mister,"« — > 

"Sir?" 

"  Could'nt  you,  in  a  far  off  way, 
round  a  corner,  see  how  the  wind 
hauls  with  the  old  ladye  ?" 

Mr  Threeper,  at  this,  shook  his 
head  in  the  most  sagacious  manner^ 
and  replied, — "  Impossible !  I  am  her 
professional  adviser,  my  duty  is  to 
protect  her;  couldn't  think  of  recom- 
mending her  to  marry — no,  Mr  Pea- 
body,  not  even  you." 

This  was  uttered  with  such  solem- 
nity, that  it  had  a  manifest  effect  up- 
on the  old  gentleman,  who  imme- 
diately said,—"  Well,  that  mayn't  be 
quite  propriety ;  but  couldn't  you,  by 
the  way  of  a  squint,  give  her  to  un- 
derstand'em  'ere  three  ways  of  scald- 
ing the  hog  ? — But,  between  you  and 
I,  I'd  rather  go  halves." 

Mr  Threeper  started  at  this,  and, 
stepping  aside,  exclaimed, — "  Can 
he  know  of  Tompkins's  advantage  ?" 
But,  before  he  was  upright,  Peabody 
cried, — "  I  was  saying,  mister,  I'd 
rather  go  halves  than  splice,  for,  you 
know,  she  can  talk." 

Just  at  this  moment  a  knocking 
was  heard  on  the  door,  and,  on  open- 
ing it,  Mr  Shortridge  made  his  ap- 
pearance, not  in  the  best  order.  He 
had  been  with  Miss  Octavia,  and  had 
not  been  treated  by  her,  as,  in  his  own 
opinion,  his  merits  deserved  ;  with- 
out, also,  knowing  the  whole  facts  of 
the  case,  he  had  begun  to  suspect, 
that  his  father,  notwithstanding  his 
long  forecasting  faculty,  had  cut  be- 
fore the  point,  in  supposing  that  an 
American  lady  could  be  so  easily 
won.  In  short,  the  young  gentleman 
was  much  flurried,  and  his  endea- 
vour to  preserve  a  shew  of  serenity 
was  palpable  to  every  beholder ;  but, 
having  introduced  him,  in  this  agi- 
tated state,  to  Mr  Peabody  and  Mr 
Threeper,  it  merits  a  place  in  the 
next  Chapter,  to  relate  what  ensued. 


1833.] 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


197 


CHAPTER  XI. 


MR  ARCHIBALD  SHORTRIDGE,  jun., 
cume  forward,  with  that  smirk,  bow, 
and  cringe,  which  betokens  a  gem  of 
tl  e  first  water  in  a  certain  metropo- 
li  ?  of  the  west  of  Scotland,  and  which, 
01  the  present  occasion,  there  is  no 
need  to  name. 

"Glad,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "I 
an  to  have  found  you  together.  No- 
thing like  doing  business  off  hand. 
Mr  Peabody,  I  have  considered  your 
a  Ivice,  and  I  do  think  that  many  a 
ntan  has  matched  worse  than  with 
s  Lich  a  lady." 

The  American  took,  for  some  time, 
no  part  in  the  conversation,  but  he 
listened  with  ears  apert,  and  now 
a  ad  then  spoke  to  himself,  or,  as  the 
players  have  it  in  their  books,  he  let 
t  le  audience  know  what  he  thought 
in  a  whisper,  aside.  But  the  Edin- 
burgh lawyer,  more  professionally  lo- 
quacious, said  to  the  young  mer- 
c  lant, — "  So  he  seems  to  think." 

On  hearing  this,  the  Vermont  na- 
tive said  to  himself, — "  He  has  swal- 
lowed the  hook !" 

Mr  Shortridge  not  overhearing 
him,  addressed  Mr  Threeper,  and 
siid, — "  As  you  have  great  influence 
with  her,  might  I  solicit  your  aid  ?" 

The  advocate,  conceiving  that  he 
spoke  of  Mr  Peabody 's  penchant  for 
Mrs  Clatterpenny,  replied, — "  I  have 
j'ist  told  Mr  Peabody,  that  profes- 
sional delicacy  lays  an  interdict  on 
all  direct  interference  on  my  part." 

Mr  Shortridge,  who  thought  only 
c  f  himself,  imagining  that  the  obser- 
i  ation  applied  to  his  own  case,  an- 
E  wered,— "  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I 
1  ave  to  thank  Mr  Peabody  for  the 
I  ind  and  warm  interest  he  has  taken 
ii  my  behalf." 

Mr  Threeper,  still  in  error,  said, — 
c  It  is  grateful  in  you  to  be  anxious 
t )  repay  it,  but,  in  this  matter,  for 
t  le  reason  I  have  stated,  I  cannot  in- 
tirfere;  you  may,  however,  with  su- 
perior effect." 

Mr  Shortridge  having  no  other  in- 
t ejection  at  hand,  exclaimed,—"! 
?m  surprised!" 

"  Not  more  than  I  am,"  replied  Mr 
r'hreeper;  "the  lady  surprised  me, 
I  Ir  Peabody  surprised  me,  and  you 
have  surprised  me."  And,  in  saying 
t  jese  words,  he  rapped  upon  the  lid 
o:  his  snuff-box,  opened  it,  and  took 
a  pinch. 


"  Then  you  don't  think,"  enquired 
Mr  Shortridge,  "  that  it  is  a  very  ri- 
diculous affair  ?"  Mr  Threeper,  fill- 
ing the  other  nostril,  said, — "  It  is  a 
most  judicious  affair."  The  young 
merchant,  delighted  to  hear  this,  de- 
clared, in  the  ardour  of  his  heart, 
that  the  thought  had  never  entered 
his  head,  till  Mr  Peabody  spoke  to 
him. 

At  this  the  American  came  hur- 
riedly towards  them,  crying, — "  I 
swear,  Mister  and  Squire,  we  be  all 
on  the  wrong  tack ;  but  here  comes 
cousin  Clatterpenuy  herself,  and  we 
shall  soon  be  all  slick." 

At  this  moment  the  lady  entered 
the  apartment.  Brimful  of  news 
she  appeared,  or  rather  with  expec- 
tations j  but,  however  that  may  be, 
her  face  was  as  a  book  in  which  men 
might  read  strange  matters. 

"  Eh,  gentlemen,"  cried  she, "  what- 
na  brewing's  in  the  cauldron  now, 
that  you're  laying  your  heads  the- 
gither,  as  if  ye  were  three  wise  men 
from  the  East?  Dear  cousin,  you  being 
a  'merican,  should  recollect  that  ye 
come  out  of  the  West." 

While  she  was  saying  this,  Short- 
ridge, in  a  low  voice,  requested  him 
to  speak  a  good  word  in  favour  of 
his  suit;  and  Peabody,  at  the  same 
moment,  whispered  to  Mr  Threeper, 
— "  Can't  you  tell  her  of  my  three 
offers?" 

But,  before  he  had  time  to  answer, 
Mrs  Clatterpenny  enquired,  in  his 
ear,  if  he  had  made  an  incision. 

All  this  caused  a  little  delay,  du- 
ring which,  the  American,  becoming 
somewhat  impatient,  spoke  himself 
to  Mrs  Clatterpenny,—"  Well,  cou- 
sin," said  he,  "  I  have  been  making 
my  calculations  with  this  here  'tor- 
ney,  and  he  will  tell  you  the  terms." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Mrs  Clatterpenny, 
with  a  languishing  and  emphatic  leer, 
"  do  not  speak  of  that;  ours  will  not 
be  a  bargaining ;  I'll  surrender  at  dis- 
cretion." 

The  Glasgow  beau,  no  longer  able 
to  repress  his  ardent  passion,  caught 
her  in  his  arms,  exclaiming, — "  My 
dear  ma'am,  I  could  not  have  anti- 
cipated, so  early,  such  happiness  !" 

Mrs  Clatterpenny,  amazed  at  his 
freedom,  cried,  pushing  him  off, — 
"  Keep  your  distance,  Mr  Shortridge ; 
another  cat  shall  lap  in  my  porrin- 


Scotch  and  Yankees. 


[Feb. 


ger.  Ah!  the  tender  affections  cannot 
be  controlled,  can  they,  my  sweet 
cousin  ?" 

"  Now,"  said  Mr  Peabody,  "  I 
sha'n't  be  a  sweet  cousin  but  upon 
conditions.  Do  you,  sir,  being  her 
'torney,  tell  her." 

The  business  was  proceeding  ra- 
ther quicker  than  a  lawsuit ',  but 
Mr  Threeper,  shifting  his  position, 
said,  in  a  suppressed  accent,  to  Mrs 
Clatterpenny,  "  He  has  spoken  to 
me  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner. 
I  have  arranged  all  happily  for  you, 
and  will  secure  as  good  a  settlement 
as  I  can." 

"  I  am  greatly  obligated  to  you, 
Mr  Threeper.  No  a  man  that  walks 
the  Parliament  House  knows  better 
how  many  blue  beans  it  takes  to 
make  five  than  yourself.  You  shall 
get  a  solatium  for  this  turn." 

At  the  same  moment  Peabody 
turned  round  to  Shortridge,  and 
said,  "  She  won't  have  you ;  and 
therefore  I  calculate  on  having  her 
myself." 

"  What !"  indignantly  cried  Short- 
ridge — "  choused  ?" 

Before  he  could  say  another  word, 
Tompkins  and  Miss  Octavia  entered 
the  room ;  and  Tompkins,  stepping 
forward,  said  to  Mr  Threeper, 
"  Have  you  told  him  ?" 

The  reply  was  a  mystery  to  all 
present. 

"  I  have  neither  yet  had  time  nor 
opportunity." 

"  Then  I  will  do  it  myself,"  said 
Tompkins;  and  turning  round  to 
Peabody,  he  added,  "  I  hope,  sir, 
that  the  only  objection  to  my  union 
with  your  daughter  is  now  removed. 
This  learned  gentleman  has  exa- 
mined my  claim  to  the  Ardenlochie 
estates,  and  has  declared  me  the 
heir-at-law." 

Shortridge,  who  was  a  little  net- 
tled, said,  "  I  see  the  cause  of  her 
setting  her  affections  on  you,  old 
gentleman." 

"  Well,  I  do  so  likewise,"  replied 
Peabody. 

"  But,  my  sweet  cousin,"  said  Mrs 
Clatterpenny. 

"  To  Jericho!"  cried  Peabody; 
"  but  I  say,  mister,  is  that  'ere  true 
what  Charlie  Tompkins  has  been  a- 
telling?" 

"  It  is,"  replied  Threeper,  with 
professional  dignity;  "  his  evidence 
is  indubitable,  and  no  possible  ob- 
stacje  can  be  set  up  to  his  claim." 


«  Well  then,  'Tavy,"  said  the  Ame- 
rican father,  "  I'll  be  no  longer  a 
'pediment ;  he  may  take  you  by  the 
arm  and  walk  in  the  streets  when 
you  likes." 

Mrs  Clatterpenny  was  confound- 
ed, and  scarcely  knowing  what  she 
said,  cried,  "  Am  I  an  owl  in  the 
desert  ?" 

"  No,  madam,"  said  Mr  Threeper, 
in  the  best  style  of  the  coterie  of  the 
stove  in  the  Parliament  House,  "  the 
constancy  of  my  attention  to  your 
concerns  should  convince  you  that 
some  interest  nearer  and  dearer 
than  a  professional  engagement  has 
knit  me  to  your  cause." 

"  Ah,  Mr  Threeper  !"  replied  the 
widow,  "  but,  if  1  marry  again,  my 
jointure  by  the  dear  deceased  doc- 
tor goes  away,  and  ye  are  a  man 
yourself  of  no  substance." 

As  this  was  said,  Mr  Tompkins 
stepped  forward  and  addressed  Mrs 
Clatterpenny,  somewhat  formally. 

"  Let  not  that,  however,"  said  he, 
"  my  dear  lady,  be  an  obstacle  to 
your  union ;  for  I  have  given  him  an 
undertaking  to  settle  on  you  a  thou- 
sand dollars  a-year  to  mitigate  your 
disappointment." 

"  Mr  Threeper,  is  this  true  ?"  ex- 
claimed the  old  lady.  "  Oh,  ye  son 
of  deceitfulness,  no  to  tell  me  but  ye 
had  interests  nearer  and  dearer  than 
professional  engagements !" 

She  then  turned  round  to  Mr 
Tompkins,  and  thanked  him  for  his 
generosity  with  one  of  her  most  gra- 
cious smiles;  while  Peabody  mut- 
tered to  himself,  "  A  thousand  dol- 
lars a-year !  Well,  it  would  be  a  good 
spec,  to  have  her  yet;"  and  going 
towards  her,  he  said,  «  My  dear 
cousin" 

"  My  dear  cousin!"  said  she,  with 
a  toss  of  her  head,  "  get  you  to 
Jericho  !"  And  she  flung  as  it  were 
the  old  man  away. 

Mr  Shortridge,  on  seeing  this, 
said,  "  None  of  them,  ma'am,  have 
been  actuated  with  such  true  regard 
as  me." 

"  'Deed,  Mr  Shortridge,"  replied 
the  old  lady,  "  I  see  that  ye  have  a 
thousand  reasons  for  saying  so ;  but 
I  am  no  a  nymph  in  her  juvenility. 
No,  no ;  I'm  cure  auld  a  hen  to  be 
caught  by  chaff." 

And,  in  saying  this,  she  wished  the 
young  couple  all  manner  of  health 
and  joy  for  the  remainder  of  their 
lives,  in  which  we  cordially  join, 


18.J3.J 


Late  Discontents  in  Mauritius. 


199 


\    SHORT    STATEMENT    OF    THE  CAUSES   THAT    HAVE  PRODUCED   THE  LATE 
DISTURBANCES  IN  THE  COLONY  OF  MAURITIUS. 

BY  AN  INHABITANT  OF  THE  ISLAND. 


THE  ferment  into  which  the  popu- 
lation  of  Mauritius  has  been  thrown, 
by  the  measures  in  progress  affecting 
th  »ir  property,  and  which  burst  out 
on  the  arrival  of  Mr  Jeremie,  cannot 
be  fully  understood  or  appreciated, 
w'thout  a  knowledge  of  the  state  of 
th2  colony  previously  to  that  event. 

Mauritius,  at  the  time  of  its  occu- 
pftion  by  the  British,  in  1810-11,  had 
no  cause  for  dissatisfaction  with  its 
change  of  government.  Its  prospe- 
rs y,  though  checked  by  the  capture, 
w;is  augmented  by  the  influx  of  Bri- 
tieh  capital,  and  there  existed  a  grow- 
in  $  attachment  to  England  and  its 
institutions  in  preference  to  France. 

On  the  peace  of  1814  the  Isle  of 
Bourbon  was  restored  to  France,  and 
being  its  only  colony  in  the  East, 
received  favours  and  indulgences 
w  rich  that  power  refused  to  its  co- 
loaies  of  the  West.  The  custom 
duties  in  France  were  reduced  to 
such  an  extent  on  Bourbon  produce, 
that  the  value  of  fixed  property  in 
that  island  rose  to  three  times  its 
average  price;  and  the  inhabitants 
of  Mauritius  saw  their  countrymen 
within  the  circle  of  the  horizon  en- 
riched beyond  example  by  the  fiscal 
measures  of  their  own  ancient  go- 
vernment, whilst  they  themselves 
W3re  not  allowed  to  enjoy  the  rights 
ai  d  privileges  of  the  other  French 
ct  Ionics,  which  had  been  added  to 
the  British  dominions,  under  the 
same  circumstances,  and  during  the 
same  period  of  war. 

This  was  a  primary  source  of  dis- 
c<  ntent  with  British  rule.  The  pro- 
duce of  Mauritius  sank  befow  the 
price  of  its  growth  ;  and  that  of  Bour- 
bon, within  sight  of  its  shores,  was 
selling  at  the  same  time  for  thrice 
that  amount. 

The  next  cause  that  operated  to- 
w  irds  estranging  the  minds  of  the 
colonists  from  the  new  government, 
aid  which  still  continues,  arose  from 
th  e  numbers  of  Frenchmen  who  were 
ol  liged  to  leave  Europe  in  conse- 
quence of  the  general  peace  after 
th  a  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  who  were 
not  allowed  a  refuge  in  the  colonies 
belonging  to  France.  A  portion  of 


those  turbulent  spirits  naturally 
swarmed  to  this  island,  bringing  with 
them  their  discontents,  their  humili- 
ation, and  their  revolutionary  leaven; 
many  of  these  people  settled  in  Mau- 
ritius and  its  dependencies,  and  be- 
coming connected  by  the  ties  of  pro- 
perty and  marriage  in  the  island, 
could  not  legally  be  removed.  It 
would  be  superfluous  to  observe, 
that  by  the  last  revolution  of  1830,  in 
France,  these  principles  have  been 
quickened,  and  have  acquired  much 
additional  force ;  but  the  public  ex- 
pression of  them  had  been  kept  down 
until  the  late  crisis,  by  the  legal  re- 
strictions on  the  press. 

The  moment  that  the  restraints  on 
the  promulgation  of  political  opi- 
nions was  removed,  by  orders  from 
home,  abolishing  the  censorship,  this 
most  powerful  instrument  for  influ- 
encing public  opinion  was  transferred 
from  the  hands  of  government  to 
those  of  the  people.  The  inhabitants 
are,  almost  all,  of  French  birth  or 
descent;  and  those  who  took  upon 
themselves  to  direct  them,  were  ta- 
lented men,  who  spoke  their  own 
language.  As  the  local  government 
possessed  no  establishment  for  print- 
ing, all  the  influence  of  the  press  was 
now  exercised  by  the  popular  party. 

Another  element  of  irritation, 
which  entered  largely  into  the  causes 
of  the  late  ferment,  though  not  os- 
tensibly brought  forward,  was  the 
state  of  embarrassment  and  debt  un- 
der which  all  classes  laboured,  and 
still  labour,  to  an  unprecedented  ex- 
tent. Such  pecuniary  difficulties 
have  proceeded,  in  some  instances, 
from  the  imprudent  speculations  of 
adventurers  from  France,  but  are 
mainly  attributable  to  the  general 
wreck  and  depreciation  of  colonial 
property.  Few,  if  any,  residents 
have  escaped  unharmed ;  all  are 
debtors  or  creditors,  and  the  pro- 
perty on  which  the  liquidation  of 
these  mutual  obligations  reposes,  has 
sunk  in  proportion  to  the  annihilation 
of  confidence  in  its  stability,  produ- 
ced by  the  attacks  upon  it  at  home. 

The  capitalists  and  bankers  are 
all  bankrupts  in  reality,  though  some 


200 


Late  Discontents  in  Mauritius. 


[Feb 


ew  not  yet  avowedly.  The  fire  of 
Port  Louis,  which,  in  1816,  destroyed 
property  amounting  in  value  to  one 
third  of  the  loss  in  the  great  fire  of 
London,  did  not  so  utterly  annihilate 
credit  as  the  present  calamities, 
which  the  inhabitants  ascribe  to  the 
system  pursued  in  England,  regard- 
ing property  in  slaves.  Although  it 
has  always  been  considered  as  the 
duty  of  the  local  government  to  view 
this  property  as  not  less  entitled  to 
the  protection  of  government  than 
any  other  estate  in  the  realm ;  and  al- 
though it  cannot  be  overturned  with- 
out previous  compensation,  agreea- 
bly to  any  principle  recognised  by 
law,  or  upon  any  other  system  than 
that  of  an  openly  adopted  revolution- 
ary confiscation ;  yet,  it  cannot  be  con- 
cealed, that,  in  the  communications 
constantly  received  from  England, 
and  in  the  tenor  of  some  parts  of  the 
Orders  and  Instructions  relative  to 
the  slaves,  there  appeared  too  much 
ground  for  apprehension,  that  the 
misdirection  of  public  opinion  in 
England  tended  that  way,  and  too 
much  reason  to  fear,  that  this  species 
of  private  property  was  liable  to  be 
taken  by  the  mandate  of  authority, 
without  the  slightest  regard  to  the 
claims  of  the  dispossessed  proprie- 
tors for  compensation. 

The  neighbouring  island  of  Bour- 
bon had  been  suffering  under  similar 
alarms,  from  the  measures  of  their 
own  mother  country,  and  the  colo- 
nists had  united,  as  one  man,  to  pre- 
vent a  renewal  of  those  sanguinary 
scenes  which  some  of  them  had  wit- 
nessed at  St  Domingo,  from  similar 
precipitation  in  carrying  into  effect 
the  enfranchisement  of  the  negro 
population.  The  distresses  of  Bour- 
bon were  not  inferior  to  those  which 
bore  upon  the  inhabitants  of  Mauri- 
tius, but  the  French  Government  re- 
mitted to  its  subjects  in  that  colony 
half  a  year's  taxes,  as  an  alleviation 
for  their  sufferings. 

In  this  colony  there  was  no  such 
mode  of  mitigation  in  the  power  of 
the  local  government;  and  the  causes 
already  mentioned  were  such  as  to 
be  entirely  beyond  the  reach  of  its 
control  or  modification.  The  courts 
of  law,  which  had  rarely  been  press- 
ed with  business,  were  now  deluged 
with  sheriff's  sales  and  executions, 
(expropriations  forcees)  of  which 
there  had  been  few  examples  in 
times  of  confidence.  The  whole  of 


the  real  property  of  the  island  was 
in  litigation,  and  the  enormous  ex- 
penses of  such  proceedings  would 
have  had  the  effect  of  transferring 
the  tangible  value  of  the  whole  most- 
ly into  the  pockets  of  the  lawyers. 

The  discontent  of  the  people  in- 
creased with  the  increase  of  their 
distresses,  which  they  attributed  to 
the  anti-colonial  party  at  home.  It 
was  impossible  to  collect  the  taxes  ; 
the  sentiments  of  good  faith  between 
man  and  man  became  relaxed,  par- 
ticularly in  the  payment  of  debts, 
and  generally  in  those  transactions 
which  furnish  opportunities  for  the 
display  of  honesty  or  fraud;  and 
many,  under  the  pressure  of  their 
miseries,  would  have  been  glad  of  any 
event,  which  should  have  the  effect 
of  relieving  them  from  their  engage- 
ments to  the  capitalists  of  England. 

Such  was  the  state  of  Mauritius, 
and  its  inhabitants,  when  the  news  ar- 
rived, in  the  early  part  of  the  year, 
from  London,  that  the  Order  in  Coun- 
cil of  November  2d,  1831,  was  to  be 
enforced  in  these  colonies.  The  an- 
nouncement produced  feelings  of  the 
deepest  resentment,  and  determina- 
tions of  resistance  to  the  utmost  of 
the  power  of  the  inhabitants.  Short- 
ly afterwards,  Mr  Jeremie's  Essays 
reached  the  colony,  and  seemed  par- 
ticularly addressed  to  its  proprie- 
tors, that  they  and  he  might  "  under- 
stand one  another." 

These  two  documents  were  con- 
sidered by  the  colonists  as  not  only 
utterly  subversive  of  their  rights  as 
British  subjects,  but,  from  the  tone 
of  the  latter,  as  indicating  a  mode  of 
proceeding,  calculated  to  insult  and 
degrade  those  whom  the  author  had 
prejudged.  Their  last  hopes  of  ul- 
timate redress  were  thus  destroyed; 
they  felt  that  the  rules  of  British  jus- 
tice were  reversed  for  them;  they 
knew  that  none  of  his  Majesty's  sub- 
jects, under  the  more  immediate 
countenance  of  the  sovereign,  could 
be  deprived  of  any  right,  legally  sub- 
sisting or  acquired,  unless  forfeit- 
ed by  some  offence  against  laws, 
known  and  declared,  and  not  "  ex- 
post  facto;"  that  the  regular  and 
constitutional  mode  of  ascertaining 
whether  the  forfeiture  had  been  in- 
curred, is  by  legal  process,  trial,  and 
conviction ;  that  this  supposes  prose- 
cution; that  the  power  of  embroiling 
the  whole  colony,  and  putting  to  ha- 
zard its  existence,  as  a  valuable  pos- 


Late  Discontents  in  Mauritius. 


201 


session  of  the  Crown,  was  now  confi- 
ded to  a  public  officer,  who  was  only 
known  to  the  inhabitants,  as  having 
d  3nounced  the  whole  of  them  in  the 
ir  ass ;  and  whose  system  seemed  to 
bi  formed  on  the  declared  princi- 
ples of  the  Anti-Slavery  Society. 

The  arrival  of  such  an  officer, 
a  -med  with  such  powers,  was  look- 
el  to  with  dread  and  exasperation; 
aid  there  was  too  much  reason  to 
fear  that  it  would  be  attended  with 
s'ich  acts  as  result  from  despair;  for 
ii%  he  were  allowed  to  exercise  the 
sweeping  jurisdiction  confided   to 
him,  of  which  there  never  had  been 
any  example  in  the  Island,*  even  the 
Courts  themselves  could  not  have 
protected  the  innocent.      The  pro- 
j  >cted  Order  in  Council  armed  the 
cfficers  to  whom  its  execution  was 
intrusted,  with  such  powers,  that 
even  were  they  cast  by  the  judg- 
nents  of  the  Courts,  the  injury  in- 
f  icted  on  the  defendant  was  irrepar- 
able.    It  is  impossible  for  the  judges 
to  restore  such  property  uninjured 
— the  process  itself  annihilating,  in 
{;,  great  degree,  the  value  of  the  slave ; 
suid  this  power  was  to  be  placed  in 
the  hands  of  irresponsible  persons, 
1  he  most  powerful  of  whom  had  al- 
ready published  his  conviction  of  the 
,Tuilt  of  a  people  he  had  never  seen. 
The  ferment  raised  in  the  colony 
on  the  subject  of  the  expected  Or- 
der in  Council,  and  the  book,  which 
was  considered  as  Mr  Jeremie's  ma- 
nifesto, was  farther  augmented  by  ti- 
dings of  a  negro  insurrection  at  Bour- 
bon, where  the  plot  was  headed  by 
a  Creole  slave  of  Mauritius.     There 
had  been  likewise  much  irregulari- 
ty and  insubordination  on  different 
plantations  at  Mauritius;  and  several 
cases  came  within  the  cognizance  of 
the   Courts,  which  clearly  shewed 
a  growing  relaxation  of  the  ties  that 
boundtheblackstotheirlegalmasters. 
The  interior  police  of  the  Island 
has  been  a  subject  of  complaint  by 


every  Governor  since  its  occupation 
by  the  British;  and  nothing  has  yet 
been  done  effectually  to  remedy  this 
evil.  The  free  colonists  were  always 
armed  and  -disciplined  under  the 
former  government;  and  being  all 
sportsmen  from  early  youth,  are  re- 
markably expert  in  the  use  of  their 
weapons.  They  have  latterly  united 
in  the  different  quarters  to  prevent 
the  vagabondage  of  the  slaves,  to  re- 
duce the  consumption  of  spirituous 
liquors,  and  to  prevent  a  system  of 
pillage  and  "  recelagc"\  which  had 
been  constantly  extending,  and  which 
neither  our  laws  nor  police  had  effi- 
ciency to  prevent. 

The  patrols  of  the  inhabitants, 
thus  established,  have  produced  a 
degree  of  order  unknown  for  many 
years  past;  crimes  are  become  more 
rare  ;  and  during  an  unusual  period, 
none  have  required  capital  punish- 
ment. These  patrols  have  conducted 
themselves  with  quietness  and  mo- 
deration, so  that  their  existence  is 
only  observable  by  the  good  it  has 
produced.  The  government  has 
gladly  made  use  of  the  good-will  of 
the  people,  in  aid  of  the  law,  to  sup- 
ply the  defects  of  the  police  esta- 
blishment ;  and  has  thus  prevented 
those  secret  associations,  which, 
under  the  deep  apprehensions  en- 
tertained for  the  security  of  life  and 
property,  would  inevitably  have  been 
formed  among  the  inhabitants  for 
mutual  protection  against  insur- 
rectionary movements  on  the  part 
of  the  slaves,  which  our  military 
force  was  not  sufficient  to  put  down, 
without  bloodshed. 

Whilst  the  colony  was  in  this  state, 
the  free  press,  established  by  orders 
from  home,  was  not  idle.  The  local 
government  had  taken  every  pre- 
caution to  keep  its  power  within 
proper  bounds,  by  exacting  certain 
securities  to  prevent  licentiousness, 
and  by  imposing  a  degree  of  respon- 
sibility on  the  editors  of  the  daily 


*  The  French  office  of  Procureur-  General  had  never,  until  in  the  person  of  Mr 
Jeremie,  been  united  with  the  English  office  of  Advocate-General.  To  shew  the 
inconvenience  of  such  an  union,  it  may  be  enough  to  state,  that  among  the  duties  of 
the  Procureur- General,  are  those  of  summing  up  the  evidence,  and  expounding  the 
law,  upon  every  case  brought  before  a  Court  of  Justice  ;  so  that,  by  the  new  ar- 
rangement, the  solemn  duty  assigned  in  England  to  fhe  impartial  Judge,  devolved 
upon  the  Advocate-General,  who  is,  ex  officio,  Counsel  for  the  Crown,  and  Public 
Prosecutor. 

f  The  French  law  term  for  the  receiving  of  stolen  goods. 


202 


Late  Discontents  in  Mauritius. 


[Feb. 


papers.  These  persons,  however, 
being  lawyers,  managed  to  elude  the 
spirit,  without  such  infraction  of  the 
letter  of  the  law,  as  should  expose 
them  to  penalties  ;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  they  excited  public  feeling  to 
the  greatest  intensity,  on  the  actual 
state  of  the  colony,  and  on  the  ge- 
neral and  utter  ruin  which  must  be 
the  necessary  consequences  of  the 
Order  in  Council,  and  of  the  arrival 
of  Mr  Jeremie,  to  put  it  in  execu- 
tion. The  daily  papers  of  the  free 
press  of  Port  Louis,  are  striking  ex- 
amples of  the  results  to  be  expected 
from  the  severing  of  legislation  from 
the  means  of  local  information.  There 
could  not  have  been  put  into  the 
hands  of  the  people,  a  more  effectual 
instrument  to  resist  the  adoption  of 
any  ordinance  or  measure,  hurtful 
to  their  apparent  interests ;  and  they 
availed  themselves  of  this  potent  en- 
gine to  its  fullest  extent,  as  would 
abundantly  appear  from  a  cursory 
glance  at  their  productions.  The 
local  government  possessed  no  legal 
means  for  their  suppression. 

The  arrival  of  Mr  Jeremie  in  the 
Ganges,  on  the  3d  of  June,  was  like 
the  opening  of  Pandora's  box;  dis- 
cord, mischief,  and  confusion,  raged 
over  the  whole  island.  The  shops 
and  warehouses  of  Port  Louis  were 
closed,  from  the  moment  it  was 
known  that  he  was  on  board.  The 
industry  of  traders  and  artisans  was 
paralysed  by  the  universal  conster- 
nation. The  planters  ceased  from 
their  preparations  for  the  approach- 
ing crop,  which  they  no  longer  re- 
garded as  their  own  property.  The 
produce  in  some  districts  was  partly 
destroyed  by  fires,  extinguished  only 
by  the  efforts  of  the  voluntary  pa- 
trols. The  markets  were  closed  or 
abandoned ;  and  every  operation  of 
commerce  was  interrupted.  The 
courts  of  justice  could  no  longer  be 
held,  the  whole  body  of  the  lawyers, 
without  exception,  refusing  to  plead, 
or  appear  at  them.  Justice  was  thus 
suspended,  and  offences  and  crimes 
were  unpunished, and  unpunishable; 
although  the  jails  were  full,  as  the 
assizes  were  to  be  held  at  that  time. 

Mr  Jeremie  was  landed,  under 
precautions,  naval  and  military,  to 
assure  his  personal  safety,  in  his 
passage  to  the  Government  House, 
where  no  time  was  lost  in  having 
him  sworn  into  office,  agreeably  to 


the  commissions  which  he  held  from 
his  Majesty.  The  councils  of  Go- 
vernment were  called,  and  every 
formality  was  fulfilled,  to  assure  due 
respect  and  honour  to  his  Majesty's 
commands.  But  the  people  out  of 
doors  were  in  a  state  of  the  greatest 
agitation  and  anxiety ;  the  streets 
were  full  of  men  of  all  classes,  whose 
demands  for  relief  became  constant- 
ly more  clamorous.  The  inhabi- 
tants of  the  town  were  seeking  re- 
fuge for  their  wives  and  children  in 
the  country,  and  those  of  the  country 
districts  flocking  to  town. 

Still  no  act  of  violence  or  insubor- 
dination occurred ;  the  most  respect- 
able part  of  the  inhabitants  were  on 
the  alert,  to  prevent  disturbance  and 
riot:  but  the  sense  of  danger  was 
deep,  and  widely  spread,  and  its  ex- 
istence was  universally  ascribed  to 
the  presence  of  Mr  Jeremie.  His  life 
was  considered  in  imminentdanger, 
and  it  was  indispensable  to  provide 
against  any  sudden  movement  of 
the  populace  that  might  threaten 
the  Government-House,  where  he 
had  remained  secluded  since  his 
landing,  protected  by  an  additional 
guard,  and  by  the  presence  of  the 
Governor's  family. 

Under  this  great  excitement  of 
the  passions,  the  voice  of  reason 
was  powerless ;  there  was  no  longer 
calm  thought  or  common  under- 
standing in  the  conduct  of  the  peo- 
ple. They  abstained,  indeed,  as  yet, 
from  any  overt  act  that  might  com- 
promise the  public  tranquillity,  or 
necessitate  recourse  being  had  to 
the  employment  of  force,  or  the  pub-  - 
lication  of  martial  law.  But  this 
state  of  things  could  not  long  en- 
dure. The  ships,  with  provisions  for 
the  supply  of  the  colony,  could  not 
land  their  cargoes;  the  merchants 
could  not  receive  them  ;  and  they 
were  obliged  to  look  elsewhere  for 
a  sale.  Mauritius  depends  on  such 
supplies,  for  the  subsistence  of  all 
parties ;  they  are  derived  chiefly 
from  India;  and  the  agents  for  In- 
dian houses  at  Port  Louis  could  not 
be  expected  to  land  for  consump- 
tion cargoes,  for  which  there  seemed 
no  chance  of  obtaining  payment. 
Famine  was  therefore  to  be  feared, 
and  that  in  the  lowest  and  most  ex- 
tensive class ;  and.,  consequently, 
ruin  and  devastation  through  every 
estate  in  the  island, 


Late  Discontents  in  Mauritius. 


203 


The  local  government  made  every 
effort  to  prevent  these  mischiefs;  its 
means  were,  however,  very  limited. 
The  port  establishment  for  the  land- 
irg  of  all  goods,  and  the  government 
press,  had  been  abolished  several 
y^ars  before,  from  motives  of  public 
economy;  their  duties  were  per- 
formed by  contracts  with  indivi- 
duals, and  those  individuals,  forming 
a  portion  of  the  general  mass  of  the 
p  mic-stricken  population,  refused 
to  perform  their  contracts.  The 
boats  and  lighters  were  useless  and 
unemployed ;  and  the  printing-press 
for  government  purposes  broken  up; 
whilst  the  newspapers,  established 
in  consequence  of  the  orders  from 
home,  became  the  sole  rulers  of  the 
opinions  of  the  colonists,  and  the 
exclusive  possession  of  the  popular 
party — they  were  daily  published, 
distributed  most  industriously,  and 
listened  to  with  avidity  and  ap- 
plause. 

There  were  not  wanting  reason- 
able persons,  able  and  willing  to  ex- 
pose the  mischievous  consequences 
of  such  proceedings ;  but  there  was 
no  press  to  be  obtained  for  the  use 
of  the  government  or  its  friends,  till 
the  torrent  of  error  became  irresist- 
ible. Exaggerations  were  fearlessly 
a  Ivanced  in  print,  and,  on  all  occa- 
sions, admitted  by  the  inhabitants  as 
truths  which  it  was  impossible  to 
contradict. 

In  a  colony  so  circumscribed  in 
its  means,  matters  of  this  nature, 
which  might  appear  ridiculous  in 
Inrge  communities,  are  sources  of 
sirious  difficulties  to  the  local  go- 
vernment ;  which  is  thus,  virtually, 
cat  off  from  communication  with  the 
people  under  its  authority. 

To  restore  order,  it  became  indis- 
pensable that  the  course  of  justice 
s  lould  proceed  with  proper  energy, 
a  id  that  the  Superior  Court,  which 
h  ad  been  disorganized  by  the  changes 
made  at  home,  should  be  reconsti- 
tuted, agreeably  to  the  new  arrange- 
ments, of  which  Mr  Jeremie  was  the 
t  earer. 

In  order  to  accomplish  this  object, 
a  ad  fulfil,  to  the  utmost,  the  instruc- 
tions  of  his  Majesty's  Government, 
the  Superior  Court  was  assembled 
by  the  first  president,  expressly  for 
the  purpose  of  registering  the  com- 
missions of  the  newly  created  judge, 
Mr  Cooper,  and  of  Mr  Jeremie  as 


Procureur-  General  and  Advocate- 
General.  This  last  officer  was  con- 
ducted to  the  court,  under  military 
protection,  on  the  morning  of  22d  of 
June;  and  the  court  remained  in 
deliberation  till  the  afternoon,  but 
without  effecting  the  object  for  which 
they  had  met.  Mr  Jeremie  was 
reconducted,  duly  escorted,  to  the 
Government-House,  though  not  with- 
out danger  from  the  violence  of  the 
assembled  people,  who  were  kept 
off  by  the  military  force,  happily 
without  serious  bloodshed. 

The  non-recognition  of  Mr  Jere- 
mie, by  the  court  in  which  his  func- 
tions were  to  be  chiefly  exercised, 
was  a  matter  of  triumph  to  the  peo- 
ple. The  judicial  department  of 
government  had  no  doubt  valid  rea- 
sons for  abstaining  from  registering 
the  commissions,  the  sole  business 
for  which  they  were  convoked. 

The  local  government  had  now 
obeyed,  to  the  utmost  letter,  the  in- 
structions from  home;  the  matter 
became  thenceforward  a  question  of 
purely  legal  jurisdiction,  and  no 
longer  in  the  exclusive  competence 
of  the  executive,  which  was  thus 
relieved  of  a  very  weighty  responsi- 
bility, as  the  removal  of  the  obstacle 
and  difficulties  depended  no  longer 
on  any  assumption  of  authority ;  but 
on  the  legal  and  constitutional  means 
which  the  court  should  advise. 

In  the  meantime  the  distress  of  all 
parties  was  daily  gaining  ground,  and 
becoming  too  violent  to  continue 
without  producing  some  convulsion 
in  the  colony;  and  it  became  the 
duty  of  government  to  adopt  such 
measures  as  might  prevent  collision, 
and  the  strife,  tor  which  all  classes 
were  prepared  with  unparalleled 
unanimity,  blind  to  the  consequences 
which  must  ensue  from  so  mortal  a 
contest. 

There  existed  no  doubt,  on  the 
part  of  tin;  government,  that  if  it 
should  become  necessary  to  exert 
its  energies,  the  issue  of  such  a  con- 
test would  be  speedy  and  decisive. 
But  there  had  been  no  appearance 
of  resistance  to  the  law,  or  to  the 
authority  of  government ;  the  lives, 
properties,  and  liberties  of  his  Majes- 
ty's subjects  were  still  safe,  under 
the  existing  constitution  of  the  colo- 
ny, and  its"  allegiance  to  the  Crown 
was  still  unshaken.  There  was  but 
one  apparent  cause  for  the  interrup- 


204 


Late  Discontents  in  Mauritius. 


[Feb. 


tion  of  all  industry,  the  cessation  of 
all  revenue,  the  rotting  of  the  pro- 
duce on  the  ground,  the  prospect  of 
famine;  and  that  single  cause  was 
the  presence  of  Mr  Jeremie. 

Although  riots  had  occurred  in 
some  of  the  plantations,  they  were 
not  of  that  nature  which  famine 
would  inevitably  produce  among 
barbarous  men.  But  the  first  draw- 
ing of  the  sword  would  have  forced 
on  insurrection.  The  insurgents 
would  no  doubt  have  been  reduced 
to  submission,  but  not  without  much 
bloodshed;  and  the  line  which  al- 
ready, in  some  degree,  separates  the 
native  from  the  British  population, 
would  have  become  indelibly  mark- 
ed, by  an  act,  compelling  this  small 
fraction  of  the  community  to  bear 
arms  against  the  preponderating  mass 
of  the  island  proprietors. 

The  British  merchants,  the  repre- 
sentatives of  British  capital  here,  had, 
moreover,  been  on  all  occasions  the 
most  strenuous  opponents  of  Mr 
Jeremie's  prolonged  residence  in 
this  island,  and  had,  by  their  public 
acts  and  protests,  repeatedly  insisted 
on  the  removal  of  this  obnoxious 
officer,  as  the  sole  obstacle  to  the 
recovery  of  their  property,  and  the 
enjoyment  of  domestic  quiet  and 
security. 

It  became  imperative,  therefore, 
on  the  Governor,  to  whose  care  the 
colony  had  been  confided  by  his 
Majesty,  not  to  allow  its  existence, 
as  a  valuable  possession  of  the  Crown, 
to  be  compromised.  And  whilst  it 
was  requisite  that  implicit  obedience 
should  be  paid  to  the  commands  of 
his  Majesty,  and  that  the  officer  hold- 
ing his  Majesty's  commission,  should 
be  placed  in  the  exercise  of  his  func- 
tions, to  their  full  legal  extent,  and 
maintained  in  the  possession  of  all 
his  rights  and  emoluments  of  office,  it 
was  equally  essential  to  guard,  at  the 
same  time,  against  any  act  that  might 
endanger  the  lives,  or  destroy  the 
properties,  of  his  Majesty's  subjects. 

In  the  conflict  of  opinions,  which 
was  naturally  to  be  expected  on  these 
matters,  it  became  incumbent  on  the 
Governor  to  decide  on  the  most  ex- 
pedient course  that  could  be  adopt- 
ed, without  compromising  his  autho- 


rity on  the  one  hand,  or  provoking 
open  rebellion  on  the  other.  The 
middle  line  of  his  duty  could  only  be 
ascertained  by  a  just  appreciation  of 
all  the  circumstances  of  this  most 
extraordinary  crisis  ;  and  to  this  end- 
it  was  obviously  proper  to  consult 
these  councils  of  the  government, 
that  were  established  by  the  royal 
instructions  for  his  assistance,  and 
also  to  collect  the  opinions  of  the 
most  intelligent  and  temperate  mem- 
bers of  society. 

The  results  of  all  these  consulta- 
tions were  the  same.  They  termi- 
nated in  one  general  and  earnest  ex- 
pression of  an  anxious  desire  that 
Mr  Jeremie  himself,  that  gentleman 
having  now  personally  witnessed  the 
state  of  the  colony,  should  report 
such  state  faithfully  to  his  Majesty's 
Ministers,  and  should  proceed  to 
England  for  that  purpose.  His  pre- 
sence here,  it  was  evident,  would  be 
dangerous  to  himself,  and  productive 
of  no  good  to  the  colony,  where  it 
must  keep  alive  a  spirit  that  might 
not  long  remain  limited  to  a  negative 
opposition  to  authority,  but  event- 
ually lead  to  the  adoption  of  violent 
measures  against  himself,  since  the 
free  press  established  by  law,  being 
conducted  by  the  most  influential 
proprietors,  who  were  and  are  una- 
nimous upon  the  subject,  could  not 
be  prevented  from  continuing  to  in- 
flame the  settled  opposition  against 
him. 

The  local  government  had  thus 
acquired  the  solemn  conviction  that 
the  question  had  now  become  one 
involving  in  its  issue  the  subversion 
of  all  the  fundamental  principles  of 
social  order,  and  that  the  painful- 
but  commanding  necessity  existed 
of  taking  a  decision  adequate  to  the 
exigency;  at  the  same  time,  that 
violent  measures  were  to  be  avoid- 
ed, because  a  very  preponderating 
force  would  have  been  indispensable 
to  prevent  mischief  in  the  employ- 
ment of  coercion  over  a  population 
so  numerous,  consisting  of  such  dis- 
cordant materials,  where  the  pas- 
sions, even  of  the  slaves,  were  not 
less  strongly  excited  against  Mr  Je- 
remie,* than  the  feelings  of  the 
planters. 


f   *  They  ascribing  the  unusual  restraint  they  were  kept  under,  and  their  depriva- 
tion of  spirituous  liquors,  to  his  presence. 


18S3.] 

Viewing  the  subject  in  all  the  as- 
pects which  its  nature  and  import- 
ance presented,  and  taking  into  con- 
sideration the  circumstance  that  the 
juc  icial  authorities  had  deemed  the 
appointment  of  Mr  Jeremie  to  be 
on<i  so  imperatively  requiring  a  pre» 
vious  reference  to  his  Majesty,  that 
thi-y  had,  by  the  most  solemn  act  of 
thf  ir  ministry,  exercised  their  power 
of  suspending  the  functions  of  that 
officer,  it  is  not  going  too  far  to  as- 
sert that  the  Governor  would  have 
incurred  a  great  and  gratuitous  re- 
sp  jnsibility,  had  he,  in  the  face  of 
this  judgment,  attempted  to  force 
upon  the  courts  an  officer,  whose 
urion  of  appointments  they  pro- 
nounced incompatible  with  the  law 
as  it  stands.  The  Governor,  there- 
fore, bounded  his  interference  with- 
in the  line  of  strict  justice,  when,  in 
his  duty  to  the  King,  he  still  insisted 
on  the  registration  of  his  Majesty's 
commission ;  and  having  got  this  act 
finally  accomplished,  forwarded  the 
le^al  decision  of  the  Court  for  the 
re  t'isal  of  the  highest  authorities  at 
home,  as  exclusively  competent  to 
th-3  final  determination. 

The  prudential  policy  thus  adopt- 
ed by  the  local  government  was  re- 
qi  ired  and  claimed  by  all  classes  to 
avert  the  evils  of  bloodshed  and  de- 
st  -uction  of  property  from  his  Ma- 
jesty's subjects,  when  no  overt  act 
of  theirs  had  rendered  them  ob- 
noxious to  coercion  by  military 
force.  No  such  necessity  of  em- 
ploying violence  had,  in  fact,  as  yet 
appeared,  nor  could  any  thing  yet 
done  on  their  part  have  justified  such 
a  course. 

The  last  arid  most  important  con- 
sideration for  the  local  government 
uas  that  of  the  eventual  and  neces- 
sity evils  which  must  have  attended 
a  continuance  of  the  then  state  of 


Late  Discontents  in  Mauritius. 


205 


things,  and  which  must  inevitably 
have  led,  through  famine,  to  insur- 
rection, unless  the  government  had 
taken  upon  itself  an  act  of  authority 
to  prevent  this  colony  of  the  Crown 
from  suffering  such  an  irreparable 
injury. 

Under  these  circumstances,  there 
would  appear  to  have  been  no  alter- 
native left  to  the  Governor  but  that 
his  duty  clearly  required  his  refer- 
ring Mr  Jeremie  to  his  Majesty's 
Ministers,  without  prejudice  to  that 
gentleman's  place  or  emoluments. 
And  if  we  look  back  to  the  records 
of  this  government  since  it  has  been 
in  the  possession  of  the  British,  it 
will  be  seen  that  much  stronger  mea- 
sures than  those  taken  with  respect 
to  Mr  Jeremie  have  been  adopted  by 
former  Governors  relative  to  the  law 
officers  of  the  colony,  and  that  upon 
several  occasions  of  far  less  urgency, 
not  to  say  imminent  danger,  than  in 
the  present  case  pressed  so  impera- 
tively on  the  government. 

It  must  be  a  source  of  satisfaction 
to  all  parties  to  observe  on  this  pain- 
ful occasion,  that  whatever  views  of 
duty  and  opinions  may  have  prevail- 
ed in  the  consultations  of  the  coun- 
cils of  government  and  the  public 
officers,  a  tribute  is  justly  due  to 
their  talents  and  rectitude.  Free 
from  local  prejudices  or  animosities, 
they  appear  to  have  looked  solely  to 
the  collective  interests  of  all  classes, 
and  to  the  discharge  of  their  own 
public  duty.  And  now,  contempla- 
ting the  general  advantage  as  the 
genuine  result  of  an  honest  and  fear- 
less policy,  they  may  and  must  re- 
joice in  beholding  the  restoration  of 
tranquillity,  and  the  prospect  of 
internal  prosperity,  which  the  deci- 
sion of  the  government  has  wisely 
and  quietly  produced. 

MAURITIUS,  August  1,  1832. 


*#*  This  document  would  be  imperfect  without  the  addition  of  what  the 
v  riter  could  not  know,  viz.  the  result  of  Mr  Jeremie's  representations  at 
home.  The  anti-slavery  Procureur-General  and  Advocate-General  is  sent 
back  by  Government  to  the  Mauritius.  This  is  Whig  respect  for  the  voice 
cf  the  people  I—C.N. 


206 


TiecKs  Bluebeard. 


[Feb. 


BLUEBEARD. 


A  DRAMATIC  TALE,  IN  FIVE  ACTS, 


BV  LUDWIG  TIECK. 


WE  are  persuaded,  for  our  own 
part,  that  the  character  of  Bluebeard, 
like  that  of  Richard  HI.,  has  been 
much  misunderstood.  Superior  to 
his  age,  he  has  suffered  by  the  igno- 
rance of  those  who  were  incapable  of 
appreciating  the  grandeur  of  his  cha- 
racter. In  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar, 
he  appears  a  mere  Ogre,  a  monster 
likeDzezzar  Pacha,  cutting  off  heads, 
merely  with  the  view  of  giving  a  sti- 
mulus to  the  nerves,  and  promoting 
the  circulation ;  he  is  considered  as 
a  pure  incarnation  of  the  Spirit  of 
Evil,  rendered  ludicrous  as  well  as 
hideous  by  personal  deformity. 

To  us,  on  the  contrary,  he  appears 
in  a  very  different  light— in  fact, 
very  closely  resembling  Othello. 
Nature  has  framed  him  with  the 
-quickest  and  deepest  sensibilities  ; 
of  a  generous  noble  nature,  as  the 
liberality  of  his  establishment  attests. 
Where  he  loves,  he  embarks  his  all 
upon  the  venture,  and  his  enthusias- 
tic temperament  demands  a  corre- 
sponding return.  Like  Achilles,  he 
foresees  his  fate  in  the  fatal  curiosity 
of  his  wife,  yet  he  is  prepared  to 
stand  the  hazard  of  the  die.  In  re- 
turn for  his  love,  he  asks  implicit 
obedience  in  one  point,  yet  that's 
not  much — the  test  is  not  a  severe 
one.  He  only  begs  that  his  wife  will 
keep  clear  of  the  Blue  Parlour. 

It  is  the  very  humility  of  the  de- 
mand that  aggravates  her  crime.  Had 
he  refused  her  a  suitable  pin-money, 
her  guilt  would  have  been  intelligi- 
ble. We  would  wish  to  speak  mildly 
of  the  character  of  the  first  Mrs 
Bluebeard.  Her  domestic  cookery 
was  unexceptionable,  and  we  never 
heard  a  whisper  against  her  charac- 
ter ;  in  the  ordinary  relations  of  life 
she  may  have  been  a  good  sort  of 
woman.  But  the  black  ingratitude 
of  her  conduct  towards  her  trusting 
husband  admits  of  no  defence.  He 
would  not  even  permit  the  winds  of 
heaven  to  visit  her  too  roughly ;  for 
he  kept  her  snug  within  four  walls  at 
his  country-house.  But  the  keys  are 
at  her  disposal  in  his  absence  j  with 


one  exception  she  has  been  allow- 
ed "  the  run  of  the  house,"  yet  she 
sacrifices  her  duty  and  her  love  to 
the  demon  of  curiosity.  She  vio- 
lates the  sanctity  of  the  Blue  Parlour. 

Probably  she  found  nothing  there 
— no  secrets  to  disclose.  But  the 
attempt  confounds  her  as  much  as 
the  deed.  Bluebeard  feels  at  once 
that  all  confidence  between  them  is 
at  an  end;  that  his  occupation  is 
gone.  His  own  flesh  and  blood  to 
rebel  against  him — his  wife  to  be  the 
first  to  set  the  example  of  breaking 
open  lockfast  places  in  her  own 
house — his  own  private  retreat  to 
be  invaded  in  this  way — it  is  a  con- 
summation too  severe  for  his  fiery 
nature.  All  his  fond  love  he  blows 
to  heaven ;  insulted  love  demands 
an  awful  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of 
eternal  justice. 

Yet  with  deep  relenting  and  fear- 
ful struggles  is  the  deed  accomplish- 
ed. Like  Othello,  we  doubt  not,  he 
kissed  her  ere  he  killed  her,  handled 
her  gently  as  if  he  loved  her,  and, 
instead  of  blundering  the  business 
with  a  dagger  and  pillow,  performed 
the  unpleasant  ceremony  at  once, 
"  civilly,  by  the  sword."  And  when 
his  painful  task  was  done,  he  shows 
his  tenderness  by  having  the  body 
handsomely  embalmed,  or  preserved 
in  spirits,  in  that  Blue  Parlour  which 
had  been  the  scene  of  her  crime  and 
its  atonement. 

Fora  time,  doubtless,  all  his  affec- 
tions slept  in  the  tomb  of  the  first 
Mrs  Bluebeard.  The  fountain,  from 
the  which  his  current  ran,  seemed 
dried  up.  Never  more  would  he 
trust  his  happiness  with  the  too  cu- 
rious daughters  of  Eve  ;  man  is  no- 
thing to  him  henceforth,  nor  woman 
either.  But  there  is  no  armour 
against  fate.  His  destiny  impels  him, 
like  Mrs  Norton's  wandering  Jew, 
into  the  snare  of  another  attachment. 
He  forgets  his  vows,  his  convictions 
of  the  depravity  of  human  nature ; 
he  loves  again,  and  is  again  undone. 

Six  times  already  has  the  awful 
sacrifice  been  exacted  of  him,  He 


J833.J  Tieck's  Bluebeard. 

lias  now  lost  all  hope;  he  sees  that 
it  is  his  destiny  to  go  on  marrying 
fcnd  murdering  to  the  end.  This  con- 
^  iction  surrounds  his  character  with 
a  shade  of  soft  melancholy ;  at  times 
i:;  tinges  his  conversation  with  an  air 
of  misanthropy.     Grief  turns  other 
men's  beards  white,  or  perhaps  a 
sable  silvered ;  but  the  fearful  ago- 
nies he  has  undergone  have  changed 
his  to  blue.     At  this  period  of  his 
history,  he  bears  a  close  resemblance 
to  Sir  Edward  Mortimer.   The  mys- 
tery that  rests  over  his  establish- 
ment gives  a  strange  interest  to  all 
h  s  proceedings.    Yet  it  is  evident, 
tl  at  at  bottom  Bluebeard  was  a  man 
or'  the  finest  feelings.     If  he  had  not 
been  one  of  the  mildest  of  men, 
could  that  housekeeper  of  his,  with 
hor  pestilent  temper,  have  kept  her 
place  during  the  successive  reigns 
oi   seven  Mrs  Bluebeards  ?    Could 
ar>y  man  suspect  Bluebeard  of  being 
stingy  ?  Is  it  not  evident,  on  the  con- 
trary,   that  he   scatters  his  money 
about  him  like  a  prince  ?   Is  not  his 
conduct  in  regard  to  marriage  settle- 
ments that  of  a  perfect  gentleman  ? 
Is  not  his  wife  indulged  with  every 
thing  her  heart  could  desire  at  his 
chateau,  bating  always  her  admission 
into  the  forbidden  chamber  ?     And 
then  how  liberal  to  her  sister  Anne ! 
Yes — Bluebeard  must  have  been  a 
man  of  the  noblest  nature— the  vic- 
tim, in  fact,  of  a  too  deep  and  lively 
sensibility. 

This  is  our  conception  of  the  cha- 
racter of  Bluebeard — a  man  by  na- 
ture noble,  loving  not  wisely,  but 
too  well ;  and  when  deceived,  aven- 
ging the  outrage  with  the  calm  dig- 
nity of  a  destroying  angel.  View- 
ed in  this  light,  the  character  is  pro- 
foundly tragical.  The  injured  hus- 
band tearing  his  (blue)  beard  over 
the  body  of  his  last  wife,  is  a  situa- 
tion as  terrible  as  that  of  Ugolino  in 
the  Tower  of  Hunger. 

However  much  the  strain  of  these 
remarks  may  resemble  the  manner 
of  our  esteemed  friend,  Augustus 
William  Schlegel,  we  assure  the  pub- 
lic they  are  quite  original,  and  ex- 
press our  own  unbiassed  convictions 
in  regard  to  the  character.  If  ever 
we  write  a  tragedy  on  the  subject  of 
Bluebeard,  it  shall  be  framed  on  this 
model;  though  we  much  fear  our 
numerous  avocations  render  such  a 
feat  by  no  means  probable.  But  as 
we  are  quite  above  the  mean  vanity 

VOL.  xxxm.  NO.  CCTV. 


207 

of  taking  out  a  patent  for  a  happy 
conception,  we  venture  to  suggest 
the  above  view  of  the  subject  to  the 
author  of  Eugene  Aram,  whose  fine 
mind,  we  think,  would  do  justice  to 
the  subject.  He  has  this  additional  ad- 
vantage, that  all  those  exquisite  verses 
from  "  Eugene  Aram,  an  unpublish- 
ed tragedy,"  with  which  he  has  pre- 
faced the  chapters  of  Eugene  Aram,  a 
published  novel,  may,  with  a  very 
little  alteration,  we  think,  be  made 
available  for  the  composition  of  Blue- 
beard. His  own  good  sense,  we  are 
sure,  will  suggest  to  him  the  supe- 
rior capabilities  of  the  present  sub- 
ject to  that  on  which  his  distinguish- 
ed talents  were  formerly  employed. 

Tieck,  we  regret  to  say,  has  but 
imperfectly  developed  these  views 
of  ours  in  his  conception  of  the  cha- 
racter of  Bluebeard  ;  he  seems  to 
have  perceived  that  he  was  not  an 
ordinary  being ;  but  he  evidently 
wanted  that  knowledge  of  human 
nature  which  was  necessary  to  un- 
derstand the  anomalies  he  present- 
ed. His  plummet  was  too  short  to 
fathom  so  profound  a  character.  Yet 
his  work,  though  partaking  of  some 
of  those  prejudices  to  which  we  have 
alluded,  is,  on  the  whole,  superior  to 
George  Colman's.  In  puns  and  pro- 
cessions, scenery,  dresses,  decora- 
tions, and  incantations,  we  willingly 
award  the  palm  to  our  distinguished 
licenser ;  but  for  the  rest,  we  fear, 
the  preference  must  be  given  to  the 
German. 

Tieck  had  been  led  to  think  of 
dramatising  the  subject  of  Blue- 
beard, by  the  perusal  of  Count  Carlo 
Gozzi's  Fairy  Dramas,which,  though 
almost  perfectly  unknown  in  this 
country,  (a  defect  which  we  shall 
endeavour  shortly  to  supply,)  have 
always  been  enthusiastically  admi- 
red by  the  Germans.  The  oddest 
thing  about  these  dramas  was,  in  the 
first  place,  that  the  idea  of  turning 
our  old  nursery  recollections,  and 
the  gorgeous  visions  of  the  East,  to  a 
dramatic  account,  should  have  occur- 
red to  nobody  before  1761 ;  and,  se- 
condly, that  even  then  it  should  have 
done  so  by  accident,  rather  than  by 
design.  The  occasion  was  this.  The 
Count,  thoroughly  sick  of  the  solemn 

E rosing  of  the  Abbate  Chiari,  with 
is  Versi  Martelliam,  and  the  end- 
less repetitions  of  Goldoni,  had  com- 
posed a  satirical  dramatic  sketch,  in 
which  the  absurdities  of  his  rivals 
o 


208 


TiecWs  Bluebeard. 


[Feb. 


were  exposed,  under  the  disguise  of 
a  Fairy  Tale,  and  had  put  it  into  the 
hands  of  the  Sacchi  Company,  the 
representatives  of  the  old  Commedie 
dell'Arte,  for  performance.  In  this 
sketch,  to  which  he  gave  the  name  of 
the  Loves  of  the  Three  Oranges,  the 
scene  is  laid  at  the  court  of  the  King 
of  Diamonds, where  Tartaglia,  the  he- 
reditary Prince  of  Diamonds,  is  re- 
S-esented  as  in  the  last  stage  of  me- 
ncholy,  produced  by  the  spells  of 
a  wicked  enchanter,  (the  Abbate 
Chiari,)  who  has  poisoned  him  with 
a  course  of  the  Versi  Martelliani. 
Another  enchanter,  (the  represen- 
tative of  Goldoni,)  endeavours  to 
counteract  the  melancholy  poison  of 
the  other,  by  despatching  his  ser- 
vant, Truffaldino,  to  the  court,  for 
the  purpose  of  tempting  the  Prince 
into  a  hearty  laugh,  which  it  seems 
is  the  only  means  of  accomplishing 
his  recovery.  It  may  easily  be  ima- 
gined, that  when  these  outlines  were 
cleverly  filled  up  by  parodies  of  the 
peculiarities  of  both,  and  by  a  carica- 
ture of  their  manner  and  personal  ap- 
pearance, such  a  melange  could  hard- 
ly fail  to  be  amusing  enough  to  an 
Italian  audience;  and,  accordingly, 
Gozzi's  capriccio  was  received  with 
enthusiastic  applause.  To  his  sur- 
prise, however,  he  found  that  that 
part  of  his  piece  which  he  had  intended 
as  a  mere  groundwork  and  vehiclefor 
his  satire,  was  received,  if  possible, 
with  more  approbation  than  his  pa- 
rodies and  satirical  sallies  them- 
selves. All  the  fairy  machinery  he 
had  at  first  set  down  as  the  mere 
balaam  of  the  piece,  and  accordingly, 
without  giving  himself  the  least  trou- 
ble in  the  way  of  arrangement  or 
embellishment,  he  had  inserted  it 
literally  as  he  found  it  in  the  nur- 
sery original.  The  fairy  Creonta,  for 
instance,  summons  her  Dog :  "  Go 
bite  the  thief  who  stole  my  oranges." 
The  Dog  replies,  "  Why  should  I 
bite  him  ?  he  gave  me  something,  to 
eat,  while  you  have  kept  me  here 
months  and  years  dying  of  hunger." 
— "  Rope,  Rope,"  says  the  Fairy; 
"  bind  the  thief  who  stole  my 
oranges."—"  Why  should  I  bind 
him,"  replies  the  Rope, "  who  hung 
me  in  the  sun  to  dry,  while  you 
have  left  me  for  months  and  years 
to  moulder  in  a  corner  ?"  As  a  last 
resource,  the  Fairy  appeals  to  the 
Iron  Gate  of  the  Castle.  "  Crush 
the  thief  who  stole  my  oranges;" 


but  the  Gate,  as  obstinate  as  its 
companions,  answers,  in  a  creaking 
tone  of  voice,  "  Why  should  I  crush 
him  who  oiled  me,  while  you  have 
left  me  here  to  rust  ?" 

During  all  these  extravagances,  the 
Count  found  to  his  surprise  that  the 
Venetian  public  sat  rapt  in  mute  at- 
tention ;— and  the  admiration  and 
enthusiasm  rose  to  its  height  when 
the  oranges,  on  being  cut  open  by 
TrafFaldino,  exhibited  to  view  three 
princesses,  two  of  whom  immedi- 
ately died  of  thirst,  while  the  third, 
by  the  timely  application  of  cold 
water,  survived  to  become  the  happy 
bride  of  the  hereditary  Prince  of 
Diamonds.  Gozzi  immediately  per- 
ceived the  firm  hold  which  these 
recollections  of  infancy  maintain  over 
children  of  a  larger  growth ;  and  how 
easily,  by  the  aid  of  graceful  versifica- 
tion and  imposing  scenery,  they  may 
be  turned  to  dramatic  account.  Ac- 
cordingly, he  adopted  the  judicious 
rule  of  striking  out  in  future  every 
thing  which  he  had  formerly  thought 
particularly  fine ;  confined  himself  to 
the  simple  bona  fide  exhibitions  of 
his  fairy  marvels ;  and  being  deter- 
mined that  the  Venetian  public 
should  be  at  no  loss  for  a  liberal  sup- 
ply of  such  sources  of  amusement, 
the  Blue  Monster,  the  Green  Bird, 
the  Stag  King,  the  Lady  Serpent, 
Zobeide,  the  King  of  the  Genii,  with 
a  host  of  others  appearing  in  quick 
succession,  and  played  with  all  the 
talent,  humour,  and  power  of  ex- 
tempore allusion,  for  which  the  Sac- 
chi company  was  so  celebrated,  for 
a  time  fascinated  the  lively  inhabi- 
tants of  the  City  of  the  Sea,  and 
even  so  lately  as  1801,  still  took  their 
turn  as  stock  pieces  on  the  Venetian 
boards.  But  more  of  the  Venetian- 
Dalmatian  Count  anon. 

Tieck  had  read  Gozzi's  dramas 
with  much  admiration.  Their  grace- 
ful ease,  the  brilliancy  and  fertility  of 
imagination  which  they  displayed, 
had  captivated  his  fancy.  But  it  natu- 
rally occurred  to  him,  that  Gozzi  had 
taken  matters  rather  too  much  au 
pied  de  la  lettre  ;  had  addressed  him- 
self too  purely  to  the  imagination, 
based  his  plots  too  exclusively  on  the 
marvellous,  and  that  it  would  be 
quite  possible  to  combine  the  charm 
of  a  nursery  fable,  and  all  the  dreams 
and  associations  of  childhood,  with 
scenes  of  interest  which  might  find 
an  echo  in  the  bosom  of  manhood, 


]  833.] 

with  passions  and  incidents  such  as 
this  visible  diurnal  sphere  affords  ; — 
a  ad  thus, 

"  To  clothe  the  palpable  and  the  familiar 
Vrith  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn." 

In  Tieck's  view,  the  marvellous  of 
tl  e  Nursery  Tale  was  to  be  reduced 
at  nearly  as  possible  to  the  standard 
ol  common  life;  no  longer  to  remain 
tie  moving  principle  of  the  story, 
b  it  only  occasionally  to  manifest  it- 
self in  fitful  glimpses,  sufficient  to 
re  mind  the  reader  or  spectator,  that 
ar  invisible  agency,  like  a  thread  of  sil- 
vc  r  tissue,  pervaded  and  ran  through 
the  whole  web  of  human  existence. 
TJIO  main  interest  was  to  rest  on  hu- 
m  in  passions,  crimes,  or  follies,  and 
tb.3  ever- springing  changes  which  the 
ordinary  course  of  real  life  exhibits. 
The  difficulty,  therefore,  was  in  such 
a  ease  to  find  a  subject  which  should 
possess  the  airy  charm  of  a  Nursery 
T£  le,  and  yet  where  the.  human  in- 
terest should  not  be  entirely  merged 
in  the  allegorical  or  the  marvellous ; 
—nome  neutral  ground  on  which  in- 
famy and  manhood  might  shake 
ha  ids ;  and  where  the  influence  of 
tho  good  and  evil  passions  which 
sway  the  heart  within,  should  blend 
and  harmonize  naturally  with  the 
agency  of  spells  or  spirits  from  with- 
out. Such  a  subject  seemed  to  be 
pr<  sented  by  Bluebeard. 

It  was  but  transferring  the  scene 
from  Asia  to  Europe— exhibiting  the 
characters  on  a  back  ground  of  chi- 
val  y — substituting  the  monastery 
am  the  castle  for  the  mosque  and 
the  seraglio;  attiring  Bluebeard  in 
a  telmet  instead  of  a  turban;  ex- 
changing the  despotism  of  the  East 
for  the  feudal  tyranny  and  oppres- 
sion of  Germany,  and  the  thing  was 
dor  e  to  his  hand.  Daughters  were 
as  <  ommonly  brought  to  sale  under 
the  holy  Roman  Empire,  as  in  Bagdat 
or  Cairo;  necromancy  was  as  much 
the  order  of  the  day  in  the  one  as 
the  other ;  wives  now  and  then  dis- 
app  eared  in  a  German  Burg  as  well 
as  i  i  a  Turkish  harem ;  curiosity  was 
a  failing  not  confined  to  Europe ;  all 
this  in  short,  required  no  alteration; 
Bluebeard  seemed  to  conform  him- 
self to  the  custom  of  the  country  as 
nati  rally  as  if  he  had  been  native, 
and  to  the  manner  born. 


TiecKs  Bluebeard.  209 

One  reason  for  this,  though  perhaps 


Tieck  was  not  aware  of  it,  might 
be,  that  the  story  of  Bluebeard  was 
after  all  founded  on  fact,  and  that 
Bluebeard  was,  in  truth,  a  French- 
man of  the  fifteenth  century.  Tieck 
took  the  story  from  Perrault's  Fairy 
Tales,  most  of  which  are  borrowed 
from  Straparolas  (1550,  1554),  and 
all  of  them,  we  believe,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Bluebeard,  either  from 
Straparola,  the  Pentamerone,  or  some 
other  Italian  source.  But  the  sub- 
ject of  Bluebeard  was  to  be  found 
nearer  home.  Report  ascribes  the 
honour  of  being  its  original  to  the 
famous  or  rather  infamous  Gilles  de 
Laval  Marechal  de  Retz,  executed 
and  burnt  in  1440  for  crimes,  of 
which  the  monstrous  and  almost  in- 
credible record  slumbers  in  the  ar- 
chives of  Nantes,  and  the  royal  libra- 
ry of  Paris.  The  boundless  wealth, 
the  dealings  in  magic,  the  murders 
of  immense  numbers  of  young  per- 
sons of  both  sexes,  his  demoniacal 
atrocities  and  debaucheries,  and 
his  terrible  end,  long  rendered  him 
a  source  of  horror  and  disgust,  till 
his  name,  or  rather  some  features 
of  his  character,  became  interwoven 
even  with  the  nursery  legends  of  the 
time.  From  some  of  these,  aided  a 
little  by  his  own  imagination,  Per- 
rault  appears  to  have  composed  the 
tale  which  has  stimulated  the  curio- 
sity, and  shaken  the  nerves  of  so 
many  of  the  rising  generation  since 
his  time. 

There  was  little  difficulty  on  the 
whole,  therefore,  in  transplanting  the 
scene  of  Bluebeard  to  the  banks  of 
the  Rhine,  and  changing  the  three- 
tailed  Bashaw  of  Colman,  into  the 
German  Ritter;  while  all  the  old 
features  of  the  tale,  even  to  the  ma- 
gical  practices  and  secret  murders 
of  the  gloomy  feudal  chieftain,  were 
accurately  preserved.  The  great  aim 
of  Tieck  throughout  is  evidently  to 
keep  down  the  marvellous  as  much 
as  possible,  so  as  even  to  render  it 
doubtful  whether  there  be  any  mar- 
vel in  the  case  after  all ;  to  pitch 
every  thing  on  a  subdued  and  natural 
key,  and  to  produce  his  catastrophes 
by  motives  and  incidents  arising  na- 
turally out  of  the  contrasted  charac- 
ters of  his  piece.* 

This  is  peculiarly  the  case  with 


*  The  very  names  of  the  characters  are  selected  on  this  homely  principle :  Peter, 
Simi  n,  Anthony,  Anne,  Bridget,  Agnes,  instead  of  the  high  sounding  and  romantic 
appe  latives  which  distinguish  an  ordinary  German  Ritter  Roman. 


210 


Tieck's  Bluebeard, 


[Feb. 


the  hero,  the  German  representa- 
tive of  Bluebeard,  Peter  Berner  him- 
self. At  first  we  see  in  him  nothing 
but  an  ordinary  feudal  chief  of  the 
time,  brief  and  calm  in  speech,  pru- 
dent in  council,  valiant  in  war,  cruel 
or  lenient  as  suits  his  purposes ; 
rather  an  admirer  of  the  fair  sex, 
sensitive  on  the  subject  of  his  blue- 
beard,  which  he  feels  to  be  his  weak 
point;  not  without  a  perception  of 
humour ;  and,  on  the  whole,  a  favour- 
ite with  his  vassals.  It  is  only  as  we 
draw  near  the  close,  that  by  hints  and 
glimpses  we  begin  to  perceive  the  se- 
cret ferocity  of  temperament  which 
burns  under  this  outward  crust  of 
calmness  of  deportment.  Peter  Ber- 
ner indulges  in  no  harangues  against 
curiosity  and  its  consequences,  he 
makes  no  boast  of  his  past  achieve- 
ments, he  allows  the  dead  to  rest, 
but  he  is  not  the  less  determined,  if 
necessary,  to  make  short  work  with 
the  living.  He  is  agitated  by  no  pas- 
sion, affected  by  no  fears,  tormented 
by  no  remorse.  He  has  been  ac- 
tuated all  his  life  only  by  one  prin- 
ciple, that  of  trampling  under  foot, 
without  hesitation,  everything  which 
stands  in  the  way  of  his  will ;  and 
the  crimes  to  which  this  unalterable 
resolve  may  have  led,  he  does  not 
regard  as  crimes,  because  any  other 
line  of  conduct  would  have  appear- 
ed to  him  as  folly. 

The  subsidiary  characters  are 
grouped  about  him  with  much  di- 
versity of  feature  and  situation.  Even 
the  character  of  the  sisters ; — Agnes, 
the  giddy,  childish,  and  thoughtless 
bride  and  intended  victim  of  Berner, 
with  scarcely  any  wish  beyond  that  of 
gay  clothes  and  gilded  apartments  ; 
and  Anne,  more  serene,  reflecting, 
and  impassioned,  thinking  constantly 
of  her  lover,  who  thinks  much  more 
of  tournaments  and  adventures  than 
of  her,  are  discriminated  by  light,  yet 
decided  touches.  The  brothers,  too, 
are  ably  drawn,  and  the  peculiarities 
of  their  character  are  made  to  exer- 
cise a  natural  and  important  influence 
on  the  progress  of  the  drama ;  the  one 
prudent  and  farseeing ;  the  second  a 
light-hearted,  light-headed,  and  thick- 
sculled  adventurer;  the  third,  a  hy- 
pochondriacal  dreamer,  whom  evan 
the  rubs  and  shocks  of  the  world 
about  him  are  scarcely  sufficient  to 
awaken  from  his  reverie,  and  who, 
out  of  the  hanging  of  the  hinge  of  a 
door,  or  the  stuff  that  his  morning 


dreams  are  made  of,  can  find  matter 
for  an  hour's  meditation.  But  why 
should  we  try  to  describe  in  our  dull 
prose  what  Tieck  has  painted  with  so 
much  more  clearness  and  liveliness 
in  his  own  ? 

We  pass  over  the  first  act,  which 
does  little  towards  the  advancement 
of  the  piece.  It  is  occupied  almost 
entirely  with  an  expedition  under- 
taken by  the  brothers  of  Wallenrod, 
with  the  view  of  surprising  the  ter- 
ror of  the  surrounding  country,  Peter 
Berner,  in  which  expedition,  how- 
ever, it  turns  out,  that  the  conspira- 
tors are  themselves  surprised,  de- 
feated without  difficulty,  and  made 
prisoners  by  the  redoubtable  pro- 
prietor of  the  blue  beard.  Its  chief 
merit,  which,  however,  is  entirely 
episodical,  is  the  humorous  contrast 
of  the  professional  fool  of  the  fami- 
ly, with  the  professional  wise  man 
or  counsellor  of  the  neighbourhood ; 
the  wit  and  good  sense  turning  out, 
in  the  end,  to  be  entirely  on  the  side 
of  the  fool,  the  folly  on  the  side  of 
the  counsellor ;  a  view  of  the  case, 
which,  though  scouted  at  first  with 
much  contempt,  begins  to  dawn  at 
last,  even  on  the  obtuse  intellects  of 
Heymon  and  Conrade  von  Wallen- 
rod. 

In  the  second  act,  however,  we 
find  ourselves  at  the  Castle  of  Fried- 
heim,  where  Sisters  Anne,  and  Ag- 
nes, are  endeavouring  to  while  away 
a  tedious  hour  by  music  and  conver- 
sation, now  and  then  enlivened  by 
a  little  gentle  malice  towards  each 
other. 

"Agnes  (with  a  lute.)  Now,  listen,  dear 
sister,  see  if  I  can  play  this  air  now. 

Anne.  You  have  no  turn  for  music. 
You  will  never  play  in  life. 

Agnes.  And  why  not  I  as  well  as 
others  ?  Come  now,  listen. 

In  the  blasts  of  winter 

Are  the  sere  leaves  sighing, 

And  the  dreams  of  love 

Faded  are  and  dying. 

Cloudy  shadows  flying 

Over  field  and  plain, 

Sad  the  traveller  hieing 

Through  the  blinding  rain. 

Overhead  the  moon 

Looks  into  the  vale  j 

From  the  twilight  forest 

Comes  a  song  of  wail. 

"  Ah  !  the  winds  have  wafted 

My  faithless  love  away, 

Swift  as  lightning  flashes 

Fled  Life's  golden  ray. 


Ticctts  Bluebeard. 


211 


O,  wherefore  came  the  vision, 
Or  why  so  brief  its  stay ! 

Once  with  pinks  and  roses 
Were  my  temples  shaded  ; 
Now  the  flowers  are  withered, 
Now  the  trees  are  faded ; 
Now  the  Spring  departed, 
Yields  to  winter's  sway, 
And  my  Love  false  hearted, 
He  is  far  away." 

Life  so  dark  and  wilder'd, 
What  remains  for  thee  ? 
Hope  and  memory  bringing 
Joy  or  grief  to  me ; — 
Ah !  for  them  the  bosom 
Open  still  must  be ! 

Anne.  Better  than  I  thought. 
Agnes.  Canst  tell  me  why  in  all  these 
ditties  there  is  always  so  much  of  love  ? 
Have  these  song-makers  no  other  sub- 
ject to  harp  upon  ? 

Anne.  They  think  it  one  with  which 
every  one  must  sympathize. 

Agnes.  Not  I.  Nothing  wearies  me 
more  than  these  eternal  complaints.  But, 
come,  explain  to  me  what  this  love  is — 
I  can  make  nothing  of  it.  . 

Anne.  Nay,  prithee,  dear  sister ! 
Agnes.  How  long  has  he  been  gone— 
tiree  years  ? 
Anne.  Ah  ! 

Agnes.  There  you  sit  and  sigh,  where 
jou  should  be  telling  your  story  like  a 
girl  of  sense. 

Anne.  I  am  but  a  poor  story-teller. 
Agnes.     Well,   but  —  seriously  —  this 
love  must  be  a  very  sttange  affair. 

Anne.  Well  for  you  that  you  compre- 
hend it  not. 

Agnes.  I  am  always  gay  and  cheerful. 
You  are  the  very  picture  of  melancholy 
— you  have  no  sympathy  with  the  world 
i  nd  its  events — your  very  existence  is  a 
mere  outward  shadow  of  life — but  all 
has  long  been  dead  and  lifeless  within. 

Anne.  Each  has  his  own  way — leave 
ine  to  follow  mine. 

Agnes.  But  how  can  any  one  be  so 
insensible  to  joy  ?  To  me  the  world  looks 
to  kindly,  so  beautiful,  so  varied,  methinks 
'  ve  can  never  see  or  know  too  much  of  it. 
i  would  wish  to  be  always  in  motion,  tra- 
^•elling  through  unknown  cities,  climbing 
aills,  seeing  other  dresses,  and  other  man- 
ners. Then  I  would  shut  myself  up  in 
!  ome  palace,  with  the  key  of  every  cham- 
ber or  Cabinet  in  my  hand.  I  would  open 
Them  one  after  the  other,  take  out  the 
beautiful  and  rare  jewels,  carry  them  to 
the  window,  gaze  at  them  till  I  was 
tired  ;  then  fly  to  the  next,  and  so  on,  and 
on,  without  end. 

Anne.  And  so  grow  old  ?     So  labour 
hrough  a  weary  unconnected  life  ? 


Agnes.  I  understand  you  not.  But, 
in  truth,  I  have  often  thought  if  I  were 
to  arrive  at  some  strange  castle,  where 
every  thing  was  new  to  me,  how  1  should 
hurry  from  one  chamber  to  another,  al- 
ways impatient,  always  curious — how  I 
should  make  myself  acquainted  by  degrees 
with  every  article  of  furniture  it  contain- 
ed !  Here  I  know  every  nail  by  heart. 

Anne.  Give  me  the  lute  a  moment. 

(Sings.') 
O  well  with  him  that  in  the  arms 

Of  love  can  sink  to  rest  j 
No  danger  harms,  no  care  alarms, 

The  quiet  of  his  breast. 

No  change  is  here,  no  doubt  or  fear, 

To  mar  his  tranquil  lot  j 
The  present  joy  is  all  too  near, 
The  past  is  all  forgot. 

With  warmer  caressing, 
Lip  to  lip  pressing, 
The  warmer  the  longer, 
Each  moment  that  flies, 
Draws  closer  and  stronger, 
Love's  gentlest  of  ties. 

Agnes.  That  is  one  of  those  ditties 
which  are  more  easily  sung  than  under- 
stood. 

Enter  ANTHONY. 

Anth.  A  strange  household  to  be  sure  ! 
Singing  in  every  room  ;  Simon  walking 
about,  and  gazing  at  the  walls ;  Leopold 
preparing  to  ride  on  some  mad  adven- 
ture. Faith,  if  I  were  not  here  to  keep  the 
whole  together,  our  establishment  would 
be  scattered  like  chaff  before  the  wind. 

Agnes.  To  be  sure.  As  you  are  the 
eldest  of  the  family,  you  are  bound  to  have 
understanding  enough  for  us  all. 

Anth.  Do  you  know  what  is  in  Leo- 
pold's head  ? 

Agnes.  What  can  it  be  ? 

Anne.  Something  absurd,  I  am  certain. 

Agnes.  You  call  many  things  absurd 
which  are  not  so. 

Enter  LEOPOLD. 

Leo.  Now,  good-bye  fora  time ;  I  must 
leave  you  for  a  day  or  two. 

Anth.  Where  are  you  going  ? 

Leo.  I- don't  exactly  know.  My  no- 
tion, dear  brother,  has  always  been  this, 
— that  a  man  makes  his  life  a  burden 
when  he  considers  every  step  he  takes 
too  minutely.  Begin  as  we  like,  it  all 
comes  to  the  same  thing  ;  it  is  good  luck 
or  mischance  that  makes  our  plans  wise 
or  foolish. 

Anth.  Brother,  such  language  becomes 
not  a  man. 


Tieck's  Bluebeard. 


[Feb. 


Leo.  Not  a  man,  I  dare  say,  according 
to  your  notion ;  an  old  superannuated  ani- 
mal, who  has  passed  over  youth  as  over 
some  bridge  which  was  to  fall,  once  for  all, 
behind  him ;  and  who  within  the  precincts 
of  age,  sits  down  delighted  to  put  on  a 
grave  face,  deal  in  sober  counsel,  listen 
when  other  men  speak,  and  find  fault  with 
every  thing  about  him.  A  man,  such  as 
you  would  make,  would  censure  the  cat 
for  instance,  if  he  did  not  catch  his  mice 
according  to  his  notions,  and  in  the  most 
approved  fashion,  I  always  hated  to 
hear  people  say — He  acts  like  a  man — 
he  is  a  model  of  a  man — for  ten  to  one 
but  these  heroes  were  mere  overgrown 
children — creatures  that  creep  through 
the  world  on  all  fours,  and  only  meet 
with  more  stumblingblocks  by  trying  to 
avoid  them.  And  yet  the  bystanders  ex- 
claim, Lord,  what  a  deal  of  experience 
he  has  got ! 

Anth.  That  portrait,  I  am  to  under- 
stand, is  intended  for  me  ? 

Leo.  Oh  !  no.  You  have  more  sense 
about  you,  though  you  won't  admit  it, 
even  to  yourself.  But  most  men,  now, 
think  your  thoroughpaced  plodder  must 
be  a  more  sensible  fellow  than  your  hop, 
skip,  and  jump  man,  and  yet  the  differ- 
ence between  them  is  only  in  their  mo- 
tion. 

Anth.  You  will  admit,  however,  that 
with  the  latter  many  things  are  constantly 
going  wrong. 

Leo.  Naturally  enough !  because  he 
undertakes  a  great  many  things.  Your 
slow-going  fellow  cannot  go  wrong,  be- 
cause he  spends  all  his  time  in  calcula- 
ting, and  thrusting  out  all  his  feelers  on 
all  sides  before  he  ventures  a  step.  Ah, 
brother,  if  we  could  see,  for  instance,  how 
all  is  arranged,  and  set  to  rights  for  us  be- 
fore hand,  would  we  not  be  tempted  to 
laugh,  think  ye,  at  our  deep-laid  plans  ? 

Anth.  A  pleasant  philosophy. 

Leo.  But  I  must  break  off,  and  take 
my  leave.  I  feel  so  cheerful,  I  am  sure 
I  shall  be  fortunate. 

Enter  SIMON. 

Simon.  So  you  are  going,  brother  ? 

Leo.  I  am. 

Simon.  I  don't  think  the  circumstances 
are  favourable. 

Leo.  How  so  ? 

Simon.  There  is  such  a  moving,  and 
hpwling,  and  scudding  among  the  clouds. 

Agnes.  How  do  you  mean,  brother? 

Anth.  As  he  usually  does— he  does 
not  know  why,  but  he  thinks  so. 

Simon.  One  frequently  cant  tell  why  he 
anticipates  misfortune  ;  yet  there  is  some- 
thing within  which 

Leo.  Well  ? 


Simon.  Ah!  how  can  I  explain  such 
a  thing  to  you  ! 

Anth.  Among  these  half-witted  crea- 
tures one  might  almost  turn  crazed  him- 
self. 

Leo.  Well,  since  you  can't  explain  it, 
I  may  go.  When  I  come  back,  I'll  take 
your  advice.  \Exit. 

Anth.  His  wildness  is  sure  to  lead 
him  into  some  other  scrape. 

Simon.  No  doubt. 

Anne.  How  do  you  feel,  brother  ? 

Simon.  Well — I  have  been  thinking 
of  many  things  this  morning.  There 
may  be  many  changes  soon. 

Anne.  How  so  ? 

Anth.  Do  not  ask  him.  It  would  be 
labour  lost.  He  knows  just  as  little  as 
you;  and  observation  only  keeps  his  folly 
alive,  which  otherwise  would  have  died 
long  ago  for  want  of  nourishment. 

Agnes.   But  let  him  speak,  brother ! —  1 

Anth.  As  you  will, — so  you  don't  con- 
demn me  to  listen  to  his  talk.  [Exit. 

Simon.  I  can  speak  with  more  com- 
fort now  that  Anthony  is  gone.  He  is 
always  shrugging  his  shoulders  when 
things  are  not  according  to  his  own  no- 
tions;  and  yet  he  has  a  most  limited 
understanding.  He  is  like  the  mass  of 
men,  who  blame  without  knowing  why, 
and  often  merely  because  the  subject  is 
above  their  comprehension. 

Anne.  True. 

Simon.  And  yet  one  would  think  that 
the  very  reason  for  bestowing  a  little 
more  attention  upon  it;  when  we  are 
learning  nothing  new,  what  we  learn- 
ed before  begins  to  fade  in  us. 

Agnes.  Brother  Simon  speaks  exceed- 
ing wisely  to-day. 

Simon.  It  is  only  that  you  seldom  un- 
derstand me.  This  appears  to  you  wise, 
because  you  may  have  thought  something 
of  the  same  kind  yourself. 

Agnes.  What  is  understanding,  then  ? 

Simon.  Why,  that  our  understandings 
can't  very  easily  comprehend ;  but  it  is 
certain  that,  like  an  onion,  it  has  a  num- 
ber of  skins ;  each  of  these  is  called  an 
understanding,  and  the  last,  the  kernel 
of  the  whole,  is  the  true  understanding 
itself.  They  are  the  truly  intelligent 
who  in  their  thoughts  employ  not  the 
mere  outer  rind,  but  the  kernel  itself; 
but  with  most  men,  prudent  as  they 
think  themselves,  nothing  but  the  very 
outermost  skin  is  ever  set  in  motion — 
and  such  is  brother  Anthony. 

Agnes.  Ha,  ha!  odd  enough.  An 
onion  and  the  understanding,  what  a 
comparison  !  And  how  then  does  bro- 
ther Leopold  think  ? 

Simon.  Not  at  all — he  thinks  only 
with  the  tongue;  and  as  other  men  eat 


1833.] 


Tieck's  Bluebeard. 


213 


to  support  existence,  so  he  talks  inces- 
santly to  supply  him  with  thought.  What 
he  has  said  the  one  moment  he  has  for- 
gotten the  next;  his  thoughts  are  like 
vegetables,  they  are  cropped  the  instant 
they  show  a  green  leaf  above  the  ground, 
and  so  shoot  on  till  summer,  when  they 
are  left  to  run  to  seed;  and  so  with 
Leopold,  when  his  summer  is  over,  and 
he  gossips  no  more,  the  people  will  say 
of  him,  There  !  what  an  excellent  fa- 
ther of  a  family  ! 

Agnes.  And  how  do  you  think,  bro- 
ther? 

Simon.  I— that  is  the  difficulty—that 
is  what  vexes  me;  to  conceive  how  it  is 
\ve  think  !  Observe,  that  which  was 
thought  must  itself  think;  a  puzzle 
enough  to  drive  a  sensible  man  mad. 

Agnes.  How  so  ? 

Simon.  You  do  not  understand  me  at 
present,  because  such  ideas  never  occur- 
red to  yourself.  Endeavour  to  compre- 
hend:— I  think,  and  with  the  instrument 
by  which  I  think,  I  am  to  think  how 
this  thinking  machine  itself  is  framed. 
The  thing  is  impossible  ;  for  that  which 
thinks  can  never  be  comprehended  by 
itself. 

Agnes.  It  is  very  true — such  notions 
are  enough  to  drive  a  man  mad. 

Simon.  Well  then — and  do  you  ask 
why  it  is  that  I  am  melancholy?" 

The  conversation  is  shortly  after 
interrupted  by  the  announcement  of 
the  intended  visit  of  Peter  Berner, 
who,  having  long  heard  of  the  fame 
of  the  beauties  of  Friedheim,  has 
come  in  person  to  judge  for  himself. 
Some  vague  reports,  as  the  sudden 
deaths  of  his  wives,  and  his  own 

floomy  temper,  had  reached  Fried- 
eim  ;  but,  in  the  mind  of  the  giddy 
Agnes,  these  weigh  little  against  the 
prospect  of  a  rich  establishment,  and 
that  of  rummaging  among  the  secrets 
and  treasures  of  Berner's  castle. 
When  the  new  suitor  urges  his  pro- 
posals, she  hesitates  for  a  little, 
pleads  his  beard,  the  loneliness  of 
his  castle,  the  shortness  of  the  time 
allowed  her  for  decision ;  but  long 
before  the  interview  in  the  garden 
is  over,  it  is  evident  her  mind  is 
made  up.  «  We  see  how  it  is,— she 
will  be  the  sixteenth  Mrs  Shuffle- 
ton."  The  truth  is,  Peter  pleads  his 
case  remarkably  well ;  and  we  re- 
commend the  general  outline  of  his 
statement  as  a  model  to  young  gen- 
tlemen who  are  about  to  rush  upon 
their  fate  by  "  popping  the  ques- 
tion." Probatum  est. 


"  The  Garden. 


PETER  BERNER,  AGNES. 

Agnes,  Knight,  you  are  pressing. 

Peter.  How  otherwise  shall  I  try  to 
gain  your  love  ? 

Agnes.  You  love  me,  then — as  you 
tell  me  ? 

Peter.  From  my  heart,  lady. 

Agnes.  But  what  do  you  call  love  ? 

Peter.  If  you  feel  it  not,  I  cannot  de- 
scribe it  to  you. 

Agnes.  So  I  hear  from  all  who  call 
themselves  in  love. 

Peter.  Because  it  is  the  truth; — do 
you  doubt  my  sincerity? 

Agnes.  Oh  no  !  not  so ;  but— — 

ANTHONY  enters. 

Peter.  I  speed  but  indifferently  with 
my  wooing,  knight. 

Anth.  How? 

Peter.  Your  fair  sister  believes  not 
my  words. 

Agnes.  You  are  pleased  to  say  so. 

Peter.  I  am  no  orator  ;  I  am  a  rough 
man,  born  and  brought  up  amidst  arms 
and  tumult ;  fair  speeches  are  not  at  my 
command;  I  can  only  say  I  love,  and 
with  that  my  whole  stock  of  oratory  is 
at  an  end.  Yet  those  who  say  little  are 
more  to  be  trusted  than  many  who  deal 
at  once  in  fine-spun  phrases  and  false 
hearts.  If  I  cannot  express  myself  grace- 
fully, I  have  but  to  learn  the  art  of  lying, 
and  that  may  count  for  something.  So 
believe  me,  then,  when  I  say  1  love  you 
from  my  heart. 

Agnes.  And  what  if  I  do  believe  you  ? 

Peter.  A  strange  question  !  Then  you 
must  love  me  in  return.  Or  perhaps  it 
is — how  shall  1  express  myself— my  fi- 
gure, my  appearance  is  not  inviting 
enough — or  rather  is  disagreeable  ?  It  is 
true,  there  is  something  about  me  which 
strikes  one  as  singular  till  they  know  me  ; 
but  that  surely  could  be  no  reason  for 
rejecting  an  honourable  man.  Honesty 
is  better  than  a  fair  outside.  What  if  I 
have  a  bluish,  aye,  or  a  blue  beard,  as 
people  say — still  that  is  better  than  no 
beard  at  all. 

Anth.  Well,  sister— 
Peter.  Perhaps  you  think  —  though 
that  would  be  an  inhuman  superstition — • 
that  I  must  be'  something  different,  some- 
thing meaner  than  other  men,  because 
my  beard  is  not  of  the  most  approved 
colour.  Ladies  know  how  to  change  the 
colour  of  theirs  ;  and  for  your  love  I  will 
do  as  much  for  mine.  Can  man  do 
more? 


214 


Tiectfs  Bluebeard. 


[Feb- 


Agnes.  You  misconstrue  my  hesita- 
tion. 

Peter.  You  need  only  say,  Yes  or  No. 
All  the  rest  is  but  the  preface  to  these. 
Now,  lady. 

Agnes.  I  must  have  time.  The  lone- 
liness of  your  castle,  too,  terrifies  me. 

Peter.  That  can  be  easily  remedied. 
If  my  society  be  not  enough,  we  can  in- 
vite company, — people  of  all  kinds — 
though  you  will  soon  tire  of  them.  But 
time  will  not  hang  heavy  on  your  hands. 
If  you  love  novelties  or  strange  curiosi- 
ties, you  will  find  plenty  at  my  castle, 
which  will  employ  you  long  enough.  In 
my  travels  and  in  my  campaigns,  I  have 
picked  up  many  things  which  amuse  even 
me  in  an  idle  hour. 

Agnes,  May  I  take  my  sister  Anne 
with  me  ? 

Peter.  With  much  pleasure,  if  she  will 
accompany  you." 

The  consent  is  at  last  given — the 
marriage  is  over— with  many  evil 
forebodings  on  the  part  of  Simon. 
The  brothers  accompany  the  new- 
married  pair  part  of  the  way  to- 
wards Berner's  Castle,  and  leave 
them  at  an  inn  at  no  great  distance 
from  their  journey's  end.  Peter  ad- 
dresses his  wife — 

"You  have  not  spoken  a  word,  Agnes  ? 

Agnes.  I  must  confess,  the  tears  came 
rushing  into  my  eyes,  so  that  I  could  not 
litter  a  word. 

Peter.  Wherefore  do  you  weep  ? 

Agnes.  My  brothers,  they  are  gone ; 
who  knows  if  I  shall  ever  see  them  again  ? 

Peter.  She  who  loves  her  husband  truly, 
must  forget  both  brothers  and  sisters. 
We  are  now  left  to  ourselves.  Kiss  me, 
Agnes. 

Agnes.  If  we  are  to  travel  farther,  do 
not,  I  pray  you,  urge  on  your  horse  so 
fearfully;  the  poor  creature  is  almost 
sinking  beneath  you. 

Peter.  He  will  enjoy  his  stall  the  more. 
It  is  only  after  severe  toil  that  rest  ap- 
pears to  us  as  rest.  Mind  him  no  farther, 
child. 

Agnes.  But  you  may  fall. 

Peter.  I  have  often  fallen ;  it  matters 
not. 

Agnes.  You  terrify  me. 

Peter.  'Tis  wellj  that  is  a  proof  of 
your  love. 

Agnes.  In  truth,  now  that  I  am  alone 
with  you,  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
be  afraid. 

Peter.  Indeed !  I  am  not  sorry  for  it. 
But  you  will  become  accustomed  to  me 
by  degrees,  child. 


Agnes.  The  country  hereabout  is  very 
wild.  That  mill,  yonder  in  the  valley, 
sounds  fearfully  in  this  solitude.  Ah ! 
see,  yonder  are  my  brothers  riding  up  the 
mountain  side. 

Peter.  My  eyes  do  not  reach  so  far. 

Agnes.  As  I  rode  down  I  did  not  think 
the  spot  was  so  near  where  we  were  to 
part. 

Peter.  Drive  these  things  out  of  your 
thoughts. 

Agnes.  Before  I  had  ever  travelled, 
there  was  nothing  I  longed  for  so  anxious- 
ly- as  a  long  journey ;  I  thought  of  no- 
thing but  beautiful,  incredibly  beautiful, 
countries,  castles  and  towers  with  won- 
drous battlements,  their  gilded  roofs 
sparkling  in  the  morning  sun ;  steep  rocks, 
and  wide  prospects  from  their  tops ;  al- 
ways new  faces ;  leafy  forests,  and  lonely 
winding  footpaths,  through  green  laby- 
rinths echoing  to  the  nightingale's  song : 
and  now,  every  thing  is  so  different,  I 
grow  more  and  more  fearful  the  farther 
I  wander  from  my  home. 

Peter.  We  shall  meet  with  some  re- 
markable scenes  still. 

Agnes.  Look  at  those  waste  dreary 
fields  yonder,  those  bleak  sandy  hills, 
over  which  the  dark  rain-clouds  are  ga- 
thering. 

Peter.  My  castle  has  a  more  pleasant 
site. 

Agnes.  Ah !  it  begins  to  rain ;  the  sky 
grows  darker  and  darker. 

Peter.  We  must  to  horse ;  we  shall  be 
too  late.  Where  is  your  sister?  Call 
her,  and  cease  whining.  Come,  our 
horses  are  already  fed.  [Exeunt." 

The  fourth  act  passes  at  the  castle 
of  Berner.  Agnes  has  begun  to  get 
accustomed  to  his  revolting  aspect 
and  gloomy  temper ;  nay,  to  feel  for 
him  something  akin  to  love.  She 
has  heard  a  thousand  stories  from  the 
old  housekeeper,  Mechthilde,  of  the 
treasures  and  curiosities  which  the 
castle  contains;  her  curiosity  is 
roused  to  the  highest  pitch,  but,  con- 
trolled by  the  awe  in  which  she  holds 
her  husband,  she  has  not  ventured 
to  ask  the  fulfilment  of  his  promise. 
The  opportunity,  however,  of  grati- 
fying her  curiosity  unexpectedly  oc- 
curs. Peter  announces  his  intention 
of  leaving  the  castle  for  a  few  days, 
to  meet  another  of  those  feudal  in- 
roads, to  which  his  riches  and  his 
remorseless  temper  continually  ex- 
posed him. 

"  Peter.  During  my  absence,  Agnes,  I 


1833.]  Tiectis  Bluebeard. 

shall  place  all  my  keys  in  your  keeping. 
Here.  In  a  few  days  I  intend  to  return. 
You  may  amuse  yourself  during  the  in- 
te  -val  with  looking  at  those  rooms  which 
I  iiave  not  yet  shewn  to  you.  Six  cham- 
bers are  open  to  you.  But  the  seventh, 
wiich  this  golden  key  opens,  remains 
closed — for  you.  Have  you  understood 
nee? 

Agnes.  Perfectly. 

Peter.  Agnes,  be  not  tempted  to  open 
that  seventh  chamber. 

Agnes.  Surely  not. 

Peter.  I  might  take  the  key  with  me; 
ard  then  it  were  impossible;  but  I  will 
trast  you.  You  will  not  be  so  foolish. 
Now,  farewell! 

Agnes.  Farewell! 

Peter.  If  I  return,  and  find  you  have 
bt  en  in  the  forbidden  room — 

Agnes.  Be  not  so  warm  for  no  pur- 
pose. I  will  not  enter  it,  and  there's  an 
end. 

Peter.  That  will  be  seen  when  I  return. 

[Exit. 

Agnes.  Now,  then,  I  have  it  in  my 
power  to  see  those  long-wished  for  curi- 
osities !  Absurd !  to  think  that  when  six 
cl  ambers,  with  their  treasures,  are  open, 
we  should  think  of  longing  after  the 
seventh ;  that  would  indeed  be  a  childish 
curiosity !  But  how  passionate  he  gets 
about  every  thing;  I  should  not  like  to 
meet  him  the  first  time  I  have  done  any 
thing  against  his  will. 

ANNE  enters. 

Agnes.  How  are  you,  sister— better  ? 

Anne.  Somewhat. 

Agnes.  I  have  got  the  keys  of  the  rooms 
at  last.  My  husband  is  gone  ! 

Anne.  So? 

Agnes.  Into  one  of  them  we  must  not 
eMer.  No  admission  for  you  into  the 
seventh,  Anne. 

Anne.  I  care  not. 

Agnes.  He  has  strictly  forbidden  it. 

Anne.  I  have  no  anxiety  for  it. 

Agnes.  Are  you  not  rejoiced  then  ? 

Anne.  Wherefore  ? 

Agnes.  That  I  have  got  the  keys. 

Anne.  If  you  are  rejoiced,  I  am  so  too. 
^  Agnes.    (At  the  window.)     There  he  is 
rMing  off  with  his  followers.     (Opens  the 
window.  J  Good  fortune  go  with  you.  Re- 
turn soon. 

(  Trumpets  from  without.} 

Anne.  How  gaily  they  ride  forth  ?  Hea- 
vt  n  grant  they  may  return  as  gaily  ! 

Agnes,  Why  should  they  not  ? 

Anne.  The  end  is  not  always  so  happy 
as  the  beginning  ;  new  clothes  wear  out ; 
the  green  tree  becomes  sere ;  the  even- 
ing often  does  not  fulfil  the  promise  of  the 


215 

dawn ;  joyfully  does  the  youth  commence' 
what  advancing  years  soon  sternly  forbid ; 
and  often  apparent  good  luck  is  but  the 
prelude  to  misfortune. 

Agnes.  You  make  my  heart  beat,  sister. 

Anne.  I  feel  melancholy  to-day. 

Agnes.  See,  what  procession  is  this 
passing  by? 

Anne.  A  peasant's  wedding. 

Agnes.  How  happy  the  people  seem  ! 
They  salute  us.  A  song ! 

SONG  from  without. 
O  happy,  when  weary  days  are  past, 
Who  rests  in  his  true  love's  arms  at  last  J 
For  him  the  tale 
Of  the  nightingale, 
It  sounds  more  gaily  from  bush  and  vale. 

CHORUS. 

From  bush  and  vale 
Love's  joyous  tale, 

In  the  sweet-voiced  note  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 

(The  music  grows  more  and  more  dte* 
tant,  and  at  last  is  hushed,  J 

Agnes.  Sister,  you  weep. 

Anne.  The  music— 

Agnes.  It  sounds  so  cheerfully. 

Anne.  Not  to  me. 

Agnes.  But  you  are  never  cheerful. 

Anne.  Ah!  in  those  days  when  he 
used  to  play  his  lute  under  my  window, 
and  a  light  and  distant  echo  repeated  its 
tones !  How  the  moon  used  to  shine 
down  on  all,  and  I  saw  nothing  but  him, 
heard  nothing  but  his  song,  which  floated 
through  the  lonely  night  like  a  white  swan 
upon  some  gloomy  water. — O  sister,  ne- 
ver, never,  can  I  forget  him. 

Agnes.  Was  he  so  dear  to  you  ? 

Anne.  More  than  words — more  than 
the  sweetest  music  can  express.  His 
presence  used  to  fall  upon  my  heart  as 
when  the  ruddy  morning  rises  on  the 
earth  after  a  stormy  night,  and  sheds  its 
peaceful  dew  on  the  tempest-shaken  trees 
and  flowers — and  the  clouds  take  to  flight 
before  the  golden  beams  of  the  sun.  Ah ! 
sister,  forgive  me  these  tears. 

Agnes.  Come — endeavour  to  amuse 
yourself;  here  are  the  keys.  Be  cheerful. 

Anne.  Kind  sister ! 

Agnes.  We  will  call  the  old  woman  to) 
go  with  us.  She  knows  every  thing. 

Anne.  As  you  will,  but  I  confess  I  like 
her  not. 

Agnes.  True.  She  is  ugly  enough,  and 
her  croaking  voice  very  disagreeable ;  but 
these  are  the  defects  of  age — she  cannot 
help  them.  Come,  come — I  am  dying; 
with  curiosity  to  see  every  thing. 

[Eeunt. 


216 


Tieck's  Bluebeard. 


[Feb. 


Scene  III. 


Hall  in  Berner's  Castle. 
AGNES,  ANNE,  MECHTHILDE  (the  house- 
keeper}y   Servants  carrying  away  sup- 
per. 

Agnes.  My  head  is  perfectly  giddy  with 
all  the  wonders  I  have  seen.  I  feel  as  if 
the  whole  had  been  a  dream. 

Anne.  The  senses  grow  weary  at  last, 
and  variety  itself  becomes  monotony. 
Anne.  Mechthilde  is  getting  sleepy. 
Mech.  Yes,  children  j  I  commonly  go 
to  bed  at  this  hour,  and  then  sleep  comes 
to  me  without  an  effort. 

Agnes.  Then  go  to  bed.  I  will  sit  up 
a  little.  The  moon  shines  so  clear.  1 
will  walk  a  while  and  take  the  air  on  the 
balcony. 

Mech.  Take  care  of  the  bats,  they  are 
flying  about  at  this  season. 

Agnes.  We  never  once  thought  of  the 
Seventh  Room,  and  yet  the  knight  was 
so  anxious  about  it ;  I  daresay,  after  all, 
there  is  nothing  in  the  least  remarkable 
about  it. 

Mech.  Likely  not. 
Agnes.  How !  were  you  never  in  it  ? 
Mech.  Never. 

Agnes.  That  is  strange :     Take   the 
keys  with  you,  mother;    we  shall   not 
need  them  longer. 
Mech.  Willingly. 

Agnes.  Men  have  their  secrets  too,  as 
well  as  women. 

Mech.  Still  more  so  j  only  they  won't 
confess  it. 

Agnes.  Give  me  back  the  keys. 
Mech.  Here  they  are. 
Agnes.  The  Knight  might  be  displea- 
sed— as  he  gave  them  into  my  own  hands. 
Anne.  Now,  good-night,  sister,  I  go  to 
bed. 

Mech.  I  wish  you  a  happy  repose. 

[Exeunt. 

Agnes.  What  a  lovely  night!  How 
people  talk  of  the  curiosity  of  women, 
and  yet  here  it  is  in  my  power  to  enter 
the  forbidden  chamber  when  I  please. 
I  made  the  keys  be  returned  to  me,  part- 
ly, that  my  husband  might  not  think  I 
could  not  trust  my  own  strength  of  mind. 
And  yet,  if  I  should  yield  to  the  tempta- 
tion, no  human  being  would  ever  know 
that  I  had  been  in  the  room  j  no  farther 
evil  would  come  of  it.  My  sister,  the 
preacher  of  morality,  is  asleep.  I  wish 
to  heaven  I  had  left  the  keys  with  that 
hideous  old  woman  !  The  whole,  I  see, 
is  arranged  for  the  purpose  of  trying  me 
— I  shall  not  allow  myself  to  be  so  easi- 
ly ensnared.  (Walks  up  and  down.) 
The  old  woman,  herself,  has  never  been 
in  the  room.  The  Knight  must  have 


something  strange  in  it.     I'll  think  on't 
no   more.     (She  goes   to   the  window.} 
If  I  could  only  imagine  why  it  was  for- 
bidden to  me  ?     The  key  is  of  gold — the 
others  are  not.     It  must  be  the  costliest 
chamber  of  all,  and  he  wishes  to  surprise 
me  with  it  some  time  or  other.      Non- 
sense!    Why  should  I  not  see  it  now? 
There   is  nothing  I  detest  more   than 
these  attempts  at   surprising  one   into 
pleasure.      You  can  enjoy  nothing,  just 
because  you  see  beforehand  all  the  pre- 
parations that  have  been  made  for  it ! 
Agnes!  Agnes  !  be  on  your  guard — what 
torments  you  at  present  is  neither  more 
nor  less  than  female  curiosity !    And  why 
should  I  not  be  a  woman  as  well   as 
others  ?     I  should  like  to  see  the  man  in 
my  situation  who  would  not  be  curious. 
My  sister  would  be  as  much  so  as  I, 
if  her  head  were  not  incessantly  filled 
with  love ;  but  if  she  were  to  take  it  into 
her  head  that  her  Reinhold  was  con- 
cealed in  that  chamber,  she  would  ask 
me  for  the  key  upon  her  knees.     Ah, 
people  are  only  accommodating  to  their 
own  weaknesses.     And,  after  all,  it  may 
be  no  weakness  in  me ;  something  may 
be  concealed  in  that  chamber  on  which 
my  happiness  depends.     I  almost  begin 
to  think  so.    I  wiZ/look  in ; — how  should 
he  ever  know  that  I  have  been  there? 
There   must   be   some  reason    for  this 
strong  prohibition,  and  he  should  have 
told  me  what  it  was,  then  my  compli- 
ance would  have  been  an  intelligent  obe- 
dience instead  of  blind  subjection — a  pro- 
cedure against  which  my  whole  heart  re- 
volts.    Am  I  not  a  fool  to  hesitate  so 
long?     The  thing  is  a  trifle  not  worth  so 
much  trouble.   (She  taken  the  key.}  Why 
do  I  not  go  on?     If  he  should  return 
while  I  am  in  the  chamber?    It  is  night, 
and  ere  he  could  ascend   the  stairs,  I 
should  easily  be  in  my  own  room — be- 
sides, he  will  not  be  back  for  some  days 
yet.     He  should  have  kept  his  keys  if 
he  did  not  intend  that  I  should  enter. 
(  Goes  out  with  a  light.} 

Enter  CLAUS  the  Fool,  and  the  COUN- 
SELLOR. 

Well,  how  do  you  like  your  residence 
at  the  Castle  ? 

Coun.  I  scarcely  know.  I  have  slept  till 
this  moment,  I  was  so  weary.  How  clear 
the  stars  shine! 

Claus.  Can  you  read  in  the  stars  ? 

Coun.  I  wish  I  had  learned ;  it  must 
be  a  pleasant  employment  at  night. 

Claus.  One  can  read  their  fate  in 
them. 

Coun.  At  times. 

Claus.  Do  you  believe  in  ghosts  ? 

Coun,  O  yes ! 


TiecKs  Bluebeard. 
This  is  the  very  witching  time 


1333.] 

Claus. 
ol  night. 

Coun.  The  very  time  for  any  spirit 
who  is  inclined  to  walk.  I  shall  go  to 
b  ;d  again. 

Claus.  I  thought  you  had  slept  your 
sleep  out. 

Coun.  I  mean  on  account  of  the  ghosts. 
It  has  a  bad  appearance  to  be  found  by 
tl  em  awake  at  this  hour. 

Claus.  Go  then. 
(A  door  is  shut  to  with  force. ) 

Coun.  Do  you  hear  ?     (Runs  off.) 

AGNES  enters,  pale  and  trembling. 

Claus.  What  is  the  matter,  gracious 
kdy? 

Agnes.  Nothing,  nothing — get  me  a 
g  ass  of  cold  water.  (Claus  goes  out. 
£he  sinks  into  a  chair. J  Am  I  alone— 
v\  here  am  I  ? — God  in  Heaven  !  How 
n  y  heart  beats — even  to  my  throat. 
/'CLAUS  comes  with  water.  J 

Agnes.  Put  it  there ;  I  cannot  drink 
y^t.  Now  go,  go,  there  is  nothing  the 
nr  alter  with  me.  Go — (  Claus  goes  out.) 
I  know  not  how  I  came  hither.  (She 
d.-inks.)  I  am  better  now.  It  is  deep  night — 
tlie  rest  are  asleep.  (She  looks  at  the  key.J 
I  [ere  is  a  dark-red,  a  bloody  spot;  was  it 
there  before?  Ah,  no  !  I  let  it  fall.  All 
a  >outme  still  smells  of  blood.  (She  rubs 
ti .e  key  with  her  handkerchief.)  It  will  not 
oit.  'Tis strange!  O curiosity, — accursed, 
shameful  curiosity — what  sin  is  worse 
than  thine !  And  my  husband,  how  looks 
b.3  now?  my  husband — can  I  say?  No,  a 
fiightful,  a  horrible  monster;  savage  and 
hideous  as  a  scaly  dragon,  from  which  the 
epe  turns  with  loathing.  Ah  !  I  must  to 
bed— my  poor  head  is  whirling.  But  the 
key — I  must  not  leave  it  here— O  God 
be  praised  that  the  spot  is  gone  !  Oh  ! 
no, no,  wretched  child,  here  it  is  again  on 
tie  other  side.  I  know  not  what  to  do 
--where  to  turn — I  will  try  if  I  can 
s  eep.  Oh,  yes — sleep — sleep,  dream  of 

0  ;her  tilings,  forget  all ;  that  will  be  sweet, 
t  lat  will  be  delightful !    (Goes  out.} 

There  is  a  difference,  as  our  play- 
£  oing  readers  will  have  remarked, 
\  etween  the  treatment  of  this  scene 

1  y  Tieck,  and  our  distinguished  and 
lighly    moral     stage-licenser.       In 
r.  deck's,  to  be  sure,  the  public  are 
(heated  of  all  the  horrors  of  the 
]  ilue  Chamber.  No  groan  breaks  the 
stillness  of  the  night  as  when  the  un- 
fortunate Fatima  approaches  thefor- 
l  idden  chamber  of  Abomelique;  no 
Lollow  voice  from  within  proclaims 
<  eath  to  the  intruder;  nor  do  the 
5  awning  doors  disclose  the  interior 


217 


streaked  with  blood,  and  garnished 
with  sepulchres  "in  the  midst  of  which 
ghastly  and  supernatural  forms  are 
seen,  some  in  motion,  some  fixed ;" 
with  "  a  large  skeleton  in  the  centre, 
seated  on  a  tomb,  with  a  dart  in  his 
hand,  and  over  his  head  written  in 
characters  of  blood  *  The  Punish- 
ment of  Curiosity.'"  Of  all  this 
raw-head  and  bloody-bones  page- 
ant, we  see  nothing.  But  was  ever  the 
natural  progress  of  curiosity — the 
sophisms  to  which  it  has  recourse, 
the  vacillations  between  fear  and  de- 
sire, the  sense  of  duty  and  the  long- 
ings of  the  sex  after  things  denied, 
more  graphically  depicted  ?  Does 
not  our  own  curiosity  seem  to  rise 
as  we  read  ?  Do  we  not  follow 
the  retreating  steps  of  Agnes  with 
the  deepest  interest,  with  something 
of  our  ancient  childish  terror  ?  And 
from  her  broken  sentences,  her  dark 
hints — her  terror,  her  confusion  of 
mind,  do  we  not  picture  to  ourselves 
something  a  little  more  ghastly  than 
the  above  phantasmagoria  of  Col- 
man? 

The  commencement  of  the  Fifth 
Act  carries  us  back  to  the  Castle  of 
Friedheim. 

Scene  /. 

A  Hall  at  Friedheim. 

Simon.  ( With  a  torch).  He  must  rise 
whether  he  will  or  not,  for  now  I  know 
it  for  a  certainty.  He  can  escape  me  no 
longer.  — (  He  knocks  at  a  door) — Anthony ! 
Anthony  ! — awake  ! 

Anth.  (  Within.)  Who  is  there  ? 

Simon.  'Tis  I — Simon — your  brother; 
get  up  quickly,  I  must  speak  to  you  of 
something  urgent. 

Anth.  Must  your  madness  destroy  to 
me  the  repose  of  midnight  ? 

Simon.  Speak  not  so,  brother.  You  will 
repent  of  it.  I  believe  he  has  fallen 
asleep  again.  What,  lio  ! — get  up — 
awake. 

Anth.  Will  you  never  give  over  raving. 

Simon.  Abuse  me  as  you  will — only 
rise.  Rise — I  will  give  you  no  rest,  bro- 
ther. 

Anth.  (Comes  out  in  his  night-dress.)  Tell 
me  then  what  you  want? 

Simon.  Brother,  I  have  been  unable  to 
sleep  the  whole  night. 

Anth.  I  slept  so  much  the  sounder. 

Simon.  You  see  my  prophecies,  my 
forebodings,  or  what  you  will,  were  more 
distinct  than  wont. 

Anth.  What !  have  I  risen  only  to  lis- 
ten to  your  folly  ? 


218 


Tieck's  Bluebeard. 


[Feb. 


Simon.  I  foretold  to  you  that  our  bro- 
ther had  carried  off  the  daughter  of  Hans 
von  Marloff,  and  so  it  was.  The  old  man 
was  here  to  complain  of  it  last  night. 

Anth.  Any  one  might  have  prophesied 
that. 

Simon.  And  this  night  I  have  seen  our 
sister  weeping  incessantly,  and  I  have 
been  fighting  the  whole  night  through 
with  Bluebeard. 

Anth.  Well—what  then? 

Simon.  Her  life  is  in  danger,  1  tell  you, 
brother.  That  Bluebeard  is  a  villain — in 
what  I  know  not — but  enough  that  he  is 
so. 

Anth.  Good-night,  brother.  Your  mode 
€f  reasoning  is  too  much  for  me. 

Simon.  Is  it  not  enough,  brother,  that 
you  have  thrown  away  our  sister  on  a 
ruffian  like  this  ?  Will  you  now  leave  her  in 
danger  of  her  life  ?  Anthony,  let  your  fra- 
ternal heart  for  once  be  melted.  Perhaps 
at  this  moment  she  casts  a  longing  look 
for  us  from  the  window  of  her  prison.  She 
wishes  that  her  deep  sobs  could  reach  to 
us  to  lure  us  to  her  assistance.— She 
wails  for  her  brothers.  And  we  may  arrive 
only  to  find  her  dead,  and  stretched  upon 
her  bier. 

Anth.  But  what  has  awakened  these 
thoughts  ? 

Simon.  My  whole  fancy  is  filled  with 
these  gloomy  imaginations.  I  can  think 
and  dream  of  nothing  cheerful.  All  my 
visions  are  of  death.  I  cannot  rest  till 
my  sword  has  stretched  this  villain  at  my 
feet.  Come,  come,  methinks  somehow,  at 
this  distance,  I  hear  my  sister's  cry.  How 
soon  may  our  horses  be  saddled— how 
soon  may  we  be  there  ? 

Anth.  The  maddest  thing  about  insa- 
nity is  that  it  infects  the  sane. 

Simon.  You  will  see  I  am  not  mistaken. 

Anth.  I  scarcely  know  how  it  is,  I 
yield  to  you. 

Simon.  Dress  yourself.  I  will  saddle 
the  horses ;— -this  torch  will  light  our  way 
till  the  sun  rises. 

Scene  II. 
BERNER'S  Castle. 

AGNES  enters  with  a  lamp.  She  places 
it  upon  a  table,  and  sits  down  beside  it,  then 
takes  the  bey  from  her  pocket. 

Agnes.  That  spot  will  not  out.  I  have 
rubbed  it  and  washed  it  all  day,  but  there 
it  remains.  When  I  gaze  at  it  thus  fix- 
edly, I  sometimes  think  it  is  disappear- 
ing ;  but  when  I  turn  my  eyes  to  other 
objects  and  then  look  at  it  again,  it  is  still 
there,  and,  as  it  were,  darker  than  ever. 
I  might  tell  him  I  had  lost  it,  but  that 


would  raise  his  suspicions  to  a  height. 
Perhaps  he  may  not  ask  me  for  the  key. 
Perhaps  he  may  not  observe  it.  When  I 
give  it  to  him  I  will  hand  it  to  him  with 
the  clear  side  uppermost.  Why  should 
he  think  of  looking  at  it  so  minutely  ? 
Perhaps  the  spot  may  disappear  before  he 
return.  Ah!  if  Heaven  could  only  be 
so  gracious  to  me  ! 

Anne.  (Enters.)  How  are  you,  dear 
sister  ? 

Agnes.  But  what  if  it  do  not  disappear  ? 
I  shall  begin  to  think  the  key  knows  all, 
and  that  it  is  for  my  punishment  that  it 
will  not  be  cleaned. 
Anne.  Sister ! 

Agnes.  God  in  heaven ! — Who  is  there? 
Anne.  .How  you  start — It  is  I. 
Agnes.  (Concealing  the  key  with  precipita- 
tion. )  I  did  not  expect 

Anne.  How  changed  you  are,  Agnes, 
within  these  few  days  !— Speak  to  me — to 
your  sister — who  loves  you  so  tenderly. 
You  are  feverish — Your  pulse  burns- 
Tell  me,  are  you  ill. 

Agnes.  Nay,  sister — Come,  we  will  to 
bed  again. 

Anne.  Something  has  happened  to  you, 
though  you  will  not  confess  it  to  me. 
Why  will  you  not  trust  me? — Have  I 
ever  deceived  you  ? — Have  you  ever  found 
me  treacherous — destitute  of  sisterly  af- 
fection ? 

Agnes.  (Weeping).  Never, never.  You 
were  always  good — O,  better — far  better 
than  I ! 

Anne.  Ah!  not  so — Often  have  you 
suffered  from  my  moody  humours.— For- 
give me— Can  you  ? 

Agnes.  Do  not  speak  so. 
Anne.  I  have  watched  you  for  two 
days— You  do  not  speak— You  steal 
about — You  conceal  yourself  in  a  corner 
— At  night  you  do  not  sleep — You  sigh 
so  heavily — Share  your  grief  with  me.  If 
I  cannot  console  you,  I  can  bear  your 
sorrows  with  you. 

Agnes.  Hear  me  then— but  you  will 
blame  me. 

Anne.  Nay — if  you  have  no  confidence 

in  me 

Agnes.   And  yet  perhaps   you  would 
yourself  have  done  the  same.    You  know 
that  from  my  childhood  I  was  ever  fond 
of  seeing  arid  hearing  novelties.     This 
luckless  passion  has  deprived  me  of  my 
happiness — perhaps  of  my  life. 
Anne.  You  terrify  me. 
Agnes.  I  could  not  restrain  my  curio- 
sity. The  other  night  I  entered  the  for- 
bidden chamber. 
Anne.  Well? 

Agnes.  O,  would  to  heaven  I  had  re- 
mained behind !  Why  is  the  human 
mind  so  framed,  that  such  a  prohibition 


1833.] 


Tieck's  Bluebeard. 


219 


only  operates  as  an  incentive  ?  I  know 
not  how  I  shall  be  able  to  relate  the  cir- 
cumstances to  you ;  for,  as  often  as  I 
think  of  them,  a  cold  shudder  comes 
over  me.  I  opened  the  door  with  care. 
I  had  a  light  in  my  hand.  My  first  re- 
solve had  been  only  to  look  in,  and  to 
retire  immediately.  When  I  opened  the 
door,  I  saw  nothing  but  an  empty  room, 
ard  in  the  background,  a  green  curtain, 
as  if  concealing  an  alcove  or  a  bedcham- 
ber. I  could  not  turn — the  curtain 
looked  so  mysterious.  Methought  it 
moved — it  was  the  current  rushing  in 
tl  rough  the  open  door.  A  strange  op- 
pressive smell  pervaded  the  apartment. 
In  order  to  be  careful,  I  drew  out  the 
kay — I  advanced  trembling — I  felt  a  se- 
cret terror  that  the  door  would  close  of 
itself  and  for  ever  behind  me.  I  drew 
near  to  the  curtain.  My  heart  beat,  but 
it  was  no  longer  with  curiosity.  I  drew 
it  back — still  I  saw  nothing ;  for  the  light 
threw  only  a  weak  and  uncertain  glimmer 
into  the  gloom.  I  advanced  behind  the 
curtain — and  now,  sister — sister— think 
of  my  horror!  Round  about  on  the  walls 
stood  six  skeletons.  There  was  blood  on 
tae  walls— blood  on  the  floor.  A  shriek 
seemed  to  echo  from  the  window — it  was 
myself  doubtless  that  screamed.  The 
key  fell  from  my  hands.  I  was  deafened 
— it  sounded  as  if  the  castle  were  crum- 
bling to  the  ground.  Above  the  skele- 
tons stood  inscriptions  with  the  names  of 
the  murdered — the  six  former  wives  of 
Berner — with  the  date  on  which  they 
were  punished  for  their  curiosity — or 
perhaps  I  may  have  but  fancied  that — for 
I  know  not  when  or  how  I  came  to 
)ny  senses !  O  with  what  horrid  fan- 
cies has  my  mind  been  since  haunted  !  I 
dad  picked  up  the  key — it  had  fallen 
among  blood.  I  was  in  agony  lest  I 
should  find  the  door  had  closed  upon  me. 
[  rushed  against  the  curtain,  as  if  I  were 
labouring  to  overturn  a  giant,  and  again 
I  was  alone  in  the  desolate  chamber.  O 
think,  sister — if  I  had  been  doomed  to  pass 
the  night  in  that  abode  of  misery — if  the 
moon  had  shone  into  the  bloody  chamber 
—if  the  skeletons  had  moved — or  if  my 
fancy  had  imparted  life  to  them — I  should 
have  dashed  my  head  against  the  walls — 
I  should  have  clasped  the  hideous  moul- 
dering remnants  in  my  arms — I  should 
have  gone  distracted  with  terror  and  des- 
pair !  O  think— think  of  that,  sister — 
such  visions  are  enough  to  drive  one 
mad. 

Anne.   Calm  yourself,  Agnes — It  is  I 
— I  hold  you  here  in  my  arms. 

Agnes.   Ah !    what  avails  that,  when 
horror  is  so  near  at  hand?  You  have  but 


to  cross  that  threshold,  and  it  lies  before 
you.  O  sister,  what  a  castle  this  is— a 
slaughter-house ! 

Anne.  Sister,  we  must  hence — our 
brothers  must  protect  us.  Would  the 
old  woman  were  not  here  ? 

Agnes.   Perhaps  she  will  assist  us. 

Anne.  Poor  child !  Doubtless  she  is 
in  league  with  the  monster. 

Agnes.  Heavens  !  and  she  so  old  ! 

Anne.  Unfortunate  sister! 

Agnes.  But  perhaps  he  may  not  re- 
turn. But  lately  you  made  me  melancholy 
with  that  thought — now  it  is  almost  my 
only  consolation. 

Anne.  But  if  he  should  return  ? 

Agnes.  Ah  !  sister,  I  fear  me  I  am 
lost.  That  old  woman  !  She  must  know 
every  thing.  What  must  be  her  feelings  ? 
But  she  has  a  revolting  aspect.  When 
she  thinks  of  all  this — when  the  thought 
of  that  chamber  of  blood  is  present  with 
her,  how  can  she  eat,  drink,  or  sleep  ? 
And  he — he  himself— O  tell  me!  how 
can  a  man  be  so  converted  into  a  mon-  • 
ster!  It  all  seems  to  me  like  a  hideous 
vision.  And  yet  I  am  spell-bound  in  the 
centre  of  this  fearful  picture. 

Anne,  Compose  yourself — if  you  would 
have  a  chance  of  salvation — if  you  would 
not  lose  your  reason. 

Agnes.  It  is  half  gone  already.  O 
Anne,  it  is  frightful.  Even  when  you 
were  labouring  to  console  me,  methought 
it  was  the  old  woman  that  sate  beside 
me — (grasping  her.j  But  it  is  yourself — 
is  it  not? 

Anne.  Agnes — Agnes,  restrain  your- 
self. Away  with  this  madness. 

Agnes.  Look  on  this  key,  that  betrays  all. 
Day  and  night  I  have  laboured  to  efface 
this  frightful  spot,  but  all  in  vain. 

Anne.  Be  calm — be  calm. 

MECHTHILDE  enters  with  a  lantern. 

Anne.  Are  you  astir  so  early. 

Mech.  ;I  have  been  crawling  through 
all  the  house  already,  for  1  have  a  pre- 
sentiment that  our  master  will  be  home 
to-day. 

Agnes.  My  lord? 

Mech.  Your  joy  seems  to  agitate  you 
strangely.  But  how  is  it,  lady,  that  you 
too  are  up  so  early  ? 

Anne.   My  sister  is  not  well. 

Mech.  Not  well!  You  too  are  pale. 
Ah!  that  will  not  please  my  master.  I 
will  sit  beside  you,  for  my  sleep  is  by ; 
at  this  early  hour  it  is  difficult  to  sleep. 

Agnes.   Sit  down. 

Mech.  We  can  amuse  ourselves  with 
story-telling.  Nothing  serves  better  to 
keep  the  eyes  open,  especially  when  the 
stories  are  somewhat  terrible. 


220 


TiecKs  Bluebeard. 


[Feb. 


Anne.  I  know  none ;  but  you  may  tell 
us  something. 

Mech.  See,  the  moon  is  going  down. 
The  sky  is  getting  black  and  gloomy. 
Your  lamp  is  going  out ;  I  will  place  my 
lantern  on  the  table.  Truly,  lady,  I  know 
not  many,  and  am  but  an  indifferent 
story-teller;  but  I  will  try. 

'  There  was  once  a  forester  who  lived 
in  a  thick  wood — so  thick,  that  the  sun- 
beams only  pierced  through  it  in  broken 
beams ;  and  when  the  horn  blew,  it 
sounded  awfully  in  that  green  loneliness. 
The  house  of  the  forester  lay  in  the  very 
thickest  of  the  wood.  His  children  grew 
up  in  the  wilderness,  and  saw  nobody  but 
their  father,  for  their  mother  had  been 
long  dead. 

'  At  a  certain  period  of  the  year,  the 
father  was  always  accustomed  to  shut 
himself  up  for  a  whole  day  in  the  hut; 
and  then  the  children  used  to  hear  a 
strange  noise  about  the  house — a  whi- 
ning, and  shouting,  and  running,  and  cry- 
ing; in  short,  a  disturbance  as  if  the  de- 
vil himself  were  abroad.  At  such  times 
they  spent  their  time  in  the  hut  in  sing- 
ing and  prayer;  and  their  father  warned 
the  children  carefully  not  to  go -out. 

'  It  happened,  however,  on  one  occa- 
sion,  that  he  was  obliged  to  go  on  a  jour- 
ney during  the  week  when  that  day  hap- 
pened.  He  gave  them  the  strongest  or- 
ders not  to  stir  out ;  but  the  girl,  partly 
through  curiosity,  partly  that  she  had  for- 
gotten the  day,  went  out  of  the  hut.  Not 
far  from  the  house,  there  lay  a  grey  stag- 
nant lake,  round  which  old  moss-grown 
willows  stood.  The  girl  sat  down  by  the 
lake  ;  and  as  she  looked  in,  she  thought 
she  saw  strange  bearded  countenances 
gazing  at  her.  The  trees  began  to  rustle ; 
something  seemed  to  move  in  the  dis- 
tance ;  the  water  began  to  boil  up,  to 
grow  blacker  and  blacker,  and  all  at  once 
something  like  a  fish  or  a  frog  sprung  up, 
and  three  bloody,  bloody  hands  slowly 
rose,  and  pointed  with  their  crimson 
fingers  towards  the  girl* 

Agnes.  Bloody !  Sister,  sister,  for  God's 
sake  !  look  at  the  old  witch  !  See  how 
her  face  is  distorted  !  Look,  sister ! 

Mech.  Child!  what  is  the  matter? 

Agnes.  Bloody,  did  you  say  ?  Yes, 
bloody,  thou  loathsome  hag !  Your  life  is 
one  of  blood,  ye  butchers,  ye  ruthless 
murderers !  Away  with  her,  I  cannot 
bear  her  grinning  visage  opposite  to  me ! 
Away !  So  long  as  I  am  mistress  here,  I 
shall  be  obeyed. 

Mech.  These  are  strange  attacks. 

[Exit. 

Anne.  O  sister,  calm  yourself. 

Agnes.  You  should  have  seen  how  her 
visage  changed  during  the  story. 


Anne.  You  are  heated — these  are  mere 
imaginations. 

Agnes.  Then  why  did  she  speak  of 
blood  ?.  I  cannot  hear  the  word  without 
going  mad. 

Anne.  You  must  lie  down  again.  Sleep 
may  refresh  you. 

Agnes.  Sleep !  O,  no — no  sleep.  I 
cannot  sleep — but  I  will  rest  beside  you 
— I  will  hold  your  dear  hand  in  mine, 
while  you  speak  consolation  to  me. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene  IV. 

A  Terrace  before  the  Castle,  with  trees.  On 
the  right,  part  of  the  Castle,  with  the  great 
gate,  is  visible.  The  Castle  is  flat-roof ed, 
and  surrounded  with  a  balcony ;  at  the 
fide  a  towerf  to  ivhich  a  stair  leads  up. 

ANNE,  AGNES,  upon  the  roof. 

Anne.  How  beautiful  the  sun  has 
risen ! 

Agnes.  It  brings  no  consolation  to  me. 

Anne.  See  how  the  fresh  and  ruddy 
beam  streams  in  yonder  between  the  far 
hills — how  the  country  becomes  visible 
by  degrees  in  the  morning  ray. 

Agnes.  Oh!  Anne!     (hastily.} 

Anne.  What  is  it,  sister  ? 

Agnes.  Perhaps  he  may  not  return.  I 
am  so  agitated  since  that  night,  that  your 
lightest  tone  falls  grating  on  my  ear. 

Anne.  I  meant  it  for  the  best. 

Agnes.  I  know  it.  It  is  that  supports 
me. 

Anne.  No. 

Agnes.  It  comes  from  the  corner  of 
the  wood  yonder. 

Anne.  It  is  want  of  sleep  which  makes 
strange  noises  in  your  ear. 

Agnes.  No— I  hear  the  trumpets 
plainly. 

Anne.  (After  a  pause.)  I  hear  them 
too. 

Agnes.  O,  my  breast  beats  wildly  !  It 
is  they !  I  will  try  in  the  meantime  to 
compose  myself.  Perhaps  he  will  not  be 
so  enraged  as  I  expected.  In  our  terror 
we  are  apt  to  overrate  things.  Is  it  not 
so,  sister? 

Anne.  Surely. 

Agnes.  It  approaches.  It  is  my  hus- 
band !  I  can  recognise  the  colours  already. 

Anne.  It  is  they. 

Martial  music.   A  train  of  servants.  PETER 
on  horseback  below. 

Peter.  Ah !  my  wife.    Good  morning, 
Agnes. 
Agnes,  Good  morning. 


1833.]  TiecKs  Bluebeard. 

'Peter.  Remain  there,  I  will  come  up. 
Leave  the  gates  open.  The  others  with 
the  booty  will  be  here  immediately. 

[They  enter  the  gate. 

Agnes.  He  is  coming  here.  It  is  he 
indeed  ! 

Anne.  Collect  yourself,  dear  sister,  all 
may  yet  be  well. 

Agnes.  I  am  sick  of  life  :  yet  death  is 
terrible  to  me.  I.  understand  not  myself. 

PETER  BERNER  appears  on  the  balcony. 

Agnes.  I  had  a  presentiment  that  you 
would  come. 

Peter.  I  have  returned  sooner  than  I 
hal  calculated  on.  My  foes  are  defeated, 
an  I  rich  booty  has  fallen  into  our  hands. 

Agnes.  Fortune  seems  always  to  ac- 
company you. 

Peter.  Think  you  so  ? — And  how,  in 
th  3  meantime,  have  you  been  ? 

Agnes.  Quite  well. 

Peter.  Methinks  you  look  pale. 

Agnes.  We  rose  this  morning  so  early. 

MECHTHILDE  enters. 

Peter.  How  have  you  crawled  up,  old 
house-dragon  ? 

Mech.  I  came  to  wish  you  joy,  my  lord. 

Peter.  I  thank  you. 

Mech.  The  morning  meal  is  ready. 

Peter.  Good.  It  is  a  fair  prospect  from 
hi:nce.  But  standing  at  this  height  one 
must  be  wary  ;  sometimes  the  inclination 
seizes  us  to  leap  down  ;  the  depth  of  the 
descent  lures  us  into  the  abyss. 

Anne.  Women  think  not  of  such  things ; 
but  my  brother  Simon  would  talk  of  it  for 
hours. 

Agnes.  Here  are  the  keys;  but  I'll 
g  ve  you  them  afterwards. 

Peter.  Very  good.  You  have  seen 
every  thing? 

Agnes.  With  delight.  I  have  satiated 
myself  with  wonders. 

Peter.  I  think  you  may  as  well  give 
me  them  now. 

Agnes.  Here.  The  golden  one  I  shall 
keep. 

Peter.  For  what  purpose  ? 

Agnes.  As  a  remembrance. 

Peter.  Little  fool ! 

Agnes.  Now,  seriously,  I  don't  intend 
to  give  it  you.  I  must  try  your  patience 
e  little. 

Peter.  My  patience  does  not  bear  much. 

Agnes.  And  yet  we  have  not  been  so 
l}ng  married  as  to  quarrel  already. 

Peter.  After  a  quarrel  the  reconcilia- 
tion is  the  sweeter. 

Agnes.  I  see  you  do  not  trust  me  ;  so 
L'll  keep  the  key  a  little  longer  in  jest. 

Peter.  You  will  give  it  to  me — I  ask 
it  seriously. 

Agnes.  What  if  I  refuse  ? 

Peter.  Then  you  may  keep  it  entirely. 


221 


Agnes.  I  never  saw  you  in  such  good- 
humour. 

Peter.  I  am  well  to-day.     Every  thing 
has  succeeded  with  me.     Now,  childish 
wife,  give  me  the  key. 
Agnes.  Here,  then. 
Peter.  Now  we  will  go  down  to  break- 
fast. 

Mech.  Come,  my  lord. 
Peter.  (Playing  with  the  key.)    What 
is  the  matter  ? 

Agnes.  Nothing.     Shall  we  go  ? 
Peter.  What  spot  is  this  ? 
Agnes.  A  spot!     Perhaps  it  may  have 
got  it  just  now. 

Peter.  Now  !  hypocritical  serpent.  O 
Agnes !  I  thought  not  to  lose  you  so 
soon.  None  of  my  wives  left  me  so  sud- 
denly; for  to  all  of  them  my  commands 
were  of  some  force  for  a  few  weeks.  But 

you 

Agnes.  Ah  !  be  not  angry. 
Peter.  Accursed  curiosity.  (He  throios 
the  hey  from  him)  Through  thee  came 
the  first  sin  into  the  guiltless  world,  and 
still  thou  leadest  men  to  sins  too  dark, 
too  monstrous  to  be  named.  The  crime 
of  the  first  mother  of  mankind  has  poi- 
soned all  her  daughters,  and  woe  to  the 
deceived  husband  who  trusts  to  your 
false  tenderness,  the  feigned  innocence  of 
your  eyes,  your  smiles,  the  pressure  of 
your  hands !  Deceit  is  your  trade,  and 
you  are  beautiful  only  that  you  may  the 
better  deceive.  Your  very  sex  should 
be  swept  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
This  shameless  curiosity — this  baseness 
of  heart — this  contemptible  weakness  of 
disposition  it  is,  which  with  you  dis- 
severs every  tie, — makes  you  break  your 
plighted  faith  :  and  then,  allied  with  cow- 
ardice, tempts  you  to  the  most  ruthless 
murders.  Hell  itself !  the  very  embraces 
of  the  devil,  are  the  price  ye  pay  for  the 
indulgence  of  this  pleasure.  Enough  ! 
you  have  chosen  your  fate. 

Agnes.  I  tremble  to  look  on  you.  Have 
pity  on  me ! 

Peter.  Old  woman,  take  up  the  key. 
Mech.    You  wish  to  open  the  Cabi- 
net? Good.  [Exit. 
Agnes.  ( Kneels.)  Have  mercy  !    For- 
give me  my  presumption  ;  you  shall  not 
repent  of  it;  I  will  reward  you  for  it 
with  all  my  love. 

Peter.  Do  I  not  know  you  ?  At  this 
moment  you  loathe  me,  you  would  fly  if 
but  an  opportunity  offered. 

Agnes.  So  young,  and  yet  to  die  so 
terrible  a  death ! — Discard  me  as  your 
wife — make  me  your  servant ;  the  servant 
of  your  housekeeper ;  any  thing  ;  but  0 1 
let  me  live ! 

Peter.  Your  prayers  are  vain.  It  is 
against  my  vow. 


222 


TiecKs  Bluebeard. 


[Feb. 


Anne.  (Kneels.)  O  spare  my  sister; 
let  your  heart  be  moved  as  becomes  a 
man :  give  mercy  as  you  expect  mercy ; 
look  on  the  agony  of  your  poor  wife ! 
Let  my  tears  find  their  way  to  your  heart. 
I  will  not  say  her  guilt  is  trifling,  but  the 
greater  it  is,  the  more  noble  will  be  your 
lenity. 

Agnes.  Dear,  dear  husband,  look  on 
me  with  kindness;  not  so;  not  with 
these  fearful  eyes.  Let  me  cling  to  your 
knees  ;  turn  not  from  me  so  coldly,  think 
of  the  love  you  once  bore  to  me.  Ah ! 
let  me  not  die  this  fearful  fearful  death  ; 
drag  me  not  into  the  bloody  chamber ;  drive 
me  forth  to  the  woods — to  the  wilder- 
ness— to  the  stags  and  wolves ;  but  oh ! 
let  me  not  die  here;  not  to-day ! 

Peter.  All  is  in  vain. 

Agnes.  Every  prayer — every  tear  in 
vain? 

Peter.  By  the  heaven  above  us  ! 

Agnes.  (Rising  hastily.)  Then  rise, 
sister,  pollute  your  knees  no  longer. 
Now  hear  me  for  the  last  time,  thou  cold- 
blooded, blood-thirsty  monster!  hear  that 
I  loathe  thee,  that  thou  wilt  not  escape 
thy  punishment. 

Anne.  Had  we  but  other  two  women 
here,  our  nails  should  scratch  your  little 
serpent-like  eyes  out  of  your  head. 

Agnes.  Detestable  monster !— no  man, 
but  an  abortion — the  mother  that  bore 
you  should  have  drowned  you  like  a  dog, 
in  order  to  avert  the  evil  you  were  to 
bring  upon  the  world. 

Peter.  Ho  !  ho !  What  prevents  me 
from  throwing  you  both  down  from  this 
height?  Bethink  yourselves,  ye  are  mad. 
Is  this  language  for  women — Now  come, 
Agnes.  The  door  beneath  is  unlocked. 

Agnes.  And  is  this  your  final  purpose. 
O  woe  is  me!  I  cannot  move,  my 
strength  is  exhausted. 

Peter.  Come ! 

Agnes.  One  prayer  to  Heaven — you 
will  allow  me  time  for  that  ? 

Peter.  Then  be  quick,  I  will  wait  below. 

[Exit. 

Agnes.  Ah !  sister— were  it  not  better 
to  leap  down  at  once  from  this  giddy 
height.  But  my  courage  fails  me.  (She 
kneels.')  I  will  pray.  O,  if  my  brothers 
could  but  come  !  Sister,  look  out  into 
the  country — it  were  possible.  Ah !  I 
cannot  give  a  thought  to  heaven.  See 
you  nothing? 

Peter.  (From  below.)  Agnes! 

Agnes.  Immediately. 

Anne.  I  see  nothing  but  the  field,  and 
the  wood,  and  the  mountains.  All  is 
calm— not  a  breath  stirs.  The  trees  on 
this  side  shut  out  the  prospect. 

Agnes.  If  your  head  be  not  giddy,  I 
would  pray  yoato  ascend  the  tower— but 


beware  of  falling.  Now,  see  you  any 
thing? 

Peter.  (Below.)  Agnes! 

Agnes.  This  instant. 

Anne.  Nothing  but  trees,  fields,  and 
mountains,  and  the  warm  air  moves  in- 
waves  over  the  ground  in  the  heat  of  the 
sun. 

Agnes.  Alas  !  and  I  cannot  pray.  In- 
voluntarily I  feel  myself  calling  Simon, 
Anthony,  as  if  help  were  yet  at  hand. 

Peter.  (Below.)  Agnes,  you  make  me 
impatient ! 

Agnes.  But  one  short  prayer !  See 
you  nothing  still  ? 

Anne.  I  see  dust  rising. 

Agnes.  O  joy,  joy! 

Anne.  Alas,  alas  !  it  is  but  a  flock  of 
sheep. 

Agnes.  Am  I  not  a  fool  to  hope  for 
impossibilities  ?  I  will  resign  myself  to 
my  fate.  I  will  reconcile  myself  to  death. 
Come  down,  sister — you  see  nothing  still 
— and  let  me  take  leave  of  you. 

Anne.  I  see  a  horseman — two. 

Agnes.  How  ?  is  it  possible  ? 

Anne.  They  rush  like  lightning  down 
the  mountain,  the  one  after  the  other. 

Agnes.  O  God! 

Anne.  The  one  is  before  the  other — 
far  before. 

Peter.  (Below.)  Agnes,  I  am  coming. 

Agnes.  I  am  on  my  way  to  you ;  my 
sister  is  giving  me  a  last  embrace. 

Anne.  He  comes  nearer  and  nearer  ! 

Agnes.  Do  you  not  know  him  ? 

Anne.  No — yes  ! — It  is  Simon  !  (She 
waves  her  handkerchief.)  Oh  woe!  his 
horse  stumbles  with  him — he  falls — he 
rises — he  runs  on  foot ! 

Agnes.  Where  am  I  ? — I  know  not 
whether  I  am  alive  or  dead. 

Anne.  He  is  close  by ! 

Agnes.  What  a  strange  dream — would 
I  were  awake.  (She  sinks  down.) 

Peter,  (comes  up  with  a  drawn  sword. ) 
In  the  devil's  name,  where  do  you  tarry? 
How,  dead,  insensible  ? — I  will  drag  her 
by  the  hair  to  the  spot  where  she  is  to 
bleed. 

Simon,  (rushes  in  hastily  below  with  his 
sword  drawn.)  Stay — stay — murderer — 
villain  !  (He  rushes  through  the  gale. ) 

Anne.  (Above.)  Help,  help! 

Peter,  (letting  Agnes  fall.)  What  cry 
was  that  that  rose  so  shrilly  here  ?  (Lays 
hold  of  her  again.)  Down  with  you — de- 
spite of  angels  or  devils  !  (He  attempts  to 
drag  her  out.) 

Simon,  (rushing  against  him.)  Stay — 
villain  ! 

Peter.  How?  Do  you  dare?  '    "» 

Simon.  Speak  not.  Let  the  sword-  de- 
cide. (Theyjight.  PETER  Jails.  -  SIMON 
drives  the  sword  through  his  heart.)  Now,  I 


1838.] 

feul   happy.     Now  I  am  at  ease.  Agnes ! 

G^d  in  heaven,  she  is  dead  ! 

Anne.  Agnes,  dear  sister  !  O  brother, 
thinks!  Agnes,  all  danger  is  over.  (She 
op ^ns  her  eyes.) 

Agnes.  Where  am  I  ?— Ah,  heaven, 
Simon  !  Are  you  there — Whence  did  you 
come? — And  the  murderer — 

Simon.  There  he  lies  dead  at  your  feet. 
I  scarcely  know  how  I  came  hither — 
Sc  m'ething  like  a  tempest  seemed  to  blow 
ran  on.  And  when  I  first  came  in  sight  of 
the  castle  and  saw  your  handerchief  w'a- 
vi:ig — No  matter — All  is  well  now.  Come 
down — the  sight  of  this  wretch  shall  agi- 
tate you  no  more.  (  They  lead  her  down.)" 

We  have  omitted  a  good  deal  of 
episodical  matter, which  refers  chief- 
ly to  the  love  adventures  of  Brother 
Leopold  with  Brigetta,  the  daughter 
of  Hans  von  Marloff,  and  sundry 
comic  scenes  with  the  Fool  and 
Counsellor,  thinking  their  prattle  to 
be  tedious,  in  order  to  present  the 
real  point  of  interest  unincumbered 
by  these  accessories.  The  truth  is, 
th.it  all  that  part  of  the  play,  which 
is  a  mere  excrescence  on  the  origin- 
al, might,  with  much  advantage, 


TiecWs  Bluebeard. 


have  been  omitted ;  nor  is  there  any 
thing  in  the  humour  of  the  Fool,  or 
the  folly  of  the  Counsellor,  which, 
to  those  accustomed  to  the  Touch- 
stone or  Dogberry  of  Shakspeare, 
is  likely  to  reconcile  them  to  the  in- 
troduction of  characters  so  totally 
unconnected  with  the  plot.  The 
wit,  such  as  it  is,  is  too  obviously 
prepared,  and  the  characters  too  pal- 
pably opposed  to  each  other,  on  a 
principle  of  absolute  contrast.  Had 
Bluebeard  been  written  in  three 
Acts  instead  of  five,  and  the  action 
confined  to  the  single  idea  of  the 
punishment  of  curiosity,  it  would 
have  been  an  admirable  effective 
acting  play.  The  whole  of  the  last 
Act  is  dramatic,  and  agitating  in  the 
highest  degree.  As  it  is,  however, 
we  scarcely  wonder  that,  as  yet, 
Bluebeard,  though  printed  %in  1797, 
and  read,  admired,  and  lauded  by 
every  German  critic,  since  Schlegel 
led  the  way  in  the  Jena  Literatur 
Zeitung,  has  found  no  manager  en- 
terprising enough  to  bring  it  upon 
the  stage. 


IRELAND.    No.  II. 


THE  DISMEMBERMENT  OF  THE  EMPIRE. 


AMONG  the  many  dangers  to  which 
the  empire,  as  the  reward  of  its  de- 
mocratic madness,  is  now  exposed, 
there  is  none  which  appears  so  im- 
mediate as  that  of  dismemberment, 
from  the  distractions  of  Ireland,  and 
the  powerful  influence  which  the 
Reform  Bill  has  given  to  its  reckless 
and  unprincipled  agitators.  We  were 
told  again  and  again,  till  great  part  of 
the  nation  came  to  believe  the  falla- 
cy, that  the  Catholic  influence  would 
be  absolutely  trifling  in  Parliament ; 
that  five  or  six  members  were  all 
thai;  the  priests  would  be  able  to  re- 
turn for  an  hundred  years  to  come ; 
than  they  would  be  lost  amidst  the 
cro  wd  of  English  Protestants ;  and 
that;,  of  all  the  chimeras  on  earth,  the 
most  extravagant  was  to  expect  dan- 
ger from  that  quarter.  These  prin- 
ciples the  Whigs  incessantly  incul- 
cate d  for  thirty  years;  and  on  them 
they  acted  in  passing  the  Irish  Re- 
form Bill,— and  giving  to  its  ardent, 

VOL,  xxxin.  NO.  cciv. 


impassioned,  destitute,  and  priest- 
ridden  population  the  same  privileges 
as  to  the  sober  yeomanry  of  Eng- 
land. 

What  is  the  consequence  ?  Are 
the  Catholics  so  very  despicable  ? 
Is  the  Popish  priesthood  so  very 

Eowerless  in  the  formation  of  legis- 
itive  authority?  Is  the  cause  of 
the  Repeal — in  other  words,  of  the 
dismemberment  of  the  empire,  so 
very  hopelessj  Is  O'Connell,  the 
great  agitator,"reduced,  as  lie  said  he 
would  be  by  emancipation,  to  a  mere 
plodding  nisi  prius  lawyer  ?  The 
reverse  of  all  this  has  avowedly 
taken  place.  The  Catholic  priests 
have  returned  above  half  of  the  Irish 
members;  O'Connell  himself  is  at 
the  head  of  a  band  of  ten  of  his  own 
relations ;  and  thirty  more  are  ready 
to  obey  his  summons.  The  Repeal- 
ers constitute  an  undoubted  majority 
of  the  legislators  sent  from  the  other 
side  of  the  Channel. 


224 


Ireland.    No.  II. 


[Feb 


The  following  analysis  of  the  com- 
position of  the  new  Parliament,  so 
far  as  it  can  be  judged  of  before  its 
deliberations  have  commenced,  will 
shew  the  immense  importance  of  this 
body  to  the  whole  empire. 

Whigs  decided,  .  284 
Whigs  wavering,  .  100 
Conservatives,  .  145 

Radicals,    .        .        .127 

656 

Now,  the  importance  of  these  Irish 
Repealers  consists  in  this.  They  in- 
variably coalesce  on  every  occasion 
with  the  Radicals  and  irreligious 
party  in  the  British  Parliament.  A 
large  portion  of  the  Dissenters  join 
them.  These  three  parties  have  for 
many  years  invariably  acted  to- 
gether. The  bond  of  union  is  ob- 
vious. Hatred  at  England  and  the 
English  Church  is  the  tie  which 
keeps  together,  and  will  keep  to- 
gether, until  their  designs  are  ac- 
complished, this  otherwise  hetero- 
geneous union.  They  may  quarrel 
about  the  spoil  when  it  is  gained ; 
but,  till  that  is  the  case,  they  will 
never  separate.  As  long  as  an  acre 
of  the  ancient  inheritance  of  the 
Church  of  England  remains  to  that 
noble  establishment,  so  long  will  the 
Catholics,  the  Radicals,  and  the  Infi- 
dels league  together  for  its  spolia- 
tion. 

Nor  is  the  power  of  this  formid- 
able coalition  confined  to  mere  votes 
within  Parliament.  It  wields  at  will 
the  vast  Political  Unions  of  England, 
called  into  existence  by  the  Whig 
Ministry,  and  vested  with  power  by 
the  Reform  Bill.  It  directs  the  ar- 
dent and  reckless  Catholics  of  Ire- 
land, destitute,  for  the  most  part,  of 
property,  burning  with  now  unfet- 
tered passions,  and  guided  by  an  able 
and  ambitious  priesthood ;  it  is  sup- 
ported by  the  unprincipled,  the  pro- 
fligate, the  abandoned,  and  the  insol- 
vent all  over  the  empire  ; — a  nume- 
rous race  at  all  times,  but  fearfully 
augmented  by  the  dissolution  of  prin- 
ciple, and  the  wreck  of  fortune  con- 
sequent on  the  political  agitation  of 
the  last  two  years ;  and  now,  in  al- 
most all  the  great  towns,  rendered 
omnipotent.  The  numerous  class 
so  well  described  by  Sallust  have 
everywhere  risen  into  fearful  poli- 
tical activity. — "  Semper  in  civitate 
quibus  opes  nullse  sunt,  bonis  invi- 


dent,  malos  extollunt ;  vetera  odere, 
nova  exoptant ;  odio  suarum  rerum 
mutari  omnia  student ;  turba  atque 
seditionibus  sine  cura  aluntur,  quo- 
niam  egestas  facile  habetur  sine  dam- 
no.  Sed  urbana  plebs  eo  vero  prse- 
ceps  ierat  multis  de  causis,  nam  qui 
ubique  probro  atque  petulantia  max- 
ime  prsestabant,  item  alii  per  dede- 
cora  patrimoniis  amissis,  postremo 
omnes  quos  flagitium  aut  facinus 
domo  expulerat,  ii  Romam,  sicut  in 
sentinam,  confluxerant."  The  repre- 
sentatives of  these  men  uniformly 
and  invariably  ally  themselves  with 
the  Catholics  and  the  Infidels  j  aud 
it  is  the  union  of  these  fearful  bodies, 
when  government  is  in  weak  and 
feeble  hands,  that  threatens  the  em- 
pire with  approaching  dissolution. 

Every  one  practically  acquainted 
with  the  House  of  Commons  must 
know  how  great  a  preponderance  a 
body  of  this  description,  constantly 
united,  perfectly  reckless,  and  care- 
less of  consequences,  and  always  at 
hand,  must  have  upon  their  deci- 
sions. It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
it  must  soon  acquire,  unless  firmly 
and  resolutely  resisted,  an  irresis- 
tible force.  Let  no  man  measure  the 
importance  of  such  a  body  in  a  pub- 
lic assembly,  by  the  mere  amount  of 
its  numbers.  Its  influence  consists 
in  the  support  it  receives  out  of 
doors ;  in  the  aid  of  a  numerous  and 
impassioned  body  of  supporters  in 
the  empire,  who  give  to  reckless 
ability  in  Parliament  the  aid  of  reck- 
less physical  strength  out  of  it.  By 
such  means,  in  the  days  of  a  pro- 
gressive popular  movement,  a  small 
body  of  desperate  characters  in  the 
Legislature  soon  acquire  a  great,  at 
last  an  irresistible  influence.  The 
Jacobins  in  the  first  French  Assem- 
bly were  just  nine  in  number;  they 
rose  to  an  hundred  in  the  second  j 
and  although  they  did  not  amount  to 
much  more  than  a  third  of  the  Con- 
vention at  its  first  opening,  they  gra- 
dually acquired,  by  the  threats  of 
physical  force,  and  the  aid  of  the  po- 
pulace, a  decided  command  over  its 
deliberations,  and  ultimately  led  out 
their  opponents  to  the  scaffold. 

There  never  was  a  more  mistaken 
idea  than  to  suppose  that  dema- 
gogues will  now  obtain  no  influence 
in  the  British  Parliament.  This  was 
prophesied  of  O'Connell  before  he 
was  admitted  -,  it  was  said  he  would 


1333.1  Ireland.    No.  II. 

nr\d  his  level;  and  he  did  find  his 
\evel,  and  that  was  about  the  third 
man  in  point  of  weight  and  import- 
ance in  the  late  House  of  Commons. 
The  times  are  gone  past,  when  ve- 
hement and  vulgar  mob  oratory  will 
Sail  within  the  walls  of  St  Stephen's ; 
they  succeed  now,  and  will  succeed 
:to  all  appearance  still  better  in  the 
new  Parliament,  because  the  com- 
position of  the  body  is  changed,  and 
trom  the  larger  intermixture  of  po- 
pular passion,  the  influence  of  popu- 
lar eloquence  is  more  strongly  felt. 
I  )anton  backed  by  the  Mountain  never 
failed  to  make  his  voice  of  thun- 
der heard  in  the  French  Convention. 

This  powerful  body  of  united  Ca- 
tholics, Radicals,  and  Infidels,  will, 
\7t  may  be  well  assured,  strain  every 
nerve  to  effect  the  dissolution  of  the 
Irish  Union.  Each  of  them  has  an 
i.  nportant  object  to  gain  by  such  an 
event.  The  Catholics  expect  to  ob- 
tain a  local  legislature,  and  with  it  a 
resumption  of  the  Catholic  estates, 
the  demolition  of  the  Protestant 
Church,  and  an  Hibernian  republic 
iu  close  alliance  with  France.  The 
Radicals  hope  from  such  an  event, 
s  ich  a  spread  of  republican  princi- 
ples in  this  country  as  will  render 
the  farther  maintenance  of  the  mo- 
narchial  institutions  impossible.  The 
Irreligionists  anticipate  with  delight 
the  overthrow  of  a  great  Christian 
establishment,  and  hope  from  it  to 
soe  the  march  of  infidelity  speedily 
become  as  general  in  this  country  as 
it  became  in  France  upon  the  over- 
throw of  its  establishment.  All  these 
classes  have  separate  interests  indu- 
cing them  to  coalesce  for  this  great 
object ;  and  seeing  as  we  have,  what 
c;in  be  done  by  general  intimidation 
and  brutal  violence,  it  is  fearful  to 
tlink  of  the  chances  which  exist 
against  the  empire  holding  together. 

The  repeal,  if  brought  forward  at 
once,  will  in  the  first  instance  be 
tl  rown  out  by  a  large  majority ;  per- 
haps three  or  four  to  one.  But  let 
it  not  be  imagined  that  the  project  is 
at  an  end  from  such  a  result.  Ministers 
h  ive  taught  the  revolutionists  how  to 
carry  what  at  first  appears  the  most 
hopeless  objects.  Agitation ;  pacific 
agitation ;  such  agitation  as  sickens 
the  heart  of  the  nation,  and  ulti- 
mately makes  them  yield  any  thing 
to  get  quit  of  it,  is  the  simple  but 
infernal  expedient.  It  was  thus  that 


225 

Catholic  Emancipation  was  carried  ; 
it  was  thus  that  Reform  was  carried ; 
it  will  be  thus  that  the  dismember- 
ment of  the  empire  will  be  carried. 

Experience  warrants  the  asser- 
tion, that  a  democratic  society  can 
never  hold  together  long,  if  the 
ruling  power  in  the  state  is  really 
the  popular  will.  An  aristocracy 
like  that  of  Rome  or  Venice,  may 
maintain  a  mighty  sway  for  a  course 
of  centuries,  but  a  real  democracy 
carries  within  itself  the  seeds  of 
speedy  and  rapid  dissolution.  Athens 
in  ancient  times,  and  Poland  in  mo- 
dern Europe  were  genuine  demo- 
cracies ;  the  empire  of  the  first,  after 
a  short  and  feverish  existence  was 
dissolved  at  Aigospotamos ;  the  pro- 
vinces of  the  latter  melted  away 
with  every  war  in  which  they  were 
engaged,  until  at  last  the  brilliant 
remnant  was  swept  from  the  book 
of  nations.  America  is  not  destined 
to  all  appearance  to  form  an  excep- 
tion to  the  general  rule ;  already  the 
Southern  States  are  arrayed  in  fierce 
hostility  against  the  Northern ;  ma- 
nufacturing cupidity  has  imposed  a 
tariff  upon  the  Union,  inconsistent 
with  the  existence  of  part  of  its  pro- 
vinces; and  before  Washington's 
bones  are  dissolved  in  the  tomb,  the 
sword  of  civil  discord  will  be  drawn 
in  the  land  to  which  he  bequeathed 
the  fatal  gift  of  democratic  freedom. 

The  reason  why  democratic  so- 
cieties so  speedily  fall  to  piecesj 
and  republican  states  never  main- 
tain any  consistency  unless  they  are 
practically  subjected  to  the  despotic 
authority  of  a  few  members,  a  Com- 
mittee of  Public  Safety,  a  Cromwell 
or  a  Napoleon,  is  that  the  lower 
classes  of  mankind,  when  invested 
with  power,  are  so  intolerably  over- 
bearing and  despotic  in  their  admi- 
nistration ;  and  have  so  little  regard 
either  in  their  words  or  their  actions 
to  any  thing  but  their  own  indivi- 
dual interests.  This  is  a  proposition 
universally  true ;  because  it  is  found- 
ed on  the  principles  of  human  na- 
ture. Look  at  private  life,  and  the 
working  of  the  principle  will  in- 
stantly be  perceived.  Ask  any  man 
who  has  experienced  both,  whether 
he  would  rather  be  governed  in  any 
particular,  or  do  business  in  any  de- 
partment with  a  committee  of  gen- 
tlemen or  a, body  of  democratic 
shopkeepers.  You  will  not  find  one 


22  G 


Ireland.    No.  If. 


[Feb. 


man  in  ten  thousand  who  in  private 
life,  and  unconnected  with  political 
agitators  will  hesitate  as  to  the  an- 
swer. The  same  cause  which  makes 
the  sway  of  a  body  of  town  demo- 
crats disagreeable  in  a  city,  makes  a 
really  democratic  legislature  intole- 
rable in  the  political  world.  Large 
bodies  of  mankind  never  can  be 
brought  to  attend  to  the  feelings  or 
the  interests  of  others ;  they  are  in- 
variably actuated  by  their  own  pas- 
sions, or  the  consideration  of  their 
own  advantage. 

The  operation  of  this  principle 
may  clearly  be  perceived  in  the  Bri- 
tish empire,  both  in  past  and  present 
times.  What  caused  us  to  lose  our 
North  American  Colonies  ?  The  de- 
mocratic intolerance  of  England, 
which  would  not  share  with  its  Trans- 
atlantic provinces  any  part  of  the 
privileges  which  she  herself  had 
with  so  much  difficulty  acquired. 
Look  at  the  state  of  public  feeling  in 
England  on  Irish  affairs:  you  will 
there  see  the  most  resolute  determi- 
nation to  maintain  the  supremacy  of 
Great  Britain  to  all  the  other  parts 
of  the  empire.  Look  at  Ireland: 
you  will  find  the  most  ardent  desire, 
among  all  the  Catholics  at  least,  for 
a  repeal  of  the  union,  and  a  separate 
legislature.  The  people  of  all  the 
great  towns  in  the  empire  are  clear 
for  the  immediate  emancipation  of 
the  West  India  negroes,  which  is 
tantamount  to  the  immediate  burn- 
ing of  every  West  India  plantation, 
and  the  instant  death  of  every  West 
India  proprietor  ;  the  inhabitants  of 
these  colonies  are  resolved,  before 
they  will  submit  to  extermination, 
to  throw  themselves  into  the  arms  of 
the  slave  states  in  the  southern  parts 
of  America.  Amidst  such  discord- 
ant and  unruly  elements,  the  ques- 
tion the  statesman  has  to  ask  him- 
self is,  what  chance  is  there  that  the 
vast  and  un wieldly  fabric  of  the  Bri- 
tish empire  can  hold  together,  sepa- 
rated as  its  parts  are  from  each  other 
by  oceans  and  hemispheres,  and  em- 
bracing as  it  does  the  world  in  its 
arms  ?  The  interests,  the  passions 
of  the  different  parts  of  so  vast  a  do- 
minion, are  as  much  separated  as  the 
fogs  of  England  are  from  the  snows 
of  Canada,  or  the  tornado  of  the 
West  from  the  monsoon  of  the  East 
Indies.  How  then  are  they  to  be  held 
together,  now  that  political  power  is 


exclusively  vested  in  the  lower  class 
of  the  middling  orders  ;  the  very 
men  of  all  others  the  most  arrogant 
and  presumptuous  in  their  rule  over 
others  ? 

One  single  example  will  suffice  to 
shew  the  imminent  danger  in  this 
respect  which  threatens  the  stabi- 
lity of  the  empire.  Every  body  knows 
the  fierce  and  intolerant  demands 
for  the  instant  emancipation  of  the 
negro  slaves,  which  have  been  rai- 
sed by  the  reckless  and  impassioned 
populace  of  the  great  cities  in  every 
part  of  the  empire.  Are  the  West 
India  proprietors  to  submit  quietly 
to  be  massacred,  to  give  over  their 
houses  to  the  flames,  and  their  child- 
ren to  the  tomahawk,  as  they  did  in 
St  Domingo?  No — warned  by  the 
dreadful  example  to  which,  with  the 
usual  recklessness  of  revolutionists, 
the  fanatical  party  in  this  country 
shut  their  eyes,  they  are  resolved  to 
resist,  and  they  have  openly  avow- 
ed their  intention  to  the  governor, 
through  the  medium  of  their  As- 
sembly. 

"  This  House  was  no  party  to  the 
measure  by  which  an  enquiry  was 
obtained  in  the  Commons'  House  of 
the  British  Parliament,  by  the  West 
India  proprietors  residing  out  of  this 
island ;  nor  do  we  admit  tha*  the 
House  of  Commons  can  institute  any 
effectual  enquiry  in  relation  to  the 
institutions  of  this  island,  or  its  in- 
ternal affairs.  To  understand  the 
laws  of  any  society,  and  the  influence 
of  customs  and  habits  over  those 
laws,  a  personal  residence  among 
the  inhabitants  of  the  country  is  in- 
dispensable. No  evidence  can  con- 
vey over  4500  miles,  those  circum- 
stances which  most  materially  affect 
the  welfare  of  a  people,  and  which, 
to  be  appreciated,  must  be  seen. 
Countries  might  be  mentioned  where 
the  laws,  in  theory,  have  been  con- 
sidered perfect;  but  where,  after 
centuries  of  legislation,  the  people 
are  starving  and  wretched.  This, 
we  are  proud  to  say,  is  not  the  case 
in  Jamaica,  notwithstanding  all  the 
defects  incident  to  the  state  of  sla- 
very, originally  forced  on  us  by 
Great  Britain. 

"  As  the  House  never  did  recog- 
nise the  resolutions  of  Parliament  in 
1823 — as  this  House  never  did  ad- 
mit the  right  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons to  legislate  on  the  internal  af- 


1838.]  Ireland.    No.  II. 

fairs  of  Jamaica,  even  when  the  West 
Indies  were  indirectly  represented 
i  i  Parliament,  we  never  can  concede 
tiat  a  House  of  Commons,  which  is 
to  exist  upon  the  principle  that  ac- 
t  lal  representation  should  be  the 
foundation  of  legislation,  can  justly 
claim  to  legislate  over  us,  their  free 
fdlow-countrymen,  in  all  respects 
their  equals,  but  who  have  not,  and 
cannot  have,  any  voice  whatever  at 
their  election,  by  whom,  in  conse- 
quence, we  are  not  represented — who 
are  strangers  to  our  condition  and 
interest,  and  whose  attempt  to  dic- 
tate to  us  would  consequently,  upon 
t-ieir  own  principles,  or  their  own 
existence  as  a  legislative  body,  be 
tyranny,  and  not  legislation. 

"  Experience  prevents  us  from 
deluding  ourselves  with  the  hope  of 
a  dispassionate  and  impartial  result 
from  the  proceedings  of  any  Com- 
mittee of  the  Commons'  House,  in 
relation  to  the  West  Indies ;  nor  are 
we  strangers  to  the  fact,  that  pledges 
are  now  being  exacted  from  candi- 
dates for  seats  in  the  new  Imperial 
Parliament,  to  vote,  in  respect  of  the 
colonies,  according  to  popular  dic- 
tation, and  not  after  ample  and  pa- 
tient examination. 

"  This  House  has  always  declared 
that  they  will  constantly  and  rea- 
dily adopt  every  measure  for  sub- 
stantially benefiting  the  condition  of 
the  slave  population,  which  our  own 
local  experience  convinces  us  would 
really  conduce  to  their  welfare,  and 
not  injure  those  rights  of  property 
which  our  constituents  were  forced 
by  the  British  Government  to  ac- 
quire." 

Nor  is  it  only  in  the  West  Indies 
that  the  empire  is  threatened  with 
dismemberment.  Ireland  is  all  but 
in  arms  to  obtain  it.  Ministers,  after 
having  sedulously  nursed  the  sacred 
flame  of  democracy  in  that  country, 
by  unbounded  concessions,  and  the 
most  lavish  gift  of  honours  to  the 
Great  Agitator,  now  find  their  pre- 
cepts turned  against  themselves. 
The  machinery  they  invented  for 
Catholic  emancipation,  which  they 
raised  to  perfection  for  the  Reform 
Mil,  is  now  brought  to  bear  upon 
the  repeal  of  the  Union.  O'Connell 
lias  contrived,  by  the  aid  of  this  po- 
pular and  delusive  cry,  to  unite 
not  only  all  the  Catholics,  but  a  por- 
tion also  of  the  selfish  and  short- 


'227 

sighted  Protestants,  in  the  cause. 
The  deluded  shopkeepers  of  Dublin 
think  that  if  they  get  a  Parliament 
in  College  Green,  they  will  have  un- 
heard-of days  of  prosperity  for  Ire- 
land. They  little  dream  of  the  con- 
sequences ;  extinction  of  the  Church, 
revolution  in  the  estates,  misery, 
anarchy,  and  wretchedness  for  their 
country,  such  as  never  before  was 
felt  even  in  that  land  of  woe. 

The  organization  which,  fostered 
by  the  Whigs,  and  by  them  directed 
to  other  purposes,  has  sprung  up  in 
Ireland,  and  is  now  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  general  fabric  of  the  em- 
pire, is  to  the  last  degree  formidable. 
Upwards  of  5,000,000  of  Catholics 
are  united  in  the  cause — men  all  ac- 
tuated by  the  strongest,  though  the 
most  unfounded  resentment  against 
this  country,  perfectly  reckless  of 
consequences,  without  any  thing  to 
lose,  and  accustomed  to  follow  with 
blind  obedience  the  dictates  of  their 
priests.  To  direct  this  immense 
mass  of  physical  strength,  is  the 
bigoted  and  ambitious  priesthood, 
actuated  alike  by  religious  fervour 
and  civil  ambition — burning  to  re- 
gain possession  of  the  lost  estates  of 
the  clergy,  and  to  restore  to  the  Ro- 
man Pontiff  the  long-lost  province 
of  the  British  isles.  To  regulate  the 
movements  of  the  whole,  are  a  few 
able  and  resolute  leaders,  perfectly 
acquainted  with  the  means  of  exci- 
ting popular  passion ;  adepts  in  the 
infernal  art  of  agitation  ;  careless  of 
character,  who  live  on  public  agita- 
tion, and  would  droop  into  insignifi- 
cance under  a  resolute  and  stable  go- 
vernment. Such  is  the  force  arrayed 
against  this  country,  and  such  the 
power  which  is  wielded  at  will  by  a 
party  which  has  never  scrupled  to 
league  with  its  enemies  for  its  de- 
struction. 

The  internal  state  to  which  great 
part  of  Ireland  has  been  brought  by 
the  agitation  so  long  and  sedulously 
fostered  by  the  Whigs  in  that  coun- 
try, is  such  as  almost  to  exceed  be- 
lief, and  certainly  to  be  without  a 
parallel  in  any  European  nation.  It 
is  not  going  too  far  to  say,  that  in 
three-fourths  of  the  country  hardly 
a  shadow  of  government  remains. 
Murders,  conflagrations,  robberies, 
are  perpetrated  at  noonday  by  bands 
of  armed  peasants  well  organized, 
who  set  all  justice  at  defiance,  Pay. 


228 


Ireland. 


ment  of  tithes  has  in  most  places 
totally  ceased;  payments  of  every 
kind  are  in  many  suspended.  The 
persons  of  property  are,  in  the  South, 
flocking  into  the  towns  with  such 
little  property  as  they  can  save  out 
of  the  general  wreck ;  the  clergy  are 
in  most  places  literally  reduced  to 
starvation.  Are  some  of  the  murder- 
ers seized  by  a  sudden  irruption  of 
the  armed  force  in  their  vicinity  ? — 
an  infuriated  rabble  immediately  col- 
lect for  their  rescue,  and  dozens 
are  shot  before  they  can  be  convey- 
ed to  prison.  If  brought  to  trial,  a 
mere  mockery  of  justice  ensues;  the 
jury,  the  witnesses,  are  all  served 
with  notices,  that  if  they  either  con- 
vict or  swear  against  the  people's 
friends,  they  will  forthwith  be  shot, 
or  roasted  alive  in  their  houses ;  and 
if  any  courageous  men  venture  to 
do  so,  they  are  soon  consigned  with 
their  families  to  the  flames.  The 
prisoners  are  acquitted,  and  the 
judge,  in  despair  at  obtaining  justice, 
breaks  up  the  assizes.  Such  is  the 
state  to  which  Ireland  has  been 
brought  by  Whig  agitation,  and  the 
most  complete  application  of  the 
principles  of  Whig  government. 

To  shew  that  we  do  not  exagge- 
rate the  distraction,  we  extract  at 
hazard  from  one  of  the  last  Ministe- 
rial papers. 

"  Under  the  usual  head  of  Irish 
outrages,"  says  the  Courier, "  will  be 
found  the  accustomed  list  of  mur- 
ders and  atrocities  of  daily  occur- 
rence in  that  distracted  country.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  present  to 
our  readers  within  the  limits  of  a 
newspaper  a  full  account  of  the 
cruelties,  amounting  to  ferocity — of 
the  disorders,  bordering  on  rebel- 
lion, which  now  characterise  the 
breaking  up  of  the  bonds  of  society 
in  Ireland.  Foreign  Governments 
look  on  with  wonder  and  amaze- 
ment at  the  extraordinary  aspect  of 
this  third  part  of  the  British  Empire ; 
and  are  almost  inclined  to  doubt  the 
value  of  that  political  liberty  under 
whose  garb  the  agitators  of  Ireland 
carry  on  their  successful  machina- 
tions. 

"  But  enough,  it  appears,  is  not  yet 
done  to  satisfy  the  designs  of  those 
who  seek  to  profit  by  the  excesses 
of  their  misguided  fellow-country- 
men. The  open  murder,  and  the 
.midnight  assassination—the  ravaged 


No.  II.  [Feb. 

dwelling,  and  the  hearth  made  deso- 
late— the  letting  loose  of  a  spirit  of 
fury  that  spares  neither  age  nor  in- 
fancy, sex  nor  station ;  unexampled 
as  it  is  in  any  age  or  in  any  country, 
are  not  yet  enough.  These  isolated 
acts  of  outrage  are  but  the  drilling 
of  agitation  to  prepare  the  popula- 
tion of  Ireland  for  deeper  crimes 
and  greater  horrors ;  man  has  been 
set  against  man;  but  now  country 
is  to  be  leagued  against  country ;  an 
Irish  Convention  is  to  complete 
what  Irish  agitation  has  begun. 

"  But  is  there  no  majesty  in  the 
law,  no  power  in  the  government, 
that  can  awe  or  control  these  des- 
perate proceedings  ?  Is  agitation  to 
be  allowed  to  ripen  into  mischief, 
mischief  into  sedition,  and  sedition 
into  civil  war ;  without  one  vigorous 
attempt  on  the  part  of  the  guardians 
of  the  public  safety  to  protect  the 
commonwealth  from  the  disasters 
impending  over  it?  With  the  cer- 
tainty that  the  present  Cabinet  must 
feel  of  being  backed  by  the  support 
of  every  friend  to  peace  and  order 
in  the  empire,  surely  there  can  be  no 
fear  to  grapple  with  the  difficulty, 
great  though  that  difficulty  be  ? 
Wherefore  is  the  hesitation?  The 
Right  Honourable  Secretary  for  Ire- 
land is  not  wont  to  be  daunted  in 
the  execution  of  his  duty;  neither  is 
he  supposed  to  be  deficient  in  the 
ability  to  devise,  or  the  energy  to 
exert  the  means  of  asserting  the 
authority  of  the  Government  and  of 
the  law.  What  is  the  avowed  object 
of  the  agitators  of  Ireland?  Sepa- 
ration ; — separation  from  the  British 
empire;  with  the  liberty,  we  must 
suppose,  to  form  foreign  alliances 
against  England!  Why,  what  an 
absurdity  is  this  ? 

"  It  will  hardly  be  believed  in 
after  ages,  that  a  proposition  so  mon- 
strous— that  impudence  so  consum- 
mate— that  a  confidence  in  the  igno- 
rance of  the  Irish  people  so  great — 
existed  in  the  nineteenth  century. 
Still  greater  will  be  the  wonder  that 
it  existed  so  long  unchecked — that 
society  allowed  itself  to  be  outraged 
—that  the  law  allowed  itself  to  be 
insulted — that  the  government  al- 
lowed  itself  to  be  braved,  day  after 
dayy  week  after  week,  and  month  af- 
ter month,  by  a  band  of  selfish  agita- 
tors, whose  very  insignificance  in 
numbers,  wealth,  and  station,  was 


1833.] 


Ireland.    No.  II. 


229 


almost  an  excuse  for  the  supine  con- 
tempt with  which  they  were  treat- 
ed." 

Every  man  in  Great  Britain  knows 
that  this  is  the  state  of  Ireland ;  but 
it    is    not  generally  known,  either 
what  is  the  real  cause  of  this  dread- 
ful state  of  things,  or  the  imminent 
c  anger   which  it  threatens  to   the 
A /hole  empire.     The  Whigs,  seeing 
that  their  darling  system  of  conci- 
liation and  concession  has  brought 
the  country  to  such  an  extremity, 
(thut  their  eyes  to  the  subject  altoge- 
ther, and,  without  ever  thinking  of 
the   results  in  Ireland,  resolve    the 
more  strenuously  to  apply  it  on  the 
most  extended  scale  in  this  country. 
]  t  is,  therefore,  of  incalculable  im- 
portance that  it  should  be  constantly 
repeated,  and  generally  known,  that 
it  is  the  Whigs  and  the  Whigs  alone 
,vho   have   brought  Ireland  to    this 
i>ass  ;  that  it  is  their  ambition  and 
agitation  which  has  for  half  a  cen- 
tury distracted  that  unhappy  coun- 
iry ;  that  it  is  their  principles  which 
have  been  disseminated  through  its 
ruthless  inhabitants;  their  political 
nachinery   which    has  been   there 
erected  with  such  unparalleled  con- 
sequences, and  their  system  of  mis- 
rule which  has  almost  extinguished 
every  vestige  of  order  throughout 
the  land.     For  thirty  years  past,  all 
that  the  Whigs  recommended  and 
contended   for  has  been   done   for 
the   Emerald    Isle.      They  recom- 
mended the  relaxation  of  the  Catho- 
lic code,  and  the  Catholic  code  was 
relaxed  ;  they  strenuously  contend- 
ed for  Catholic  emancipation,  and 
Catholic  emancipation  was  granted; 
they  incessantly  inculcated  a  conci- 
liatory system,  and   a   conciliatory 
system  was  pursued  ;  they  boasted, 
if  they  had  the  government  of  Ire- 
land, they  would    soon  render    it 
tranquil,  and  they  obtained  the  go- 
vernment; they  contended  for  a  wide 
extension  of  the  electoral  franchise 
to  the  Catholic,  and  the  extinction 
of  the  Protestant  corporations,  and 
they  have   carried  both  these   ob- 
jects.     And  under  this   increasing 
system   of   conciliation,    weakness, 
and   concession,  Ireland  has   been 
constantly  growing  worse,  until   at 
length,  upon  the  acquisition  of  the 
Reform  Bill  and  the  triumph  of  de- 
mocratic principles,  its  state  has  be- 
come absolutely  intolerable,  and  a 


disgrace,  not  only  to  Great  Britain, 
but  to  Europe. 

There  is  nothing    extraordinary, 
or  at  variance  with  what  might  have 
been   expected,  in  this  lamentable 
progress.     It  was  all  predicted,  be- 
fore the  system  of  concession  began, 
by  those  who  knew  Ireland  best  on 
the  other  side  of  the  water,  or  who 
had  any  historical  information    on 
this.      Men  do  not  become  major 
at  a  year  old  :  if  we  expose  early 
youth  to  the  duties  and  the  tempta- 
tions of  manhood,   inevitable  ruin 
must  be  the  consequence.    A  nation 
is  not  fit  for  free  institutions  or  a 
liberal  system  in  the  infancy  of  ci- 
vilisation.   Centuries  must  roll  over 
Ireland  before  she  can  bear,  with- 
out distraction,    the    political  pas- 
sions of  England.   When  her  people 
are  industrious,  sober,  and  rational ; 
when  a  large  proportion  of  the  mid- 
dling ranks  have  some  property  and 
something  to  lose    by   convulsion; 
when  practical  information  is  gene- 
rally diffused,  and  useful  knowledge 
spread  among  the  poor ;  when  they 
have  been  found,  in  a  word,  faith- 
ful in  a  very  little,  then  they  may  be 
made  rulers  over  ten  cities.     But  to 
invest  its  semibarbarous,  destitute, 
and  priest-ridden  population  with 
the  same  political  franchises,  and  the 
same  electoral  powers  as  the  sober 
yeomanry  of  England  ;  to  pour  into 
their  ardent  and  impassioned  minds 
the   same  passions,  as   it  was  not 
deemed  safe  to  extend  to  England 
till  the  eighth  century  of  its  consti- 
tutional monarchy,  was   an   act  of 
insanity,  to  which  there  is  nothing 
comparable  in  English  history,  and 
shews  that  our  rulers  are  the  worthy 
imitators   of    the   French   National 
Assembly,  who  had  one  system  of 
government  ready  for  men  in  all 
stages   of  civilisation,  from  the  sa- 
vage to  the  philosopher,  and  would 
willingly  have  charged  themselves 
with  the  formation  of  constitutions 
for  the  whole  human  race.     What 
has  now  been  done,  is  not  to  give  the 
least  liberty  to  the  people,  tor  they 
are  utterly  incapable  of  either  un- 
derstanding or  exercising  it ;  but  to 
bestow  an  enormous  and  despotic 
power  upon  the  priests  and  the  de- 
magogues, the  very  men  whose  am- 
bition has  proved  the  ruin  of  the 
country. 
That  evil,  however,  has  been  done, 


230 


Ireland. 


.  21. 


[Feb. 


and  cannot  be  undone.  The  point 
for  consideration  now  is,  what  is  to 
be  the  effect,  we  do  not  say  upon 
Ireland,  but  upon  the  whole  empire, 
of  this  formidable  invasion  of  demo- 
cratic violence,  and  Catholic  ambi- 
tion. Upon  this  head  there  is  no 
room,  we  fear,  for  any  but  the  most 
gloomy  prognostications.  Ireland, 
under  the  misrule  of  the  Whigs,  has 
got  to  such  a  pitch  of  anarchy,  that 
it  will  require  all  the  energy  and 
power  of  England  to  put  it  down. 
A  civil  war  must  be  anticipated,  in  the 
eifort  to  expel  from  their  minds  the 
inflammatory  doctrines  with  which 
the  Whigs  have  filled  them.  And 
when  this  calamitous  event  arrives, 
are  we  to  suppose  that  the  other 
powers  of  Europe  will  remain  un- 
concerned spectators  of  the  strife  ? 
Is  there  no  danger  of  France  lending 
the  hand  of  fraternity  to  the  ardent 
spirits  on  the  other  side  of  St  George's 
Channel  ?  Are  we  sure  that  they  will 
refuse  the  proffered  alliance  and  aid 
of  the  Hibernian  Republic  ?  •  Are  the 
projects  of  1798  quite  forgotten? 
Has  England  any  certainty  from  the 
extreme  fidelity  with  which  they 
have  kept  their  promise  in  regard  to 
Catholic  Emancipation,  that  the  Irish 
demagogues  will  be  perfectly  loyal 
to  the  Crown  of  Great  Britain  under 
a  separate  legislature?  These  are 
questions  which  it  will  become  the 
British  legislators  to  ask  themselves, 
in  anticipation  of  the  events  which, 
to  all  human  appearance,  will  meet 
them  at  the  very  threshold  of  the 
New  Parliament. 

In  considering  this  subject,  it  is  of 
importance  always  to  bear  in  mind  the 
profound  "and  inextinguishable  jea- 
lousy with  which  all  the  European 
powers,  and  all  parties  on  the  Con- 
tinent, regard  the  naval  superiority 
and  political  importance  of  England. 
We  do  not  exaggerate  when  we  say 
that  this  feeling  is  universal.  All 
parties,  royalists,  republicans,  aris- 
tocrats, democrats,  vie  with  each 
other  in  their  deep  and  universal 
hatred  of  this  country.  It  is  hard  to 
say,  whether  it  is  most  virulent  in 
the  royalist  or  democratic  writers ; 
in  Lacretelle  or  Thiers ;  or  whether 
it  prevails  most  at  the  imperial  or 
the  republican  courts  at  St  Peters- 
burgh  or  Paris.  They  may  like  the 
English  as  individuals,  they  may  ad- 
mire their  institutions;  but  they  all 


have  the  most  cordial  hatred  at  their 
political  power,  and  would  gladly 
join  in  a  crusade  to  restore  what  they 
call  the  Liberty  of  the  Seas ;  that  is, 
to  destroy  the  English  fleet,  and  with 
it  the  political  preponderance  of  this 
country. 

Our  West  India  Colonies  also  are 
placed,  as  it  were,  within  the  jaws 
of  a  power  animated  with  as  bitter  a 
feeling  of  animosity  at  England,  and 
possessed  of  perhaps  greater  means 
of  injuring  it.  America  has  long 
coveted  Jamaica ;  she  openly  aspires 
to  the  dominion  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexi- 
co ;  and  by  the  possession  of  the  Ha- 
vannah  and  Cuba,  she  will  ere  long 
obtain  it.  When  the  evil  day  comes 
to  England,  the  Southern  States  of 
America  will  notbe  slow  in  coalescing 
with  our  West  India  islands;  and 
with  them  will  fall  seven  millions 
annually  of  exported  manufactures 
and  import  duties  to  the  British  Em- 
pire. It  is  impossible  adequately  to 
measure  the  extent  of  this  calamity. 
National  bankruptcy  must  imme- 
diately ensue  from  the  failure  of  so 
large  a  portion  of  the  revenue,  and 
unheard  of  distress  must  spread 
among  our  manufactures  from  the 
extinction  of  so  great  a  part  of  their 
export  sale ;  but  what  is  that  to  the 
Revolutionists?  They  never  have, 
and  never  will  learn  by  experience, 
but  will  go  on  in  future  as  in  time 
past,  deriding  the  danger,  and  re- 
gardless of  consequences,  till  it  falls 
upon  them. 

The  situation,  therefore,  of  the 
English  empire  is  very  peculiar. 
Two  large  and  important  parts  of, 
its  dominions  are  ready  to  break  off, 
to  coalesce  with  any  neighbour  to 
sever  the  connexion  with  the  mo- 
ther country ;  and  we  have  at  that 
very  moment  placed  over  our  heads 
a  legislature,  chosen  in  such  a  way, 
as  to  be  of  all  others  the  least  cal- 
culated to  hold  together  the  un- 
wieldy dominion.  The  British  cities 
loudly  clamoured  at  the  late  elec- 
tions for  immediate  emancipation  of 
the  negroes;  and  the  West  Indies 
have  not  one  representative  of  their 
interest  in  Parliament.  The  Reform 
Bill  has  effectually  disfranchised  the 
colonies ;  the  East  and  West  Indies ; 
and'  Canada  put  together  could 
hardly  muster  up  five  votes.  In- 
stead of  men  identified  with  their 
interests,  acquainted  with  their  cir- 


.1883.]  Ireland. 

ciunstances,  sharing  in  their  feelings, 
we  have  the  legislature  filled  with 
the  delegates  of  deluded  manufactu- 
rers, pledged  to  measures  that  must 
lea  1  to  their  destruction.  While  the 
Radicals  of  England  are  clamouring 
for  instant  freedom  for  the  savages 
of  i  he  West  Indies ;  the  Repealers  of 
Ire  and  are  struggling  for  a  dissolu- 
tion of  the  Union,  and  uncontrolled 
license  for  the  savages  of  Ireland ; 
and  the  government,  which  lives 
upon  expedients  and  concessions, 
strives  to  preserve  its  ascendency, 
by  conceding  sometimes  to  the  one 
fac:ion,  and  sometimes  to  the  other. 
In  he  midst  of  such  agitation  and 
vacillation,  industry  is  paralysed, 
and  property  disappears,  in  both  the 
discontented  parts  of  our  domi- 
nion ;  and  even  the  well-affected  in 
Ireland  and  the  West  Indies,  from 
a  sense  of  the  intolerable  evils  they 
are  suffering  under  British  rule,  in- 
sensibly fall  into  the  wishes  of 
thoise  who  represent  a  separation 
from  the  mother  country  as  the 
only  remedy  for  the  existing  cala- 
mities. Is  it  possible  that  such  a 
state  of  things  can  continue  for  any 
length  of  time ;  or  least  of  all,  that 
it  can  continue  in  presence  of 
powerful  and  energetic  enemies, 
anxious  for  the  first  moment  of 
weakness  to  combine  against  this 
country,  and  wreak  upon  Great 
Briiain  the  fancied  wrongs,  and  real 
jealousies,  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
yea -8  ? 

The  Whigs  have  been  in  power 
little  more  than  two  years;  but, 
during  that  time,  they  have  contrived 
to  furnish  precedents  for  almost 
eve.-y  species  of  disaster  which  can 
be  accumulated  upon  the  empire. 
Are  the  political  agitators  violent 
and  seditious  in  their  designs;  do 
they  threaten  the  tranquillity  or 
peace  of  the  state ;  they  can  appeal 
to  tlie  Ministers  of  State  who  corre- 
sponded with  Political  Unions,  and 
expressed  their  humble  thanks  to 
the  president  of  an  assemblage  of 
150,000  men,  by  whom  resolutions 
to  pay  no  taxes  were  passed.  Is 
murder  or  anarchy  threatened  ;  they 
can  appeal  to  a  Premier  who  ad- 
vised the  Bishops  to  put  their  houses 
in  order.  Do  other  nations  assail 
Gre.it  Britain,  while  torn  by  its  in- 
surgent provinces,  and  seek  to  con- 
vert a  moment  of  intestine  weakness 


No.  IL 


231 


into  one  of  foreign  subjugation; 
they  have  the  precedent  of  Belgium 
ready  to  apply  to  the  quarrel  be- 
tween Ireland  and  England,  and  will 
find  ample  vindication  for  all  they 
can  do  in  the  protocols  of  Lord 
Palmerston.  Foreign  enemies,  do- 
mestic revolutionists,  have  been 
taught  by  an  unprincipled  adminis- 
tration, the  lessons  which  they  may 
turn  with  fatal  effect  against  the 
peace  and  independence  of  the 
empire.  We  do  not  say  that  our 
rulers  did  these  things  with  this  in- 
tention; what  we  assert  is,  that 
they  have  this  consequence;  and 
such  always  will  be  the  result  of 
measures  pursued  by  ambitious  men, 
reckless  of  every  thing  but  their  own 
party  purposes. 

The  system  of  government  pursued 
of  late  in  Ireland,  has  been  so  vari- 
able that  it  is  impossible  to  say  on 
what  principle  it  is  founded.  They 
have  alternately  caressed  and  fawned 
on  the  leaders  of  agitation,  and  let 
loose  the  vials  of  their  wrath  on  their 
misguided  followers.  Blood,  as  Mr 
O' Conn  el  says,  has  been  shed  pro- 
fusely in  Ireland  since  Lord  Angle- 
sey's administration  began ;  and  the 
author  of  all  that  discord  has  been 
placed  at  the  head  of  the  bar.  So  far 
as  any  thing  like  principle  can  be 
discovered  in  their  conduct,  they 
appear  to  have  made  it  a  rule  to 
cringe  to  the  revolutionists  of  autho- 
rity, and  rage  against  the  revolution- 
ists of  no  consideration ;  to  act  with 
severity  towards  the  poor,  and  with 
weakness  towards  the  depositaries 
even  of  rabble  authority.  The  symp- 
toms of  a  better  spirit  were  once 
visible,  and  Mr  Stanley's  administra- 
tion began  with  a  vigour  which  made 
the  hearts  of  all  patriots  in  the  king- 
dom glad ;  but  the  bright  dawn  was 
soon  overcast,  and  in  the  tempest  of 
Reform,  all  the  promises  of  the  morn- 
ing were  overwhelmed.  Mr  Boyton 
has  well  characterized,  at  one  of  the 
late  meetings  of  the  Conservative 
Society  in  Dublin,  their  proceedings : 
— "  As  long  as  there  was  a  fair  pros- 
pect that  by  our  exertions  in  the  dif- 
ferent counties  we  might  be  enabled 
to  give  that  support  in  Parliament  to 
that  party  to  which  we  are  allied,  I 
allude  to  the  English  Conservative 
party — a  party  from  which  I  trust 
the  Irish  Protestant  Conservative 
party  never  will  be  disunited—. 


232 


Ireland,    No.  II. 


[Feb. 


(cheers) — as  long,  I  say,  as  there  was 
a  fair  prospect  of  supporting  those 
individuals  of  our  party,  by  opposing 
the  members  which  were  put  for- 
ward by  government,  it  was  plainly 
our  duty  to  strain  every  nerve  as 
well  to  return  our  own  friends,  and 
failing  in  that,  to  oust  the  govern- 
ment candidates — (cheers.)  The  po- 
sition in  which  we  are  now  placed  is 
of  a  twofold  nature — first,  with  re- 
spect to  the  Roman  Catholics  on  one 
hand,  who  are  our  most  formidable 
opponents — (hear,  hear.)  I  do  not 
mean  the  Roman  Catholic  proprie- 
tors of  Ireland  generally — for  that 
there  does  exist  a  body  of  Roman 
Catholics  who  possess  property  in 
this  country,  and  who  are  as  anxious 
as  we  are  to  stem  the  mighty  move- 
ment which  is  now  going  forward, 
there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  conduct 
of  this  body  has  excited  the  wrath 
of  the  demagogues  and  their  agents 
the  priests.  Such  is  the  state  of 
thraldom  in  which  they  are  held, 
that  the  Roman  Catholic  gentry  and 
men  of  wealth  are  unable  to  give 
utterance  to  the  feelings  by  which  I 
am  confident  they  are  animated — 
(hear,  hear.)  It  must  be  their  inte- 
rest to  preserve  their  properties— 
and,  if  the  present  movement  be  un- 
checked, the  religion  of  the  party 
possessing  wealth  will  form  but  an 
indifferent  excuse  for  his  retaining  it 
—(hear,  hear,  hear.)  In  addition  to 
the  priests  and  agitators  who  hold 
the  democracy  of  the  country  in  their 
power,  we  have  also  to  contend  with 
a  second  foe,  namely,  the  govern- 
ment of  this  country,  which  is  main- 
ly mischievous  by  the  assistance 
which  it  affords  to  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic democracy  in  its  tremendous 
efforts  to  upset  Protestantism  and 
property  in  this  country — (hear, 
hear,  hear.)  Government  partakes 


that  it  contains  an  evil  spirit  and  a 
good  spirit — an  evil  principle  and  a 
good  principle.  A  disposition  has 
been  recently  evinced  by  certain 
members  of  his  Majesty's  govern- 
ment to  act  upon  a  conservative  prin- 
ciple, and  make  some  effort  to  stop 
the  effects  that  must  follow  the  as- 
cendency which  the  democratic  par- 
ty have  obtained,  the  first  result  of 
which  must  be  the  separation  of  this 
country  from  the  parent  state — (hear, 
hear.)  So  far  this  good  principle 


extends — if  any  thing  can  be  called 
good  that  emanates  from  such  a 
source — (cheers.)  We  find,  however, 
that  this  slight  exhibition  to  do  good 
is  controlled  by  another  portion  of 
the  Irish  government — whose  exer- 
tions are  unremitting  to  render  nuga- 
tory even  this  trifling  tendency  to 
repair  errors." 

Of  the  system  pursued  by  govern- 
ment and  its  effects,  the  same  elo- 
quent and  powerful  orator  gives  the 
following  account: — 

"My  wish  is  to  unite  all  classes  of 
Protestants,  and  there  are  many  who 
are  not  members  of  this  Society,  who 
are  as  deeply  interested  in  the  main- 
tenance of  order  as  we  are,  and  who, 
1  believe,  begin  to  see,  since  the  re- 
sult of  the  elections  has  become 
known,  the  mischievous  course  they 
had  been  pursuing — (hear,  hear.) — 
I  should  therefore  be  anxious  to  sub- 
mit to  the  Society  an  address  to  pro- 
prietors of  every  denomination  in 
this  country — not  confining  it  to  the 
members  of  the  Conservative  Socie- 
ty, but  to  those  without  its  pale — 
shewing  them  the  necessity  of  uni- 
ting upon  one  principle  of  rendering 
innocuous  the  efforts  of  Mr  O'Con- 
nel  and  his  party — and  to  lay  before 
the  government  a  plain  statement  of 
the  actual  condition  of  the  country, 
calling  upon  them  to  adopt  measures 
to  give  a  permanent  security  to  pro- 
perty, and  at  the  same  time  to  con- 
trol that  agitation  which  has  mainly 
been  encouraged  by  the  government, 
and  which  is  now  in  its  results  de- 
vastating the  country — (cheers.) — I 
need  not  repeat,  what  I  said  before, 
that  it  is  plain  to  any  person  that  if 
the  same  system  of  government 
which  has  been  pursued  for  the  last 
two  years  be  preserved  in,  no  man's 
life  or  property  will  be  safe  in  three 
of  the  provinces — and  property,  even 
in  Ulster  will  not  be  worthjive  years' 
purchase — (hear,  hear,  hear) — there- 
fore any  person  who  has  property  to 
lose  ought  to  be  equally  interested 
with  us  in  its  preservation,  even  al- 
though they  may  not  be  imbued  with 
so  deep  a  tinge  of  party  feeling  as  we 
are — (hear,  hear.)  It  must  be  mani- 
fest to  the  most  careless  observer, 
that  there  is  a  determination  on  the 
part  of  the  democracy  to  make  a 
general  attack  upon  all  property  in 
the  country — it  ought  to  be  our  care 
to  effect,  if  possible,  such  an  organi- 


1833.] 


Ireland.    No.  II. 


za^ion  of  Protestant  strength  as  will 
enable  us  to  repel  the  attack." — 
(Cheers.) 

From  this  continuance  of  suffering 
and  anarchy  in  Ireland,  nothing  but 
additional  anxiety  for  a  dissolution 
of  the  Union  can  be  anticipated.  The 
Ir  sh  see,  by  bitter  experience,  that 
it  is  productive  of  no  other  result 
but  misery  to  them.  And  how  is  it 
to  be  expected  that  any  class  in  that 
cc  untry  is  long  to  advocate  the  cou- 
nt xion  with  ago  vernment  from  which 
si  ch  a  result  flows  ?  Can  we  expect 
that  the  Irish  are  to  remain  loyal  to  a 
dynasty  under  whose  rule  they  have 
experienced  incessant  murder,  an- 
archy, and  wretchedness  ?  Can  we 
eypect  that  the  Protestants  are  to 
re  tain  their  loyalty  when  the  dagger  is 
perpetually  held  to  their  throats,  and 
their  lives  and  properties,  even  in  the 
most  tranquil  parts  of  the  country, 
ai  e  not  worth  two  years'  purchase  ? 
Cm  we  suppose  that  the  English  peo- 
ple  are  long  to  look  on  the  Irish 
Union  as  a  public  benefit,  when  they 
see  that  country  daily  getting  worse 
and  worse ;  the  army  of  the  empire  in- 
cessantly absorbed  in  keeping  it  from 
breaking  into  open  insurrection ;  and 
its  industry  constantly  overwhelmed 
by  the  inundation  of  its  indigence  ? 
The  thing  is  obviously  out  of  the 
question.  Mutual  recrimination  and 
disgust  must  ensue  on  both  sides  of 
tl  e  Channel,  and  the  people  of  both 
countries  prepared  to  relinquish, 
\\  ithout  a  struggle,  a  connexion  from 
which  nothing  but  mutual  calamity 
h  is  hitherto  ensued,  but  which  must, 
if  severed,  prove  fatal  to  the  inde- 
pendence of  both. 

Is  there  any  man  in  his  senses,  out 
p  'the  pale  of  O' Council's  dupes,  who 
inagines  that  if  the  union  of  the 
Parliaments  is  dissolved,  the  union  of 
the  Crowns  will  long  survive  the  se- 
p  iration  ?  With  a  Parliament  chosen 
py  the  Catholic  ten-pounders,  led  by 
O'Connell,  and  inflamed  by  the  vio- 
1(  nt  hatred  at  this  country  which  is 
u  ahappily  so  common  in  the  sisterisle, 
^  hat  chance  is  there  that  thesuprema- 
c  /  of  England  will  be  acknowledged  ? 
-  -Will  France,  which  ever  since  the 
Revolution  has  been  looking  to  Ire- 
L  nd  as  the  weak  point  in  the  British 
e  oipire,  when  the  point  of  the  wedge 
niay  be  inserted,  forego  the  long- 
\\  ished  for  opportunity  of  allying  it- 
solf  with  the  daring  and  reckless 


spirits  on  the  other  side  of  St 
George's  Channel  ?  And  what  chance 
has  England  of  maintaining  its  inde- 
pendence, if  pressed  by  a  coalition  of 
the  Continental  States,  eager  to  hum- 
ble the  mistress  of  the  waves,  with 
Ireland  in  its  rear  in  a  state  of  fierce 
and  implacable  hostility  ?  When  the 
principles  we  have  inculcated  in  re- 
gard to  Belgium,  and  the  example  we 
have  set  at  Antwerp  are  retorted 
upon  ourselves ;  when  the  European 
Powers  tell  us  that  we  must  concede 
to  the  insurgent  province,  and  that 
a  separation  of  the  government  of 
the  two  islands,  and  a  close  alliance 
between  the  rebels  and  France  is 
essential  to  the  peace  of  Europe  ; 
with  what  moral  force  will  we  be  able 
to  resist  the  inference,  with  what 
physical  strength  repel  the  aggres- 
sion ? 

Ireland,  therefore,  is  no  longer  a 
question  from  which  the  people  of 
England  can  turn  with  indifference, 
or  banish  from  their  minds  as  hope- 
less as  if  it  was  the  affair  of  a  foreign 
state.  Our  own  existence  as  a  na- 
tion, our  national  independence,  our 
civil  liberties,  are  at  stake.  The 
peril  now  staring  us  in  the  face,  may 
produce  consequences  which  all  the 
might  of  Napoleon  could  not  effect. 
The  great  danger  which  threatens  all 
democratic  states,  is  the  dismember- 
ment of  the  distant  provinces  of  the 
empire.  We  have  chosen  to  multi- 
ply this  danger  tenfold  by  the  demo- 
cratic constitution  we  have  given  to 
England,  and  the  free  scope  to  po- 
pular passion  which  we  have  esta- 
blished in  Ireland.  By  Catholic 
emancipation,  we  have  opened  to  the 
leaders  of  the  Popish  hierarchy  ac- 
cess to  the  Legislature.  By  the  Re- 
form Bill,  we  have  placed  the  Irish 
representation  at  the  mercy  of  a  fu- 
rious and  empassioned  multitude, 
skilfully  directed  by  cool  and  able 
leaders,  who  wield  the  energies  of 
that  fierce  democracy  for  their  own 
private  ambition,  and  the  establish- 
ment of  an  independent  republic  in 
that  island,  in  which  the  whole 
power  will  really  be  in  their  hands. 
As  the  reward  of  our  indulgent  and 
liberal  conduct  towards  that  coun- 
try, we  receive  a  fierce  and  haughty 
demand  for  a  separation  ;  accompa- 
nied with  the  threat  that  they  will 
never  cease  to  agitate  and  distract 
both  countries  till  the  dismember- 


234 


Ireland.    No.  II, 


[Feb. 


ment  of  the  empire  is  effected.  We 
long  ago  asserted  that  the  passing  of 
the  Reform  Bill  would  ultimately 
prove  the  death-warrant  of  the  Bri- 
tish Empire.  How  rapidly  are  the 
immediate  foreseen  and  foretold  con- 
sequences of  that  measure,  hurrying 
on  the  catastrophe ! 

Is  then  the  case  utterly  hopeless  ? 
Are  there  no  means,  even  after  all 
the  insanity  of  the  last  five  years,  of 
averting  the  prostration  of  the  Bri- 
tish Empire  ?  And  are  we  to  be  con- 
tent to  remain  quietly  allowing  mur- 
der, conflagration,  and  massacre  to 
prevail  in  Ireland,  till  the  sense  of 
unbearable  agony  produce  a  convul- 
sive effort,  which  for  ever  separates 
the  two  islands '?  No !  the  means  of 
salvation  still  remain  :  they  are  sim- 
ple, easy,  and  just,  of  tried  efficacy 
and  established  force.  If  the  em- 
pire is  torn  asunder,  it  is  only  be- 
cause from  the  force  of  political  pre- 
judice we  refuse  to  use  them. 

Ireland  possesses  within  its  bosom, 
a  great  and  noble  race,  bound  to  this 
country  by  every  tie  of  religion, 
kindred,  and  interest;  indomitable 
in  resolution,  inexhaustible  in  re- 
sources; whose  organization,  under 
the  pressure  of  common  danger,  has 
become  perfect;  whose  courage  is 
equal  to  the  rudest  encounter.  Re- 
peatedly during  the  last  three  cen- 
turies, when  concession  and  weak- 
ness had  brought  the  country  to  the 
brink  of  ruin,  have  they  interposed, 
and  with  their  mighty  arm  stayed 
the  spoiler.  They  saved  it  in  the 
Tyrone  rebellion ;  they  saved  it  in 
1798;  they  are  ready  to  save  it  in 
1833.  Their  interests  are  identified 
with  England  ;  their  hearts  are  Bri- 
tish ;  they  sympathize  with  the  glo- 
ries of  England,  and  execrate  the 
infidel  triumphs  of  the  tri-color. 
They  know  that  a  repeal  of  the  Union 
would  speedily  be  followed  by  the 
confiscation  of  their  estates,  the  firing 
of  their  dwellings,  the  murder  of 
their  families.  Their  feelings,  their 
associations,  are  all  identified  with 
England's  glory;  they  recur  with 
enthusiasm  to  the  Revolution  of  1688, 
which  established  our  national  liber- 
ties, and  recount  with  deserved  pride 
their  heroic  achievements  in  the  war 
with  the  French  Revolution.  No- 
thing but  infatuation  could  prevent 
the  English  Government  and  the 
EnglislTnation,  at  such  a  crisis  as  the 


present,  from  entering  into  a  cordial 
co-operation  and  union  with  this  he- 
roic body. 

Of  the  principles  of  this  body  we 
cannot  give  a  better  account  than  in 
the  words  of  the  Honourable  and 
Rev.  Marcus  Beresford  at  a  late  meet- 
ing of  the  Conservative  Society  of 
Dublin. 

"  My  Lord,  the  Orangemen  of  Ire- 
land are  not  men  who  would  be  led 
on  by  any  reckless  or  desperate  set 
of  individuals,  however  high  their 
station,  or  however  great  their  gra- 
dation in  society,  to  attempt  to  mur- 
der a  judge  of  the  land,  and  set  in 
flames  one  of  the  principal  cities  in 
his  Majesty's  dominions.  Neither 
are  the  Orangemen  a  body  who 
would  hurry  on  revolution  for  the 
purpose  of  enjoying  the  plunder  that 
might  be  thrown  in  their  way.  Nei- 
ther are  the  Orangemen  a  mob  that 
would  stand  round  the  atheist  and 
the  blasphemer,  and  cheer  him  on 
while  he  was  singing  the  praises  of 
anarchy  and  confusion.  Neither,  my 
Lord,  are  the  Orangemen  a  body  who 
would  take  away  the  blessed  Book 
of  God  from  the  rising  generation. 
Neither  are  the  Orangemen  a  class  of 
persons  who  would  deprive  God's 
poor  blinded  creatures  of  his  best 
and  most  inestimable  gift — the  know- 
ledge of  salvation.  Neither  are  the 
Orangemen  persons  who  would  pull 
down  the  Church — they  know  not 
why  nor  wherefore — unless  it  were 
to  please  a  reckless,  wild,  and  un- 
godly set  of  individuals.  But,  my 
Lord,  the  Orangemen  are  a  class  of 
persons  who  are  always  ready  to 
support  the  law  of  the  land — even  at 
the  expense  of  the  last  drop  of  their 
blood.  They  will  repel  outrage,  but 
not  create  it.  The  Orangemen  of 
Ireland  are  ready  to  support  the 
Church  as  by  law  established— aye, 
and  as  their  fathers  did  before  them, 
commit  their  bodies  to  the  flames 
before  they  would  suffer  the  blas- 
phemous and  heretical  Church  of 
Rome  to  fill  this  land  once  more  with 
her  abominations.  My  Lord,  the 
Orangemen  of  Ireland  are  scriptural 
Christians,  Church  of  England  men, 
and  Presbyterians — but  yet  one  body 
united  in  heart  and  spirit,  and  deter- 
mined to  support  each  other  in  all 
cases  of  difficulty  and  danger.  They 
are  determined  to  make  a  noble 
stand  against  rebellion,  revolution, 


1893.] 


Ireland.    No.  II. 


235 


annrchy,  and  bloodshed— and  for  the 
truth  that  has  come  down  to  us,  and 
which  they  value  more  than  their 
lives,  or  any  possession  which  they 
ha/e  under  heaven.  And  let  no  man 
say  that  our  dear  and  cherished  bre- 
thren, the  Presbyterians,  do  not  join 
heart  and  hand  in  supporting  our 
Church.  Having  lived  in  a  mixed 
population  of  Presbyterians,  and 
Church  of  England  men,  I  can  bear 
witness  that  when  a  man  in  the  mi- 
nistry is  a  real  minister  of  the  Church 
of  England,  who  holds  to  the  spirit 
of  the  liturgy  and  the  articles  of  the 
Christian  faith,  and  discharges  his 
duty  as  a  faithful  steward,  then  the 
Presbyterians  look  up  to  that  man 
and  bless  him," 

This  body  in  Ireland  is  not  only 
numerous,  brave,  and  energetic,  but 
it  is  united.  The  imminence  of  the 
danger  has  produced  an  organization 
in  that  country  to  which  we  have 
nothing  as  yet  comparable  in  Great 
Britain;  and  united  the  nobles  and 
the  people,  the  high  and  the  low,  to  a 
degree  of  which  we  can  hardly  form 
an  idea.  When  the  Reform  agitation 
was  at  its  height  in  Ireland  in  spring 
18JJ2,  the  leaders  of  this  intrepid 
body  formed  a  Society  in  Dublin  to 
counteract  the  influence  of  the  Ca- 
tholic priesthood,  and  the  success  of 
their  efforts  has  already  exceeded 
the  mqst  sanguine  expectations.  To 
the  efforts,  the  bold  and  manly  efforts 
of  that  Society,  we  owe  the  intrepid 
stand  made  by  the  North  of  Ireland 
agsinst  the  Reform  Bill ;  a  stand 
which,  if  imitated  in  other  places 
with  the  same  resolution,  would  have 
prevented  that  fatal  measure  from 
ever  becoming  the  law  of  the  land. 
Meetings  were  there  held,  attended 
by  50,000  men,  to  petition  against  the 
suicidal  measure,  and  Earl  Roden 
presented  a  petition  against  it  signed 
by  130,000  persons.  It  is  to  orgami- 
zation,  the  admirable  organization 
established  by  the  Conservative  So- 
ciety in  Dublin,  that  these  splendid 
and  orderly  efforts  are  owing ;  and  a 
memorable  example  does  it  afford  to 
the  other  parts  of  the  empire,  of 
what  can  be  done,  even  in  the  face  of 
extreme  danger,  by  the  union  of  able 
and  indefatigable  leaders  with  intre- 
pid and  enthusiastic  followers. 

Of  the  proceedings  of  the  Society 
which  has  organized  this*  great  and 
patriotic  body  into  its  present  active 


and  efficient  form,  we  cannot  give 
so  good  an  account  as  in  the  words  of 
Mr  Boy  ton.  "  I  believe,  my  Lord,  that 
we  have  not  so  much  reason  to  com- 
plain of  the  effects  of  Reform  in  thin- 
ning our  ranks  as  the  Government 
have.  We  told  the  Government  that 
they  would  lose  all  these  members, 
and  that  they  would  be  transferred 
to  Mr  O'Connell,  and  the  prophecy 
has  been  fulfilled  both  in  spirit  and 
letter.  We  are  not,  however,  to  be 
disheartened  at  any  thing  that  has 
occurred.  We  have  not  been  taken 
by  surprise — all  that  has  occurred 
we  fully  anticipated — but  notwith- 
standing, our  force  in  the  present 
Parliament  is  nearly  as  strong  as  in 
the  [Parliament  which  preceded  it. 
It  is  important  to  impress  the  public 
mind  with  a  just  idea  of  the  discom- 
fiture which  the  Government  experi- 
enced at  the  elections  in  this  country. 
We  have  ample  means  to  recover 
the  position  which  we  once  occupied. 
We  must  inspire  the  lower  orders 
with  confidence.  This  Society  has 
been  only  in  existence  for  a  space  of 
nine  months,  and  I  would  appeal  to 
any  gentleman  in  Ireland,  whether 
there  does  not  exist  a  spirit  in  the 
lower  order  of  the  population  on  this 
first  day  of  1833,  which  ivas  un- 
known in  1832?  This  Society  has 
created  that  spirit,  and  given  a  tone 
and  intensity  unparalleled  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  country.  And  are  we 
now  to  think,  that  because  the  elec- 
tions are  over  our  business  is  at  an 
end  ?  No,  my  Lord,  it  is  our  duty  to 
stand  here,  not  merely  as  an  elec- 
tion committee,  but  to  remain  here 
as  the  mouthpiece  of  the  Protestant 
population  —  as  the  centre  around 
which  they  are  to  rally  on  all  oc- 
casions— as  the  head  to  which  they 
are  always  to  look  for  advice — and 
as  the  arm  to  which  they  should  al- 
ways apply  for  protection.  I  recol- 
lect leaving  your  Lordship  in  London 
in  June  last,  and  I  told  your  Lord- 
ship that  I  would  come',over  to  Ire- 
land and  supply  for  three  months 
the  enemies  of  our  name  and  race 
ample  materials  for  digestion.  I 
think  I  kept  my  word.  I  now  pro- 
mise our  enemies,  whether  they  be 
found  in  the  Castle  or  the  Corn- 
Exchange,  that  for  the  coming  six 
months  they  shall  have  ample  mate- 
rials for  their  consideration.  I  trust 
we  shall  be  able  to  promote.a  spirit  of 


236 


Ireland.    No.  II. 


[Feb. 


confidence  among  Protestants  of  eve- 
ry denomination,  and  procure  a  per- 
fect consolidation  of  all  Protestants 
in  the  country,  from  the  peer  to  the 
peasant.  We  must  place  before  the 
Protestant  mind  of  the  country,  the 
secret  of  their  own  power.  It  is  folly 
to  say,  that  possessing,  as  they  do,  a 
vast  preponderance  of  the  wealth  of 
the  country — and  in  possession  of  so 
vast  a  proportion  of  the  surface  of 
the  land — and  the  only  sound  por- 
tion of  the  population — with  all  the 
rank,  property,  and  intelligence  of 
the  country  on  their  side — it  is  a  fol- 
ly to  say  that  two  millions  and  a  half 
of  such  people  could  be  any  thing 
else  but  a  powerful  and  irresistible 
body,  and,  if  not  placed  under  the 
most  trying  circumstances  they 
would  have  had  a  preponderating 
majority  at  the  late  elections.  Where- 
ever  a  Conservative  and  a  Repeal 
candidate  were  in  the  field,  the  Go- 
vernment invariably  supported  the  Re- 
pealer. It  is  the  manifest  duty  of 
every  Government  to  support  pro- 
perty against  population,  but  in  every 
instance  at  the  late  elections,  the  Go- 
vernment were  invariably  found  sup- 
porting the  Repealer  and  the  Demo- 
crat against  the  Conservative  candi- 
date, who  was  ready  and  anxious  to 
maintain  peace,  order,  and  tranquil- 
lity." 

We  extract  from  one  of  the  last 
speeches  of  that  intrepid  and  patri- 
otic nobleman,  the  Earl  of  Roden, 
the  following  account  of  the  object 
of  the  Society  :— 

"  From  the  first  formation  of  the  So- 
ciety, I  need  hardly  tell  this  respect- 
able meeting,  that  I  have  taken  a 
most  lively  and  anxious  interest  in 
its  progress.  It  has  been  my  delight 
to  watch  over  your  proceedings 
week  after  week ;  and  although  at  a 
distance  from  you — detained,  in 
some  instances  by  public,  in  others 
by  private  duty — I  have  waited  most 
anxiously  for  the  opportunity  which 
has  arrived  to-day  of  joining  and 
uniting  with  you  personally  in  that 
great  and  important  cause  for  the 
maintenance  of  which  we  originally 
combined  in  this  room — namely,  to 
support  and  uphold  the  Protestant' 
institutions  of  the  country.  I  am 
persuaded,  and  every  day  I  live  the 
persuasion  becomes  stronger,  that  it 
is  to  Protestantism  in  Ireland  is  to 
be  ascribed  that  liberty  of  con- 


science as  well  as  personal  liberty, 
which  is  enjoyed,  not  merely  by  the 
Protestants  themselves,  but  by  the 
Roman  Catholic  inhabitants  of  this 
country.  It  is  therefore,  sir,  because 
I  wish  well  to  all  my  countrymen,  of 
every  persuasion  and  denomination, 
that  I  would  uphold  the  principles 
of  Protestantism.  I  would  say  to 
you,  as  I  have  said  it  in  my  place  in 
Parliament — and  as  I  am  ready  to 
assert  whenever  I  may  be  called  up- 
on—  that  I  consider  Protestantism, 
in  this  country  as  the  nucleus  of  all 
the  liberties  we  have  enjoyed — and 
to  that  alone  we  may  trust  the  con- 
tinuation of  that  happiness  and  free- 
dom so  long  enjoyed  by  the  inhabit- 
ants of  this  country;  and  therefore, 
sir,  you  will  not  be  surprised  when 
I  state  it  to  be  my  determination- 
moving  in  that  sphere  of  life  in 
which  God  has  placed  me,  to  use 
every  means  in  my  power  to  forward 
and  uphold  so  great  and  important 
an  object.  If  we  once  admit  that  the 
truth  found  in  Protestantism  is  a 
matter  of  indifference— if  we  once 
admit  that  it  signifies  not  to  what 
religion  a  man  belong,  provided  he 
be  sincere  in  his  belief  in  it — we 
then  make  no  difference  between 
truth  and  error.  The  Bible  would 
be  a  useless  book,  instead  of  being  the 
charter  of  a  Christian's  privilege,  and 
the  foundation  of  a  sinner's  hope." 

The  general  object  of  the  Protest- 
ant Society  is,  to  counteract  the 
movements,  and  defeat  the  objects, 
of  the  Catholic  Revolutionists ;  and 
for  a  description  of  these  objects, 
we  willingly  turn  to  a  late  number 
of  one  of  the  ablest  of  the  Conser- 
vative papers  of  Great  Britain. 

"  The  first  object  of  Catholic  le- 
gislation," says  the  Standard,  "  and 
of  the  intrigues  for  which  their  le- 
gislative power  gives  them  opportu- 
nity, is  the  overthrow  of  the  Church 
establishment  in  Ireland ;  the  over- 
throw of  the  Church  establishment 
in  England — aye,  and  in  Scotland, 
too,  must  follow.  Upon  this  ground, 
though  we  have  higher  to  come,  we 
appeal  to  the  clergy  of  all  ranks,  to 
the  patrons  of  Church  preferment  of 
all  degrees,  throughout  Great  Bri- 
tain— we  appeal  to  them  to  aid  the 
Conservative  Society  of  Ireland,  in 
repelling  the  first  invasion  of  their 
rights  and  property. 

"  The  second  object  of  the  Popish 


1833.] 


Ireland.    No.  II. 


237 


party  in  Parliament,  is  the  extirpa- 
tion of  the  Protestant  religion.  Upon 
this  ground  we  invoke  the  aid  of  all 
Christian  churchmen  and  Dissenters, 
of  whatever  denomination,  to  aid  that 
Soci  ±ty  which,  in  resisting  the  ag- 
gression of  this  Popish  faction,  cham- 
pions the  vital  interests  of  Christian- 
ity, end  literally  prevents  the  closing 
of  the  gospel  agjainst  seven  or  eight 
millions  of  our  fellow-subjects. 

"  The  third  object  of  the  Popish 
faction  in  Parliament,  is  the  osten- 
tatiously avowed  one,  the  repeal  of 
the  Union.  Let  the  manufacturer, 
the  1  undholder,  the  party  concerned 
in  tl  e  East  or  West  India  trade — let, 
indeed,  any  man  concerned  to  main- 
tain the  power  and  station  of  Great 
Britain,  but  reflect  upon  the  import 
of  tl  ese  five  words — the  repeal  of  the 
Unim — the  repeal  of  that  Union 
which,  thirty-two  years  ago,  was 
effected  at  such  a  cost,  in  order  to 
avoid  a  political  separation;  and  that 
at  a  moment  when  the  power  of 
Popery  had  been  crushed  into  the 
dust  by  its  defeat  in  a  recent  rebel- 
lion. ,What  would  be  the  effect  of 
a  repeal  of  the  Union  now,  when 
Popery  has  been  pampered  to  its 
present  high  and  palmy  state  ?  Let, 
we  say,  those  who  have  property, 
particularly  funded  property,  — 
let  those  who  are  engaged  in  any 
branch  of  commerce — let  those  who 
havn  any  British  feeling,  reflect  deli- 
berately upon  what  would  follow 
from  a  repeal  of  the  Union;  and 
then  let  them  ask  themselves  whe- 
ther they  ought  *not  to  lend  a  hand 
to  the  Protestants  of  Ireland,  who 
are  standing  in  the  breach  against 
that  plague  ?" 

When  a  powerful  body,  acting  up- 
on these  principles,  is  organizeu  for 
the  defence  of  order  in  Ireland,  and 
to  preserve  its  union  with  this  coun- 
try, it  is  surely  the  height  of  madness 
for  Government  to  throw  away  such 
aux  liaries,  to  alienate  such  affec- 
tions, on  the  very  eve  of  a  conflict  for 
the  dismemberment  of  the  empire. 
Yet  this  is  what  the  Ministry  have 
hav<3  done,  and  are  doing,  by  coa- 
lescing on  every  occasion  with  the 
Cat  lolic  Repealer  in  preference  to 
the  Protestant  Unionist, — the  fire- 
brand of  anarchy,  and  dismemberer 
of  the  empire,  in  preference  to  the 
frie  id  of  order,  and  tried  supporter 
of  t  le  British  constitution. 


Of  the  extent  to  which  the  anarchi- 
cal meetings,  so  loudly  praised  and 
warmly  supported  at  one  time  by 
Ministers,  have  gone  in  Ireland,  we 
cannot  give  a  better  proof  than  is 
contained  in  the  following  charge  of 
Judge  Joy  to  the  grand  jury  at  the 
late  Longford  Assizes  : — "  I  am  sorry 
to  learn,  that  there  is  an  appearance 
of  moral  disease  in  your  country, 
more  fatal  and  pernicious  in  its  im- 
mediate effects, and  far  more  destruc- 
tive in  its  general  consequences,  than 
that  physical  disease  which  Provi- 
dence has  already  considerably  alle- 
viated in  your  country.  Large  as- 
semblies of  the  people  have  taken 
place  for  the  purpose  of  resisting  the 
law,  exciting  discontent,  and  ob- 
structing those  persons  who  are  ex- 
ercising their  due  rights,  and  for  the 
purpose  of  depriving  them  of  that 
property  which  the  law  has  given 
them  ;  and  which  the  law,  so  long  as 
it  remains  as  it  is,  must  secure  to 
them.  Large  assemblies  have  been 
convoked,  for  the  purpose  of  enter- 
ing into  a  combination  to  resist  the 
law,  and  obstructing  those  who  are 
coming  forward  in  the  exercise  of 
their  just  rights.  This  state  of  things 
cannot  be  suffered  to  exist,  for  evil, 
you  may  be  assured,  must  be  the 
result.  If  it  be  not  checked,  there 
is  an  end  to  all  social  order — to  all 
peace — to  all  protection  for  life  and 
property,  and  those  ties  by  which 
society  are  kept  together  must  be 
ultimately  severed;  if  such  a  state 
of  things  be  permitted  to  exist,  no 
man  will  know  what  to  call  his  own 
—no  man  can  exercise  his  will  over 
that  which  is  his  own,  but  must  sub- 
missively bend  to  that  most  despotic 
of  all  tyrants — the*  tyranny  ot  the 
mob.  It  becomes  my  duty,  there- 
fore, to  enter  into  an  explanation  of 
the  law  upon  this  subject.  Persons, 
it  is  stated,  have  assembled  in  large 
bodies,  with  arms,  with  flying  ban- 
ners, with  ensigns,  denoting  the  ob- 
ject of  their  assembling,  and  thus  in- 
spiring terror  into  the  peaceable  sub- 
jects of  his  Majesty.  The  very  ex- 
istence of  this  I  at  once  pronounce 
to  be  a  revolution  of  the  law,  which 
calls  for,  and  is  deser.ving  of  punish- 
ment. Gentlemen,  in  some  cases 
they  have  given  specific  directions 
as  to  who  should  be  employed  by 
particular  persons,  and  who  should 
not.  They  have  assumed  a  control- 


238 


Ireland.    No.  II. 


[Feb. 


ling  authority  over  the  labour  of  the 
country,  by  dictating  to  those  who 
are  necessarily  obliged  to  employ 
persons  under  them ;  and  have  also 
exercised  a  dictatorial  authority  in 
saying,  '  You  shall  not  employ  this 
man  or  that  man;'  and  over  those 
unfortunate  persons  who  are  obliged 
to  have  recourse  to  their  labour  for 
support,  they  have  exercised  an 
equally  dictatorial  authority  by  pre- 
venting them  from  receiving  pay- 
ment from  particular  men." 

That  the  Protestant  party  in  Ire- 
land are  a  powerful  and  intrepid 
body,  is  evident  from  the  astonishing 
stand  they  have  made  against  the 
Catholic  anarchists,  even  when  de- 
serted by  Administration,  and  when 
the  whole  weight  of  Government 
was  lent  to  support  the  5,000,000  of 
Agitators  who  are  tearing  society  to 
pieces  in  that  wretched  country. 
It  is  owing  to  their  efforts,  and  their 
efforts  alone,  aided  by  the  cool  and 
humane  courage  of  the  English  sol- 
diers, that  there  is  any  thing  like 
order  or  peace  left  in  any  part  of 
Ireland.  But  the  eloquence  and 
ability  of  the  orators  of  whom  it  can 
boast,  is  in  Great  Britain  in  a  great 
degree  unknown ;  and  to  remove 
the  error,  and  give  a  specimen  of 
the  ability  which  presides  over  their 
meetings,  we  cannot  resist-the  temp- 
tation of  adorning  our  pages  by  part 
of  the  splendid  speech  of  Mr  Boyton 
on  the  Dutch  war ;— a  proceeding  of 
which  the  consequences  and  the 
punishment  are  doomed  to  be  more 
lasting  than  the  gallant  defence  of 
General  Chasse.  It  is  not  exactly 
on  the  subject  at  present  under  dis- 
cussion, but  it  is  intimately  connect- 
ed with  it;  and  Mr  Boyton's  elo- 
quence is  worthy  of  a  place  in  a 
more  lasting  record  than  the  perish- 
ing columns  of  a  newspaper. 

"  I  say  it  is  our  duty  to  employ 
this  influence  in  the  way  of  respect- 
ful remonstrance.  It  is  the  unques- 
tionable prerogative  of  the  King  to 
declare  war — but  no  Minister  should 
advjse  war  unless  it  receive  the  sup- 
port of  the  great  body  of  the  people 
—for  none  such  can  be  brought  to  a 
successful  termination.  My  Lord, 
we  object  to  the  war  as  undertaken 
in  violation  of  the  national  faith.— 
War  is  a  fearful  alternative,  but  an 
alternative  which  a  people  may  be 
induced  to  adopt.  But  the  present 


war  is  to  the  people  of  this  country 
unintelligible.  If  it  were  undertaken 
to  support  an  old  and  faithful  ally — 
if  it  were  undertaken  to  loosen  the 
chains  and  establish  the  freedom  of 
an  oppressed  people — if  its  objects 
were.to  curb  superstitious  bigotry, 
or  to  crush  religious  persecution — 
(cheers) — if  the  interests  of  the 
country  advised,  or  the  honour  of 
the  country  required,  that  we  should 
draw  the  sword  from  out  its  sheath, 
they  might  excuse  if  they*  did  not 
approve  the  present  policy.  But  that 
England  should  unite  with  her  na- 
tural enemy  to  crush  an  ancient 
friend ;  that  she  should  join  to  wrest 
from  them  the  hard-earned  rights  of 
a  gallant  people,  bought  by  their 
bravery  and  sealed  with  their  blood 
— that  she  should  ally  herself  with 
infidels  against  brethren  of  the  same 
household  of  the  faith — and  this  in 
defiance  of  the  most  obvious  inte- 
rests, and  in  violation  of  the  pledged 
honour  of  the  country,  is  that 
against  which  the  mind  revolts,  and 
will  call  down,  I  feel  assured,  the 
universal  reclamation  of  the  country. 
But  supposing  honour  permitted, 
justice  must  condemn  the  war — the 
very  basis  accepted  by  the  King  of 
Holland  contained  conditions  of  cry- 
ing injustice.  Upon  the  closing  of 
the  Scheldt,  my  Lord,  I  say  the  pros- 
perity of  the  states  of  Holland  has 
for  a  long  time  depended.  I  need 
not  dwell  upon  the  right  vested  in 
Holland  to  close  the  entrance  of  this 
river,  possessing,  as  she  does,  a  ter- 
ritory on  either  side  of  its  embou- 
chure ;  but  this  right  was  settled  by 
special  treaty  between  Philip  the 
Fourth  and  the  States  of  Holland 
centuries  before ;  they  have  since 
strengthened  that  title  by  all  the  au- 
thority of  [prescription,  and  by  the 
sanction  of  the  States  of  Europe. 
Why,  my  Lord,  the  attempt  of  the 
Emperor  Joseph  to  open  the  Scheldt, 
joined  with  the  equally  prudent  po- 
licy, by  which,  through  a  most  ex- 
traordinary coincidence,  it  was  ac- 
companied—  namely,  the  disman- 
tling of  the  iron  girdle  of  frontier 
towns,  by  which  the  Netherlands 
was  separated  from  France,  led  to 
that  first  disturbance  in  Europe, 
immediately  preceding  the  move- 
ment at  the  French  Revolution.  The 
ground  assigned  by  England  for  its 
declaration  of  war  against  France  in 


1833.]  Ireland,    fro.  IT. 

the  year  1794,  was  the  opening  of 
the  Scheldt.    Ever  since  the  separa- 
tion of  the  United  Provinces  from 
Spain,  it  has  always  been  the  policy 
of  England  to  secure  to  Amsterdam, 
and  the  other  cities  of  Holland,  the 
wealth,  and  the  consequent  power, 
which  Antwerp  once  derived  from  the 
navigation  of  that  stream.    But  as  a 
question  of  policy,  too,  I  condemn 
this  unjust  war.  I  cannot  be  persua- 
ded but  that  there  exists  a  necessary 
concatenation  between    these   two 
principles,  and  that  what  is  unjust 
wil  always  be  found  inexpedient.  Is 
there  any  man  so  blind  who  does 
not  see  that  at  this  instant  Belgium 
is  a  province  of  France  ?  But  recent- 
ly it  formed  a  parcel  of  the  empire 
— it  was  cut  up  into  French  depart- 
ments— it  speaks  the   French  lan- 
guage— it  is   animated    by   French 
principles — it  is  occupied  by  French 
armies — a  daughter  of  the  House  of 
Orleans  sits  upon  the  throne — and 
it  in  an  integral  part  of  France  in 
every    thing    but    the    name — nay, 
French  writers  even  now  lay  claim 
to  it,  quoting  as  their  authority  the 
first  passage  in  the  Commentaries  of 
CaBsar  : —  Gallia  divisa  est  in  paries 
tres  quarum  unam  BelgcB  colunt.     I 
ask,  was  it  a  wise  act  to  extend  the 
French  frontier  to  the  Rhine  ?  I  say 
to  the  Rhine,  for  part  of  the  demand 
made  upon  the  Dutch  King  is,  that 
his  rebellious   subjects,   who  have 
scorned  his  rule,  shall  freely  navi- 
gate the  internal  waters  of  Holland 
— that  they  shall  have  a  free  transit 
along  those  canals  which  join  the 
waters  of  the  Scheldt  to  the  Rhine. 
Well  can  I  sympathize  with  the  sen- 
time  ;nt  of  the  Dutch  patriot,  express- 
ed not  long  since  at  a  meeting  of  the 
States-General,  that  the  Hollanders 
would  never  consent  to  give  traitors 
accrss  to  these  canals,  planned  by 
the  enterprise  and  dug  with  the  trea- 
sures of  their  fathers.     But  imagine 
the  importance  of  the  Low  Countries 
to  France;  let  any  gentleman  esti- 
mate its  vast  population,  and  consi- 
dering the  lightness  of  its  debt — its 
vast   financial  resources — the   mili- 
tary   genius  of   its    people — every 
mab,  from  the  grandsire  at  the  fire- 
side to  the  youth  in  the  field,  a  sol- 
dier— their  unbounded  ambition  and 
unbounded  pride — let  him  consider 
that  France  is  the  greatest  military 
power  upon  the  earth,  and  wants 

VOL.  XXXIII.   NO.  CCIV. 


239 


but  maritime  strength  to  aim  now, 
as  it  has  aimed  before,  at  universal 
rule.     Let  him  then  take  a  map  of 
Europe  and  observe  the  line  of  coast 
which  the  cession  of  the  Netherlands 
adds  to  this  empire — let  him  weigh 
the  augmented    resources   derived 
from  the  free  intercourse  with  the 
Dutch  colonies  secured  by  one  of 
the  articles  of  the  treaty,  the  posses- 
sion of  the  internal  navigation  of  the 
Continent — the    necessary    rise   of 
Antwerp  and  the  Netherlands,  and 
the   consequent   decadence   of  the 
Dutch,  and  he  will  readily  see  the 
vast  importance  of  this  added  terri- 
tory to  the  French  people.  I  put  out 
of  question  now  the  demolition  of 
the    frontier    fortresses,     and    that 
France  will  now  have  an  advanced 
base  for  its  military  operations.  But, 
I  ask,  is  it  wise  to  put  into  the  hands 
of  such  a  people  as  the  French,  such 
a  river  as  the  Scheldt,  and  such  a 
harbour,  and  mart,  and  fortress  as 
Antwerp — a    river    whose     mouth 
opens  over  against  the  Thames — an 
arsenal  selected  by  the  perspicacity 
of  Napoleon  as  the  focus  of  his  ma- 
ritime strength,  and  fortified  by  the 
mathematical  genius  of  Carnot  ?  The 
river  at  Antwerp  is  broader  than  the 
Thames,  and  is  navigable  forline-of- 
battle    ships    some    miles    higher. 
Surely  nothing  but  infatuated  insa- 
nity, or  else  a  principle  far  baser, 
could  have  induced  such  a  sacrifice 
as  this.  We  are  to  be  sacrificed  to  our 
natural  enemies  the  French,  and  for 
no  other  intelligible  motive  but  that 
a  disagreement  with  France  would 
render   the   Ministry  of  my  Lord 
Plunkett  and  my  Lord  Grey, — would 
render  the  reign  of  nepotism  and 
impotence — a  few  months  shorter. 
There  is  something  in  the  history  of 
the  Dutch  nation  well  worthy  the  ad- 
miration of  the  patriot  and  philoso- 
pher.    We  have  handed  down  to  us 
from  ancient  times,  by  the  poets  and 
orators  who  have  wondered  at  and 
celebrated  its  extraordinary  institu- 
tions, the  history   of  the  common- 
wealth, which  acquired  no  mean  in- 
fluence among  the  states  of  Greece, 
and  shared  no  small  portion  of  mi- 
litary renown.     But  it  was  a  cele- 
brity and  a  distinction  purchased  by 
the   sacrifice   of  every  finer   senti- 
ment which  sweetens  domestic  life, 
and  which  was  essentially  founded 
upon  the  slavery  and  debasement  of 
Q 


240 

their  fello\v-men.  But  the  history 
of  the  Dutch  people  dims  indeed  the 
lustre,  while  it  transcends  all  that  is 
marvellous  in  Spartan  story.  Sub- 
jects of  the  most  powerful  monarch 
of  the  day,  the  lord  of  an  eastern 
and  western  world,  with  treasures 
the  most  boundless,  with  armies  the 
best  disciplined,  trained  to  war,  and 
habituated  to  victory,  and  led  by 
Generals,  whose  experience  and  skill 
have  been  the  admiration  of  after 
times,  they  rose  against  their  op- 
pressors. Amid  the  sorest  persecu- 
tion, under  trials,  the  mere  recital 
of  which  would  blanch  the  cheek, 
neither  the  violence  of  armed  des- 
potism, nor  the  cruelty  of  bigoted 
power,  could  subdue  a  people  de- 
termined to  be  free;  deeply  im- 
pressed with  the  truths  spread  abroad 
at  the  period  of  the  Reformation, 
when  their  souls  were  emancipated 
their  bodies  could  not  be  enslaved. 
In  defence  of  that  sacred  principle 
which  commands  every  being  to 
worship  his  God  as  his  conscience 
dictates,  they  rose  upon  their  bigot- 
ed persecutors  to  a  man.  The  same 
elastic  principle  which  effected  the 
national  independence  of  Holland, 
spread  wide  its  national  prosperity—- 
her fleets  filled  every  harbour — her 
products  supplied  every  market— 
the  extent  of  her  enterprise  was  cir- 
cumscribed only  by  the  limits  of  the 
globe — her  whalers  usurped  the  Arc- 
tic regions — her  industry  drew  from 
the  northern  deeps  treasures  as 
abundant,  and  far  more  blest  than 
her  persecutors  could  extract,  under 
the  lash  of  tyrants,  and  amid  the 
tears  of  slaves,  from  the  exhaustless 
caverns  of  Potosi  and  Peru.  The 
shores  of  three  quarters  of  the  globe 
were  interspersed  with  her  settle- 
ments— her  establishments  in  the 
East  were  almost  as  numerous  as 
the  islands  in  the  Indian  Archipe- 
lago ;  and  at  some  future  period, 
my  Lord,  when  the  present  state  of 
the  habitable  world  shall  have  pass- 
ed away,  we  know  the  great  ones  of 
the  earth  will  pass  away,  and  new 
states  arise  under  His  bidding,  at 
whose  command  nations  and  empires 
rise  and  fall,  flourish  and  decay. 
Suppose,  my  Lord,  when  the  great 
ones  of  the  earth  have  sunk  into 
oblivion,  and  that  some  philosopher 
or  historian,  or  some  one  dedicated 
to  antiquarian  research  some  thou- 


Ireland.    No.  It.  [Feb. 

sand  years  hence,  shall  find  the 
names  of  Holland  and  Ireland  affix- 
ed to  regions  distant  from  the  parent 
country  by  a  semi-circumference  of 
the  globe — when  he  finds  in  the  no- 
menclature of  geography  a  monu- 
ment of  their  language,  he  will  na- 
turally enquire,  what  a  wondrous 
country  must  this  have  been— her 
population,  how  numerous — her  ter- 
ritory, how  extensive — her  climate, 
how  favourable — her  soil,  how  fruit- 
ful— and  if,  my  Lord,  there  be  any 
old  almanack  in  those  days,  and  that 
a  reference  is  made  to  it,  how  sur- 
prised will  he  be  to  find  this  count- 
less people  to  have  been  less  than 
two  millions  of  souls,  and  this  ex- 
tensive territory  not  much  larger 
than  an  English  county !  Perhaps, 
too,  he  may  question  the  fidelity  of 
the  poet,  who  describes  the  industry 
of  this  surprising  people  as  encroach- 
ing upon  the  ocean,  and  creating  a 
sphere  for  its  labours  by  that  firm 
connected  bulwark,  which 

'  Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery 

roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire  and  usurps  the 

shore ; 

While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him 

smile ; 
The  slow  canal,   the  yellow  blossom'd 

vale, 

The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail; 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain— 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign.' 

My  Lord,  there  is  something  in  the 
history  of  the  Dutch  people  calcu- 
lated to  attract  the  interest  of  every 
cultivated  mind.  Independent  of  all 
mere  abstract  considerations,  we 
cannot  but  recollect  that  the  bright- 
est passages  in  British  history  were 
those  in  which  England  and  Holland 
were  written  in  the  same  page — of 
Elizabeth,  the  founder  of  our  em- 
pire, and  the  vindicator  of  our  faith 
—of  Cromwell,  who  made  the  name 
of  Englishman  respected  as  ever  was 
that  of  ancient  Roman — and  the  glo- 
ries of  Blenheim,  and  the  laurels  of 
Waterloo,  were  won  along  with 
Dutch  allies,  and  against  French 
foes.  On  one,  one  occasion  alone, 
were  we  united  with  the  French 
against  the  Hollanders ;  and  abroad 
or  at  home,  in  our  foreign  or  our  do- 
mestic relations,  it  is  the  darkest  and 
the  basest  page  in  the  tablet  of  our 


Ireland.     No.  II. 


241 


histories— I  allude  to  the  reign  of 
Charles  the  Second.  With  a  profli- 
gate, an  unconstitutional,  and  a  Po- 
pish government  at  home,  the  name 
of  England  was  dishonoured  abroad. 
The  Dutch  fleets  swept  the  seas,  our 
shipping  was  destroyed  even  upon 
the  waters  of  the  Thames,  and  for 
once  in  our  history  a  foreign  fleet 
arrhed  within  a  single  tide  of  Lon- 
don bridge.  Nor  were  we  absolved 
fro  IT.  our  shame,  until  we  sought 
fronr  persecuted  Holland  a  Deliverer 
—(No  idea  can  be  conveyed  of  the 
enthusiasm  with  which  this  declara- 
tion was  received) — from  dishonour 
abroad  and  despotism  at  home.  My 
Lord,  no  war  can  be  safe  but  such 
as  is  supported  by  the  good-will  of 
the  people.  I  am  assured  from  every 
private  account — I  see  it  in  forced  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  hireling  press, 
who,  however  enslaved  to  the  Go- 
vernment, are  constrained  to  obey  the 
still  higher  behests  of  the  popular 
will,  that  in  England  there  is  a  uni- 
versal reclamation  against  this  war 
—and,  my  Lord,  in  Ireland — in  Ire- 
land, what  is  the  feeling?  It  has 
beer  said  by  a  wise  heathen,  that  a 
good  man  struggling  with  adversity 
is  a  spectacle  worthy  of  gods  to  wit- 
ness But  a  great,  and  temperate, 
and  wise  prince,  struggling  against 
unjust  aggression — asserting  with 
firmness,  and  not  without  modera- 
tion, the  unquestionable  rights  of  his 
subjects — supported  by  the  sacri- 
fices and  cheered  by  the  affections 
of  a  unanimous  and  devoted  people, 
is  a  spectacle  well  worthy  the  admi- 
raticn  of  mankind.  My  Lord,  our 
atta<  hment  to  our  King,  our  devo- 
tion to  the  laws,  is  too  unquestion- 
able to  suffer  from  the  imputation 
of  the  despicable  minions  of  this 
desr  erate  Government.  But  we  are 
calkd  upon  to  let  that  Government 
know  with  what  sentiments  this  war 
is  regarded  here.  How  will  this 
war  be  regarded  by  the  Protestant 
population  of  Ulster?  Mark,  my 
Lord,  the  hair  upon  which  the  fate 
of  the  empire  now  hangs.  With  a 
population,  to  whom  the  name  of 
Eng  and  is  hateful — who  for  cen- 
turies have  been  averse  from  Eng- 
lish rule — who  have  from  century 
to  century,  and  from  year  to  year, 
looked  forward  for  some  occasion  by 
which  they  might  be  emancipated — • 
by  o.ie  class,  and  one  class  alone,  has 


the  empire  been  rescued  from  dis- 
memberment ;  that  class,  my  Lord, 
the  Protestant  population,  have  been* 
by  the  insane  idiotcy  of  the  pre- 
sent Administration,  injured^  insulted, 
spurned.  But  there  is  one  thing  I 
would  convey  to  the  Government  — 
your  Lordship,  who  knows  the  North 
of  Ireland,  can  correct  me  if  I  err—- 
every affection  of  his  heart  —  every 
recollection  dearest  to  him  —  every 
bright  vision  which  his  fancy  can 
depict,  is  indissolubly  associated  in 
the  mind  of  an  Irish  Protestant  with 
recollections  of  the  Dutch  people. 
When  the  Protestants  were  persecu- 
ted for  their  faith  —  when  they  were 
driven  from  their  habitations  —  when 
they  were  forced  to  the  dreadful  al- 
ternative of  misery  and  debasement 
at  home,  or  of  sorrow  and  exile 
abroad  —  they  recollect  that  their 
great  Deliverer  came  from  Holland. 
They  look  to  her  people  as  one  peo- 
ple with  themselves  —  that  the  Irish, 
Protestant  and  the  Dutch  Protestant 
achieved  the  one  victory  at  the  plains 
of  Aughrim  and  the  waters  of  the 
Boyne  ;  and  although  it  still  should 
please  their  Sovereign  to  continue 
this  unprofitable  and  unhappy  con- 
test, they  will  still  maintain  to  him, 
that  loyalty  and  devotion  with  which 
they  have  ever  been  characterised, 
and  still  lend  their  best  efforts  for 
the  maintenance  of  his  dignity  and 
crown.  It  will  be  the  part  of  a  wise 
minister  to  recollect,  that  at  a  most 
dangerous  period  in  the  history  of 
Ireland,  when  the  bond  of  English 
connexion  has  dwindled  to  a  thread, 
when  its  only  security  is  found  in 
the  attachment  of  the  Protestants  to 
English  rule,  that  he  advises  a  Sove- 
reign to  a  war  condemned  by  every 
thinking  and  educated  individual  of 
that  persuasion  ;  and  with  respect  to 
the  lower  classes,  revolting  to  the 
strongest  prejudices  and  mostpower- 
ful  emotions  of  the  heart.'* 

We  make  no  apology  for  the  length 
of  this  quotation.  It  is  seldom,  in- 
deed, that  we  have  the  satisfaction 
of  quoting  such  generous  sentiments, 
clothed  in  such  beautiful  language  ; 
or  of  adorning  our  columns  with  so 
much  historical  information,  set  off 
with  such  lustre  of  imagery.  It  is 
by  habituating  our  readers  on  this 
side  of  the  water  to  these  flights  of 
Irish  eloquence,  and  shewing  the 
Conservative  leaders  there  how  high" 


242 


Ireland.    No.  It 


[Feb. 


ly  their  efforts  are  appreciated,  and 
with  what  interest  their  proceedings 
are  watched  in  this  country,  that  we 
can  best  increase  the  mutual  esteem 
of  the  patriotic  and  the  brave  in  both 
countries,  and  promote  that  cordial 
union  and  co-operation  upon  which 
alone  the  salvation  of  either  can  be 
founded. 

And  this  union  must,  it  is  evident, 
daily  become  closer,  from  the  spread 
of  Conservative  principles  with  the 
nearer  approach  of  danger  in  this 
country.  It  is  clear  that  these  prin- 
ciples must  become  the  fixed  princi- 
ples of  the  whole  friends  of  order  in 
Great  Britain  ;  the  Juste  milieu  of  the 
Whigs  must  soon  be  destroyed. 
There  is  no  medium  between  an- 
archy and  order,  monarchy  and  re- 
volution, religion  and  infidelity,  vir- 
tue and  licentiousness.  He  that  is 
not  with  us  is  against  us ;  the  time 
is  fast  approaching  when  the  whole 
empire,  like  Ireland,  must  be  divided 
into  two  great  parties ;  the  one  stri- 
ving to  uphold,  the  other  to  destroy, 
the  religion,  property,  and  institutions 
of  the  country.  We  may  thank  the 
Reform  Act  for  having  seated  in  the 
once  united  and  prosperous  realm  of 
Great  Britain,  the  vehement  passions 
and  distracted  agitation  of  that  un- 
happy land. 

But,  driven  as  we  have  been  by  the 
Whigs  to  this  sad  extremity,  we  must 
set  our  face  to  the  danger,  and  ex- 
tricate ourselves  from  the  perils  that 
surround  us,  or  perish  in  the  at- 
tempt. In  this  effort  there  is  much 
room  both  for  encouragement  and 
imitation  in  the  example  of  Ireland. 
Never  was  the  minority  in  numbers 
of  a  nation  placed  in  such  peril; 
never  were  brute  strength  and  popu- 
lar violence  so  openly  arrayed  against 
property  and  intelligence;  never 
were  the  forces  of  anarchy  so  ably 
and  skilfully  led  ;  and  never  did  go- 
vernment in  so  disgraceful  a  way 
throw  itself  into  the  arms  of  the  Re- 
volutionists. That  the  bold  and  uni- 
ted band  of  the  Protestants  should 
so  long  have  been  able,  unaided  and 
unbefriended  to  withstand  the  nu- 
merous and  well- drilled  forces  of 
anarchy,  is  the  strongest  proof  of 
what  can  be  effected  by  a  body  nu- 


merically inferior  to  their  opponents, 
if  supported  by  the  education  and 
property  of  the  country,  and  directed 
by  leaders  of  ability  and  resolution. 
But  in  all  these  respects,  much,  much 
remains  to  be  done  in  Great  Britain, 
before  they  can  acquire  the  efficiency 
of  their  Irish  brethren.  The  nobility, 
chiefly,  should  take  example  from  the 
energetic  and  active  leaders  of  Irish 
patriotism.  Where  do  we  see  in  this 
country  the  noblemen  coming  for- 
ward with  the  gentlemen,  middling 
ranks,  and  yeomanry,  to  assert  their 
principles,  and  rouse  their  inferiors 
by  their  example,  as  they  have  long 
done  in  the  north  of  Ireland  ?  It  is 
by  such  means,  by  Conservative  so- 
cieties uniting  together  the  prince 
and  the  peasant,  that  the  Protestants 
of  Ireland  have  been  combined  into 
the  magnificent  array  of  patriotism 
and  public  spirit  which  they  now 
exhibit.  The  ability  is  not  wanting 
in  this  country,  as  we  see  from  the 
speeches  of  Lord  John  Scott,  Lord 
Stormount,andso  many  of  the  young 
nobility;  the  public  independent 
spirit  is  not  wanting,  as  is  proved  by 
the  return  of  fifteen  Conservative 
Peers,  in  opposition  to  the  mandates 
of  the  Reforming  Treasury.  What, 
then,  is  wanting  to  render  the  patrio- 
tic unions  of  this  country  as  efficient 
and  powerful  as  those  of  the  sister 
kingdom  ?  A  sense  of  the  danger  to 
be  apprehended  ;  of  the  reality  and 
pressing  nature  of  the  danger ;  and 
of  the  necessity  of  the  wise  and  the  ., 
good  of  every  political  persuasion, 
uniting  together  to  resist  the  pro- 
gress of  evils  which  now  threaten 
them  all  with  destruction.  If  the 
sense  of  the  reality  of  these  perils  is 
awakened  in  time,  it  is  just  possible, 
that,  under  the  blessing  of  God,  the 
remainingmstitutions  of  the  country, 
and  the  national  independence,  may 
yet  be  preserved.  If  it  is  not,  and 
the  higher  orders  do  not  speedily 
unite,  and  publicly  unite,  with  the 
middling  to  arrest  it,  we  are  irrevo- 
cably doomed  to  destruction;  and 
the  authors  of  the  Reform  Bill  will 
have  the  glory  of  having  dismem- 
bered an  empire,  which  the  arms  of 
Napoleon  sought  in  vain  to  subdue. 


1838.] 


The  Forrest-Race  llomance. 


243 


THE  FORREST-RACE  ROMANCE. 

(EXTRACTED  FROM  PAPERS  DATED  1773.) 


I  PASSED  my  examination  with 
some  credit,  and  was  appointed  as- 
sistant-surgeon to  my  ship,  then  ly- 
ing at  Portsmouth.  As  she  was  ex- 
pect ed,  however,  to  sail  every  tide 
to  join  the  fleet  off  Cherbourg,*  I 
was  not  sent  down  at  once,  but  re- 
ceived instructions  to  be  on  board 
the  Gull  tender,  at  Sheerness,  in 
eight  days.  In  the  mean  time,  with 
my  appointment,  and  twenty  guineas 
in  my  pocket,  a  light  heart  and  a 
tolerable  figure,  I  went  down  into 
Surrey,  to  Bromley  Force,  the  seat 
of  an  excellent  friend,  from  whom  I 
had  long  had  an  invitation.  I  found 
the  house  full  of  visitants,  chiefly 
young  people  about  my  own  age,  all 
making  merry,  and  had  little  diffi- 
culty in  being  admitted  of  their 
crew.  I  never  saw  so  many  happy, 
fair  and  handsome  faces  together,  as 
were  there  assembled  for  the  next 
week — but  by  far  the  loveliest  of 
the  fair  faces,  was  that  of  a  young 
lady  from  the  west,  called  Fane;  and 
none,  perhaps,  was  happier  than  my 
own,  when  beside  her.  She  delight- 
ed in  botany;  and  although  I  at  that 
timo  knew  little  more  of  the  science 
than  would  have  enabled  me  to 
make  a  tolerable  guess  at  the  dried 
dru^  in  a  medicine-chest,  yet  the 
temptation  was  so  great,  that  I  could 
not  resist  the  opportunity  of  be- 
coming her  more  constant  compa- 
nion, by  undertaking  the  office  of  her 
tutor.  My  inadequacy  must  have 
been  soon  betrayed;  nevertheless, 
we  continued  to  pursue  our  studies, 
with  as  regular  attendance  as  ever 
on  my  part,  and  as  implicit  atten- 
tion on  hers,  till  mutually  we  arri- 
ved at  the  tacit  understanding  that, 
provided  we  looked  at  the  flower 
together,  it  mattered  little  whether 
I  assigned  it  a  right  or  a  wrong 
place  in  our  rare  classification.  We 
soon  exchanged  the  garden  for  the 
fiel'ls  and  green  lanes\;  and  often  be- 
fore the  others  had  risen  to  their 
daily  vocations  of  riding  or  sailing, 
we  would  contrive  a  ramble  in 


search  of  some  unknown  species  of 
an  unheard  of  genus,  to  the  roman- 
tic borders  of  Holmsdale,  which  lay 
within  a  half  mile  of  Bromley,  with 
the  apology  of  the  children  for  our 
guides,  who  rarely  failed  to  find  in- 
ducement enough  in  the  rabbit- 
warren,  or  rookery,  to  leave  us  alone 
in  our  search  through  the  glades  and 
avenues  of  the  old  holm  oak  and  the 
furze.  It  cannot  be  expected  that, 
with  these  occasions  constantly  fall- 
ing out,  an  ardent  youth  of  nineteen, 
as  I  then  was,  should  long  conceal 
feelings  so  fostered  by  every  appli- 
ance of  time  and  circumstance ;  nor 
need  it  be  wondered  at,  that  before 
even  the  week  had  elapsed,  I  had 
avowed  my  passion,  and  had  not 
been  altogether  unsuccessful  in  eli- 
citing a  confession  of  its  return* 
My  exultation  on  that  evening  mutt 
have  been  very  apparent,  for  next 
morning,  as  I  came  down  stairs,  ha- 
ving lain  much  later  than  usual,  my 
host  Mr  Blundell  met  me,  and  took 
my  arm,  as  he  bade  me  good  morn- 
ing, then  led  me  into  the  library, 
and,  "  Harry,  my  fine  fellow,"  said 
he,  in  his  good-natured  way,  "  you 
must  get  the  M.D.  to  your  name,  and 
make  something  handsome  of  your 
own,  before  you  begin  to  run  away 
with  the  hearts  of  our  girls  here  in 
the  country." 

"  Ton  my  soul,  sir,"  stammered 
I,  while  I  felt  myself  blushing  to  the 
eyes,  "  I— I— we  were  only  pulling 
flowers,  sir." 

"  Ah !  my  dear  boy,"  he  sighed 
and  went  on,  "  take  care,  that  while 
you  pull  the  flowers,  you  do  not 
plant  thorns  for  both  hereafter."  I 
had  expected  nothing  short  of  thorns 
for  my  roses ;  but  he  surprised  me 
a  little  when  he  proceeded:  '•  El- 
len is  my  ward :  she  is  a  good  girl, 
and  will  be  a  rich  girl;  and  you 
know  very  well  I  would  not  be  act- 
ing as  a  guardian  worthy  such  a 
trust,  if  I  encouraged  the  addresses 
of  one  whose  fortune  is  still  to  make, 
and  whose  attachments,  Harry,  have 


This  must  have  been  in  1758. 


244 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


[Feb. 


still  to  undergo  the  changes  of  the 
most  fickle  time  in  his  life.  Come, 
tell  me  candidly,  now,  how  far  has 
this  business  gone  ?" 

Here  was  a  pretty  reckoning  to  be 
run  up  under  a  hedge.  I  was  silent 
and  sheepish  fora  while;  but  told 
him  honestly  all  about  it,  so  soon  as 
I  could  speak  without  choking  on 
every  second  word. 

"  Surely,"  said  he,  when  I  had 
done,  "  you  must  have  been  aware 
of  the  great  impropriety  of  trying  to 
engage  this  young  lady's  affections 
without  my  sanction — I  am  her 
guardian,  you  know." 

"  I  declare,  my  dear  sir,  I  never 
knew  that  you  were  her  guardian," 
I  exclaimed ;  "  I  never  knew  she  had 
any  fortune  to  guard." 

He  smiled,  and  asked,  "  Were 
you  ever  in  love  before,  Harry  ?" 

"  Never,  sir,  upon  my  honour — ex- 
cept once — but  that  was  nothing." 

"  Nothing  to  this,  I  suppose,"  he 
replied ;  "  and  this,  I  dare  say,  will 
be  nothing  to  the  next.  Tut,  man !  I 
was  a  young  fellow  once  myself,  and 
remember  many  a  time  when  I  would 
have  given  my  eyes  to  have  walked 
to  church  with  one  pretty  girl,  and 
my  head,  I  suppose,  if  I  could,  to 
have  walked  home  with  another.  I 
was  just  your  age  then — what  age 
are  you  now,  Harry  ?" 

"  Nineteen  past,  sir,"  (it  was  not  a 
week  since  my  birthday.) 

"  Aye,  aye,  I  was  just  about  nine- 
teen myself  then — but  no  matter. 
You  would  see  the  propriety,  my  dear 
boy,  of  going  up  to  London  in  the 
mean  time,  were  it  not  that  Ellen  is 
obliged  to  leave  us  to-day  ;  it  is  no 
arrangement  of  mine,  I  can  assure 
you.  If  I  thought  it  necessary  to  get 
either  of  you  out  of  the  other's  way, 
I  certainly  would  pack  you  off,  and 
keep  Ellen  with  me  j  but  the  fact  is, 
I  am  only  joint  trustee  in  this  busi- 
ness :  her  other  guardians  insist  on 
having  her  away  to  the  house  of  one 
of  them,  to  whose  nomination  I  have 
been  over-persuaded  to  consent.  He 
is  needy,  and  the  allowance  may  be 
an  object ;  but  I  would  rather  pay  the 
money  out  of  my  own  pocket  twice 
told,  than  let  her  go  down  among 
them.  However  it  cannot  be  helped: 
she  must  leave  us.  Poor  thing!  with 
such  a  fortune  and  so  many  connex- 
ions— keeping  myself  out  of  the 
question,  without  whose  sanction, 


thank  Heaven,  they  cannot  marry 
her,  there  never  was  a  more  friend- 
less dependent." 

"  And  has  Miss  Fane  no  brother, 
no  father  alive  ?"  enquired  I. 

"  Mother,  sister,  and  brother,  all 
the  family  are  dead,"  replied  Mr 
Blundell, "  excepting  her  father,  who 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  still  alive  to 
every  thing  but  a  proper  sense  of 
his  own  respectability  and  his  child's 
happiness.  His  last  instructions  were 
dated  London,  but  what  he  is  doing 
there,  or  where,  or  how  he  lives,  I 
cannot  tell." 

He  had  now  forgotten  my  mis- 
demeanours in  his  own  confidential 
regrets,  and  I  had  forgotten  my  con- 
fusion in  eagerness  to  know  some- 
thing more  of  one  who,  I  felt,  for  all 
the  careful  old  gentleman's  prudent 
veto,  was  not  yet  quite  out  of  my 
reach ;  although  the  mention  of  her 
fortune,  while  it  made  the  prize  (why 
should  I  be  ashamed  to  confess  it  ?) 
much  more  seriously  valuable,  had 
inspired  me  with  a  fear  of  failure 
proportionate  to  the  enhanced  rich- 
ness of  success. 

"  What  a  pity,  sir,"  I  said,  going 
cunningly  to  work,  "that  testators 
do  not  attend  more  to  the  interests 
of  their  legatees  in  the  appointment 
of  equally  careful  guardians,  if  they 
think  one  not  enough." 

"  Ah,  it  was  the  doing  of  the  law, 
not  of  her  grandfather,  else  Fane 
would  never  have  had  the  control  of  a 
penny  of  it;  but  had  it  not  been  for 
me,  he  would  have  had  it  all.  I  fought 
her  battle  stoutly  though,  and  kept 
matters  square  enough  till  I  was  in- 
duced to  consent  to  the  admission  of 
this  other  worthy,  as  a  sort  of  balance 
wheel  to  keep  our  ill-sorted  motions 
from  bringing  every  thing  to  a  stand." 

"  And  pray,  sir,"  I  went  on,  elated 
with  my  success,  "who  may  this 
vexatious  umpire  be  ?"  I  fairly  over- 
shot the  mark. 

"  That's  no  affair  of  yours,  Harry, 
just  now.  Go  on  with  your  profes- 
sion, get  half-a-dozen  years  over  your 
head,  and  a  decent  independence  at 
least  in  your  pocket,  and  then  I  shall 
be  very  happy  indeed  to  put  the  son 
of  an  old  friend  in  the  way  of  a  good 
match  ;  but  never,  Harry,  never  let 
your  wife  have  to  say  that  she  made 
a  man  of  you,  while  you  have  head 
and  hands,  and  health,  to  make  a 
man  of  yourself:' 


183?.] 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


245 


"Dear  sir,  you  are  quite  right; 
and  believe  me,  I  would  never  dream 
of  acting  otherwise— only—had  I  not 
better  see  about  Miss  Fane's  hortus 
sicc'is,  as  you  say  she  goes  to-day  ?" 

"  I  have  saved  you  that  trouble, 
Hai  ry :  she  is  gone  before  you  were 
out  of  bed." 

I  am  afraid  I  proved  but  dull  com- 
pany during  the  few  hours  of  my 
stay  at  Bromley  Force  after  this  mi- 
serable disappointment.  I  took  my 
lea  re  that  evening,  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  came  up  to  London  in  a  fu- 
ming passion,  for  I  could  get  no  sa- 
tisfaction whatever,  notwithstanding 
my  numerous  enquiries ;  I  could  not 
even  ascertain  the  boarding  school 
at  which  she  had  been  in  town.  All 
I  knew  amounted  to  this,  that  I  was 
in  love,  and  likely  to  continue  so ; 
bu :  with  whom  exactly,  I  could  not 
tel ,  farther  than  that  she  was  a  lovely 
girl,  an  heiress,  and  the  ward  of  my 
careful  friend  Mr  Blundell,  in  con- 
junction with  her  father — a  charac- 
ter, I  feared,  not  too  respectable- 
arid  some  one  else  of  much  the  same 
Btamp,  with  whom  she  now  was 
about  to  be  placed,  not  less  against 
her  own  and  Mr  Blundell's  will  than 
mine.  But  I  had  little  time  to  in- 
dulge in  regrets  or  speculation;  I 
found  the  Gull  with  her  mainsail 
set  at  moorings  in  the  Medway,  and 
hurrying  on  board  forgot  every  thing 
fov  a  while  in  the  bustle  of  getting 
the  little  schooner  under  weigh.  As 
we  stretched  out  of  the  Nore,  how- 
ever, with  a  steady  breeze  and 
smooth  water,  in  the  summer  even- 
ing, when  the  difficulties  of  crooked 
pilotage  and  frequent  alterations  in 
our  course  had  been  exchanged  for 
tfce  quiet  relaxation  of  fair  wind  and 
open  sea-room;  and  when  the  boat 
bid  begun  to  take  her  work  into  her 
o  vn  hand,  like  a  strong  and  willing 
le  bourer,  laying  herself  to  the  water, 
and  sending  the  crew  from  her  slo- 
p  3d  deck  to  lounge  about  the  com- 
pmion,  and  lean  into  the  sunset  over 
har  high  weather-rail,  with  folded 
a  -ms  and  half-shut  eyes;  then,  as  I 
1<  >oked  across  the  glittering  expanse, 
vhere  the  level  sun  danced  upon 
e  very  wave  between  us  and  the  hazy 
shore,  I  insensibly  began  to  people 
the  filmy  and  golden-grained  air  with 
riy  old  familiar  images  again;  and 
long  after  the  failing  radiance  had 
s  pent  itself  in  the  eastern  gloom,  and 


long  after  the  waters  had  ceased  to 
roll  in  even  the  reflected  splendour 
of  the  upper  sky,  I  continued  sowing 
their  dim  and  restless  floor  with 
waving  visions  of  green  fields,  and 
flowery  plats,  and  airy  coppices,  till 
the  bright  enchantress  of  them  all 
seemed  to  be  won  back  to  my 
side,  and  I  wandered  with  her  again 
through  the  long  day  of  sunshine,  for- 
getful alike  of  sea,  and  ship,  and  sor- 
row, and  the  fast  falling  shadows  of 
night. 

The  chill  breeze  sent  me  below  at 
last,  and,  wearied  with  a  day  of  un- 
usual fatigue,  I  turned  into  my  berth} 
but  was  long  kept  awake  by  an  angry 
altercation  between  the  commander 
and  his  mate,  who  were  drinking  to- 
gether in  the  main  cabin.  What  they 
disputed  about  I  could  not  under- 
stand, but  I  heard  enough  to  con- 
vince me  that  the  command  had  been 
intrusted  to  a  person  of  no  very 
amiable  temper ;  in  fact  I  had  hardly 
ever  met  a  more  disagreeable  man. 
than  our  petty  captain,  or  one  on 
whose  countenance  habitual  vio- 
lence and  intoxication  had  contract- 
ed a  more  repulsive  look. 

In  the  morning  we  were  off  Dunge- 
ness,  with  a  steady  south-easterly 
breeze,  that  gave  us  a  favourable  run 
to  Portsmouth  that  evening.  Here 
we  joined  three  others  on  the  same 
destination,  and  standing  out  again, 
made  so  much  of  it  during  the  night, 
that,  when  I  came  on  deck  next 
morning,  I  found  ourselves  and  con- 
sorts beating  up  with  a  light  wind, 
abreast  of  Cherbourg,  the  coast 
about  which  was  just  beginning  to 
be  distinguishable.  There  had  been 
a  good  deal  of  disputing  the  day 
previous  on  board  the  Gull ;  and  the 
captain's  tyrannical  conduct  had 
put  every  one  on  board  in  a  state  of 
angry  excitement.  For  my  own  part, 
I  avoided  coming  in  contact  with 
him,  except  at  meals,  when  I  could 
not  help  it,  and  then  I  had  only  to 
dread  the  want  of  social  humanity 
which  I  never  failed  to  meet ;  but  it 
was  far  otherwise  with  the  crew; 
he  knocked  them  about  with  what- 
ever came  to  hand  without  mercy, 
and  openly  kept  up  his  mastery  by  ex- 
citing himself  to  a  pitch  of  sufficient 
violence  with  quantities  of  brandy. 

We  could  not  yet  distinguish  any 
of  the  fleet ;  for  the  wind  had  come 
round  to  the  south,  and  was  still  get- 


246 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


[Feb. 


ting  lighter;  but  at  last  we  plainly 
heard  the  noise  of  a  heavy  cannon- 
ade. It  was  the  first  time  in  my  life 
that  I  had  heard  a  shot  fired  in  an- 
ger; and  as  every  deep  explosion 
came  through  the  air,  my  heart  beat 
faster  and  faster,  and,  natural  fear 
mingling  with  natural  impatience,  I 
stood  engrossed  in  pleasingly  fearful 
feelings,  till  I  was  roused  by  the 
voice  of  the  mate,  crying  that  there 
was  a  ship  to  windward.  As  our 
fleet  lay  between  us  and  the  shore, 
we  had  no  fear  of  its  proving  an 
enemy,  and  farther  than  as  an  object 
of  casual  speculation,  the  sail  at- 
tracted little  notice,  till  at  length,  as 
we  stood  up  channel,  with  the  ship, 
which  seemed  a  large  merchantman, 
going  full  before  the  wind,  that  had 
now  freshened,  under  a  heavy  press 
of  sail,  about  a  mile  to  windward  on 
our  bow,  the  mate  gave  it  as' his 
opinion  that  we  ought  to  speak  him, 
and  learn  how  the  fleet  lay.  Now, 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before 
this,  one  of  the  men  having  grum- 
bled at  a  cuff,  the  Captain  had  taken 
me  regularly  to  witness  the  mutiny; 
and  going  to  his  arms'  chest,  had 
stuck  a  pair  of  pistols  in  the  breast 
of  his  jacket,  with  which  he  had  pa- 
raded the  deck  for  a  few  minutes, 
in  tenfold  truculence,  and  had  then 
gone  below  again,  where  he  now  sat 
over  his  articles  of  war  and  brandy 
bottle.  The  cabin  light  was  partly 
open  to  admit  air ;  and  he  made  his 
enquiries,  and  gave  his  orders,  with- 
out coming  on  deck.  "  What  co- 
lours does  that  fellow  shew,  sir  ?" 

"  He  is  canvass  to  the  mast-head, 
sir,  and  I  cannot  see  his  flag ;  but  I 
think  I  know  the  cut  of  his  royals : 
he's  a  merchant  victualler,  if  I  don't 
mistake,  belonging  to  the  leeward 
division,  standing  across  to  Ports- 
mouth—for stores,  I  suppose." 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  suppose, 
sir — what  is  his  name  ?" 

"  The  Prince  Frederick." 

"  Ah— eh  !— old  Hanson's  craft  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  What  course  do  you  lie,  sir  ?" 

"  Hard  upon  the  wind  :  if  he  hold 
on,  we  will  cross  his  wake  close 
astern." 

"  Well,  do  now  as  I  desire  you, 
sir.  Let  the  boat  away  as  many 
points  as  will  run  you  under  his 
bows — and  hold  on  your  course  till 
I  give  you  farther  orders."  Then,  in 


an  under  growl  to  himself, "  Ah,  ha, 
he  thought  he  had  swamped  me 
about  that  d — d  business  of  his  Son's 
and  the  Phoenix ;  but  I'll  shew  the 
old  costermongering  rogue  that  I  can 
cross  his  bows,  both  on  shore  and 
at  sea" — Here  he  raised  his  voice 
again — "  and,  hilloa,  sir  !  order  him, 
as  soon  as  he  comes  within  hail,  to 
run  under  my  stern,  and  round 
to  leeward,  till  your  commander 
questions  him  on  his  Majesty's  ser- 
vice. And  clear  away  that  gun  in 
the  bows  there,  for,  by  — ,  if  he  does 
not  put  his  helm  up,  I'll  fire  into 
him,  as  I  would  into  a  huxter's 
stall !" 

We  accordingly  fell  away  to  lee- 
ward, and  the  vessels  rapidly  neared 
each  other.  The  stranger  had  stud- 
ding-sails set  from  the  very  top-gal- 
lant royals  to  the  chain-plates  ;  and  a 
more  splendid  sight  my  eyes  never 
beheld  than  he  presented,  spooming 
down,  swift  and  steady  through  the 
fresh,  green,  sparkling  seas  that 
sheeted  off  round  either  bow  in  a 
continuous  jet,  glassy,  unbroken, 
and  in  colour  like  the  purest  ame- 
thyst, till  it  foamed  away  down  the 
broadside,  in  white  boiling  eddies  of 
froth.  We  were  now  within  hail : 
the  mate  took  the  trumpet,  and 
shouted  his  orders  as  he  had  recei- 
ved them:  there  was  no  answer. 
The  stranger  still  held  on  his  course, 
right  before  the  wind. 

"  He  won't  alter  his  course,  sir," 
said  the  mate  to  the  captain.  "  What 
is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Hold  on,  as  I  ordered  you,  sir ; 
bring  up  under  his  lee ;  and  if  he 
don't  slacken  sail,  fire  your  gun  into 
him,  and  be  d — d  !  Ah,  is  it  luffing 
you  are,  you  mutinous  lubber  ?  must 
/overhaul  you  ?"  And  he  laid  hold 
of  a  handspike,  and  came  up  the 
companion,  his  eyes  glaring,  his  teeth 
set,  and  a  torrent  of"  curses  hissing 
through  them,  hot  and  horrible.  He 
kicked  the  mate  into  the  scuppers, 
and  laid  hold  of  the  tiller,  round 
which  he  lashed  its  Ian-yard  with  a 
second  turn,  before  he  had  given 
more  than  one  look  at  the  stranger; 
and  while  knotting  the  lashings,  re- 
iterated his  orders  with  double  vehe- 
mence about  the  gun.  If  ever  the 
devil  had  possession  of  any  man,  he 
was  in  him  then.  It  all  occurred  in 
less  time  than  a  minute ;  but  so  in- 
experienced at  sea  was  I,  that  I  ap- 


1833.] 

prohended  a  fight  more  than  any 
thing  else ;  although,  as  the  tiller 
was  tied,  I  saw  it  was  next  to  impos- 
sible for  the  vessels  to  escape  run- 
nir;g  foul.  The  seamen  were  all  in 
consternation,  crowding  from  the 
bo.vs,  and  clamouring  advice,  en- 
treaties, and  denunciations,  with- 
out the  slightest  effect,  on  their 
captain.  He  held  a  pistol  in  his 
hand,  and  swore  he  would  shoot 
the  first  mutineer  who  should  dare  to 
interfere.  But,  at  the  second  look 
he  took  at  the  tower  of  canvass  now 
stooping  down  upon  us,  within  half 
a  stone's  throw,  he  dropped  the  til- 
ler, staggered  back,  and  clapt  both 
his  hands  over  his  eyes.  When  he 
withdrew  them  to  grasp  the  taf- 
ferel,  against  which  he  had  stumbled, 
on 'i  might  have  thought  that  he  had 
been  smearing  his  face  with  white 
pa  nt,  so  deadly  pale  was  he  grown 
all  on  the  sudden  ;  but  his  eyes  were 
fixed  and  glazed,  his  mouth  wide 
open,  his  lips  livid,  and  shaking  like 
jelly,  his  hair  on  end,  his  limbs  in  a 
loose  palsy,  his  knees  going  against 
and  over  one  another.  It  was  a  mo- 
ment of  dreadful  confusion.  I  was 
thrown  down  by  the  rushing  about 
of  the  crew;  and,  as  I  looked  up 
from  among  the  trampling  crowd, 
through  whose  feet  I  rolled  like  a 
log,  I  saw,  all  at  once,  between  me 
and  the  blue  sky,  over  our  quarter, 
the  jib-boom  of  the  ship  pushed 
through  the  serene  air  with  a  smooth 
and  equable  motion,  but  swift  and 
irresistible  in  the  whole  wing  of  the 
wiud.  It  caught  us  by  the  lifts  of 
this  mainsail,  and  we  were  gently 
pushed  over  for  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible moment;  then  came  a  sharp 
crash,  and  the  main  topmast  toppled 
down,  tearing  and  smashing  every 
thing  in  its  descent,  and  making  the 
started  planks  fly  from  stem  to  stern, 
as  it  drove  right  through  the  deck 
into  the  cabin.  At  the  same  moment 
tht-  ship's  jib-boom  sprung  high  into 
the  air,  and  from  among  her  pile  of 
sai  Is  that  were  now  bellying  out  al- 
most overhead,  there  leaped  down, 
like  an  eagle  from  his  cloud,  the 
wl  ole  broad-winged  fore-top-gallant 
m:.st,  royals  and  all,  with  a  swoop 
upon  our  deck.  All  the  men  round 
th(i  tiller  were  struck  down ;  some 
wi  th  broken  limbs,  and  all  dreadfully 
braised,  but  none  was  killed  save 
their  miserable  commander ;  he  was 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


247 


killed  where  he  stood  still  paralyzed 
against  the  tafferel.  I  saw  him  struck 
by  the  jagged  stump  of  the  broken 
mast,  as  it  fell ;  he  dropped  shriek- 
ing over  the  lower  bulwark,  and  sank 
with  his  face  downwards.  I  saw  no 
more,  for  the  bows  of  the  ship  here 
caught  us  astern  with  a  crushing 
shock,  that  drove  the  schooner  right 
under  water,  up  to  the  main  hatch- 
way, and  I  was  floated  off  in  the  sea. 
The  first  thing  I  can  remember  after 
that  catastrophe,  was  the  roaring  as 
if  of  a  thousand  cataracts  about  my 
ears,  and  a  consciousness  that  I  was 
haulled  through  the  water  like  a  fish 
in  a  net.  This  was  indeed  the  case ; 
I  had  been  entangled  in  the  loose 
wreck  of  rigging  that  fell  on  board 
the  Gull ;  and  when  the  ship,  after 
grazing  her  stern,  drew  these 
masts  and  sails  after  her,  by  the  nu- 
merous ropes  that  still  remained  un- 
broken, I  was  carried  along,  and 
would  certainly  have  perished,  had 
not  the  lightness  of  the  wreck,  and 
the  rapidity  with  which  it  was  drag- 
ged, kept  me  on  the  surface;  yet, 
even  there  I  was  never  nearer  any 
thing  than  suffocation,  from  the  over- 
whelming tumult  of  the  broken  wa- 
ter which  was  now  sheeting  over  my 
head  and  shoulders,  and  falling  in 
foam  upon  my  feet  like  the  very  jets 
round  the  ship's  cutwater.  I  saw 
that  I  must  perish  if  I  did  not  get 
out  of  the  rush  ;  and  having  with  in- 
finite labour  disentangled  myself 
from  the  rope  round  my  middle,  by 
which  I  was  held,  made  a  desperate 
exertion,  and  succeeded  in  drawing 
myself  forward,  and  climbing  up  the 
connecting  rigging  at  the  bows,  till 
I  got  my  head  out  of  the  spray.  So 
soon  as  I  was  out  of  immediate  peril 
I  relaxed  my  exertions  for  a  few  mi- 
nutes to  take  breath  ;  and  although  I 
frequently  cried  for  help  I  could  not 
make  myself  heard,  for  my  voice,  as 
well  as  my  strength,  was  almost  ex- 
hausted, and  once  or  twice  I  was  on 
the  point  of  giving  up  the  struggle, 
and  dropping  into  my  deep  death- 
bed, through  pure  inability  of  longer 
hanging  on.  At  last,  finding  my  cries 
fruitless,  and  feeling  that,  without 
some  extraordinary  exertion,  I  must 
face  the  abhorred  change  without 
further  preparation,  I  collected  all 
the  energies  of  my  remaining 
strength,  and  with  an  effort  that  left 
me  as  weak  as  an  infant,  drew  my» 


248 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


[Feb. 


self  up  by  the  sheer  force  of  my 
arms,  and  grasped  the  fore-chains ; 
then  slowly  clambered  to  the  dead- 
eyes,  gained  the  rail  of  the  bulwark, 
doubled  over  it  like  a  sack,  and  fell 
on  deck  insensible.  When  my  senses 
began  to  collect,  and  before  I  had  yet 
opened  my  eyes,  I  remember  congra- 
tulating myself  in  my  own  mind  on 
my  escape,  and  dimly  contrasting  the 
oozy  bed  of  the  sea  with  the  warm 
berth  in  which  I  either  was,  or  was 
about  to  be  placed.  But  it  was  cold 
— cold.  I  opened  my  eyes ;  I  was 
lying  in  a  dripping  coil  like  a  bundle 
of  wet  sea-weed,  the  deck  flooded 
all  round  with  the  water  still  run- 
ning from  my  clothes  and  hair.  I 
dried  the  blinding  spray  from  my 
eyes,  and,  raising  myself  upon  my 
elbow,  looked  about.  There  was 
not  a  soul  there  but  myself! 

I  swallowed  a  strange  pang  that 
arose  from  my  heart,  and  looked  out 
for  something  to  make  a  noise  with ; 
there  was  nothing  to  be  had — the 
decks  were  free  from  every  thing  but 
tar  and  tallow.  I  had  never  seen 
such  dirty  decks  before,  yet  there 
was  nothing  loose  lying  about.  I  had 
not  yet  risen — I  was  afraid  to  rise- 
so  I  pulled  off  my  shoe,  and  began 
to  hammer  on  the  deck  with  the  heel 
of  it;  then  to  call  and  to  whistle. 
There  was  no  answer !  I  started  up 
with  another  pang  that  made  the 
water  gush  to  my  eyes,  and  ran 
astern  without  looking  either  to  the 
right  or  left.  I  stretched  myself  half 
over  the  tafferel,  and  looked  for  the 
schooner.  I  saw  her  lying  far  away 
astern,  a  water-logged  wreck,  with 
the  other  tenders  bearing  up  to  her, 
and  signals  flying  from  all  their 
masts.  I  tossed  my  arms  and  shout- 
ed, in  the  wild  hope  that  I  might 
still  be  taken  on  board  some  of 
them.  Afeis!  I  felt  the  unmanned 
ship  speeding  on  her  dark  errand 
beyond  the  hope  of  being  overtaken. 
All  the  frightful  stories  of  the  flying 
Dutchman  came  back  with  unnatu- 
ral vividness  upon  my  memory.  I  re- 
membered the  unaccountable  terror 
of  the  wretched  captain  of  the  Gull, 
his  horrible  fate,  and  the  invisible 
agency  by  which  it  seemed  accom- 
plished. I  thought  myself  in  super- 
human hands,  and  my  heart  sank, 
and  my  breath  failed,  and  I  swooned 
for  fear,  as  I  had  already  fallen 
senseless  from  fatigue.  Let  it  be 


remembered  that  I  was  a  very  young 
man;  although  I  feel  that  apology 
need  hardly  be  made  for  a  fear  so 
dreadful,  and,  in  such  circumstances, 
so  natural,  that  not  even  at  this  day 
would  the  wealth  of  worlds  induce 
me  to  spend  another  hour  in  the 
same  ignorance  of  my  situation 
that  then  afflicted  me.  I  lifted  my 
head  from  the  deck  with  a  bewib* 
dering  recollection  of  all  that  had 
passed,  but  as  my  eye  rested  on 
the  tall  and  shining  sails  overhead, 
I  could  not  think  that  a  fabric  so 
beautiful  was  made  to  bear  any 
but  a  human  crew.  Be  her  naviga- 
tors who  they  might,  I  knew  that 
it  was  the  same  whether  I  faced 
them  fore  or  aft;  so  I  leaped  up,  and 
forced  myself  forward,  that  I  might 
put  an  end  to  my  horrible  suspense 
at  once.  From  few,  if  any,  do  I  ap- 
prehend contempt  on  account  of  this 
avowal.  The  awe  of  preternatural 
agency  is  part  of  this  life's  natural 
religion ;  and  sanctioned  as  it  is  in 
the  revealed  religion  that  has  been 
vouchsafed  to  us,  let  no  man  scorn 
me  for  acknowledging  its  influence, 
while  his  own  soul  must  tell  him 
that  he  is  a  being  existing  he  knows 
not  how,  among  he  knows  not 
whom.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  con- 
fess, that  I  walked  the  deck  of  that 
deserted  vessel  in  excessive  fear; 
from  companion  and  hatchway  I  ex- 
pected every  moment  to  see  some 
inconceivable  horror  ascend ;  and 
although  I  held  in  my  breath,  and 
kept  myself  drawn  up  in  rigid  deter- 
mination not  to  flinch  irom  any 
thing  that  a  Christian  man  should 
confront,  yet,  with  all  the  prepara- 
tion I  could  muster,  I  felt  that  the 
twirling  of  a  straw  upon  that  bare 
deck  would  have  upset  me.  My 
senses,  however,  were  not  so  totally 
overwhelmed  in  awe  and  wonder  as 
to  prevent  my  perceiving  that  there 
really  was  something  unusual  in  the 
appearance  of  things  on  deck.  There 
were  four  wide  funnels,  one  under 
each  of  the  main  and  fore  shrouds— 
things  I  had  never  seen  in  any  ship 
before.  The  ports  were  larger  than 
usual,  and  had,  which  seemed  very 
strange,  their  hinges  below.  The 
decks  were  smeared  and  slippery, 
as  I  have  before  observed,  with  tar 
and  tallow.  I  looked  up  with  a 
lightened  heart  to  the  yard-arms; 
*-there  were  the  grappling-irons 


1833.] 

swinging  from  them  one  and  all ! 
run  into  the  main-cabin  without  one 
hesitating  pause— I  was  rushing  des- 
parately  to  be  satisfied,  and  I  was 
satisfied.  The  cabin  was  stripped 
o'  its  furniture;  troughs  were  laid 
a  ong  each  side  ;  they  ran  into  the 
ir  ain-hold,  and  terminated  in  sally- 
ports at  either  quarter;  they  were 
stuffed  with  reeds  in  sheaves  bound 
together  with  matches,  and  steeped 
in  composition.  It  was  evident— I 
was  in  a  fireship ;  it  accounted  for 
evrery  thing.  I  ran  to  the  sally-port ; 
there  was  the  black  track  of  the 
gunpowder,  and  the  spot  plainly 
marked  where  the  match  had  been 
extinguished.  The  ship  had  missed 
taking  fire,  and  stood  out  to  sea.  I 
r  in  out  on  deck  —  threw  off  my 
clothes  to  dry — got  a  remnant  of  a 
s  ill,  and  rubbed  myself  into  life  and 
warmth  once  more ;  then  wrapping 
myself  in  a  canvass  cloak  very  fairly 
cut  from  the  fore  stay-sail,  I  lay 
down  in  the  sunny  scuppers,  and 
without  a  single  thought  of  naviga- 
ting the  vessel — it  never  entered 
my  head,  once  I  had  got  the  horrible 
deceit  of  my  fear  removed — gave 
myself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  my 
security  and  rest  so  heartily,  that  at 
last,  like  a  wearied  child,  I  dropped 
involuntarily  asleep.  I  could  not 
have  slept  more  than  an  hour  when 
I  was  awakened  by  the  snapping  of  a 
royal  studding-sail  boom,  for  the 
breeze  had  been  freshening  ever 
since  I  came  on  board,  and  was  now 
straining  spars  and  canvass  at  a 
pitch  that  threatened  to  carry  away 
(very  thing.  The  new  dangers  of 
ny  situation  rose  in  fearful  array 
I  efore  me,  as  I  considered  with  my- 
self the  probable  consequences.  I 
was  driving  right  on  shore  at  a  rate 
that  must  smash  the  vessel  to  pieces 
the  moment  she  would  take  the 
£  round ;  and  how  to  shorten  sail  or 
lie  to,  I  could  not  tell.  Everything 
A /as  fast,  and  my  single  strength 
<  ould  not  suffice  to  slacken  away 
i  ny  thing  of  consequence.  The  ves- 
i  el  could  never  be  put  upon  another 
(  ourse  with  all  her  yards  braced 
f  quare.  There  was  little  or  no 
c  hance  of  my  falling  in  with  any  sail 
in  the  Channel  in  such  dangerous 
times.  The  wind  was  getting  round 
to  the  east  again,  and  I  saw  plainly 
that  if  it  settled  there,  and  still  car- 
ried me  before  it,  I  must  drift  to 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 
I 


249 


the  Atlantic,  and  die  of  hunger,  un- 
less I  could  subsist  on  tallow  and 
brimstone  (since  nothing  more  eat- 
able had  been  left  on  board)  till  the 
final  catastrophe  of  going  on  shore, 
that  sooner  or  later  must  befall  me. 
Even  if  I  should  fall  in  with  a  sail, 
how  were  they  to  know  that  I  was 
in  distress  ?  and  if  they  did,  how  was 
I  to  bring  the  ship  to?  or  (unless  it 
fell  a  dead  calm)  how  was  a  boat  to 
be  sent  on  board  me  driving  at  such 
a  rate  ?  I  went  to  the  wheel  to  try 
what  I  could  do ;  not  much  caring 
though  I  should  lay  her  fairly  on  her 
beam-ends ;  for,  if  she  should  not 
founder  outright,  I  thought  even 
such  a  state  would  be  better  than 
the  rapid  ruin  she  was  then  threat- 
ening me  with.  I  brought  her  up 
till  I  shook  the  wind  out  of  her  can- 
vass. She  reeled  and  staggered  for 
a  moment  like  a  drunken  being,  then 
all  at  once  her  lighter  sails  were 
taken  aback  with  a  slap  that  beat 
away  booms,  and  tore  down  yards 
and  tackling  with  a  succession  of 
crashes,  flappings,  and  snaps  like 
gun-shots,  which  threw  me  into  such 
confusion,  that  I  let  go  the  wheel, 
and  ran  for  the  cabin ;  in  dread  of 
having  my  brains  beaten  out  by  a 
falling  spar,  like  the  luckless  captain 
of  the  Gull.  I  sat  down  in  despair 
among  the  tubs  of  composition  and 
piles  of  oakum  steeped  in  turpen- 
tine, with  which  the  place  was  cram- 
med, and  listened  to  the  effects  of 
my  rashness  still  sounding  overhead, 
and  making  themselves  known  even 
below  by  the  mad  plunges  of  the 
vessel,  that  pitched  me  at  length  in- 
to a  corner,  where  I  lay  till  she 
righted,  and  went  off  dead  before 
the  wind  once  more.  The  rigging 
when  I  came  on  deck  presented  a 
strange  sight.  All  the  great  sails  had 
filled  again,  but  the  lighter  ones 
were  flying  in  lumbering  streamers 
from  every  yard-arm  like  ribbands 
from  a  tattered  cap ;  while  booms 
and  blocks  went  swinging  through 
the  confusion,  knocking  against  the 
standing  spars,  and  adding  at  every 
stroke  some  new  disaster  to  the 
ruinous  uproar.  I  would  have  al- 
most changed  places  with  Phaeton. 
I  would  as  soon  have  laid  my  hand 
upon  the  fiery  mane  of  a  courser  of 
the  sun,  with  all  the  zodiac  reeling 
underfoot,  as  have  touched  a  spoke 
of  that  fatal  wheel  during  the  next 


250 

hour.  I  went  below  again,  and  got 
between  decks  by  the  communica- 
tion from  the  cabin,  where  I  saw  the 
arrangement  of  the  combustibles, 
which  put  the  nature  of  the  vessel 
beyond  all  doubt.  The  troughs 
crossed  each  other  between  four 
barrels  of  composition,  placed  one 
under  each  of  the  above  mentioned 
funnels.  Chambers  were  loaded  op- 
posite all  the  ports,  to  blow  them 
open  and  give  the  flame  vent.  Pow- 
dered resin  and  sulphur  were  scat- 
tered plentifully  in  all  directions, 
and  a  mixture  of  combustibles  like 
soft  dry  paste  filled  the  bottoms  of 
all  the  troughs,  on  top  of  which  the 
reeds  were  tied  with  matches  innu- 
merable. The  breeze  now  began  to 
take  off,  and  continued  to  lull  away 
during  all  the  afternoon,  having  set- 
tled at  length  at  about  south-east,  so 
that  my  fears  of  drifting  past  the 
Land's-end  were  now  almost  at  rest. 
I  dressed  myself  in  my  dried  clothes, 
but  dared  not  kindle  a  fire  ; — every 
spot  was  ready  to  start  into  flame 
with  the  merest  spark;  even  in  the 
after-cabin  the  berths  were  stowed 
full  of  old  turpentine  and  oil  jars, 
and  dusted  with  meal  of  resin.  I 
walked  the  deck  till  evening,  and 
with  departing  light  of  day  distin- 
guished St  Michael's  Mount,  rising 
in  a  grey  and  purple  haze  high  into 
the  ruddy  horizon.  The  night  fell 
chilly  and  thick,  and  I  went  into  the 
cabin  and  tried  to  make  up  my  mind 
for  the  worst.  But  I  could  not  long 
bear  to  stay  there,  it  was  so  lonely 
and  dismal.  There  was  a  sort  of 
company  in  the  wind  and  the  strug- 
gling sails  on  deck,  but  below,  every 
thing  was  deadly  dark  and  silent.  So, 
chilly  as  it  was,  I  wrapped  my  cloak 
of  canvass  once  more  about  me,  and 
sat  down  on  the  forecastle,  shivering 
with  cold  and  apprehension,  and 
gazing  till  my  eyes  grew  strained 
and  dizzy  into  the  monotonous  gloom 
ahead.  I  could  not  see  any  star,  but 
I  think  it  must  have  been  about  one 
o'clock,  when  the  heavy  washing  of 
the  seas  about  our  bows  was  broken 
by  the  distant  murmur  of  breakers. 
Had  I  heard  my  death-bell  tolling,  it 
could  not  more  surely  have  impress- 
ed me  with  the  certainty  of  my  im- 
mediate fate ;  and  yet  the  very 
growling  of  that  merciless  band  into 
whose  strangling  tumult  I  so  soon 
expected  to  be  cast,  came  upon  my 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


[Feb. 


numbed  senses  with  a  rousing  and 
invigorating  influence;  for,  the  dull 
uncertainty  of  my  former  state  had 
been  altogether  stupifying.  I  rose 
and  took  my  post  once  more  by  the 
wheel,  determined  to  use  my  expe- 
rience to  the  best  advantage  in  coun- 
teracting or  seconding  the  wind  as  I 
saw  necessary,  so  far  as  its  very 
limited  command  would  go. 

The  tumult  of  broken  water  now 
became  louder  and  louder,  but  in- 
stead of  advancing  on  my  ear  as  be- 
fore, out  of  the  darkness  ahead,  it 
growled  away  down  the  night  on  our 
starboard  beam  in  an  oblique  direc- 
tion, which  I  could  not  account  for, 
till,  looking  over  the  stern,  I  saw,  by 
the  dim  glimmer  of  the  ship's  wake 
that  we  were  making  more  lee  than 
head-way;  that  in  fact,  the  ship  was 
driving  broadside  on,  in  a  powerful 
tide  race  along  a  reef  of  rocks, 
through  some  opening  in  which,  or 
past  which  altogether,  I  did  not  de- 
spair of  being  yet  carried  by  the  cur- 
rent, as  I  heard  no  surf  loud  enough 
to  tell  of  its  running  any  where 
against  them,  except  beyond  one 
breach  in  their  line,  comparatively 
smooth.  The  coast  was  now  dis- 
tinguishable ahead,  black,  high,  and 
precipitous.  It  advanced  higher  and 
higher  up  the  sky,  till  it  almost 
seemed  to  overhang  our  forecastle, 
and  I  now  felt  the  ship  swing  round 
in  the  sweep  of  the  current,  and 
saw  the  breakers  running  white  a- 
stern  as  we  swept  clear  of  them, 
right  through  the  reef.  There  rose 
presently  a  rustling  sound  about  the 
bows;  then  a  heavy  grating  all  along 
the  keel,  a  dull  prolonged  concus- 
sion, and  the  tide  broke  on  her  as  she 
stuck — fast  in  a  sand-bank.  It  was 
pitch  dark.  The  breakers  were  on 
all  sides  ;  but  the  ship  lay  in  smooth 
water  among  them.  It  would  have 
been  madness  to  attempt  swimming 
on  shore  ;  where,  even  if  I  should 
escape  the  violence  of  the  current 
and  surf,  I  must  spend  the  long 
morning  on  the  bleak  hill,  weighed 
down  by  wet  clothes,  and  ignorant 
of  my  road.  Under  these  considera- 
tions, particularly  as  there  was  no 
fear  of  the  ship  yielding  to  any  sea 
likely  to  run  there  during  the  calm 
state  of  the  weather,  I  determined 
to  remain  on  deck  till  day ;  and  now, 
considering  my  safety  almost  cer- 
tain, I  mingled  my  supplications  with 


1833.] 

thanksgivings,  and  falling  on  my 
knees,  blessed  God  with  tears  of 
gratitude  and  delight ;  then  wrapping 
iryself  up  once  more  behind  the 
shelter  of  the  bulwark,  went  to  sleep. 
I  started  up  from  a  dream  of  home, 
for  I  distinctly  heard  the  stroke  of 
o.'irs  alongside.  I  was  on  the  point 
of  calling  out  when  some  one  close 
under  the  quarter  said,  in  a  low  but 
(to  my  morbidly  sensitive  ear)  a 
c'ear  whisper,  "  By —  I  believe  they 
have  deserted  her  !  But  look  sharp, 
my  lads,  for  you  may  find  plenty  of 
them  still  skulking  behind  the  bul- 
warks." I  heard  this  with  an  accom- 
paniment of  cocking  fire-arms  and 
unsheathing  cutlasses  ;  and  with  the 
horrifying  suspicion  that  they  were 
a  gang  of  Cornwall  wreckers,  I  crept 
i;i  renewed  and  redoubled  terror 
i;ito  the  cabin.  Just  as  I  concealed 
myself  behind  the  door,  which  open- 
ed on  the  quarter-deck  from  under 
a  high  poop,  the  boat's  crew  sprung 
on  deck  with  lanterns  and  levelled 
weapons.  Two  tall  and  rather  fine- 
looking  men  led  the  party,  and  so  soon 
as  they  saw  that  there  was  no  fight- 
ing for  them  on  deck,  drew  their  com- 
pany together  round  the  main-mast 
and  proceeded,  to  my  inexpressible 
relief,  to  take  possession  of  the  ship 
in  the  name  of  his  Majesty  George 
the  Third,  by  virtue  of  certain  let- 
ters of  marque  and  reprisal,  empow- 
ering them,  Adam  and  Hiram  Forrest, 
of  Forrest-Race,  Esquires,  to  set  up- 
on by  force  of  arms,  subdue,  and 
take  all  ships,  vessels,  goods,  wares, 
munitions  of  war,  &c.  &c.  of,  or  be- 
longing to  the  French  nation.  Now 
was  my  time  to  discover  myself, 
(and  I  confess  I  had  a  thought  or 
t  wo  about  my  claim  to  a  share  of  the 
prize-money). —  One  step  I  made 
from  my  position,  but  the  noise  ar- 
rested me  with  its  immediate  conse- 
quence —  half-a-dozen  muskets  le- 
velled at  the  door.  "  Keep  together, 
men  !  they  are  barricaded  in  the  ca- 
bin ! — go  aft,  Hiram,  with  four  hands 
:md  break  open  the  door,  while  I 
secure  the  forecastle  and  hatch- 
ways," cried  the  elder  leader.  His 
associate  sprung  towards  my  place 
of  concealment  at  the  head  of  four 
fellows,  brandishing  their  naked  cut- 
lasses ;  and  bursting  open  the  door 
with  a  drive  of  his  foot,  rushed  in— 
a  pistol  in  one  hand,  a  drawn  sword 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


251 


dent  to  keep  clear  of  the  first  rush 
of  their  irruption,  and  so  had  retreat- 
ed quietly  to  the  after- cabin,  where  I 
concealed  myself  in  one  of  the  berths 
close  by  the  stern  port.  They  soon 
found  the  cabin  equally  deserted 
with  the  deck  ;  and  as  they  went 
stumbling  about  with  their  one  lan- 
tern through  the  lumber  of  combus- 
tibles, filled  it  with  exclamations  of 
amazement. 

"  Why,  here's  no  crew  that  I  can 
see  but  a  regiment  of  paint-pots — 
that  must  have  been  &  rat  that  we 
heard,  sir,"  said  one. 

"D n  me,  Tom,  I  say,  what 

sort  of  a  devil's  drawing-room  have 
we  here  ?"  muttered  another,  as  he 
stood  turning  over  a  mop  of  oakum 
with  his  toe ;  "  and  what  sort  of  a 
damnable  smell  is  this  ?"  snuffing  at 
a  box  of  composition. 

"  The  devil's  own  smell  ---  brim- 
stone by  •  •  !"  cried  a  fourth,  shak- 
ing a  cloud  of  sulphur  from  his  fin- 
gers; and  one  fellow  rummaging 
through  the  troughs  pulled  up  a 
bundle  of  reeds  and  tossed  them  out 
on  the  floor,  exclaiming,  "Nothing 
but  rushlights  in  these  here  lockers, 
Master  Hiram  —  rushlights  and 
mouldings  of  white  biscuit,  as  I  take 
it— light  diet  that,  I  may  say,  sir,  for 
a  ship's  company."  Just  then  some 
lumber  getting  loose,  rolled  out  of  an 
upper  berth  among  them,  and  three 
or  four  smart  cuts  were  made  at  it 
before  they  saw  what  it  was.  I  had 
taken  them  as  a  hint  to  lie  quiet  a 
little  longer,  when  their  leader  start- 
ed suddenly,  and  after  standing  for 
a  moment  at  the  heel  of  the  mizen- 
mast,  gave  a  strong  shudder,  and  or- 
dered the  men  out  of  the  cabin. 
"  Off,  off  to  the  forecastle  every  man 
of  you ! — off,  I  say,  and  send  Cap- 
tain Forrest  here."  The  men  with- 
drew, muttering  exclamations  of  a- 
mazement  as  he  drove  them  out  on 
deck,  whence  he  presently  return- 
ed, accompanied  by  the  other.  He 
locked  and  bolted  the  door  after 
him,  and  led  his  companion  up  to 
the  mast,  then  throwing  the  light 
full  on  it,  asked  in  a  whisper,  that 
thrilled  through  me  where  I  lay, 
«  Do  you  know  that  ?"  "  What  ?" 
"  That  splinter  of  steel  buried  in  the 
wood."  The  elder  Forrest,  without 
one  word  of  reply,  snatched  up  the 
lantern  and  ran  round  the  cabin. 


*     IJlOtv/l    111    VJ11C-    11CUJ.VJ}    CL    U  1CIW  11    O  W  *J1  U  IflJitl    111        clilLl       1  till        1UU11AJ.        tm_/      ^CLLSlll) 

in  the  other.    I  thought  it  most  pru-    holding  the  light  over  his  head,  and 


252 


The  Forrest- Race  liomance* 


[Feb. 


gazing  at  every  thing  with  a  strong 
expression  of  astonishment;  then 
stuck  the  lantern  down  upon  a  bar- 
rel-head, slapped  his  hands  against 
his  thighs,  and  exclaimed,  "  Hah  ! — 
Now  may  I  be  damned  if  it  is  not  the 
old  Phoenix  come  back  again  ! — but 
Hiram,  I  say,  by  Heaven  I  cannot 
understand  this — she  is  not  the  same 
boat,  and  yet  she  is — I  thought  I 
knew  her  deck  although  it  is*strange- 
]y  altered — but  what  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?"  for  the  younger  one 
stood  pale  and  trembling,  and  here 
grasped  him  convulsively  by  the 
arm. 

"  VVhat  ails  you,  Hiram  ?  I  say,— I 
hope  you  are  not  afraid" 

"  Yes,  by ,"  (with  a  slow  and 

solemn  asseveration,)  "  I  am  afraid, 
Adam  Forrest !"  The  other  answered 
gasping,  "  I  am  afraid,  for  I  saw  him 
there  as  plainly  as  I  see  you,  cling- 
ing round  the  mast  as  he  did  that 
night,  when  he  held  on  till  you  shore 
through  his  wrist  with  your  cutlass, 
and  snapped  it  an  inch  deep  in  the 
solid  wood  below !  and  if  I  go  in  there, 
(pointing  to  the  after  cabin  without 
even  raising  his  averted  face,)  if  I 
go  in  there,  I  will  see  the  others!— 
Come  on  deck — I  am  sick." 

"  Stay  where  you  are — you  must 
not  expose  yourself  to  the  men, — tut, 
tut ! — What !  after  all  we  have  seen  to- 
gether, to  let  a  trick  of  your  fancy  get  • 
the  better  of  your  manhood  in  this 
disgraceful  way! — Why,"  and  he  mu- 
sed for  a  moment,  *•'  it  is  odd  enough 
too,  that  she  should  come  here  with- 
out hands,  and  all  to  give  us  a  second 
crop  off  her  old  timbers  ;  but  egad,  I 
have  it !  I'll  lay  my  life  Tom  has 
been  overhauling  her  in  the  Channel, 
and  has  sent  the  old  bird  adrift,  well 
knowing  to  whose  door  the  Race 
would  bring  her  ! — Ah  !  poor  Tom  ! 
many  an  ugly  job  he  has  brought  me 
through ;  however,  they  say  that 
Gull  thing  that  I  got  him  the  com- 
mand of  is  a  switching  fast  sailer, 
and  if  he  has  but  a  stanch  crew,  he 
may  make  a  good  thing  of  it  yet — • 
that  is,  if  he  can  only  keep  from  get- 
ting more  than  moderately  drunk. 
But  come  along  till  we  see  what  this 
after  cabin  has  got  for  us.  We  have 
our  letters  of  marque  now,  and  need 
not  be  ashamed  to  shew  our  faces 
under  that  authority  to  man  or  devil ! 
—Come,"  and  he  dragged  his  reluc- 
tact  associate  almost  close  to  the  spot 


where  I  lay,  in  another  and  still  more 
dreadful  relapse  of  horror.  The 
young  man  leaned  against  a  timber, 
with  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast, 
and  shuddered  violently. 

"  Adam,"  said  he  at  length,  "  we 
have  never  thriven  in  any  thing  since 
the  night  we  had  that  business  in 
this  abominable  den  of  blood.  You 
and  I  then  were,  or  ought  to  have 
been,  country  gentlemen,  and  he  was 
no  more  than  a  careless  sailor  at 
worst ;  but  with  all  the  money  we  got 
in  Bordeaux  for  the  fruits  of  our 
villany,  we  are  three  miserable  ad- 
venturers to-day,  if  the  damning  car- 
go she  carries  has  not  sunk  the  Gull 
already — Mother  of  God  defend  me! 
there  is  young  Manson  !"  I  can  no 
more  account  for  it  now,  than  I  could 
help  it  then,  but  the  truth  is,  I  had 
risen  at  this  mention  of  the  Gull  in 
a  sort  of  reckless  frenzy,  for  I  had  no 
control  over  either  my  words  or  ac- 
tions, and  started  out  on  the  floor  be- 
fore them,  a  very  ghastly  and  hide- 
ous spectacle ;  for  I  was  pale  and 
haggard  with  fear  and  desperation, 
and  my  face  was  bloody  from  a 
scratch  I  had  got  in  the  dark.  The 
eyes  of  the  repentant  sinner  fastened 
on  me  as  I  rose,  and  his  terror  was 
full  as  horribly  depicted  on  his  coun- 
tenance, as  that  of  his  already  pu- 
nished associate  had  been  on  his; 
he  fell  flat  on  his  face,  and  even  the 
hardened  ruffian  at  his  side  leaped 
back  with  a  shout  of  horror  as  I  rose 
before  him  with  my  hands  held  up, 
and  a  storm  of  denunciation  that  I 
could  not  control  bursting  from  my 
lips.  What  I  said  I  did  not  even  then 
know,  but  it  soon  betrayed  my  mor- 
tal nature,  and  Forrest,  with  a  blow 
of  his  fist,  struck  me  back  whence  I 
had  risen,  then  drew  a  pistol  and 
came  close  up  to  me  to  make  sure. 
I  prayed  for  mercy  now  as  wildly  as 
I  had  before  denounced  vengeance, 
and  in  the  extremity  of  my  terror 
shut  my  eyes  and  clung  to  the  very 
boards.  A  flash  first  came  through 
my  closed  eyelids,  and  then  a  rushing 
and  flapping  burst  of  flame  like  inter- 
minable lightning.  The  pistol  had 
burned  priming,  but  even  that  had 
been  enough  to  set  fire  to  an  open 
can  of  turpentine  that  was  upset 
from  a  locker  above  by  the  thrust 
he  had  made  after  me  with  the 
weapon.  The  liquid  starting  into 
fire  and  smoke  over  the  exploding 


18;J3.] 

gunpowder,  flowed  down  in  a  wa- 
ving river  of  flame,  and  spreading 
on  the  resined  floors,  and  catching 
th«j  loose  combustibles  all  round, 
raised  such  a  chaos  of  fire,  smoke, 
hissing,  sputtering,  and  suffocation, 
that  1  had  only  power  to  feel  myself 
un wounded,  and  with  my  coat  over 
my  head,  to  pitch  myself  bodily 
agiinst  the  port  below  me.  I  lite- 
ra  ly  sank  through  a  little  pool  of 
flame,  but  I  burst  open  the  port  as  I 
had  expected,  and  found  myself  the 
next  moment  in  the  sea.  It  was  now 
lo  v  water,  and  the  stream  that  I  had 
feared  would  sweep  me  among  the 
breakers  was  totally  subsided ;  but  I 
could  see  nothing  clearly  for  the  first 
m  nute,  only  a  dazzling  and  flashing 
of  light  through  the  spray,  that  swept 
over  my  head  from  the  broken  water 
or  the  rocks.  The  first  thing  I  saw 
distinctly  was  atrail  of  flame  writhing 
lil  e  a  tail  round  the  stern  of  the  ship, 
as  if  the  great  black  hulk  had  been 
lashing  herself  into  the  furious  fit, 
that  in  another  minute  burst  out 
from  every  vent  and  funnel  in  spout- 
ing and  roaring  jets  of  fire,  that 
blazed  up  into  the  rigging  as  high  as 
the  lower  masts,  and  pierced  the 
night  for  miles  round,  with  a  splen- 
dour strong  as  the  light  of  the  sun 
at  noonday.  I  got  upon  the  nearest 
of  the  rocks,  (by  the  fall  of  the  wa- 
ter they  now  rose  much  nearer  than 
they  had  before  seemed  to  do,)  and 
rising  out  of  reach  of  the  surf,  con- 
templated a  spectacle  the  grandest 
aiid  most  appalling  I  ever  witnessed. 
The  ship  had  run  aground  upon  the 
landward  side  of  a  tongue  of  sand, 
that  stretched  (like  half  the  string 
of  a  bent  bow)  partly  across  a  curve 
ol  the  coast,  thus  intercepting  what- 
ever the  current  from  the  opposite 
side  might  sweep  into  the  bay;  and 
there  settling  on  a  rapidly  shelving 
b;  ink,  had  fallen  over  as  the  water  left 
hor,  till  her  masts  and  rigging  lay  al- 
most across  the  narrow  channel  be- 
t\veen.  On  shore  an  overhanging  pre- 
cipice  rose  right  opposite,  and  close 
u  ider  her  lee — so  close  that  her  rig- 
ging sloped  up  to  within  a  stone's- 
tlrow  of  the  jutted  rock.  Between 
tie  base  of  this  rock  and  the  water's 
edge,  there  was  a  stripe  of  green- 
sward, evidently  artificial,  forming 
a  platform  of  perhaps  thirty  yards 
across,  which  widened  away  at  one 
pide  into  a  lawn  with  haycocks  and 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


253 


shrubbery,  while  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  planting  visible  up  the  back 
of  the  ravine.  An  old-fas'hioned  strag- 
gling house  stood  almost  under  the 
precipice,  facing  the  platform  on  one 
side,  and  the  lawn  on  the  other. 
Its  steep  roof  of  grey  slate,  and  slen- 
der chimneys,  made  a  gaunt  and 
spectral  show  in  the  ruddy  glare, 
contrasted  with  the  black  mass  of 
rock  behind,  and  the  boiling  flashes 
of  the  surf  tossed  up  almost  to  its 
fantastic  porch  before.  I  looked  at 
the  ship — the  fore-hatchway  had 
torn  up  with  a  tremendous  burst, 
and  the  massy  planks  and  bars  of 
wrought-iron  were  scattered  on 
either  side  ;  but  the  black  tarpaulin 
rose  like  a  canopy  over  the  body  of 
flame  that  followed,  and  was  dissi- 
pated into  smoke  and  ashes,  without 
ever  coming  down.  And  now,  the 
breeze  tossing  that  blaze  about 
through  the  rigging  in  rolling  and 
heavy  volume,  like  a  great  tongue, 
it  roared  at  every  wallowing  flap, 
and  licked  up  square-sails,  stay-sails, 
and  studding-sails,  as  though  they 
had  been  so  much  tinder,  while  the 
port- chambers  successively  explod- 
ing, thundered  and  flashed  down 
either  broadside,  then  vomited  out 
their  volume  arid  flaring  streamers 
of  fire,  that  curled  and  climbed  up 
into  the  conflagration  till  consumed 
amid  the  general  flame.  All  the 
water  out  of  the  ship's  shadow  blazed 
to  the  blazing  pile ;  but  wherever  her 
hull  momentarily  intercepted  its 
light,  the  sea  seemed  to  heave  more 
heavily,  and  with  a  lurid  glow  like 
blood.  The  boat's  crew  had  now 
pushed  off  from  the  quarter ;  I  saw 
all  on  board  save  the  two  miserable 
beings  I  had  left  in  the  flames  of  the 
cabin :  but  the  men  had  scarce 
pulled  the  boat's  length  from  the 
vessel's  side,  when  a  figure  leaped 
up  on  the  quarter  rail  from  deck- 
he  looked  as  if  he  had  risen  out  of 
hell ;  for  his  head  was  singed  bald, 
and  his  face  and  hands  were  all  livid, 
swollen,  and  bloody,  from  the  scorch- 
ing. It  was  the  elder  Forrest.  He 
was  tossing  his  arms  and  howling. 
The  men  pulled  back,  the  boat  shot 
into  the  shadow  of  the  ship,  and  in 
the  sudden  difference  of  light  I  lost 
them  for  an  instant;  but  the  great 
flame  of  the  forecastle  took  a  sweep 
to  windward,  and  showed  them 
again,  close  under  the  quarter,  AH 


254 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


[Feb. 


their  faces  glowed  like  copper,  as 
they  turned  them  up  to  the  crimsoned 
figure  wavering  above,  for  Forrest 
had  now  seized  a  rope,  that  dangled 
still  unconsumed  from  the  mizen- 
yard  arm,  and  was  swinging  to  and 
fro,  as  the  scorching  flame  behind 
him  swayed  forward  or  collapsed ; 
but  their  faces  fell,  and  a  cry  of 
horror  burst  fronrthem  all  as  it  gave 
way,  and  the  wretch,  after  balancing 
a  moment  on  his  narrow  footing,  fell 
back  into  the  fire ; — there  was  a  puff 
of  smoke  and  ashes,  a  long  heaving 
roll  of  the  flame,  a  shriek  that  rung 
shrilly  over  every  thing,  and  the  sea- 
men, silent  and  horrified,  pushed  off 
again,  and  made  for  the  shore.  And 
now  the  whole  rigging  was  in  a  light 
flame,  and  the  dance  of  sparks  to 
leeward,  where  it  eddied  round  the 
chimneys  and  gables  of  the  old  house, 
looked  like  a  great  spangled  mantle 
shaken  out  in  the  sky.  Beneath, 
smoke  was  curling  in  white  eddies 
from  every  door  and  window,  and  the 
fate  of  the  doomed  dwelling  seemed 
fixed,  to  burn  first,  while  any  thing 
remained  in  it  that  would  burn,  and 
then  to  be  swept  from  its  founda- 
tions by  the  final  explosion;  out 
of  reach  of  which  I  had  all  this 
time  been  painfully  making  my 
way,  sometimes  clambering  over 
the  rocks  high  and  dry,  and  some- 
times swimming.  I  gained  the  dry 
land  at  last,  about  three  hundred 
yards  astern  of  the  vessel,  and 
rounding  the  shoulder  of  a  hill,  lay 
down  among  the  grass  in  the  sudden 
pitchy  darkness  behind  it,  till  my 
eyes  had  a  little  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  the  excessive  light,  and  I 
was  able  to  see  my  way  into  the 
country.  I  was  between  two  steep 
hills;  that  behind  me  was  lurid  in 
the  dim  reflection  of  the  sky,  but  a 
ruddier  haze  than  ever  the  sunset 
had  thrown  over  it,  glowed  across 
the  track  of  air  above,  and  bore  a 
crown  of  fire  to  the  top  of  the  higher 
hill  opposite,  on  which  every  stock 
and  stone  shewed  like  iron  at  a 
forging  heat.  Through  this  red  re- 
gion I  had  to  pass  to  reach  the  in- 
land; pursuing  a  horse-track  that 
led  over  it,  I  gained  the  limits  of 
darkness  again,  without  once  turn- 
ing to  look  at  the  scene  behind— I 
had  beheld  enough.  Suddenly  I 
heard  the  clang  of  hoofs  in  the  val- 
ley beyond,  and  turning,  beheld  a 


riderless  horse  toss  up  his  mane  like 
a  fiery  crest  over  the  illuminated 
mountain,  then  plunge  into  the  dark- 
ness between.  I  laid  hold  of  the 
reins  as  he  rushed  past  me,  deter- 
mined to  use  the  opportunity  of 
escape ;  and  having  checked  him 
with  some  difficulty,  threw  myself 
into  the  saddle  and  gave  him  head. 
He  bore  me  down  the  open  hill  like 
the  wind ;  but  when  I  got  among  the 
precipices  below,  through  which 
the  road  was  intricately  carried,  I 
was  reluctantly  obliged  to  draw  up 
a  little  for  fear  of  accidents.  I  was 
unwilling  to  do  this,  as  well  from 
the  desire  of  making  my  escape  to 
as  great  a  distance  as  possible  from 
the  explosion,  as  from  the  conviction, 
growing  every  moment  stronger, 
that  I  heard  some  one  on  horseback 
in  pursuit.  Now,  I  had  no  doubt 
that  the  animal  I  rode  had  thrown 
another  rider  immediately  before  be- 
ing caught  by  me ;  and  I  thought  it 
most  probable,  that  whoever  was 
now  pursuing,  had  been  in  company 
with  him  when  his  horse  had  first 
run  off.  Be  that  as  it  might,  I  had 
had  enough  of  Forrest-Race  and  its 
inhabitants,  to  make  me  determined, 
if  I  must  be  overtaken,  to  conceal 
myself  by  the  road-side,  and  let  my 
pursuer  look  after  the  runaway  at  his 
leisure.  However,  I  tried  to  make 
the  most  of  my  chances  in  the  mean 
time,  and  pushed  on  as  rapidly  as 
prudence  would  allow;  but  in  ten 
minutes  more,  I  found  I  had  no  pro- 
spect of  escape  ;  I  heard  the  clatter 
of  the  horse,  and  once  or  twice  the 
cries  of  the  rider  behind,  and  was 
just  preparing  to  dismount,  and  look- 
ing back  to  try  what  I  could  see, 
when  there  shot  up  a  column  of  fire, 
a  hundred  feet  and  more  over  the 
top  of  the  highest  mountain,  and  hill 
and  valley,  road,  rock,  and  river, 
leaped  out  into  insufferable  splen- 
dour before  me.  Every  object,  for 
three  or  four  seconds,  was  apparent 
in  steady  and  intense  light.  I  saw 
the  perilous  road  down  which  I  had 
come,  and  wondered  how  my  horse 
had  kept  his  footing  at  all ;  but  my 
wonder  was  considerably  greater 
when,  about  half  a  furlong  behind,  I 
saw  my  pursuer,  as  plainly  as  I  ever 
saw  my  own  mother,  to  be  a  woman 
— dressed,  at  least,  in  a  female  ha- 
bit, and  light  as  Diana,  while  she  sat 
her  rearing  and  plunging  hunter 


]  £33.]  The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 

through  the  wild  tumult  of  his  terror,      like  a  lamentation. 


But,  before  I  could  take  a  second 
look,  down  stooped  the  night  again 
in  tenfold  power  of  darkness,  while 
there  burst  through  the  shaken  sky 
such  a  concussion,  as  with  its  tre- 
mendous arid  stunning  violence  beat 
the  poor  animal  I  bestrode,  and  my- 
self along  with  him,  fiat  down  upon 
tht  ground,  among  the  rebounding 
echoes  and  black  darkness.  I  escaped 
from  the  fall  unhurt,  and  the  horse 
stood  still  and  trembling,  till  I  re- 
mounted, for  I  now  was  no  longer 
denirous  of  escaping  my  pursuer.  I 
was  hardly  in  the  saddle  again, 
when  I  heard  a  sweet  voice  at  my 
sidj— "  Now,  Heaven  have  mercy 
on  us, — this  is  a  fearful  night ! — How 
coi  Id  you  leave  me  in  this  way, 
George  ? — Ah  !  you  could  not  help 
it,  poor  fellow — but  did  I  not  see 
yot  thrown  after  the  grey  ran  off? — 
Why  do  you  not  answer,  George — 
are  you  hurt  ?" 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  Ellen  Fane, 
wh;it  do  you  do  here  ?"  I  exclaimed, 
in  a  voice  that  I  could  hardly  think 
my  own.  She  screamed  aloud,  for  it 
was  indeed  she,  and  checked  her 
hor^e  till  he  almost  went  on  his 
haunches;  I  seized  him  by  the  bridle 
to  keep  him  from  backing  over  the 
precipice. 

"  Keep  off — keep  off,"  she  cried. 
"  Oh,  have  mercy  on  me  if  you  are  a 
mar;  or  a  Christian,  for  I  am  a  help- 
less girl,  and  in  danger  of  my  life  ! — 
Oh,  only  help  me  to  get  to  Truro,  and 
I  will  pray  for  you — indeed  I  will — 
as  long  as  this  miserable  existence 
lasfr;  !" 

I  was  agitated  by  contending  emo- 
tions— innumerable — indescribable  ; 
but  I  made  a  struggle  to  compose 
myself,  and  implored  her  not  to  be 
alarmed.  "  And,  oh,  Ellen,  Ellen," 
I  cried,  "  do  you  not  yet  know  me  ?" 

"  Henry  ! — Mr  Jervas  !"  she  ex- 
claimed, and  would  have  fallen  to 
the  ground  had  I  not  drawn  our 
hordes  together  and  supported  her 
sinking  frame  upon  my  breast.  There 
was  not  a  sound  in  the  air,  that  had 
so  lately  been  torn  with  dreadful 
noisss,  except  the  low  sobs  of  my 
companion,  whose  tears  were  flow- 
ing unrestrained  upon  my  bosom, 
and  the  dreamy  plashing  of  the  river 
besi  le  us,  as  it  hastened  to  drown  its 
murimrs  in  the  moan  of  the  sea,  that 
came  heavily  at  intervals  on  the  wind 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIV. 


the  wind  that 
was  now  abroad  was  barely  strong 
enough  to  lift  a  curl  or  two  of  the 
long  and  lovely  tresses  that  lay  clus- 
tering on  my  breast.  All  the  light  in 
the  sky  was  insufficient  to  shew  more 
than  the  dim  outline  of  the  hills  ri- 
sing black  around  us  against  the  paler 
gloom  of  the  heavens.  Every  thing 
was  steeped  in  profound  tranquillity, 
but  the  uproar  that  this  quiet  had 
succeeded  was  less  confounding  a 
thousand  times,  than  the  tumultuous 
feelings  which  agitated  my  heart  in 
the  midst  of  that  solemn  and  oppres- 
sive calm. 

"  Tell  me,  Ellen,  tell  me,  is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  can  have  been  under 
the  same  roof  with  this  villain  For- 
rest ?" 

"  Alas,  poor  wretch !"  she  exclaim- 
ed, "  he  was  burned  to  death — he 
and  his  cousin  Hiram." 

"  Murderous  ruffians  !  —  robbers, 
dogs,  and  pirates  !  what  better  fate 
did  they  merit  ?"  I  exclaimed,  for- 
getting that  she  was.ignorant  of  their 
piracy. 

"  Nay,  indeed,  Mr  Jervas,  they 
were  only  doing  their  duty.  You 
know  that  they  would  have  been  ob- 
liged to  fight  with  the  crew,  had  not 
the  ship  been  deserted.  Oh,  although 
Mr  Forrest  was  a  harsh  and  selfish 
man,  and  although  I  came  here  so- 
much  against  my  own  wishes,  yet 
believe  me  you  wrong  him  with  these 
horrid  names ;  but  tell  me,  I  beseech 
you,  how  did  you  come  here  ?  Surely 
you  cannot  have  come  all  the  way 
from  Bromley  Force? — Pray  tell  me.'* 

'*  Could  I  shew  you  my  dripping 
clothes,  my  bleeding  hands,  my 
scorched  and  smarting  face,"  cried 
I,  "  you  might  then  guess  where  I 
come  from — from  the  midst  of 
breakers  and  fire,  out  of  the  hands 
of  pirates  and  assassins,  who  would 
fain  have  stained  with  my  blood  that 
fatal  ship  that  they  once  before  pol- 
luted with  the  massacre  of  her  crew, 
but  which  God  in  his  justice  has 
guided  over  the  seas  to  be  a  destruc- 
tion for  them  and  theirs.  I  came  in 
the  French  fire-ship  !" 

This  was  indignantly,  bitterly^  and 
thoughtlessly  spoken ;  and  I  was  well 
rebuked  by  her  placid  reply.  "  Let 
us  pray  to  be  protected  in  our  dis- 
tress, for,  alas  !  I  fear  you  are  dis- 
tracted, and  I  scarcely  know,  myself, 
whether  I  am  awake  or  not." 


256 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


[Feb. 


"  I  would  give  all  I  value  in  the 
world,  except  your  good  wishes, 
Ellen,  that  this  were  a  dream ;  but  it 
is  too  true — listen  now,  (and  I  so- 
lemnly assure  you  there  is  no  decep- 
tion in  what  I  say,)  and  I  will  tell 
you  all;" — and  so  I  related  to  her 
every  thing  that  had  occurred  from 
the  time  of  our  dancing  the  last  riga- 
doon  together  in  Bromley  Force  Hall, 
up  to  our  present  meeting  among  the 
Forrest-Race  Hills. 

"  And  now,  Ellen,  that  these 
wretches  themselves  have  been  toss- 
ed out  like  burned  cinders  from  the 
fire,  and  that  their  house  has  been 
blown  stone  from  stone  to  the  foun- 
dation, can  you  doubt  that  the  hand 
of  Providence  has  been  put  forth  in 
their  punishment,  as  plainly  as  in  our 
reunion  after  so  sudden  a  separation, 
and  one  which  threatened  to  last  for 
years,  if  not  for  life  ?  and  can  you  for 
a  moment  doubt  that  I  have  been 
brought  here  thus  fearfully  and 
strangely  to  be  a  protector  to  you 
now,  and  a  cherisher  and  protector 
to  you  till  death  part  us  ?" 

"  Oh,  do  not  talk  of  happiness  to 
me ;  I  feel  that  I  am  doomed  to  be 
miserable  and  the  cause  of  misery; 
the  avenging  hand  lies  heavy  on  us 
all.  But  let  us  hasten  to  Truro,  and 
hurry  up  to  Bromley,  and  get  my 
dear  guardian's  advice,  before"— 
she  burst  into  renewed  tears,  and 
then  exclaimed,  "  Alas,  alas,  ill-fated 
Mary  Forrest !  you  had  little  thought, 
when  you  went  to  sleep  to-night,  that 
you  should  be  awakened  by  the  light 
of  your  husband's  death-fire  1" 

"  The  miserable  woman !"  I  cried, 
"  what  has  become  of  her  ?" 

"  She  will  soon  be  with  her  bro- 
thers, I  trust,  in  safety;  they  took  her 
and  her  baby  in  the  boat  to  Falmouth, 
but  I  was  sent  off  with  George  the 
gardener,  on  horseback,  as  you  see, 
for  Truro.  Poor  George  has  suffered 
with  the  rest ;  his  horse  was  fright- 
ened by  the  fire  and  threw  him  on 
the  hill ;  let  us  go  back  and  see  if  he 
is  hurt.'* 

I  with  difficulty  dissuaded  her 
from  delaying  us  by  such  a  fruitless 
search,  and  represented  my  own  mi- 
serable condition. 

"  Oh,  that  the  sky  would  clear," 
she  cried,  "and  shew  us  how  to  go  ! 
there  is  a  cottage  somewhere  near 
us  where  you  can  get  dried.  You 
will  perish  if  you  remain  in  wet 


clothes  any  louger, — but  can  it  be 
that  you  are  all  this  time  riding  bare- 
headed ?"  and  she  drew  up  her  horse, 
and  pulling  a  handkerchief  from  her 
neck,  tied  it,  yet  warm  from  her  bo- 
som, round  my  cold  temples  and 
dank  hair.  Every  touch  of  her  fin- 
gers streamed  a  flood  of  warmth  to 
my  heart;  my  very  brain  derived  new 
vigour  from  the  comfortable  cincture; 
and  having  kissed  her  gentle  hands 
again  and  again,  I  recommenced  to 
explore  the  road  with  indefatigable 
perseverance.  At  length,  after  a  te- 
dious ride  over  a  bleak  and  almost 
impracticable  track,  we  saw  the  low 
roof  of  the  cottage  rise  between  us 
and  the  sky.  A  feeble  light  struggled 
for  a  moment  over  the  common  as 
we  approached,  and  then  disappear- 
ed. Having  with  some  searching 
found  a  stake  to  which  to  tie  the 
horses,  we  advanced  to  the  door ;  it 
opened  and  we  entered  the  cabin's 
only  apartment.  In  one  corner,  on  a 
low  truckle,  lay  an  old  man  bedrid- 
den and  doting.  In  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  a  child  of  about  eight  years  was 
lighting  a  candle  at  the  embers  of  a 
wood  fire ;  she  screamed  as  we  stood 
before  her,  and  flew  to  the  bedside 
of  the  cripple,  who  mumbled  and 
moaned  at  the  disturbance,  but  did 
not  seem  to  comprehend  its  cause. 
The  little  girl's  large  dark  eyes  be- 
spoke terror  and  amazement  till  my 
companion  addressed  her,  "My  pret- 
ty Sally,  do  you  not  remember  th& 
lady  who  gave  the  gown  to  your 
mother,  and  the  money  ?"  The  little 
thing  then  let  go  its  hold  of  the  old 
man's  quilt,  and  shading  the  candle 
from  the  open  window,  dropped  a 
timid  curtsy  and  said,  "  They  are  all 
gone  down  to  see  the  burning  at  the 
Race,  and  they  told  me  to  keep  the 
candle  in  the  window  till  they  would 
come  back ;  but  the  draught  blows 
it  out,  madam." 

"Lend  me  the  candle,  my  dear, 
and  we  will  kindle  a  nice  fire  which 
the  draught  will  only  make  burn  the 
brighter,  and  that  will  do  far  better," 
said  my  companion,  and  began — beau- 
tiful being ! — to  pile  up  the  wood,  and 
clean  the  hearthstone,  with  as  prompt 
and  [housewife-like  an  alertness,  as 
though  she  had  herself  been  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  carefullest  cottager.  The 
blaze  soon  crackled  up  through  the 
grey  smoke,  and  while  I  stretched 
myself  along  the  earthen  floor,  and 


The  Forrest- JR  ace  Romance* 


257 


basked  in  the  pleasant  glow,  she 
busied  herself  in  the  corner  with  the 
1  ttle  girl — how,  I  could  not  imagine, 
till  I  heard  a  rustling  of  straw  and 
tie  bleat  of  a  goat.  1  looked  round, 
and  beheld  her  kneeling  on  the 
ground,  and  milking  the  poor  ragged 
animal,  with  hands  that  took  from 
their  pious  and  charitable  employ- 
ment a  loveliness  far  purer  than  ever 
the  flowers  of  the  green  lane  at 
Bromley  had  shed  over  them.  She 
bore  the  milk  warm  in  a  wooden 
bawl  to  my  lips  as  I  lay;  and  the 
c  lild  brought  me  bread.  I  ate  and 
drank,  and  blessed  them,  and  tears 
gushed  from  my  eyes. 

"  And  now,  my  pretty  Sally,"  said 
my  sweet  friend,  patting  the  dark 
h^ad  of  the  little  maiden,  "does  not 
your  mother  plait  straw  hats  ?" 

"  Oh  !"  cried  the  child,  lifting  up 
h<?r  tiny  hands,  "there  is  a  beautiful 
o  le  in  the  chest  for  Simon  Jones, 
ir  adam ;  but  he  has  gone  to  be  a  sol- 
dier, and  has  got  a  hat  now  that 
si  lines  like  glass,  and  has  lovely  fea- 
tbersinit." 

"  Then  give  it  to  me  for  this  gen- 
tbman,  and  I  will  give  you  all  this 
mon«y  for  your  mother."  I  had  my 
ovvn  purse  in  my  pocket,  but  felt 
that  it  would  gratify  her  not  to  in- 
terfere, and  did  not.  So,  after  a 
gi  eat  deal  of  coaxing,  she  at  length 
prevailed  on  the  child  to  open  the 
sacred  box,  and  take  out  the  hat 
with  reverential  hands,  into  which 
Bre  put  a  sum  that  made  the  poor 
little  creature  hold  them  up  even 
higher  than  at  the  mention  of  the 
admirable  Simon  Jones.  1  being  thus 
refitted  and  refreshed,  we  prepared 
tc  take  the  road  again,  the  less  re- 
luctantly, as  we  had  already  con- 
si  med  the  last  log  of  wood  in  the 
h(  >use.  So,  after  raking  the  embers 
together  for  fear  of  accident,  and 
kissing  our  little  benefactress,  we 
remounted,  and  turned  our  horses' 
he  ads  along  the  road  to  Truro.  Here 
W3  arrived  before  day,  and  having 
knocked  up  the  people  of  an  inn,  got 
admitted  with  some  difficulty.  It 
w  is  now  my  turn  to  take  care  of  my 
c<  'mpanion,  and  I  did  my  best  to  re- 
p;y  her  kindness.  I  procured  re- 
freshments, saw  to  the  horses,  and 
bj  de  her  good-night,  just  as  the  room- 
ie <*  dawn  was  breaking.  I  got  two 
01  three  hours'  sleep,  and  had  my 
cljthes  thoroughly  cleansed  and  dried 


before  the  coach  arrived  in  which 
we  were  to  proceed,  when  I  placed 
the  horses  at  livery  in  the  name  of 
Mr  Forrest's  executors,  and  took  my 
seat  beside  all  that  was  now  dearest 
to  me  in  the  world.  We  were  two 
days  and  a  night  on  the  road,  for  the 
proprietor  of  the  coach  would  not 
permit  it  to  run  on  the  Sabbath,  and 
we  therefore  spent  all  the  second 
day,  which  was  Sunday,  in  the  little 
village  where  we  stopped  on  the  pre- 
vious night.  We  went  to  church  to- 
gether, and  after  service  wandered 
about  the  environs.  That  was  the 
most  delightful  morning  I  had  ever 
spent.  It  was  then  I  persuaded  her 
to  promise  that  if  Mr  Blundell  and 
her  father  refused  to  sanction  our 
union,  she  would  never  marry  an- 
other. I  had  little  thought  when  ex- 
acting an  engagement  so  important, 
of  the  heavy  responsibility  we  both 
undertook.  I  thought  only  that  the 
possession  of  so  much  goodness  and 
beauty — I  will  not  do  injustice  to  my 
enthusiasm  then,  though  I  might  add 
"  riches"  to  the  list,  did  this  refer  to 
any  other  day — would  make  me  the 
happiest  of  living  men;  and  I  urged 
and  entreated  till  I  made  as  sure  of 
the  divine  prize  as  ever  man  did  in 
Courtship's  lottery,  before  the  final 
certainty  of  marriage. 

We  arrived  at  Bromley  Force  on 
the  evening  of  Monday.  I  need  not 
try  to  describe  how  my  worthy  friend 
stared  when  he  saw  us  walk  in  to- 
gether, whom  he  had  sent  little  more 
than  a  week  before,  as  widely  asun- 
der as  east  and  west  could  separate. 
Nevertheless,  he  met  his  ward  with 
open  arms. 

"  Ellen,  my  darling  child,  welcome 
back  to  me ! — but  what  the  devil  do 
you  mean,  sir?"  cried  he,  with  a  lu- 
dicrous comminglement  of  anger 
and  goodwill  upon  his  face,  while  he 
seized  my  hand  with  the  grasp  of  a 
thief-catcher,  and  held  me  at  arm's- 
length  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

"  I  have  the  strangest  story  to  tell 
you,  sir,"  I  began 

"  Some  trumpery  excuse,"  cried 
he,  "  for  thwarting  my  desires,  and 
neglecting  your  own  business,  sir- 
Why  have  you  not  gone  on  board 
your  vessel  yet?  Ah,  I'll  warrant, 
you  would  rather  be  running  after 
heiresses  than  facing  the  French  can- 
non." 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  sir,  you  wrong 


258 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


[Feb. 


Mr  Jervas  very  much,"  interrupted 
my  fair  friend  in  good  time,  for  I  \vas 
on  the  point  of  making  a  most  indig- 
nant reply ;  but  she  stopped  short, 
blushing  and  confused  at  the  betrayal 
of  any  interest  towards  one  in  whom 
she  took  so  much,  till  I  broke  the 
awkward  silence  which  succeeded 
by  requesting  my  host  to  grant  me 
his  private  ear  for  a  very  few  mi- 
nutes. 

"  Very  well,  sir,  very  well ;  here 
is  the  same  spot  where  you  made  all 
your  fine  promises  to  me  not  a  week 
ago,"  (hehadled  me  into  the  library ;) 
"  so  sit  down,  and  let  me  hear  what 
you  have  to  say  for  yourself  in  this 
very  suspicious  business."  I  sur- 
prised myself  by  the  manliness  and 
confidence  with  which  I  told  my 
story,  and  avowed  my  determination 
never  to  forego  a  claim  so  sanctioned 
by  Providence,  and  so  fully  recog- 
nised by  the  party  most  concerned. 

"  But  trust  me,  sir,  I  have  more 
pride  than  to  act  otherwise  than  you 
once  so  prudently  advised  me,"  said 
I  j  "  I  will  return  immediately  to  my 
profession,  and  you  shall  not  again 
see  me  in  the  character  of  a  suitor 
till  I  can  come  in  one  that  will  be 
worthy  such  an  errand." 

I  stopped  to  hear  what  he  would 
say  to  this  j  but  he  made  no  reply  ; 
indeed,  he  hardly  seemed  to  have 
heard  the  latter  part  of  my  story  at 
all,  for  he  looked  utterly  bewildered 
and  confounded. 

"  Henry,"  at  length,  said  he,  after 
long  rubbing  his  temples,  and  twice 
or  thrice  ejaculating,  "God  help  us  !" 
"  you  have  brought  yourself  into  a 
situation  where  you  will  have  need 
for  all  the  patience  and  resignation 
you  possess — Sit  down," — for  I  had 
risen  with  a  sudden  apprehension  of 
something  dreadful.  "  Sit  down,  and 
bear  this  like  the  man  j^ou  have 
shown  yourself  to  be.  You  remem- 
ber what  I  once  told  you  of  Ellen's 
father— that  he  was  living  in  a  man- 
ner disgraceful  to  us  all  in  London. 
Well,  Henry,  keep  your  seat.  I  wrote 
the  other  day  to  enquire  about  him 
from  a  friend  in  the  Admiralty.  You 
are  unwell,  Harry ;  let  me  ring  for 
something  for  you." 

"  For  God's  sake,  sir,"  I  gasped, 
"  tell  me  the  worst  at  once." 

"  It  is  bad  enough,  Harry,  but  here 
it  is  : — I  was  informed  in  answer 
that  Mr  Fane  had  obtained  the  com- 


mand of  the  tender,  Gull,  and  had 
just  sailed  for  Cherbourg." 

"  By  Heaven,  it  is  not  possible  ! — 
that  wretch  the  father  of  my  Ellen  ! 
Oh,  sir,  it  is  impossible  !  it  is  impos- 
sible," I  reiterated;  "  what  was  his 
christened  name  ?" 

"  Harry,  Harry!"  he  exclaimed, 
"  be  calm,  I  beseech  you,  and  do  not 
drive  me  more  distracted  than  I  am 
already.  Mr  Fane's  name  was  Tho- 
mas— Tom  Fane.  You  see,  my  dear 
boy,  that  this  is  all  too  true.  Bear  it 
like  a  man,  or  you  will  make  child- 
ren of  us  both ;  and  rather  try  to  aid 
me  in  considering  how  it  is  to  be  re- 
vealed to  her,  than  make  yourself 
unfit  to  join  in  alleviating  her  mi- 
sery. I  say  nothing  now,  Henry, 
about  your  .proposals — be  that  as 
you  may  think  fit  hereafter,  for  such 
a  calamity  as  this  must  alter  every 
thing ;  only  this  I  conjure  you  to,  let 
us  not  now  desert  the  innocent  girl 
in  the  time  of  her  affliction." 

But  I  could  not  bear  up  against  the 
agony  of  my  feelings,  as  I  was  at 
length  forced  to  admit  the  horrible 
conviction.  I  was  utterly  unable  to 
take  a  part  in  the  solicitous  cares  of 
my  friend.  In  vain  did  he  persuade 
— chide  —  denounce, —  I  wept,  and 
groaned  in  the  bitterest  and  deepest 
despair.  After  trying  every  means 
that  prudence  and  humanity  could 
suggest,  he  led  me  at  last  to  my  bed- 
room, where  he  left  me,  with  the 
assurance  that,  in  the  mean  time,  no- 
thing should  be  disclosed  to  Ellen, 
(in  whose  presence  I  had  not  been 
trusted  again  even  long  enough  to 
bid  good-night — nor  had  I  desired 
it,)  and  promised,  at  parting,  to  make 
my  apologies  below,  on  the  ground 
of  sudden  illness.  I  spent  a  night, 
if  possible,  more  miserable  than  the 
evening.  Not  one  minute's  sleep, 
not  one  minute's  respite  from  hor- 
rible thoughts — I  tossed  in  bodily 
fever,  and  mental  disorder  still  more 
insufferable,  through  all  the  long 
hours,  (although  but  few  in  num- 
ber,) till  the  grey  dawn  appeared 
around  me.  And  now  I  am  going 
to  make  a  shameful  confession.  I 
rose  with  the  first  light,  strong  enough 
to  show  the  shape  of  things,  and 
stole  like  a  thief  out  of  my  window. 
I  could  no  longer  bear  the  thought 
of  being  married  to  a  murderer's 
daughter,  and  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  fly  from  Bromley  Force.  I  drop- 


1833.] 

}>ed  safely  to  the  court,  and  ran 
•across  the  lawn,  impelled  by  shame, 
;nid  selfishness,  and  pride,  and  turn- 
(  d  my  steps  with  a  dastardly  speed 
silong  the  road  towards  London.  I 
ran  on  till  broad  day-light,  when, 
j'.fter  ascending  a  steep  hill,  I  threw 
myself  behind  a  clump  of  furze  by 
the  road  side,  being  utterly  exhaust- 
ed by  my  impetuous  speed  and  con- 
tending passions.  The  bright  fresh- 
ness of  the  sunrise  glittered  over 
wide  and  rich  lowlands  beneath  me. 
The  breeze  came  up,  heavy  with 
meadow  sweet  and  new  mown  hay 
— a  delicious  bath  for  my  hot  fore- 
Lead.  The  singing  of  birds  was 
showered  forth  from  every  bush  and 
llossoming  hedge-row,  arid  a  milk- 
white  heifer  came  lowing  up  a  lane, 
End  stood  placid  and  ruminating  in 
tiie  warmth  beside  me.  I  could  not 
help  thinking  of  the  Sunday,  when  1 
lad  sat  with  Ellen  on  just  such  a 
I  ill,  and  had  overlooked  just  such  a 
sweep  of  meadows  and  pastures — 
and  could  I  think  of  that  scene,  and 
f  jrget  how  I  had  then  vowed  to  che- 
rish and  support  her  through  good 
arid  evil  report,  and  how  she  had 
promised  that  she  would  never  marry 
nan  but  me  ?  Could  I  forget  how 
she  had  bared  her  bosom  to  the  bleak 
wind,  that  she  might  bind  my  brows 
when  I  was  perishing  with  cold? 
Could  I  forget  how  she  had  stooped 
1 3  menial  occupations  in  a  hovel,  to 
get  me  fire,  and  meat,  and  drink, 
when  I  was  wet,  and  hungry,  and 
s thirst?  And  could  I  now  be  the 
iilse,  the  base  and  recreant  villain, 
to  leave  her  in  her  premature  wi- 
c.owhood  alone,  exposed  to  all  the 
calamity  of  sudden  abhorrence  and 
bereavement?  It  was  beyond  the 
obstinacy  of  pride  to  resist  the  in- 
i  uence  of  such  reflections.  I  found 
nyself  looking  round  at  the  white 
chimneys  of  Bromley,  where  they 
rase  among  the  trees  behind  me  :  I 
I  urst  into  tears  like  a  child,  and, 
with  a  revulsion  of  feelings  as  com- 
plete as  when  I  had  first  felt  myself 
1  mging  to  escape  from  her,  I  turned 
i  ly  steps  back  again  towards  Ellen's 
dwelling. 

I  had  hardly  descended  the  hill 
when  I  met  the  London  coach — I 
would  have  given  twenty  fares  for  a 
freat  on  it  half  an  hour  before  ;  and 
fven  now,  when  the  driver  checked 
1  is  horses  as  he  passed,  and  asked 


The  Forrest- Race  Romance. 


me,  was  I  for  London,  I  felt  a  re- 
newal of  the  conflict  almost  as  fierce 
as  ever  :  But  my  better  genius  con- 
quered. I  continued  on  my  way,  and 
reached  the  house  again  before  seven 
o'clock.  I  wished  to  get  in  unob- 
served, and  appear  at  breakfast  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  but  my  host 
himself  met  me  as  I  crossed  the 
lawn.  We  exchanged  a  melancholy 
salute,  and  he  turned  with  me,  with- 
out even  asking  where  I  had  been. 
We  walked  into  the  library  together, 
and  I  took  up  a  book,  and  turned 
away  to  avoid  his  eye,  in  which  a 
tear  was  trembling  as  well  as  in  my 
own.  He  sat  down  to  read  his  let- 
ters, sighing  as  if  his  heart  would 
break  while  he  opened  one  after  an- 
other, till  suddenly  he  caught  me  by 
the  arm,  and  drew  me  close  to  him. 
I  had  been  standing  in  his  light;  but 
it  was  not  that  that  made  him  grasp 
me  so  closely.  "  Harry,  Harry,  thank 
God,  with  me !"  he  cried,  in  a  voice 
tremulous  with  joy,  "  she  is  safe ! 
she  is  safe ! — our  dear  girl  is  safe 
from  even  a  shadow  of  disgrace ! — 
But  why  do  I  talk  of  disgrace  ? — 
here,  read  that  letter,  and  thank 
God!" 

This  is  a  copy  of  the  letter,  which 
he  here  put  into  my  hands : 

"  MY  DEAR  BLUNDELL, 
"  I  have  made  a  sad  mistake  about 
poor  Fane.  I  was  called  on  to  visit 
him  suddenly  this  morning,  andfound 
him  in  his  last  moments  at  a  mise- 
rable lodging  in  the  Barbican,  where 
he  expired  to-day  at  four  o'clock. 
Before  his  death,  he  told  me  the  cir- 
cumstances connected  with  the  com- 
mand of  the  Gull.  It  appears,  that 
when  the  commission  came,  he  wag 
unable  to  move  in  its  use  from  gout, 
and  the  effects  of  lon»  dissipation, 
and  that  the  Forrests  of  the  Race  be- 
ing in  town,  prevailed  on  him,  for  a 
trifling  sum,  to  give  up  the  papers  to 
a  vagabond  namesake  of  his  own, 
(but  no  connexion,  as  far  as  I  can 
understand,)  who  had  been  an  old 
associate  of  theirs  in  Cornwall.  This 
fellow  went  down  to  Sheerness,  and 
took  the  command  unquestioned,  in 
the  hurry  of  preparation  for  sea, 
and,  as  I  mentioned  in  my  note  of 
yesterday,  has  set  sail  for  the  fleet. 
By-the-by,  there  are  dark  reports 
in  the  Admiralty  about  the  Forrests 
and  the  old  PJicEnix,  (Manson,  jun.,) 


260 


The  Forrest-Race  Romance. 


[Feb. 


that  was  supposed  to  have  gone 
down  at  sea  two  years  ago.  The 
story  goes,  that  they  and  this  fellow 
Fane,  (against  whom  an  order  is  al- 
ready issued,  on  the  elder  Manson's 
application,)  made  away  with  the 
crew  at  the  Race,  into  which  she 
had  driven  at  night,  and  getting  the 
ship  off  by  the  next  tide,  sailed  her 
to  Bordeaux,  where  they  sold  her  to 
the  Messrs  Devereux,  and  fitted  out 
their  letter  of  marque  with  the  mo- 
ney. Of  course,  this  is  in  confidence. 
I  have  often  warned  poor  Ellen's 
father  of  Adam  Forrest,  and  told  him 
how  improper  the  situation  was  for 
her,  (I  know  Forrest  designed  get- 
ting her  for  his  cousin,)  but  he  was 
ia  the  fellow's  debt,  and  therefore 
under  his  control;  so  that,  although 
he  disliked  the  thing  as  much  as  I, 
my  representations  had  no  effect.  His 
death  must  be  a  relief  to  us  all,  yet 
I  cannot  but  lament  him — bold,  gene- 
rous, and  honourable  he  always  was 
even  to  the  last  ,•  and,  now  that  he  is 
gone,  let  us  say  nothing  of  the  one 
deforming  vice.  Believe  me,  most 
truly  yours,"  &c.  &c. 

For  five  days  I  had  been  torn  from 
my  former  self  by  a  continued  series 
of  disaster  and  passionate  suffering, 
and  so  constantly  and  rapidly  had 
each  astonishment  succeeded  the 
other,  that  I  was  become,  I  thought, 
in  great  measure  callous  to  the  most 


surprising  change  that  could  now 
possibly  take  place.  But  here  I  was 
placed  all  at  once,  and  that  when 
least  of  all  expected',  on  the  same 
ground  as  when  I  had  parted  from 
Ellen  on  the  night  before  our  first 
separation ;  and  all  the  intermediate 
ordeal  of  terror  and  despair  was 
past,  and  from  it  I  had  come  out  a 
bolder,  truer,  and  happier  man.  It 
may  well  be  credited,  then,  that  my 
thanks  to  the  Providence,  through 
whose  inscrutable  hands  I  had  been 
thus  kindly  dealt  with,  were  full  and 
fervent;  and  it  may  well  be  sup- 
posed how  Ellen  wondered,  with 
blushes-and  doubtful  confusion, what 
the  embrace,  so  sadly  tender  yet  so 
ardent,  might  mean,  when  both  her 
guardian  and  her  lover  welcomed 
her,  to  the  dispersion  of  her  threat- 
ened calamities,  by  the  removal  of 
her  father  from  misery  to  rest.  Na- 
tural sorrow  took  its  course;  and 
grief  for  the  parent,  wretched  as  he 
was,  claimed  its  indulgence  of  time 
and  solitude.  I  had  not  forgotten 
the  advice  of  my  excellent  friend, 
about  making  a  man  (worthy  such  a 
wife)  of  myself  by  my  own  exer- 
tions ;  and  receiving  official  direc- 
tions to  join  the  fleet,  after  I  had 
made  the  necessary  depositions,  I 
left  Ellen  with  her  tears  scarce  dried, 
on  the  understanding  that  I  should 
return,  so  soon  as  of  age,  and  claim 
her  for  my  own. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  GIFTED. 
BY  LADY  EMMELINE  STUART  WORTLEY. 

A  GRAVE  for  the  Gifted— Where— where  shall  it  be, 

By  the  echoing  shores  of  the  hollow-voiced  sea  ? 

Oh  !  no  !  let  those  ashes  at  last  sink  in  rest — 

Now  the  strong  Passion-whirlwinds  have  died  in  her  breast. 

For  the  Gifted  and  Beautiful  lost  One— a  grave  I 
But  not  in  the  precincts  of  Ocean's  hoar  wave. 
Too  much  of  life's  tempests  and  tumults  she  knew—- 
Let her  sleep  'neath  the  skies'  gracious  weepings  of  dew ! 

Like  a  bird  from  the  storms,  all  awearied,  o'erworn, 

To  a  nest  of  repose  be  the  Lovely  One  borne, 

Where  no  loud  savage  storm  shakes  the  moon-lighted  air, 

But  the  breeze,  a  sweet  message  from  Heaven's  shore  shall  bear  I 

A  Grave  for  the  Gifted— Where— where  shall  it  be? 
Where  the  bright  summer  treasures  yield  wealth  to  the  bee— 
Where  the  faint-thrilling  voice  of  some  fountain  is  heard, 
And  the  rich  air  is  rent  by  night's  passionate  bird  I 


1833.]  The  Grave  of  the  Gifted  261 

Where  old  chestnut-trees  shed  round  a  twilight  of  gloom, 
Which  doth  hallow  and  mellow  the  wild-flowers'  meek  bloom- 
Where  the  fragrant  spring-rains  dance  in  joy  to  earth's  breast- 
Sweet  earth  .'—with  a  blossomy  richness  oppress'd ! 

Where  the  whitest  of  roses  undazzlingly  blow, 
More  pure  and  more  soft  than  th'  enwreathed  mountain  snow, 
Where  the  starlight  shall  tremblingly  signal  the  hours, 
And  throw  sudden  gleams  o'er  the  wood-bosomed  bowers — 

Where  the  sun-flower  shall  burn,  and  the  lily  shall  bend  1 
And  the  acacia  its  leaves  with  the  willow's  shall  blend. 
Oh  I  the  old  kingly  laurel's  illustrious  gloom, 
Overshadow'd  her  life — be  that  far  from  her  tomb  ! 

A  Grave  for  the  Gifted  I  A  Grave  for  the  Young ! 
Since  seal'd  the  pure  lips  that  so  thrillingly  sung. 
But  far  from  the  Laurel — the  Tempest — the  Billow- 
Where  stillness  is  deepest,  there  spread  ye  her  pillow. 


THE  ISLE  OF  BEAUTY. 
BY  LADY  EMMELINE  STUART  WORTLEY. 

WHERE  glitters  the  isle,  where  the  sunny  tract  glows,— 
All  baptized  by  the  odours  that  drop  from  the  rose  ? 
Where  in  Paradise-breathings  the  southern-wind  blows, 
So  rich  is  the  soul  of  its  sighs  I 

Where  laughs  the  sweet  isle  that  is  wash'd  by  the  wave— 
O'er  whose  silvery  tremor  no  storm  dares  to  rave  ? 
The  olden  Venus'  bright  haunt !  the  lost  Sun-God's  warm  grave ! 
Like  some  star  fallen  away  from  the  skies  ! 

Lit  up  by  the  purple  heaven's  mightiest  of  rays- 
Yet  tender  the  radiance,  and  soften'd  the  blaze  I 
Oh,  precious  its  nights  are — and  beauteous  its  days  ! 
Love,  Love !  'tis  a  realm  meet  for  thee. 

A  glad  tumult  of  murmurs,  through  copse  and  flower'd  shade, 
Speaks  of  life  and  of  joy — all  undimm'd — undecay'd— 
And,  melody-fraught,  snakes  each  leaf  of  the  glade, 
Like  a  faint  moaning  shell  of  the  sea. 

Where  the  orange-bowers  all  their  fair  treasures  unfold, 
Till  the  grove  hath  a  starlight  of  red  burning  gold ; 
Where  in  beautiful  gloom  stand  the  lone  Fanes  of  old, 
The  Fanes  of  the  glorious  dead ! 

Where  thrillingly  low  sing  the  echo- voiced  doves, 
Till  music — the  awakener  I — ruffles  the  groves- 
May  blessings  fall  round  ye  !  sweet  land  of  the  loves ! 
May  blessings  around  ye  be  shed ! 

Yet,  is  nothing  but  Beauty— and  Beauty  in  bloom, 
In  that  young  world  of  sunshine  and  flowers  and  perfume  ? 
Ah,  the  Cypress  grows  there,  as  awaiting  the  tomb  I 
In  darkness  and  silence  it  towers  I 

Thus— thus— whispers  of  death  pierce  earth's  tumults  of  joy! 
All  love  and  all  loveliness— strong  to  destroy  ! 
And  our  life-cup  hath  there  even  its  wormwood-alloy 
'Mongst  those  heaven-breathing  exquisite  bowers. 


262  The  Child  reading  the  Bible.  [Feb. 


THE  CHILD  READING  THE  BIBLE, 
BY  MRS   HEMANS. 

• '  A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  to  waylay. 
***** 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death." 

WORDSWORTH. 

I  SAW  him  at  his  sport  erewhile, 

The  bright  exulting  boy, 
Like  summer's  lightning  came  the  smile 

Of  his  young  spirit's  joy ; 
A  flash  that  wheresoe'er  it  broke, 
To  life  undreamt-of  beauty  woke. 

His  fair  locks  waved  in  sunny  play, 

By  a  clear  fountain's  side, 
Where  jewel-colour'd  pebbles  lay 

Beneath  the  shallow  tide ; 
And  pearly  spray  at  times  would  meet 
The  glancing  of  his  fairy  feet. 

He  twined  him  wreaths  of  all  spring-flowers, 
Which  drank  that  streamlet's  dew  ; 

He  flung  them  o'er  the  wave  in  showers, 
Till,  gazing,  scarce  I  knew 

Which  seem'd  more  pure,  or  bright,  or  wild, 

The  singing  fount  or  laughing  child. 

To  look  on  all  that  joy  and  bloom 

Made  Earth  one  festal  scene, 
Where  the  dull  shadow  of  the  tomb 

Seem'd  as  it  ne'er  had  been. 
How  could  one  image  of  decay 
Steal  o'er  the  dawn  of  such  clear  day  ? 

I  saw  once  more  that  aspect  bright — 
The  boy's  meek  head  was  bovv'd 

In  silence  o'er  the  Book  of  Light, 
And  like  a  golden  cloud, 

The  still  cloud  of  a  pictured  sky— 

His  locks  droop'd  round  it  lovingly. 

And  if  my  heart  had  deem'd  him  fair, 

When  in  the  fountain  glade, 
A  creature  of  the  sky  and  air, 

Almost  on  wings  he  play'd ; 
Oh !  how  much  holier  beauty  now 
Lit  the  young  human  "Being's  brow ! 

The  Being  born  to  toil,  to  die, 

To  break  forth  from  the  tomb, 
Unto  far  nobler  destiny 

Than  waits  the  sky-lark's  plume ! 
I  saw  him,  in  that  thoughtful  hour, 
Wjn  the  first  knowledge  of  his  dower. 

The  soul,  the  awakening  soul  I  saw, 
My  watching  eye  could  trace 


1638.]  The  Child  reading  the  Bible.  £03 

The  shadows  of  its  new-born  awe, 

Sweeping  o'er  that  fair  face ; 
As  o'er  a  flower  might  pass  the  shade 
By  some  dread  angel's  pinion  made  ! 

The  soul,  the  Mother  of  deep  fears, 

Of  high  hopes  infinite, 
Of  glorious  dreams,  mysterious  tears, 

Of  sleepless  inner  sight ; 
Lovely,  but  solemn,  it  arose, 
Unfolding  what  no  more  might  close. 

The  red-leaved  tablets,*  undefiled, 

As  yet,  by  evil  thought — 
Oh  !  little  dream'd  the  brooding  child, 

Of  what  within  me  wrought, 
While  his  young  heart  first  burn'd  and  stirr'd, 
And  quiver' d  to  the  Eternal  Word. 

And  reverently  my  spirit  caught 

The  reverence  of  his  gaze  ; 
A  sight  with  dew  of  blessing  fraught 

To  hallow  after-days ; 
To  make  the  proud  heart  meekly  wise, 
By  the  sweet  faith  in  those  calm  eyes. 

It  seem'd  as  if  a  temple  rose 

Before  me  brightly  there, 
And  in  the  depths  of  its  repose 

My  soul  o'erflow'd  with  prayer, 
Feeling  a  solemn  presence  nigh — 
The  power  of  Infant  Sanctity ! 

O  Father !  mould  my  heart  once  more, 

By  thy  prevailing  breath  ! 
Teach  me,  oh  !  teach  me  to  adore 

Ev'n  with  that  pure  One's  faith ; 
A  faith,  all  made  of  love  and  light, 
Child-like,  and,  therefore,  full  of  might ! 


•-'  "  All  this,  and  more  than  this,  is  now  engraved  upon  the  red-leaved  tablets  of  my 
he<  rt." — HAYWOOD. 


LYRICS   OF  THE  EAST. 
BY  MRS  GODWIN, 

No.  III. 
THE  SHIEK'S  REVENGE. 

To  Abdallah's  tent  a  stranger.came, 
And  shelter  craved  in  the  Prophet's  name  : 
His  cheek  was  haggard  with  care  and  toil, 
His  raiment  stain'd  with  the  desert's  soil. 

They  gave  him  to  drink  in  a  lordly  bowl, 
And  with  pious  welcome  cheer'd  his  soul, 
While,  the  damsels'  hands,  with  zeal  and  care, 
Heap'd  on  the  board  their  choicest  fare. 

The  tent  was  still'd  in  the  hour  of  rest, 
But  no  slumber  came  to  Abdallah's  breast; 
He  went  forth  with  the  earliest  streak  of  light, 
But  his  mood  was  gloomy  and  dark  as  night, 


264  The  Craven  Heart.  [Feb. 

On  the  desert  wide  his  gaze  he  bent— 
Anon  to  the  kindling  East  he  sent 
Impatient  looks,  while  his  wakeful  ear 
Harken'd  a  footstep  falling  near. 

He  turn'd,  like  the  dauntless  stag  at  bay, 
Or  the  lion  roused  at  the  sight  of  prey, 
And  he  was  aware  that  his  guest  stood  nigh, 
Gazing  like  him  on  the  bright'ning  sky. 

The  stranger  said  to  the  Arab  chief, 
"  On  the  brow  of  my  lord  there  is  wrath  and  grief- 
Turn  not  from  patience  thy  noble  mind, 
Peradventure  thy  heart  its  desire  shall  find." 

"No,"  cried  Abdallah,  « it  may  not  be— 
Glory  and  power  have  departed  from  me  ! 
One  who  hath  blood  of  my  race  on  his  hand 
Hath  escaped  the  revenge  of  my  thirsting  brand." 

The  stranger  flung  off  his  deep  disguise, 
And  stood  reveal'd  to  Abdallah's  eyes. 
"  Behold  in  thy  grasp  thy  defenceless  foe— 
My  bosom  is  bared  to  thy  dagger's  blow." 

The  eagle  eye  of  that  Shiek  so  proud 
Gleam'd  like  the  flash  of  the  thunder-cloud, 
And  red  as  the  Kamsin's*  lurid  hue 
The  mantling  blood  of  his  dusk  cheek  grew. 

"  Hassan,"  he  cried,  "thou  hast  judged  me  well- 
Honour  and  faith  with  my  bold  tribe  dwell; 
Never  hath  one  of  my  people  harm'd 
The  guest  that  his  household  hearth  had  warm'd. 

"  Take  from  yon  valley  my  fleetest  steed- 
Swift  from  the  face  of  my  warriors  speed ; 
Thou'rt  safe  while  the  scarce  up-risen  sun 
But  half  his  daily  course  hath  run. 

"  Thou'rt  safe  till  the  shadow  the  date-tree  throws 
In  a  lengthen'd  darkness  eastward  grows, — 
But  I  swear  by  the  flash  of  my  father's  sword, 
To  pursue  thee  then,  and  I'll  keep  my  word." 

No.  IV. 

THE  CRAVEN  HEART. 

"  Hark !  'tis  his  battle-cry  borne  on  the  gale- 
Look,  from  yon  lattice  high,  far  down  the  vale  ; 
How  rolls  the  tide  of  war — how  fares  my  son- 
Deals  he  death  round  as  his  sire  oft  hath  done  ?" 

Thus  the  Khan's  mother  spake,  proud  was  her  mien, 
While  mem'ry  call'd  back  the  days  that  had  been ; 
Meekly  his  bride  obey'd,  gazing  through  tears, 
With  a  wife's  fondness  and  weak  woman's  fears. 

"  Hark  I  'tis  his  courser's  step !— bravely  indeed 
Hath  our  young  hero's  sword  won  valour's  meed  I 
Say,  come  his  warriors  home  laden  with  spoil, 
Maidens  led  captive,  fair  flocks,  corn  and  oil  ?" 

Full  soon  that  chief  they  saw  speed  o'er  the  plain- 
Comrade  nor  captive  brought  he  in  his  train. 
Back  from  the  fight  came  the  craven  that  morn, 
Nought  had  he  earn'd  save  his  proud  mother's  scorn. 

*  Bruce  relates  that  the  coining  of  the  hot  poisonous  wind  of  the  Desert  is  indi- 
cated by  the  appearance  of  a  dead  red  halo  in  the  atmosphere. 


A  Dozen  Years  Hence. 


265 


A  DOZEN  YEARS  HENCE, 


"  Lot 's  drink  and  be  merry, 

Dance,  sing,  and  rejoice," — 
So  runs  the  old  carol, 

"  With  music  and  voice.*' 
Hac  the  Bard  but  survived 

Till  the  year  thirty-three. 
Me1  hinks  he'd  have  met  with 

Less  matter  for  glee ; 
To  v.hink  what  we  were 

In  our  days  of  good  sense, 
And  think  what  we  shall  be 

A  dozen  years  hence. 

O  !  once  the  wide  Continent 

Rang  with  our  fame, 
An<l  nations  grew  still 

At  the  sound  of  our  name; 
The  pride  of  Old  Ocean, 

1  he  home  of  the  free, 
The  scourge  of  the  despot, 

By  shore  and  by  sea, 
Of  the  fallen  and  the  feeble 

The  stay  arid  defence— 
But  where  shall  our  fame  be 

A.  dozen  years  hence  ? 

The  peace  and  the  plenty 

That  spread,  over  all, 
Blithe  hearts  and  bright  faces 

In  hamlet  or  hall; 
Oui  yeomen  so  loyal 

In  greenwood  or  plain, 
Our  true-hearted  burghers 

We  seek  them  in  vain; 
For  Loyalty's  now 

I-i  the  pluperfect  tense, 
An<  freedom  's  the  word 

I  or  a  dozen  years  hence. 

Thf  Nobles  of  Britain, 

Once  foremost  to  wield 
Hei  wisdom  in  council, 

Her  thunder  in  field, 
Her  Judges,  where  learning 

"With  purity  vied, 
He!1  sound-headed  Churchmen, 

1  ime-honour'd,  and  tried; 
To  the  gift  of  the  prophet 

]  make  no  pretence, 
But  where  shall  they  all  be 

A  dozen  years  hence  ? 


Alas !  for  old  Reverence, 

Faded  and  flown ; 
Alas !  for  the  Nobles, 

The  Church,  and  the  Throne, 
When  to  Radical  creeds, 

Peer  and  Prince  must  conform, 
And  Catholics  dictate 

Our  new  Church  Reform  ; 
While  the  schoolmaster  swears 

'Tis  a  useless  expense, 
Which  his  class  won't  put  up  with 

A  dozen  years  hence. 

Perhaps  'twere  too  much 

To  rejoice  at  the  thought, 
That  its  authors  will  share 

In  the  ruin  they  wrought ; 
That  the  tempest  which  sweeps 

All  their  betters  away, 
Will  hardly  spare  Durham, 

Or  Russell,  or  Grey : 
For  my  part  I  bear  them 

No  malice  prepense, 
But  I'll  scarce  break  my  heart  for't, 

A  dozen  years  hence. 

When  Cobbett  shall  rule 

Our  finances  alone, 
And  settle  all  debts 

As  he  settled  his  own; 
When  Hume  shall  take  charge 

Of  the  National  Church, 
And  leave  his  old  tools, 

Like  the  Greeks,  in  the  lurch  ! 
They  may  yet  live  to  see 

The  new  era  commence, 
With  their  own  "  Final  Measure,'* 

A  dozen  years  hence. 

Already  those  excellent 

Friends  of  the  mob, 
May  taste  the  first  fruits 

Of  their  Jacobin  Job ; 
Since  each  braying  jackass 

That  handles  a  quill, 
Now  flings  up  his  heels 

At  the  poor  dying  Bill; 
And  comparing  already 

The  kicks  with  the  pence, 
Let  them  think  of  the  balance 

A  dozen  years  hence. 


When  prisons  give  place 

To  the  swift  guillotine, 
And  scaffolds  are  streaming 

Where  churches  have  been ; 
We  too,  or  our  children, 

Believe  me,  will  shake 
Our  heads — if  we  have  them-— . 

To  find  our  mistake  ; 
To  find  the  great  measure 

Was  all  a  pretence, 
And  be  sadder  and  wiser 

A  dozen  years  hence. 


266 


The  late  Conservative  Dinner  in  Edinburgh. 


[Feb. 


THE  LATE  CONSERVATIVE  DIN'NER  IN  EDINBURGH. 


THE  strength  of  the  Conservative 
party  in  Edinburgh,  including,  as  it 
does,  within  its  ranks,  an  immense 
majority  of  the  property,  the  re- 
spectability, and  the  intelligence  of 
Edinburgh,  is  now  acknowledged 
even  by  its  opponents.  The  Con- 
servative meeting  of  November  1831, 
for  ever  set  at  rest  the  assertion  that 
the  adherents  of  Ministry  enjoyed  a 
monopoly  of  wealth  and  intelligence, 
as  well  as  of  numbers.  It  proved 
that,  to  say  the  least,  the  talent  and 
worth  of  the  metropolis  were  divi- 
ded ;  that  the  property  of  the  capital 
was  decidedly  opposed  to  the  policy 
of  Ministers ;  and  that  in  every  thing 
which  ought  to  give  real  importance 
to  a  party,  the  Conservatives,  in- 
stead of  being  that  insignificant  and 
desponding  handful  which  it  was  the 
object  of  the  press  to  represent 
them,  were  a  body  important  even 
in  mere  numbers,  conspicuous  for 
worth,  distinguished  in  talent,  pre- 
eminent in  wealth,  firm  in  maintain- 
ing, and  fearless  in  avowing,  their 
principles. 

Under  a  bill  which  professed  to  give 
to  every  party  in  the  state  the  means 
of  efficiently  expressing  their  opi- 
nions in  Parliament,  it  was  surely  no 
unreasonable  or  extravagant  preten- 
sion, that  such  a  body  of  men  should 
claim  for  themselves  the  privilege  of 
expressing  their  views  through  a  re- 
presentative animated  by  the  same 
principles,  rather  than  by  one  whose 
whole  views  and  opinions, habits,  and 
prejudices,  were  directly  opposed  to 
them.  But  least  of  all,  upon  the  pre- 
sent occasion,  could  they  hope  that 
their  interests  or  opinions  could  meet 
with  fair  play  at  the  hands  of  two 
individuals,  not  only  hostile  to  them 
in  general  politics,  but  the  mere 
pledged  nominees  and  organs  of  the 
existing  Government.  "Whether  as 
Conservatives  merely,  or  as  citizens 
of  Edinburgh— of  Great  Britain— 
they  equally  felt,  that  even  if  they 
had  been  unable  to  find  a  fit  repre- 
sentative of  their  own,  they  must  still 
refuse  their  support  to  those  whose 
free-will  was  a  mere  mockery,  and 
who,  upon  every  question,  could  be 
nothing  else  but  the  mouth-pieces  of 
that  Government,  with  which,  by  ties 


of  office,  of  past  favours  or  future  ex- 
pectations, they  were  hopelessly  and 
inextricably  involved. 

The  Conservative  party  knew  too 
well  the  difficulties  with  which  they 
had  tp  contend,  to  be  sanguine  as  to 
the  result.  The  events  of  the  last 
two  years  were  freshly  before  them, 
to  prove  how  little  the  suggestions  of 
reason  were  likely  to  avail  amidst  the 
excitement,  which, for  their  own  pur- 
poses, the  Ministry  had  seen  fit  to 
sanction,  if  not  to  create.  They  felt 
how  little  it  was  to  be  expected  that 
moral  should  yet  assert  its  influence 
over  physical  force,  when  the  whole 
object  of  the  Ministry  during  that 
period,  seemed  to  have  been  to  deify 
the  crowd,  to  fall  down  before  the 
image  of  brute  strength  which  they 
had  set  up,  to  pander  to  its  evil 
propensities,  to  palliate  its  atroci- 
ties, to  pervert  its  natural  feelings 
towards  its  superiors  and  its  benefac- 
tors. They  traced  the  extensive 
working  of  that  poison  in  the  general 
relaxation  of  the  principles  of  social 
order— in  the  unmanly  abuse  poured 
on  the  Queen— oil  the  very  King, 
who,  for  having  introduced  the  mea- 
sure of  Reform,  had  for  a  moment 
been  greeted  with  the  title  of  the 
English  Alfred, — inthe  attacks  on  the 
persons  of  our  Judges  and  nobility, 
in  the  insults  offered  to  our  Bishops 
within  the  house  of  God, — in  the 
seats  and  castles  of  our  peerage  con- 
signed to  the  flames, — in  the  palaces 
of  our  Bishops,  sacked  and  plunder- 
ed,—in  the  three  days'  conflagration 
and  pillage  of  Bristol, — in  the  riots 
of  Derby,  of  Merthyr,  of  Coventry,— 
in  the  traitorous  attempt  on  the  per- 
son of  the  King, — in  the  disgraceful 
attack  on  the  Preserver  of  his  country, 
on  the  very  anniversary  of  her  de- 
liverance and  his  own  glory.  They 
knew  well  that  the  evil  spirit  which 
had  been  thus  called  into  action, 
would  not  be  allowed  to  lie  dormant ; 
that  every  art  would  be  used  to  ex- 
cite and  keep  up  the  delusions  under 
which  the  mass  of  their  countrymen 
laboured,  both  as  to  the  feelings  and 
motives  of  the  Conservative  party, 
and  as  to  the  future  results  of  the 
Bill;  that  to  gain  the  temporary  sup- 
port of  the  crowd,  the  grossest  and 


180;).]  The  late  Conservative 

most  abject  flattery  of  its  prejudices, 
its  ignorance,  its  very  vices,  would  be 
resorted  to  on  the  part  of  the  Minis- 
try and  their  supporters.  They  felt 
hov/  little  likelihood  there  was  that 
the  still  small  voice  of  reason  from 
the  virtuous  and  intelligent,  should 
as  yet  make  itself  heard  by  those 
wlid  were  daily  told  by  those  in 
authority,  that  they  were  themselves 
the  wisest,  virtuousest,  discreetest, 
best,  and  who,  consequently,  with  a 


Dinner  in  Edinburyli.  267 

presumption  proportioned  to  the 
profundity  of  their  ignorance,  belie- 
ved themselves  capable  of  solving, 
as  if  by  intuition,  all  the  vast  and 
complicated  problems  of  govern- 
ment. 

How  prophetically  )ias  Dryden,  in 
his  noble  lines,  described  the  con- 
duct of  our  Ministers,  and  the  pre- 
valent doctrines  of  our  time,  in  an 
epistle  to  the  Whigs  of  his  day ! 


"  But  these  new  Jehus  spur  the  hotmouth'd  horse, 

Instruct  the  beast  to  know  his  native  force, 

To  take  the  bit  between  his  teeth,  and  fly 

To  the  next  headlong  steep  of  anarchy. 

Almighty  crowd,  thou  shorten'st  all  dispute, 

Power  is  thy  essence,  wit  thy  attribute ; 

Nor  faith,  nor  reason,  make  thee  at  a  stay, 

Thou  leap'st  o'er  all  eternal  truths  in  thy  Pindaric  way. 

Athens,  no  doubt,  did  righteously  decide, 

When  Phocion  and  when  Socrates  were  tried, 

As  righteously  they  did  those  dooms  repent, 

Still  they  were  wise  whatever  way  they  went ; 

Crowds  err  not,  though  to  both  extremes  they  run, 

To  kill  the  father  and  recall  the  son  !" 


Doubtful,  however,  as  the  pros- 
pect of  Returning  a  constitutional 
representative  under  such  circum- 
stances might  be,  the  Conservative 
citizens  of  Edinburgh  felt  it  to  be 
their  duty  to  make  the  attempt.  The 
battle  of  common  sense  and  rational 
liberty,  if  lost  on  the  present  occa- 
sion, they  knew  must  be  eventually 
wo  i,  and  its  ultimate  triumph  they 
felt  must  be  promoted  by  taking  their 
stand  at  once,  and  enabling  the  can- 
did and  the  reasonable,  by  a  compa- 
rison of  the  respective  supporters  of 
the  Conservative  and  Ministerial 
cacdidates,  to  decide  for  themselves 
on  which  side  the  preponderance  of 
rar  k,  wealth,  respectability,  and  pro- 
perty in  Edinburgh  truly  lay. 

They  looked  round  for  a  repre- 
sentative, and  they  found  him  in  Mr 
Bl<  ir.  Born  and  educated  in  Edin- 
burgh, connected  on  the  one  hand 
wii  h  its  mercantile  and  banking  in- 
ter ists,  and  on  the  other  with  its 
we  ilthy  and  landed  aristocracy,  bred 
to  habits  of  business,  of  admitted 
high  honour  and  private  worth,  tem- 
perately but  firmly  attached  to 
Conservative  principles,  placed  by 
fortune  and  situation  in  a  state  of 
perfect  independence,  they  found  in 
liir.i  a  representative  of  their  views, 
who  by  his  sympathy  with  the  people 
and  the  moderation  of  Ms  opinions. 


would  at  once  uphold  with  firmness 
the  cause  of  the  Constitution,  and 
put  to  silence  the  calumny  so  indus- 
triously circulated  by  the  Ministry 
and  their  mocking  birds  of  the  press, 
that  the  friends  of  that  Constitution 
were  the  enemies  of  the  people. 

Their  efforts  proved  unsuccessful. 
The  elements  with  which  they  had 
to  contend  were  yet  too  powerful. 
Vague  hopes  and  wild  expectations 
in  some — gratitude  for  a  supposed 
boon  in  others — intimidation  in  one 
quarter — misrepresentation  in  an- 
other— utter  incapacity  of  judging 
at  all  jn  a  third  ,-— such  were  the  cir- 
cumstances which  decided  the  elec- 
tion, and  returned  two  ministerial 
nominees  as  the  first  members  for 
Edinburgh  in  the  Reform  Parlia- 
ment. But  disguise  it  as  they  might, 
the  more  clear-sighted  of  the  other 
party  felt  that  in  the  1518  votes 
which  were  given  for  Mr  Blair,  there 
lay  a  world  of  moral  force  and  in- 
fluence, a  weight  of  property  which 
left  all  competition  on  their  part 
hopeless.  The  fact  was  so  notorious, 
that  even  among  the  Whigs  them- 
selves, we  have  heard  but  one  opi- 
nion, namely,  the  expression  of  asto- 
nishment and  regret  at  the  statement 
which  the  Lord  Advocate,  with  a 
singular  absence  of  that  good  taste 
and  right  feeling  which  distinguishes 


263 


The  late  Conservative  Dinner  in  Edinburgh. 


[Feb. 


his  general  conduct,  was  so  left  to 
himself  as  to  state,  in  absence  of  Mr 
Blair  and  his  friends  from  the  hust- 
ings, that  among  his  voters  he  could 
number  400  who  could  actually  buy 
up  the  whole  1518  who  had  supported 
his  Conservative  opponent.  The  state- 
ment is  so  ludicrously  and  palpably 
absurd,  that  any  contradiction  would 
be  wasted  on  it.    When  his  lordship 
condescends  on  the  names  of  the  elect, 
we  shall  believe  it — but  not  till  then. 
But  it  seems  not  only  were  the 
Conservatives  bankrupt  in  wealth, 
but  in  character  too.    His  Lordship, 
in  the  intoxication  of  his  triumph  at 
the   supposed    annihilation    of    the 
Tory  party,  described  the  defeated 
party  as  mere  sycophants,  and  Edin- 
burgh itself,  prior  to  the  commence- 
ment of  the  Whig  Millenium,  as  one 
vast  emporium  of  corruption.     The 
license  of  elections  gives  a  consider- 
able   latitude    to  the  controversial 
discussions  of  the  press — but  from 
the  first  law  officer  of  the  Crown  in 
Scotland — from  the  gentleman — the 
man  of   letters,  some    temperance 
of    expression,  to    say  nothing   of 
truth,  might  have  been  expected. 
How  strongly  does  the  excitement 
of  contest,    particularly,  it    would 
seem,  in  addressing  that  "  delicate 
monster,"  the  new  constituency,  dis- 
turb the  natural  candour  of  an  ho- 
nourable mind.     "  'Tis  pitiful — 'tis 
wondrous  pitiful  !'*  Did  it  never  oc- 
cur to  him,  with  how  much  more 
plausibility  the  epithet  might  be  re- 
torted on  one,  who  having  notoriously 
advocated  up  to  the  latest  period  a  re- 
form of  the  most  limited  kind,  was 
suddenly  found  to  have  taken  such 
a  stride  in  the  path  of  democracy,  the 
moment  the  Ministry  with  which  he 
had  connected  himself  chose  to  in- 
troduce a  measure  so  sweeping  as  to 
astonish  at  once  their  friends  and  their 
enemies  ?    Did  he  never  think  that 
to  his  parliamentary  colleague  that 
epithet  might  have  been  applied  with 
more  justice,  who,  by  some  unac- 
countable chance  no  doubt,  had  all 
his  life  been  all  things  to  all  admini- 
strations ?  He  himself,  we  think,  must 
have  regretted  an  expression  so  in- 
consistent with  his  usual  courtesy, 
could  he  have  listened  to  the  elo- 
quent and  indignant  terms  in  which 
it  was  commented  on  by  Mr  P.  Ro- 
bertson, who,  in  proposing  the  toast 
of  "The    Legitimate  Influence  of 


Property  and  Intelligence  in  the 
Choice  of  a  Representative,"  at  the 
Public  Dinner  to  which  we  are  about 
to  direct  the  attention  of  our  read- 
ers, thus  adverted  to  the  rash  state- 
ment of  the  Lord  Advocate. 

"  I  read,"  said  he,  "  with  ineffable 
indignation  and  contempt,  the   ex- 
pressions which  the  distinguished  in- 
dividual to  whom  I  have  referred,  ia 
reported  to  have  used  at  the  hust- 
ings, when  he  stated,  and  stated  in 
our  absence,  that  with  his   mighty 
arm,  forsooth  !  he  had  slain  the  mon- 
ster Toryism;  when  he  described 
this  great  and  enlightened  metropo- 
lis as  having  been,  for  the  last  se- 
venty years,  '  the  great  school  of  sy- 
cophancy and  servility,  the  mart  and 
emporium  of  jobbing,  where  a  vast 
and  prosperous  trade  had  been  car- 
ried on  in  consciences  and  offices ; 
where  independence  was   bartered 
for  places,  and  where  men  were  re- 
cruited to  keep  down  popular  rights, 
by  the  bounty  of  promises,  and  the 
daily  pay  of  corruption."  Sycophan- 
cy, indeed !  who  are  the  sycophants  ? 
Are  they  to  be  found  in  this  distin- 
guished assembly,  or  among  the  in- 
dependent members  of  that  body  to 
which  the  learned  Lord  belongs,  and 
who,  when  he  was  not  in  power, 
raised  him,  by  their  unanimous  suf- 
frages, to  the  head  of  the  Bar  ?     I 
deeply  lament  that  he  should  have 
used  such  expressions.     But  he  far- 
ther tells  us,  that  not  only  the  great 
numerical  strength,  the  majority  of 
wealth,  also,  is  on  his  side — that  they 
can  count  guinea  for  guinea,  and  acre 
for  acre  with  us,  and  we  have  been 
promised  a  list,  which,  however,  I 
have  not  yet  seen,  where,  by  a  cal- 
culation, this  will  be  made  apparent. 
Since  they  got  into  power,  the  Whigs, 
it  seems,  have  waxed  lusty  and  rich 
upon  our  hands,  and  we  have  be- 
come poor  in  numbers  and  in  purse. 
The  result  of  this  has  been,  that  we 
are  not  only  sycophants,  but  exhibit 
that  sycophancy  by  resisting,  on  the 
one  hand,  the  clamour  of  an  excited 
population,  and   opposing,    on  the 
other,  the  measures  of  a  rash  and  ar- 
rogant Administration." — (Loud  and 
rapturous  applause.) 

But  we  turn  from  the  observation 
itself  to  its  practical  refutation. 

The  Conservative  body  of  Edin- 
burgh resolved  to  take  the  opportu- 
nity of  a  public  dinner  to  the  candi- 


18«';3.J 


The  late  Conservative  Dinner  in  Edinburgh. 


269 


da;e  who  had  on  this  occasion  been 
tht;  representative  of  Conservative 

Srinciples,  to  prove  by  another  open 
is  play  the  strength  of  their  party, 
which  had  just  been  represented  as 
annihilated,  and  the  fearlessness,  as 
well  as  the  fairness,  in  which  they 
were  determined  to  maintain  their 
opinions.  On  the  llth  of  Janua- 
ry, a  meeting,  unparalleled  in  Edin- 
burgh for  its  numbers,  its  high  cha- 
racter, talent,  and  property,  assem- 
bled to  testify  its  gratitude  to  the 
mf  n,  who,  amidst  every  discourage- 
ment, had  had  sufficient  manliness, 
sufficient  confidence  in  the  ultimate 
prjspects  of  the  cause  of  truth,  to 
etc  nd  forward  as  a  rallying  point  to 
th<;  friends  of  the  Constitution;  with 
so  nething  of  the  same  feeling  with 
which  the  Romans  greeted  their  de- 
feated general  after  the  battle  of 
Cf  nnse,  and  thanked  him  because  in 
that  moment  of  general  consterna- 
tion and  despondency  he  had  not 
despaired  of  the  state. 

The  Goorge's  Street  Assembly 
Room,  the  largest  apartment  in 
Edinburgh,  though  accommodating 
about  480  gentlemen,  was  found  in- 
sufficient lor  the  purpose,  about  a 
hundred  more  having  been  under  the 
necessity  of  dining  in  the  adjoining 
room.  We  quote  from  the  Adver- 
tis  ±r  the  following  paragraph,  which 
will  give  our  readers  at  a  distance 
some  idea  of  the  general  character 
of  the  Meeting,  and  of  the  strength 
of  that  feeling  which  could  associate 
so  many  distinguished  individuals 
from  every  quarter,  many  of  whom 
had  come  to  Edinburgh  from  a  dis- 
tance of  a  hundred  miles  and  up- 
wards, for  the  very  purpose  of  testi- 
fying their  respect  for  Mr  Blair,  and 
thiir  attachment  to  the  cause  of 
which  he  was  the  Representative. 

"  Friday,  a  grand  public  dinner 
was  given  in  the  Assembly  Rooms 
to  Mr  Forbes  Hunter  Blair,  by  his 
friends  of  the  Conservative  party, 
who  turned  out  upon  the  occasion 
uj  wards  of  five  hundred  in  number. 
Si"  Francis  Walker  Drummond  of 
Hiwthornden,  Baronet,  was  in  the 
C  lair.  On  his  right  were  placed 
Mr  Blair,  Sir  George  Clerk,  Hon. 
Mr  Leslie  Melville,  Colonel  Lindsay, 
Si:  George  Leith,  Sir  John  Hope, 
Mr  Allan  of  Glen,  Mr  Ramsay  of 
Barnton,  Mr  Blair  of  Blair,  Mr  Ar- 
buthnot,  Colonel  Harvey,  Mr  Burn 


Callender,  Captain  Forbes,  Mr 
Walker  Drummond,  James  Strange, 
Esq.,  J.  Atholl  M.  Murray,  Esq.  of 
Macgregor,  James  Walker,  Esq.  of 
Dairy,  James  Farquharson,  Esq.  of 
Invercauld,  and  Sir  John  Forbes, 
vice.  On  the  left  of  the  chair  were, 
Sir  William  Rae,  Hon.  James  Bruce, 
Sir  John  Oswald,  Hon.  W.  Drum- 
mond, Sir  David  Milne,  Sir  John 
Hall,  Mr  Campbell  of  Blythswood, 
Sir  Robert  Dundas,  Dr  Macknight, 
Mr  Balfour  of  Fernie,  Mr  Bonar  of 
Kimmerghame,  Mr  Trotter  of  Dreg- 
horn,  Mr  Downie  of  Appin,  Mr  Gor- 
don of  Craig,  Charles  Stirling,  Esq. 
of  Kenmore,  James  Oliphant,  Esq. 
of  Gask,  Charles  Fergusson,  Esq., 
younger  of  Kilkerran,  and  Mr  Trot- 
ter of  Ballendean,  vice. 

"  Mr  P.  Robertson,  advocate,  act- 
ed as  croupier.  On  his  right  were 
Mr  Forbes  of  Callendar,  Sir  John 
Cathcart,  Mr  Mure  of  Caldwell,  Mr 
Bruce  of  Rennet,  Colonel  Balfour, 
82d  Regiment,  Mr  Dundas  of  Amis- 
ton,  Mr  Pringle  of  Whytbank,  Mr 
Adam  Hay,  Mr  Scott  of  Harden,  and 
Mr  Donald  Home,  W.S.,  vice.  On  the 
left,  Mr  Richardson  of  Pitfour,  Sir 
James  Riddell,  Mr  Johnston  cf  Alva, 
Mr  Ker  of  Blackshiels,  Mr  George 
Wauchope,  Mr  Ogilvie  of  Chesters, 
Sir  Charles  Ker,  General  Elliot, 
Major  Oliver,  Mr  Smith  Cunning- 
ham, Mr  Hamilton,  Roselle,  Mr 
Alexander  of  Southbar,  Mr  Hamil- 
ton of  Pinmore,  Mr  Smith  of  Melh- 
ven,  Mr  Dundas  of  Dunira,  Mr  Muir 
Mackenzie,  and  Mr  Charles  Neaves, 
advocate,  vice." 

The  company  in  general  included 
by  far  the  greater  proportion  of  the 
Landed  Gentlemen,  almost  all  the 
Bankers,  a  very  numerous  propor- 
tion of  the  most  eminent  of  the  Bar, 
and  the  Writers  to  the  Signet,  of  the 
Army  and  Navy,  of  the  most  emi- 
nent Merchants  and  most  respecta- 
ble Shopkeepers,  of  Edinburgh.  Of 
the  enthusiasm,  the  confidence  in  the 
cause  of  truth  and  constitutional 
principles,  the  lofty  and  generous 
tone  which  pervaded  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  evening,  none  can  have 
an  idea  but  those  who  were  witnesses 
of  them. 

Among  many  things,  however,  con- 
nected with  this  assembly,  which 
must  have  inspired  feelings  of  ad- 
miration and  pride  in  every  one  who 
loves  hie  country,  there  was  one 


270 


The  lale  Conservative 


feature  peculiarly  honourable  to  the 
great  and  important  party  of  which 
it  was  the  representative — we  mean 
the  public  avowal  of  the  generous 
and  patriotic  principles  by  which  its 
future  conduct  was  to  be  guided,  the 
determination  cordially  to  support 
the  government  of  the  country  in 
every  measure  which  appeared  to  be 
conducive  towards  the  real  happi- 
ness and  stability  of  the  state;  the 
distinct  disclamation  of  any  intention 
to  embarrass  their  policy  by  unneces- 
sary opposition,  or  factious  union 
with  their  opponents;  and  the  re- 
solution of  the  Conservatives  stead- 
fastly to  pursue,  with  purity  of  pur- 
pose and  singleness  of  heart,  the  only 
object  they  had  in  view — the  pre- 
servation of  the  country  from  the 
ruin  with  which  its  institutions,  its 
glory,  happiness,  and  character,  are 
so  visibly  threatened. 

This  is  no  idle  boast— no  empty  pa- 
rade of  principle.  The  Conservative 
party  may  refer  to  their  conduct  du- 
ring the  past,  as  a  guarantee  for  the 
future.  Had  they  chosen  to  coalesce 
with  the  Radical  party  throughout 
the  country  during  the  late  elections, 
a  course  which  the  insults,  the  slan- 
ders, the  unmanly  intimidation,  the  at- 
tacks on  person  and  proper  ty,to  which 
they  have  been  subjected  through 
the  active  or  passive  approbation 
of  Ministry,  would  have  not  unnatu- 
rally dictated  to  meaner  minds,  less 
solicitous  to  merge  all  individual  con- 
siderations in  their  country's  good, 
the  seats  of  the  Ministry  would  not 
have  been  worth  a  month's  purchase. 
But  will  any  one  venture  to  point  out 
one  instance  of  this  unholy  coalition  ? 
We  say  fearlessly,  there  is  not  one. 
Where  none  but  destructive  candi- 
dates came  forward,  (we  thank  the 
Jew  of  the  Times  for  teaching  us  that 
word,)  the  Conservatives  gave  them 
no  support.  Where  a  Radical  was  op- 
posed by  a  Ministerialist,  the  Conser- 
vatives, as  the  least  of  two  evils,  gave 
their  votes  to  the  latter.  Was  this 
conduct — we  will  not  call  it  noble,  for 
to  every  real  Conservative  it  appears 
only  natural — was  this  spirit  of  fair- 
ness, this  anxiety  for  the  good  of  the 
country,  met  by  a  corresponding 
feeling  on  the  part  of  the  Ministry 
and  their  supporters  ?  No  !  To  the 
disgrace  of  the  Ministerial  party  be 
it  spoken,  at  this  moment,  though 
even  they  themselves  perceive  that 


Dinner  in  Edinburgh.  [Feb- 

it  is  from  the  revolutionary  and 
movement  party  alone  that  any  real 
danger  to  the  country  is  threaten- 
ed,— that  all  the  fancied  evils  of 
Toryism  are  as  dust  in  the  ba- 
lance, compared  with  thte  sweeping 
ruin  which  impends  over  the  coun- 
try, from  the  new  and  fatal  power 
which  their  policy  first  called  into 
action, — they  are  so  blinded  by  the 
memory  of  party  prejudices, — so 
appalled  even  by  the  very  spectre  of 
Toryism,  that  they  rush  into  the 
jaws  of  revolution  to  avoid  it.  Every- 
where they  have  supported  the  Radi- 
cal candidates  wherever  they  were 
opposed  to  a  Conservativey  and 
wherever,  from  local  interests,  or 
other  circumstances,  no  tool  of  their 
own  could  be  put  forward  with  any 
prospect  of  success. 

Very  different  indeed  were  the 
sentiments  of  this  distinguished  as- 
sembly. No  feelings  of  party  ran- 
cour could  so  blind  their  reason  or 
pervert  their  sense  of  duty,  as  to 
induce  them  for  a  moment  to  coun- 
tenance the  idea  that  they  would 
enter  into  any  combination  with  the 
enemies  of  the  constitution,  for  the 
purpose  of  shaking  from  their  seats 
even  those  who  had  been  the  authors 
of  the  calamities  of  the  country. 
They  expressed  the  resolution  of  the 
Conservatives,  to  act  in  Parliament 
as  they  had  acted  at  the  elections, 
and  to  give  their  cordial  support  to 
Ministers,  "  if  satisfied  with  the  vic- 
tory they  had  obtained,  they  now  pre- 
ferred to  take  their  stand  in  defence 
of  the  institutions  of  the  country 
against  the  farther  schemes  of  the 
Radicals;"  and  their  determination 
neither  to  combine  with  the  destruc- 
tive party  in  the  state,  nor  to  com- 
promise one  iota  of  their  principles 
by  a  combination  with  Ministers 
themselves. 

But  if  the  expression  of  this 
straightforward  and  generous  reso- 
lution was  distinct,  not  less  firm  and 
uncompromising  was  the  avowal  of 
their  sentiments  as  to  the  policy 
which  had  been  hitherto  pursued  by 
Ministers,  and  the  visibly  increasing 
perils  which,  under  a  course  of  alter- 
nate rashness  and  weakness,  unpa- 
ralleled in  the  history  of  the  world, 
they  had  brought  upon  the  country. 
The  violations  of  the  authority  of 
the  law,  and  of  the  dignity  of  the 
throne,  which  they  had  sanctioned — • 


1633.] 


The  late  Conservative  Dinner  in  Edinburgh. 


271 


their  recognition  and  support  of  ille- 
gsl  and  unconstitutional  associations; 
— the  attacks  which  they  had  made 
on  the  honour  of  the  Peerage,  and 
their  abandonment  of  the  Church  to 
its  relentless  enemies  of  all  religions, 
or  of  none; — these  were  commented 
on  with  the  warm  and  just  indigna- 
tion which  they  were  calculated  to 
inspire.  This  was  peculiarly  obvious 
in  the  enthusiastic  reception  with 
which  Sir  William  Rae  was  received. 
It  was  a  tribute,  paid  partly,  no 
doubt,  to  the  man  for  his  unobtrusive 
worth,  but  it  was  still  more  a  homage 
to  the  principle  which  had  guided 
his  conduct  in  office, — that  of  pre- 
serving inviolable  "  the  majesty  of 
the  law."  Well  might  the  chairman 
remark,  that  were  he  called  upon  to 
give  advice  to  the  present  Lord  Advo- 
cate, as  to  the  line  of  policy  he  ought 
to  pursue,  he  could  give  him  none  so 
judicious,  as  that  of  imitating  in  his 
public  conduct,  in  all  points,  the  im- 
partiality and  the  firmness  of  Sir 
W  illiam  Rae.  The  company  felt  the 
truth  of  the  observation ;  they  con- 
trasted the  temperate  yet  determined 
assertion  of  the  authority  of  the 
Crown,  and  of  the  supremacy  of  the 
laws  during  the  official  career  of  the 
late  Lord  Advocate,  with  the  license 
gr/en  to  seditious  speeches  and  sedi- 
tious acts  during  the  present;  the  pro- 
tection so  impartially  afforded  to  per- 
sons and  property  under  the  one,  with 
the  insults  and  personal  outrages  to 
which  all  who  presume  to  differ  from 
the  majority,  are  tamely  and  passively 
allowed  to  be  subjected  under  the 
other;  and  they  felt  that  the  gift  of  a 
light  and  sparkling  eloquence, and  the 
ingenuity  of  the  critic  or  the  advocate, 
wore  but  a  rjoor  compensation  for 
th'i  absence  of  the  more  homely  but 
more  solid  qualities  of  his  prede- 
cessor. 

[t  is  impossible  for  us  to  touch  on 
all  the  numerous  topics  adverted  to 
by  the  speakers. 

The  Chairman,  Sir  Francis  Walker 
Drummond,  after  the  usual  loyal 
toasts,  proposed,  in  a  speech  distin- 
guished alike  by  good  taste  and  ad- 
mirable feeling,  the  health  of  their 
distinguished  guest,  on  whose  high 
character,  ability,  and  independence, 
he  pronounced  a  eulogium,  the  jus- 
tice of  which  was  acknowledged  by 
th(i  prolonged  cheers  of  the  assem- 
bled multitude. 


Mr  Blair,  whose  rising  to  acknow- 
ledge the  compliment  renewed  these 
enthusiastic  tokens  of  approbation^ 
stated,  with  a  modest  self-reliance, 
the  grounds  on  which  he  had  soli- 
cited the  honour  of  being  the  repre- 
sentative of  Edinburgh.  "  I  will  not, 
I  trust,  be  accused  of  comparing 
myself  with  the  brilliancy  of  talent, 
or  literary  attainment,  which  one  of 
my  late  opponents  possesses,  or  with 
the  Parliamentary  experience  of  the 
other ;  but  while  I  disclaim  all  com- 
petition with  these  gentlemen  in 
these  qualities,  I  hope  I  shall  not  be 
arrogating  too  much  to  myself  if  I 
say,  that,  in  one  thing,  I  shall  hold 
myself  their  superior — I  mean  in 
perfect  independence — (loud  cheers) 
—being  unfettered  by  any  feeling  or 
past  obligation,  or  any  view  of  future 
advantage,  in  conscientiously  dis- 
charging my' duty  to  my  country. 
For  the  present,  I  trust,  we  are  far 
from  being  conquered.  We  can  dis- 
cover who  are  the  truest  friends  of 
the  people;  those  who  would  mis- 
lead them  by  wild  theories  of  govern- 
ment— theories  inconsistent  with  hu- 
man nature — or  those  who  would 
guide  them  by  judgment,  study,  and 
sound  observation.  I  have  been  stig- 
matised by  my  opponents  as  the 
Champion  of  Anti-Reform.  If  by 
that  term  is  meant  an  Anti-Revolu- 
tionist, an  opposer  of  what  threat- 
ens to  bear  down  the  bulwarks  of 
the  constitution,  and  to  sweep  before 
it  every  thing  great,  good,  and  glo- 
rious in  the  land,  and  which  has  dis- 
tinguished this  nation  above  every 
other,  and  raised  her  to  a  pitch  of 
prosperity  almost  unexampled;  if 
such  be  the  import  of  the  title,  I 
glory  in  it,  and  conceive  it  one  far 
nobler  than  Kings  can  bestow. — 
(Cheers.)  But  if  by  that  title  is 
meant  that  I  am  the  opposer  of  any 
improvement  in  our  constitution,  if 
I  am  charged  with  any  want  of  kind- 
ness or  feeling  of  benevolence  to- 
wards all  classes  of  my  fellow-coun- 
trymen, I  repel  the  epithet  with  in- 
dignation and  contempt." 

Mr  P.  Robertson's  able  address  in 
proposing  "  The  Legitimate  Influence 
of  Property  and  Intelligence  in  the 
Choice  of  a  Representative,"  was 
directed  to  an  analysis  of  the  work- 
ing of  the  Bill,  in  reference  to  the  al- 
leged defects  which  it  professed  to 
cure.  He  shewed  that,  under  the 


VOT._    YVVTTT 


272 


The  late  Conservative  Dinner  in  Edinburgh. 


[Feb. 


Reform  Bill,  twenty-nine  of  the  mem- 
bers returned  for  Scotland  are  the 
same  as  those  returned  under  the 
abused  old  system,  "  when  there  was 
no  sympathy  and  little  connexion  be- 
tween the  representatives  and  the 
people;"  that  under  the  Bill,  which 
was  intended  to  cure  the  fatal  pro- 
pensity on  the  part  of  Scotch  mem- 
bers to  swell  the  Ministerial  ranks, 
more  members  in  the  interest  of  Mi- 
nisters had  been  returned  than  be- 
fore ;  that,  instead  of  returning  mem- 
bers more  closely  connected  with  the 
great  landed  or  commercial  interests 
of  the  country,  many  of  the  represen- 
tati  ves  returned  had  not  a  rood  of  land 
in  any  county  whatever,  while  the 
care  of  the  mercantile  districts  and 
burghs  was  generally  committed  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  lawyers.  With 
scarcely  a  single  exception,  the  mem- 
bers returned,  instead  of  being  likely 
to  become  "  Parliamentary  heroes" — 
a  strange  want,  it  seems,  which  was 
felt  under  the  old  system — were  per- 
sons whose  very  pretensions  to  the 
title  were  calculated  to  excite  inex- 
tinguishable laughter.  He  contrasted 
the  exclusion  of  Sir  George  Mur- 
ray with  the  admission  of  Mr  Kin- 
loch,  "  a  restored  patriot,"  whom  the 
lenity  of  the  government  he  now  vi- 
lifies restored  to  that  country  from 
which  he  had  been  expelled  for  se- 
dition j  the  rejection  of  Sir  George 
Clerk,  to  make  way  for  that  "  young 
aspirant  for  fame,"  Sir  John  Dal- 
rymple ;  and  concluded  with  a  spi- 
rit-stirring appeal  to  the  principles 
by  which  the  Conservative  party 
should  be  guided,  and  the  extent  of 
that  moral  force  by  which  it  was  and 
would  continue  to  be  supported. 

The  statesman-like  address  of  Sir 
George  Clerk  in  proposing  "  The 
Health  of  the  Conservative  Citizens 
of  Edinburgh," — which  was  acknow- 
ledged by  Mr  Trotter  of  Ballendean, 
with  his  usual  brevity  and  good 
taste, — was  listened  to  with  deep  at- 
tention. He  reviewed  the  conduct 
of  the  Conservative  party  in  Parlia- 
ment, in  the  discussions  on  the  Re- 
form Bill,  and  pointed  out,  with 
singular  clearness  and  force,  the  ir- 
resistible objections  to  it,  which  had 
justified  their  opposition;  and  the 
impossibility  of  resisting,  upon  simi- 
lar grounds,  a  demand  for  a  farther, 
an  indefinite  extension  of  popular 
suffrage.  But  the  speech  to  which 


we  would  peculiarly  wish  to  direct 
the  attention  of  our  readers,  was 
the  masterly  address  of  Mr  Duncan 
M'Neill,  in  proposing  as  a  toast 
"The  permanency  of  the  Established 
Church ;" — a  speech  conspicuous  for 
every  one  of  the  highest  qualities  of 
eloquence,  and  which  we  feel  it 
would  be  equal  injustice  to  the  speak- 
er and  to  our  readers  to  abridge. 

"  Till  lately  I  did  not  believe  that 
I  should  see  the  day  when,  at  a  meet- 
ing of  such  persons  as  are  here  as- 
sembled, there  should  exist  in  any 
breast  a  feeling  of  serious  anxiety 
for  the  permanency  of  the  Establish- 
ed Church.  I  had  considered  it  as 
a  political  axiom,  that  every  system 
of  good  and  stable  governmentshould 
be  connected  with  an  established 
system  of  pure  religion,  and  that  the 
nation  should  enable  its  poorest  sub- 
jects to  partake,  as  freely  as  its  most 
exalted  nobles,  of  that  inestimable 
fountain  which  yields  to  both  of  them 
equal  consolation,  and  reminds  both 
of  them  of  their  common  nature. — 
(Cheers.) — But  those  things  which 
we  were  accustomed  to  regard  as 
political  axioms,  have,  in  the  wisdom 
of  modern  politics,  been  rejected  as 
political  errors,  and  their  very  anti- 
quity has  been  held  a  sufficient  rea- 
son for  rejecting  them. — (Applause.) 
—A  few  short  years  ago  the  perma- 
nency of  the  British  Constitution,  un- 
impaired, was  a  less  doubtful  pre- 
diction than  is  now  the  permanency 
of  the  Established  Church ;  yet  with- 
in these  few  years  what  invasions 
have  been  made  on  the  British  Con. 
stitution  !— (Cheers.)— It  has  with- 
stood the  assault;  though  shattered, 
it  still  exists,  by  the  blessing  of  Pro- 
vidence, rather  than  through  the 
wisdom  of  our  rulers.  (Continued 
cheering.)  But  its  assailants  have  not 
yet  relinquished  their  purpose,  and 
strong  indications  have  been  given 
that  among  the  points  marked  out 
for  early  attack  is  the  Established 
Church.  That  Church  is  closely 
identified  with  the  Monarchy,  and  if 
the  Monarchy  means  to  defend  itself, 
it  mustdefend  the  Church;  (cheers;) 
but  if  the  Monarchy,  aided  by  the 
friends  of  the  Church,  shall  not  be 
strong  enough,  or  wise  enough,  to 
defend  the  Church,  the  enemies  of 
the  Constitution  will  press  their  ad- 
vantage with  the  consciousness  of 
power,  and  the  energy  which  sue- 


1833.]  The  late  Conservative  Dinner  in  Edinburgh.  273 

cess  inspires,  and  the  Monarchy  itself    reflects  lustre  on  us,  and  by  whose 


must  fall  a  prey  to  their  efforts.— 
(Cheers.) — I  cannot  here  enumerate 
all  the  indications  of  hostility  to  the 
Established  Church  which  have  late- 
ly nanifested  themselves,  but  I  may 
mention  some  of  them.  In  the  re- 
cent elections,  we  have  seen  the  avow- 
ed rivals  and  secret  enemies  of  the 
Church  busy  at  work,  almost  without 
exception  on  one  side,  and  that  side 
not  the  Conservative.  Thatunity  of  ac- 
tion could  not  be  the  result  of  chance. 
It  must  have  had  its  origin  in  pur- 
pose and  design — and  when  we  see  it 
directed  towards  the  support  of  men 
who  have  no  win  their  hands  a  power 
obtained  by  unsettling  all  establish- 
ed opinions,  and  exciting  a  feverish 
anxiety  for  change,  the  friends  of  the 
Established  Church  might,  on  that 
ground  alone,  be  excused  for  enter- 
taining some  anxiety  as  to  its  fate — 
(Much  cheering.) — But  the  thing  has, 
in  a  certain  degree,  been  spoken  out. 
It  has  been  publicly  stated,  and  I  have 
not  seen  it  contradicted,  that  pledges 
hav  3  been  demanded  on  the  subject 
of  Church  property,  and  Church  esta- 
blishments,— (cheers,) — and  that,  in 
one  populous  town  which  has  lately 
acquired  the  privilege  of  returning 
a  Member  to  Parliament,  the  cry  of 
'  Burn  the  Bible,'  was  one  of  the 
cries  of  the  unenfranchised  sup- 
porters of  the  popular  and  successful 
cam  idate.  —  (  Continued  cheers.)— 
We  all  know  that  in  the  neighbouring 
kingdom  public  odium  has  been  ex- 
cited and  recklessly  directed  against 
the  venerable  Bench  of  Bishops,  to 
the  endangerment  of  the  personal 
safery  of  some  of  them,  and  that  a 
sweeping  reform  in  the  Church  of 
Eng;and  has  been  openly  talked  of 
by  the  avowed  adherents  of  Govern- 
men ,. — (Loud  cheers.) — I  do  not  pre- 
tend to  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the 
economy  of  the  Church  of  England, 
but  this  I  know,  that  it  can  boast  of 
nam  38  the  most  distinguished  for  ta- 
lent, for  learning,  for  piety,  for  every 
thin^  that  can  give  grace  and  charac- 
ter t )  any  establishment ;— (Cheers) 
— au  d  I  feel  confident  that  the  cul- 
ture cannot  be  bad  which  produces 
such  fruits. — (Continued  cheering.) 
— St  mding  here  an  humble  mem- 
ber (  f  a  poorer — a  less  splendid  es- 
tabli  ihment,  I  regard  the  Church  of 
Engl  md,  not  as  a  rival  of  whom  we 


degradation  we  also  should  be  hum- 
bled, If  the  Church  of  England  falls, 
rest  assured  our  poorer,  and,  politi- 
cally speaking,  weaker  Church,  can- 
not keep  its  ground. — (Cheers.) — I 
regard  the  attacks  which  have  been 
made  on  the  Bishops  as  a  prelude 
to  an  attempt  to  separate  the  Church 
from  the  State ',  and  although  it  is 
possible  that  the  revenues  of  the 
Church  might  be  better  apportioned 
among  its  members,  yet  I  shudder  at 
the  idea  of  a  general  reform  of  the 
Church  of  England,  concocted  and 
commenced  in  the  present  political 
temperament  of  the  country,  and  by 
those  rash  heads  and  rash  hands 
which  have  caused  that  tempera- 
ment, and  have  already  evinced 
too  great  a  disposition  to  pander  to 
the  false  appetite  of  an  intoxicated 
and  insatiable  mob.  —  (Continued 
cheering.) — I  confess,  however,  that 
what  appears  to  me  to  be  by  far  the 
most  ominous  symptom  of  the  times, 
is  the  success, the  fatal  success,  which 
has  attended  the  efforts  that  have 
for  some  time  been  systematically 
made  to  unsettle  the  previously  fixed 
opinions  of  men,  to  alienate  their  af- 
fections from  the  established  order 
of  things — to  destroy  their  attach- 
ment to  all  existing  institutions,  and 
to  lead  them  to  believe  that  whatever 
does  not  partake  of  the  new  system 
is  a  remnant  of  corruption  and  im- 
purity, and  that  whoever  does  not 
join  in  the  hue  and  cry  for  change  is 
an  enemy  to  the  interests  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  should  be  dealt  with  as 
such. — (Much  cheering.) — So  sue- 
cessfully  has  this  system  been  pur- 
sued that  I  can  scarcely  call  to  mind 
one  circumstance  or  one  name  of 
which  England  should  be  proud,  that 
has  not  been  so  reviled  and  abused, 
as  to  make  every  Briton  of  right  feel- 
ing blush  for  his  countrymen.— 
(Cheers.)— The  British  Constitution 
itself,  admired  byphilosophers,  laud- 
ed by  historians,  envied  by  the  world, 
is  treated  as  a  rotten  wreck  fit  only 
to  be  hewn  down  for  fagots. — (Con- 
tinued cheering.)  —  Statesmen  and 
princes  whose  names  are  interwoven 
with  the  brightest  passages  in  British 
story,  are  called  to  recollection,  not 
to  do  honour  to  their  virtuous  deeds, 
but  to  cover  their  ashes  with  cold  and 
malignant  calumny,  and  to  associate 


should  be  jealous,  but  as  a  sister  of     with  their  memories  every  thing  that 

" 


The  late  Conservative  Dinner  in  Edinburgh. 


[Feb. 


— The  preserver  of  his  country's  free- 
dom—he whose  name  stands  highest 
among  all  the  living  sons  of  men — 
he  whom  any  nation  on  earth  would 
be  proud  to  call  her  own,  and  who 
has  won  for  himself  a  larger  claim  to 
British  gratitude  than  Britain  ever 
can  compensate — even  he  has  been 
reviled,  insulted,  threatened — (Much 
cheering.) — On  the  other  hand,  the 
names  of  men  whose  guilty  lives 
were  justly  forfeited  to  the  offended 
laws  of  their  country,  have  been 
drawn  forth  from  that  oblivion  in 
which  charity  had  shrouded  their  ig- 
nominious end,  and  they  are  now 
held  up  as  fit  objects  for  the  admira- 
tion, and,  I  presume,  the  imitation  of 
the  people.  —  (Cheers.)  —  Even  in 
smaller  matters,  we  see  the  current  of 
popular  opinion  turned  from  the 
natural  course,  and  running  in  a  false 
direction.  We  see  the  exiled  outlaw 
— (loud  cheers)  —  restored  only  by 
the  grace  of  his  Sovereign,  making 
his  exile  a  boast,  and  the  cause  of  it 
a  passport  to  the  favour  and  the  con- 
fidence of  the  people. — (Continued 
cheering.) — We  see  the  unenfranchi- 
sed mob  dictate  to  the  electors  how 
they  are  to  bestow  their  suffrages.  We 
see  the  beardless  apprentices  dictate 
to  their  masters  when  they  are  to 
close  their  warehouses.  We  see  the 
unwilling  debtor  dictate  to  his  credi- 
tor what  measures  he  is  to  adopt,  or 
whether  he  is  to  adopt  any  measures, 
to  recover  payment  of  his  just  debt. 
— (Much cheering.) — One  step  more, 
and  we  shall  see  the  public  delin- 
quent dictate  to  the  public  prosecu- 
tor whether  he  is  to  be  brought  to 
trial. — (Cheers.) — In  all  these  things 
I  see  a  total  unhingement  of  fixed 
opinions — an  aversion  to  the  exist- 
ing order  of  things,  merely  because 
it  is  so — and  a  senseless  desire  for 
movement  and  change.  Looking  to 
the  indications  I  have  mentioned,  I 
cannot  venture  to  hope  that  the 
tide  will  not  also  be  turned  against 
the  Established  Church, — (cheers) 
— with  what  success  will  depend  on 
the  firmness  of  the  friends  of  the 
Church,  and  the  firmness  of  our  ru- 
lers. In  the  former  I  have  implicit 
confidence;  in  the  latter  I  have  not 
yet  learned  to  repose  the  same  confi- 
dence.— (Cheers  and  laughter.)— If, 
indeed,  my  confidence  in  them  was 
to  be  at  all  measured  by  their  confi- 
dence in  themselves,  it  would  be 
ample  in  the  extreme,— (Reiterated 


cheers  and  laughter.) — Their  confi- 
dence in  their  own  power  and  abi- 
lity seems  to  be  such  that  nothing  is 
too  difficult  for  them.  One  of  their 
greatest  errors  has  been  their  over- 
weening confidence  in  themselves, 
blinding  them  to  difficulties  and 
to  consequences.  They  seem  al- 
most to  think  themselves  omnipo- 
tent. There  is  nothing  in  the  his- 
tory of  heathen  or  barbarous  times 
more  absurd  than  the  miscalculating 
conceit  of  the  politicians  of  the  pre- 
sent day.  —  (Cheers.)  —  WThen  the 
heathen  conqueror,  exposed  to  the 
flattery  of  an  admiring  and  devoted 
people,  who  had  already  ranked 
him  with  the  gods,  commanded  his 
attendant  to  give  him  daily  remem- 
brance of  his  mortality,  he  acted  in 
the  spirit  of  philosophy,  conscious 
of  the  infirmities  of  mankind,  and  of 
their  proneness  to  forget  them. 
When  the  English  Monarch,  in  an 
age  comparatively  barbarous,  placed 
his  chair  on  the  sea-shore,  and  for- 
bade the  advance  of  the  ocean 
wave,  he  too  acted  in  the  spirit  of 
genuine  philosophy,  reproving  a  na- 
tion's flattery,  and  marking  his  know- 
ledge of  his  own  weakness.  But  in 
our  day  has  sprung  up  a  race  of 
statesmen,  who,  rejecting  the  pre- 
cepts of  philosophy,  and  the  lessons 
of  experience — forgetting  the  weak- 
ness of  human  nature,  and  surren- 
dering themselves  to  the  intoxica- 
tion of  power — vainly  think  that  they 
can  ride  upon  the  whirlwind  and 
direct  the  storm— (cheers) — that  be- 
cause they  can  raise  the  blast  of  po- 
pular passion,  they  can  direct  it  to 
a  proper  end,  and  allay  it  at  their 
pleasure — that  because  they  can 
destroy,  therefore  they  can  recon- 
struct and  restore.  This  is  indeed 
the  acme  of  human  presumption. — 
(Cheers.) — The  merest  child  may 
apply  the  torch,  but  who  shall  stay 
the  conflagration  ?  The  feeblest 
arm  may  destroy  the  functions  of  life 
in  the  noblest  and  most  vigorous 
of  God's  created  beings,  but  who 
shall  reanimate  the  frame? — (Con- 
tinued cheers.) — Let  them  think  of 
this  ere  it  is  too  late.  Let  them 
awaken  from  that  delusive  dream 
in  which  they  have  been  indulging. 
Let  them  set  themselves  to  work 
to  preserve  that  which  still  re- 
mains. Let  them  try  in  earnest  to 
check  that  torrent  of  destructive- 
ness  which  is  at  present  directed 


1883.]  The  late  Conservative 

with  fearful  force  against  all  that  is 
venerable— all  that  is  valuable  in 
the  establishments  of  the  land. — 
(Cheers.)— Let  them  do  these  things, 
not  from  mere  selfish  lust  of  power, 
and  as  expedients  for  maintaining 
themselves  in  place— (Cheers)— but 
Jn  the  pure  spirit  of  sincere  and  ge- 
nuine patriotism,  and  in  such  efforts 
they  will  have  the  support  of  all 
good  men,  and  I  do  not  despair  that 
the  Established  Church,  and  what- 
ever yet  remains  of  our  once-boast- 
ed institutions,  may  still  be  saved. 
—  (Much  cheering.)— I  beg  to  pro- 
pose as  a  toast — *  The  Permanency 
of  the  Established  Church.'  " 

These  are  the  dictates  of  sound 
philosophy  arrayed  in  the  garb  of 
impressive  eloquence.  How  truly, 
how  forcibly  is  the  developement  of 
that  principle  traced,  which  lies  at 
th(5  bottom  of  all  this  restless  anxie- 
ty for  change — the  consciousness  of 
power  working  upon  ignorance — 
and  which  shews  itself  alike  in  the 
conduct  of  the  apprentice  who  dic- 
tates to  his  master  when  he  is  to 
close  his  shop,  or  the  Westminster 
tailor  who  dictates  to  the  Premier 
when  he  is  to  open  the  Session ! 

Here  we  must  close  our  notice  of 
the  proceedings  of  this  remarkable 
meeting,  deeply  regretting  that  we 
cannot  make  room  for  any  observa- 
tions on  the  energetic  speech  of  Mr 
Dundas  of  Arniston,  in  proposing 
the  health  of  Sir  George  Clerk ;  the 
very  effective  and  striking  address  of 
the  gallant  companion  in  arms  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  Sir  John  Os- 
wald ;  or  the  speech  of  Sir  William 
Rae,inacknowledginghis  own  health, 
and  proposing  the  memory  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott;  a  speech  distinguished 
by  many  of  the  best  characteristics 
of  eloquence,  strong  emotion,  a  spirit 
of  the  most  firm  and  manly  sincerity, 
and  the  greatest  tact  in  handling  a 
topic  on  which  the  commonplaces  of 
oratory  would  have  been  so  out  of 
place.  The  single  recollection  to 
which  he  alluded— his  parting  inter- 
view with  the  great  man  now  taken 
from  this  scene  of  contest  and  trouble 
— was  more  effectual  to  call  up  the 
solemn  and  hallowed  recollections 
associated  with  the  name  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  than  the  most  elaborate 
eulogy  he  could  have  pronounced. 

A  word  only  before  concluding. 

The  first  Session  of  the  experi- 
mental Parliament,  big  with  the  fate 


Dinner  in  Edinburgh.  275 

of  England,  is  about  to  commence. 
We  regard  its  proceedings  with 
something  of  the  pavenlosa  speme  of 
Petrarch,  a  mixture  of  apprehension 
and  of  hope.  Some  indications  are 
already  appearing  that,  on  the  minds 
of  the  more  influential  and  honest  of 
the  Ministry,  the  necessity  of  now 
taking  their  stand  against  the  torrent 
of  innovation  is  beginning  to  dawn ; 
that  the  insults  and  menaces  to  which 
they  themselves  have  been  subject- 
ed the  instant  they  ventured  to  hint 
at  arresting  the  progress  of  the  move- 
ment, are  beginning  to  produce  that 
conviction  which  the  reasonings  of 
the  Conservative  partv,  and  the  ex- 
ample of  other  countries,  had  failed 
to  effect.  We  speak  not  of  the  Noble 
Lord,  the  nominal  head  of  the  Govern- 
ment, in  whom  age  seems  to  have 
deadened  every  quality  save  obsti- 
nacy, and  to  whom  the  voices  of 
the  past  and  present  seem  to  speak 
in  vain.  We  do  not  allude  to  the 
cyphers  of  the  Ministry,  the  Dur- 
hams  and  Thomsons,  deriving  their 
sole  importance  from  the  units  with 
which  they  are  associated.  But  we 
turn  to  such  names  as  those  of 
Brougham,  Althorpe,  Stanley,  Rich- 
mond j  we  ask  ourselves,  can  the 
far-seeing  and  comprehensive  mind 
of  the  Chancellor  have  read  the  old 
almanack  of  history  to  so  little  pur- 
pose as  not  to  see,  that  never  yet  did 
a  nation  escape  revolution  by  the 
course  which  Britain  is  now  pur- 
suing? We  ask  ourselves  if  the 
right-minded  Lord  Althorpe,  a  man 
too  honest  for  the  tortuous  policy 
in  which  he  has  been  involved,  can 
look  with  indifference  on  the  ruin 
with  which  so  much  that  he  at  least 
must  consider  venerable  and  valu- 
able is  threatened ;  if  the  high-mind- 
ed Richmonds  and  Stanleys  can  re- 
concile themselves  to  the  arrogant 
dictation  of  those  with  whom  they 
are  brought  into  contact,  or  to  a  con- 
tinuance of  that  system  of  cowardly 
concession,  which  never  yet  in  the 
annals  of  popular  movements  produ- 
ced any  thing  else  but  increased  au- 
dacity of  demand  ?  We  cannot  per- 
suade ourselves  that  such  can  be  the 
case.  The  stream,  shaken  from  its 
bed  by  a  momentary  convulsion,  and 
polluted  by  the  intermixture  of 
fouler  waters,  must  soon  begin  to 
struggle  back  towards  its  ancient  and 
natural  channel ;  men  of  principle 
and  intelligence,  of  energy  and  ho- 


The  late  Conservative  Dinner  in  Edinburgh. 


276 

nour,  must  at  no  distant  period  per- 
ceive the  necessity  of  reverting  to 
those  Conservative  principles,  which, 
in  an  evil  hour  for  themselves  and 
their  country,  they  abandoned. 

The  Conservative  party  are  en- 
titled to  demand  it  of  them,  not  as  a 
matter  of  expediency,  but  of  right. 
If  Ministers  were  pledged  to  one 
party  to  introduce  Reform,  they  were 
not  less  deeply  and  solemnly  pledged 
to  the  other,  that  that  Reform  should 
be  a  final  measure — not  the  herald 
of  farther  change,  but  the  means  of 
satisfying  the  mass  of  the  people 
that  change  was  unnecessary  and 
undesirable.  They  have  kept  their 
faith  to  the  Reformers— shall  it  be 
broken  to  us  and  to  the  country? 
They  have  abandoned  the  outworks 
of  the  Constitution,  as  indefensible 
— shall  they  how  as  tamely  yield  up 
the  citadel'? 

One  bugbear,  which  seems  to  alarm 
them,  we  are  sure  is  an  imaginary 
one.  They  have  nothing  to  fear  ia  the 
new  Parliament  from  any  combina- 
tion between  the  Conservative  and 
the  Radical  party,  to  deprive  them  of 
their  possession  of  plac6  01*  power. 
These  are  not  the  days  when  any 
Conservative  need  envy  them  their 
thorny  seats,  or  their  uneasy  splen- 
dour. He  would  indeed  be-in  love 
with  danger,  who  would  wish  at  this 
moment  to  snatch  the  reins  of  go- 
vernment from  the  hands  of  the  pre- 
sent holders,  when  he  sees  that  the 
only  path  they  have  left  to  him  runs 
along  the  brink  of  a  precipice.  No  ! 
The  Conservatives  will  act  in  Par- 
liament as  they  have  acted  out  of  it, 
—they  will  pursue  the  only  object 
they  have  in  view,  the  good  of  their 
country,  turning  neither  to  the  right 
hand  nor  the  left, — mingling  with  no 
party,  but  moving  onward  in  their 
own  straightforward  course,  like  that 
Sicilian  river  which  carries  its  waters 
fresh  and  limpid  even  across  the 
salt  and  bitter  currents  of  the  sea. 

Posterity  will  never  acquit  Mini- 
sters of  the  deep  guilt  of  having  ha- 
zarded the  safety  of  the  country; 
but  next  to  the  merit  of  not  having 
erred,  would  be  the  candid  and 
timely  confession  of  error.  Let  them 


[Feb. 


take  their  stand  then  ere  it  be  too 
late, — while  yet  some  of  the  bul- 
warks of  our  Constitution  stand  un- 
shaken,thoughnotunassailed — while 
yet  our  Monarch  wears  something 
more  than  "  the  likeness  of  a  kingly 
crown," — while  our  hereditary  Peer- 
age is  left  to  us,  though  shorn  of  its 
beams, — while  a  national  Church  is 
left  to  us  to  elevate  our  morality, 
and  to  lay  the  foundation  for  the  du- 
ties of  the  citizen  in  those  of  the 
Christian,  and  while  our  impartial 
and  independent  tribunals  are  left  to 
us,  independent  alike  of  popular  vio- 
lence or  regal  influence,  to  make  the 
majesty  of  the  law  felt  and  respect- 
ed, and  to  give  security  to  the  per- 
sons and  properties  of  all. 

If,  reflecting  upon  these  things, 
our  Ministers  even  now,  at  this  ele- 
venth hour,  revert  to  the  principles 
from  which  they  have  swerved  too 
long,  and  evince  the  same  firmness 
in  maintaining  what  remains  of  our 
Constitution,  as  they  shewed  rash- 
ness in  assailing  that  venerable  edi* 
fice,  the  prospects  of  England  need 
not  yet  be  despaired  of.  But  if,  in- 
sensible to  all  the  warnings  which 
are  heard  around  them,  they  con- 
tinue  to  pursue  in  the  new  Parlia- 
ment the  course  which  they  began  in 
the  old ;  if  one  solitary  concession  be 
made  to  clamour  instead  of  convic- 
tion ;  if  one  jot  or  tittle  of  the  pro- 
perty of  the  Church  be  diverted  from 
its  sacred  destination;  if  even  the 
task  of  distribution  be  attempted  by 
an  unthinking  head  or  an  ungentle 
hand ;  if  the  interests  of  our  colonies 
are  to  be  abandoned  to  wild  and 
reckless  legislation ;  if  the  securities 
of  our  agriculturists  are  to  be  sacri- 
ficed to  the  interested  complaints  of 
the  manufacturing  classes,  or  the 
dreams  of  political  theorists,  then,  as- 
suredly, the  glory  of  England  is  gone 
for  ever.  Then,  indeed,  above  the 
entrance  to  the  Chapel  of  St  Ste- 
phen's, that  hall  which  was  once  the 
fountain  of  wise  legislature,  the  focus 
and  rallying  point  of  British  wisdom 
and  worth,  may  be  written  up  the 
gloomy  inscription  over  the  portal  of 
the  Inferno — 
"  Lasciate  ogni  speranza  voi  ch'  intrate." 


Printed  by  Sallantyne  and  Company,  Paul's  Work,  Edinburgh, 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCV. 


MARCH,   1833. 


VOL.  XXXIif, 


EDMUND    BURKE. 


PART  I. 


THE  people  of  England  are  attach- 
ed to  liberty.  They  are  made  for  it. 
Tjiey  have  by  nature  a  gravity  of 
mind  which  tends  to  save  them  from 
political  rashness.  They  have  a  man- 
liness which  repels  dishonourable 
submission  to  force.  Thus,  superior 
by  their  original  temperament,  alike 
to  the  extravagances  of  democracy, 
and  to  the  oppressions  of  despotism, 
th?y  alone,  ot  all  European  nations, 
have  been  qualified  to  build  up  that 
last  and  noblest  labour  of  utility  and 
virtue,  a  free  Constitution. 

Yet  while  nations  are  composed 
of  men,  they  must  be  liable  to  error. 
The  vast  and  fluctuating- varieties  of 
human  opinion  must  exhibit  those 
currents  and  changes  which  defy  or 
as  onish  the  wisdom  of  the  wise. 
New  and  untried  hazards  must  per- 
plox  their  political  fortitude,  strong 
temptations  to  hasty  aggrandizement, 
or  rash  terrors  of  public  loss,  must 
ov  irbalance  the  practical  knowledge 
of  the  state  j  and  England,  with  all 
he  :*  experience,  vigour,  and  virtue, 
must  take  her  share  in  those  contin- 
gencies which  compel  nations  to  re- 
vert to  first  principles,  and  refresh 
thrir  declining  years  by  draughts 
from  the  original  fountains  of  their 
fane.  It  is  for  such  purposes  that 
th(  lover  of  his  country  should  value 
history.  For  he  sees  in  it  not  a  mere 
mi  seum  of  the  eccentricities  and 
ad  entures  of  nations,  it  offers  more 
thin  an  indulgence  to  mere  curi- 
osity. It  opens  the  door  of  that 
gnat  repository  of  the  faults  and 
fra  Hies,  of  the  greatness  and  power, 

VOL,  XXXIIJ.     NO.  CCV. 


of  ages  which  have  now  gone  down 
to  the  grave,  not  to  gaze  on  them  as 
curious  specimens  of  the  past,  but  as 
opulent  and  true  instructors  of  the 
present.  He  sees  in  their  configura- 
tion the  secrets  of  the  living  frame, 
the  sources  of  actual  public  strength, 
the  organs  of  national  renown,  the 
muscular  energy,  the  fine  impulses 
which  give  activity  and  force  to  the 
whole  animated  system.  But  the 
most  effectual  portion  of  history  is 
that  which  gives  down  great  men  to 
the  future  ;  for  it  furnishes  the  mind 
of  the  rising  generation  with  a  model 
on  which  it  can  shape  itself  at  once. 
The  embodied  virtue  of  the  cham- 
pion of  truth  and  freedom  stands 
before  it ;  the  progress  of  genius  and 
learning,  of  generous  ambition  and 
faithful  principle,  is  displayed  to  the 
eye  in  all  its  successions.  There  is 
nothing  ideal,  nothing  to  be  made  up 
by  fancy,  or  left  to  chance.  The 
standard  of  excellence  is  palpable  to 
the  touch;  and  men  can  scarcely 
look  upon  this  illustrious  evidence 
of  human  capabilities  without  uncon- 
sciously emulating  its  labours  or  sha- 
ring its  superiority. 

In  giving  a  rapid  view  of  the  life 
of  the  celebrated  Burke,  we  are  less 
anxious  to  render  the  due  tribute  to 
his  ability  than  to  his  principles. 
His  genius  has  long  gained  for  itself 
the  highest  prize  of  fame.  In  an 
age  eminent  for  intellectual  distinc- 
tion, Burke  vindicated  to  himself 
the  admiration  of  Europe.  Owing 
nothing  of  his  elevation  to  birth, 
opulence,  or  official  rank,  he  requir- 
T 


Edmund  Burke. 


[March, 


ed  none  of  those  adventitious  sup- 
ports to  rise  and  move  at  ease,  and 
with  instinctive  power,  in  the  highest 
regions  of  puhlic  effort,  dignity,  and 
renown ;  the  atmosphere  of  courts 
and  senates  was  native  to  his  ma- 
jesty of  wing.  There  was  no  fear 
that  his  plumage  would  give  way  in 
either  the  storm  or  the  sunshine  ; 
those  are  the  casualties  of  inferior 
powers.  He  had  his  share  of  both, 
the  tempest,  and  that  still  more  peril- 
ous trial,  which  has  melted  down  the 
virtue  of  go  many  aspiring  spirits  in 
the  favour  of  cabinets.  But  Burke 
grew  purer  and  more  powerful  for 
good ;  to  his  latest  moment,  he  con- 
stantly rose  more  and  more  above 
the  influence  of  party,  until  at  last 
the  politician  was  elevated  into  the 
philosopher;  and  fixing  himself  In 
that  loftier  region,  from  which  he 
looked  down  on  the  cloudy  and  tur- 
bulent contests  of  the  time,  he  soar- 
ed upward  calmly  in  the  light  of 
truth,  and  became  more  splendid  at 
every  wave  of  his  wing. 

This  is  no  exaggeration  of  his  siu- 
gular  ability,  or  of  its  course.  Of 
all  the  memorable  men  of  his  day, 
Burke  is  the  only  orator,  whose  elo- 
quence has  been  incorporated  into 
the  wisdom  of  his  country.  His 
great  contemporaries  grappled  tri- 
umphantly with  the  emergencies  of 
the  hour,  and  having  achieved  the 
exploit  of  the  hour,  were  content 
with  what  they  had  done.  But  it  is 
palpable  that  Burke  in  every  instance 
contemplated  a  larger  victory ;  that 
his  struggle  was  not  more  to  meet  a 
contingency,  than  to  establish  a  prin- 
ciple ;  that  he  was  not  content  with 
overwhelming  the  adversary  of  the 
moment,  but  must  bequeath  with 
that  triumph  some  new  knowledge 
of  the  means  by  which  the  adversary 
might  be  overwhelmed  in  every  age 
to  come  ;  some  noble  contribution  to 
that  grand  tactic  by  which  men  and 
nations  are  armed  and  marshalled 
against  all  difficulty.  The  labours  of 
his  contemporaries  were  admirable; 
the  mere  muscular  force  of  the  hu- 
man mind  never  exhibited  more  pro- 
digious feats,  than  in  the  political 
contests  of  the  days  of  Chatham,  Hol- 
land, Pitt  and  Fox.  The  whole  period 
from  the  fall  of  the  Walpole  Minis- 
try to  the  death  of  Pitt,  was  an  unre- 
laxing  struggle  of  the  most  practised, 
expert,  and  vivid  ability.  But  it  was 


the  struggle  of  the  arena — a  great 
rivalry  for  the  prize  of  the  people — 
the  fierce  and  temporary  effort  of 
great  intellectual  gladiators.  Where 
they  were  exhausted  or  perished, 
others  followed,  if  with  inferior 
powers,  with  close  imitation.  But 
no  man  has  followed  Burke.  No  de- 
fender of  the  truth  has  exhibited  that 
fine  combination  of  practical  vigour 
with  abstract  and  essential  wisdom, 
that  mastery  of  human  topics  and 
means  with  that  diviner  energy  which 
overthrew  not  merely  the  revolu- 
tionary spirit  of  his  day,  but  enables 
us  to  maintain  the  conflict  against  all 
its  efforts  to  come ;  like  the  conqueror 
of  the  Python,  leaving  his  own  image 
to  all  time,  an  emblem  of  equally  un- 
rivable  strength  and  grandeur,  a 
model  of  all  nobleness  in  form  and 
mind. 

Edmund  Burke,  like  most  of  those 
men  who  have  made  themselves  me- 
morable by  their  public  services,  was 
of  humble  extraction ;  the  son  of  an 
Irish  attorney.  Yet  as  Ireland  is  the 
land  of  genealogies,  and  every  man 
who  cares  for  the  honours  of  an- 
cestry may  indulge  himself  at  large 
among  the  wide  obscurity  of  the 
Irish  lineages,  Burke' s  biographers 
have  gratified  their  zeal  by  searching 
for  the  fountains  of  his  blood  among 
the  De  Burghs  or  Burgos,  whose 
names  are  found  in  the  list  of  Strong- 
bows,  knights  in  the  invasion  under 
Henry  the  Second.  Edmund  Burke 
justly  seems  to  have  thought  little 
upon  the  subject,  and  contenting 
himself  with  being  the  son  of  Adam, 
prepared  to  lay  the  foundations  of  a 
fame  independent  of  the  Norman. 
He  was  born  in  Dublin,  January  1, 
1730,  old  style  ;  of  a  delicate  consti- 
tution, which  in  his  boyhood  he  ren- 
dered still  more  delicate  by  a  love 
for  reading.  As  he  was  threatened 
with  consumption,  he  was  removed 
at  an  early  age  from  the  thick  air  of 
the  capital  to  the  house  of  his  grand- 
father at  Castletown  Roche,  a  vil- 
lage in  the  county  of  Cork,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  old  castle  of 
Kilcolman,  once  the  residence  of  the 
poet  Spenser,  and  seated  in  the 
centre  of  a  district  remarkable  for 
traditional  interest,  and  landscape 
beauty.  Early  associations  often 
have  a  powerful  effect  on  the  mind 
of  genius,  and  it  is  not  improbable 
that  the  rich  and  lovely  scenery  of 


1833.] 


Edmund  Burke. 


279 


this  spot  had  some  share  in  storing 
up  those  treasures  of  brightness  and 
beauty,  that  love  for  solemn  and 
lofty  thoughts,  which  characterised 
In  subsequent  life  the  spirit  of  this 
extraordinary  man. 

From  wandering  among  the  hills 
md  streams  of  this  romantic  coun- 
try, of  which  the  acknowledged  pic- 
ture still  lives  in  the  "  Fairy  Queen," 
~3urke  was  transferred  in  his  twelfth 
year  to  a  school,  kept  by  an  intelli- 
gent Quaker  at  Ballytore,  between 
t  wenty  and  thirty  miles  from  Dub- 
lin. The  opinion  then  formed  of 
him  was  not  unlike  that  which  we 
might  conceive  from  his  later  career, 
lie  was  fond  of  acquiring  great  di- 
versity of  knowledge,  evinced  a  re- 
markable quickness  of  apprehension, 
i.nd  delighted  in  the  display  of  me- 
mory. He  read  many  of  the  old  ro- 
mances of  chivalry,  and  much  history 
end  poetry.  His  habits  were  almost 
sedentary,  but  he  was  gentle,  good- 
matured,  and  willing  to  assist  and 
oblige.  In  a  debate,  in  }  780,  after 
the  riots,  Burke  adverted  to  his  edu- 
cation under  the  roof  of  the  quaker, 
Abraham  Shackleton.  "  I  have  been 
f  ducated,"  said  he,  "as  a  Protestant 
<  f  the  Church  of  England,  by  a  dissen- 
t??',  who  was  an  honour  to  his  sect, 
though  that  sect  was  considered  one 
c  f  the  purest.  Under  his  eye  I  have 
r 3ad  the  Bible,  morning,  noon,  and 
night,  and  have  ever  since  been  the 
happier  and  better  man  for  such 
reading.  I  afterwards  turned  my 
attention  to  the  reading  of  all  the 
theological  publications  on  all  sides, 
vhicb  were  written  with  such  won- 
derful ability  in  the  last  and  present 
canturies.  But  finding  at  length  that 
s  ich  studies  tended  to  confound  and 
bewilder  rather  than  enlighten,  I 
dropped  them,  embracing  and  hold- 
ing fast  a  firm  faith  in  the  Church 
of  England." 

Burke  was  sent  to  the  Dublin  Uni- 
varsity  in  1743.  There  he  acquired  no 
particular  distinction.  In  his  third 
year  he  became  "a  scholar  of  the 
hause,"  an  honour  obtained  with- 
o  it  much  difficulty,  after  an  exami- 
n  ation  in  the  classical  course  of  the 
College;  and  probably  one  of  the 
premiums  at  the  general  examina- 
ti  ans  of  the  students.  On  the  whole, 
h  5  appears  to  have  been  either  indo- 
k  nt,  or  adverse  to  the  course  of read- 
ii  g  pursued  in  the  Irish  University. 
Goldsmith  speaks  of  him  as  an  idler ; 


which  was  probably  true,  in  the 
sense  of  a  taste  for  desultory  read- 
ing. Leland,  then  one  of  the  tutors, 
always  "admitted  that  he  displayed 
ability,  but,  from  his  retired  habits, 
was  unlikely  to  solicit  public  dis- 
tinction. This  also  is  probably  true. 
The  evident  fact,  on  all  authorise?, 
is,  that  while  in  College,  he  was  a  li- 
terary lounger,  satisfied  with  going 
through  the  routine  of  the  required 
exercises,  but  enjoying  himself  only 
over  novels  and  newspapers,  plays 
and  travels,  and  the  general  miscel- 
laneous publications  of  the  day;  a 
style  of  reading  ruinous  to  all  the 
direct  objects  of  University  life,  and 
which  nothing  but  the  painful  exer- 
tions of  many  an  after  year,  even 
with  the  most  powerful  abilities,  can 
retrieve,  but  which  utterly  confuses 
and  dilapidates  inferior  talents,  ha- 
bituates the  mind  to  frivolous  and 
diffuse  expenditures  of  thought  and 
time,  generates  all  the  gossiping  and 
much  of  the  vice  of  society,  and  fills 
the  professions  with  unemployed 
barristers,  unlearned  clergymen,  and 
hobbling  physicians.  Let  no  man 
sanction  his  disregard  of  the  pecu- 
liar line  of  effort  pointed  out  to  him 
by  the  University,  under  the  exam- 
ple of  Burke,  unless  he  can  atone 
for  his  folly  by  the  mind  of  Burke. 
And  let  no  man  look  with  negli- 
gence on  the  prospects  opened  out 
to  manly  and  well-directed  exertion 
in  Universities,  unless  he  is  prepared 
to  begin  life  anew  when  he  has  pass- 
ed without  the  walls  of  those  noble 
institutions ;  turn  that  career  into  a 
lottery,  which  might  have  been  a 
certainty;  and  prepare  himself  to 
encounter  that  long  period  of  anxi- 
ety, toil,  defeated  hope,  and  perhaps 
bitter  despair,  which  must  intervene 
before  he  can  break  through  the  bar- 
riers of  professional  success,  and 
pioneer  his  way  through  the  rugged 
ascents  and  desolate  bleaknesses  that 
lie  before  even  the  most  gifted  and 
gallant  adventurer.  Yet,  in  the  im- 
mediate instance  of  the  Irish  Univer- 
sity, it  is  unfortunate  that  the  mathe- 
matical sciences  form  the  chief  source 
of  distinction  ; — unfortunate  for  the 
double  reason,  that  they  are  not  the 
best  teachers  of  a  national  mind,  and 
that  they  are  most  peculiarly  unpa- 
latable to  the  prominent  tastes  of  the 
Irish  mind.  The  country  of  Berkeley 
cannot  be  suspected  of  wanting  any 
acuteness  that  may  be  requisite  for 


280 


Edmund  Burke. 


[March, 


the  more  exact  sciences ;  but  still 
unquestionably  the  finest  efforts  of 
the  national  faculties  have  taken  a 
different  direction.  Poetry,  elo- 
quence, vigorous  dissertation  in  the 
sciences  ofpolitics,  morals,  theology, 
and  history,  have  been  the  favourite 
triumphs  of  the  Irish  mind.  The  in- 
dications of  natural  power  in  those 
pursuits  ought  to  have  guided  the 
system  of  the  University,  and  to  the 
extent  of  largely  abandoning  the  bar- 
ren toils  of  mathematics ;  a  science 
in  which  not  one  Irishman  out  of  mil- 
lions has  ever  sought  or  obtained 
distinction;  a  science  which,  from 
its  abstractions,  should  make  the 
very  smallest  portion  of  a  national 
course  of  instruction  ;  a  science 
too,  in  which,  from  its  peculiar- 
ity, no  individual  who  is  not  born 
with  an  actual  and  peculiar  adapta- 
tion of  mind  for  its  study,  will  ever 
make  a  productive  progress ;  and  a 
science,  too,  which  in  its  general  use 
is  not  merely  infinitely  below  all 
those  pursuits  which  cultivate  either 
the  head  or  the  heart  for  public  or 
private  life,  but  tending  absolutely 
to  repress  and  repel  the  faculties 
given  for  the  fulfilment  of  our  duties 
to  society.  Of  all  men,  the  man  least 
fitted  for  a  large  and  liberal  view  of 
things,  is  the  mathematician.  Of  all 
men,  the  man  most  incapable  of  be- 
ing reached  by  any  reasoning  which 
does  not  come  in  the  shape  of  his 
science,  is  the  mathematician.  Of 
all  men,  the  most  tardy  proficient 
in  all  the  sciences  which  treat  of 
the  probabilities  of  human  con- 
duct, of  facts  not  directly  before 
the  eye,  and  of  principles  not  disco- 
verable in  curves  and  right  lines,  is 
the  mathematician.  What  nation 
would  choose  the  mere  mathemati- 
cian for  its  guide  in  the  intricacies 
of  politics,  in  the  difficulties  or  the 
doctrines  of  religion,  in  the  emergen- 
cies which  demand  the  perspicuous 
understanding  and  the  animating 
tongue  ?  Yet  politics  and  religion  are 
the  great  concerns  of  the  present 
world  and  the  future.  The  value  of 
the  exact  sciences  is  indisputable. 
But  the  primary  object  of  all  insti- 
tutes for  public  education  should  be 
public  duty.  No  University,  as  such, 
teaches  the  professions;  law  and  phy- 
sic are  left  to  their  peculiar  schools, 
or  are  at  best  but  branches  and  addi- 
tions to  the  general  course.  Let  Ire- 
land reflect,  by  whom  has  her  glory 


been  chiefly  augmented  in  Europe, 
and  while  she  gives  the  tribute  of 
enlightened  and  willing  homage  to 
the  memory  of  her  orators,  poets,  and 
statesmen,  her  Burkes,  Goldsmiths, 
Swifts,  Sheridans,  and  the  long  line 
of  eminent  men  who  have  made  her 
name  synonymous  with  all  that  is 
brilliant,  vivid,  and  vigorous  in  the 
human  mind,  let  her  throw  the  whole 
force  of  her  collegiate  system  into 
the  formation  of  characters  fitted  to 
sustain  their  office,  and  render  their 
services  to  the  empire. 

Some  slight  records  of  Burke's  li- 
terary predilections  at  this  period 
remain.  Shakspeare,  Addison,  Le 
Sage,  Smollett,  and  Fielding,  were 
his  frequent  perusal,  as  they  were 
that  of  every  man  of  his  time.  He 
praised  Demosthenes  as  the  first  of 
orators,  declared  Plutarch  to  be  the 
pleasantest  reading  in  the  whole 
range  of  Memoirs,  preferred  the 
Greek  historians  to  the  Latin,  and 
was  attracted  by  Horace  and  ena- 
moured of  Virgil.  So  far  there  was 
nothing  singular  in  his  tastes.  He 
thought  as  all  the  world  has  thought 
for  these  two  thousand  years.  But 
he  also  preferred  Euripides,  in  all 
his  tameness,  to  the  simple  vigour  of 
Sophocles ;  professed  his  admiration 
of  Lucretius,  desultory  and  didactic 
as  he  is ;  and  even  ventured  to  speak 
of  the  JEneid,  in  all  its  dreary  lan- 
guor, perhaps  the  most  inanimate 
poem  that  ever  diffused  itself  from 
the  pen  of  a  real  poet,  as  superior 
to  the  Iliad,  of  all  the  works  of  poe- 
try, the  most  various,  vigorous,  and 
natural, — the  model  of  living  descrip- 
tion, noble  sentiment,  and  mingled 
strength  and  splendour  of  character. 
On  those  points  he  might  assert  his 
full  claim  to  singularity.  But  those 
were  the  opinions  of  a  boy,  proud 
and  pleased  with  the  first  perception 
of  deciding  for  himself,  the  first  un- 
fettered plunge  into  the  wilderness 
of  criticism.  He  afterwards  grew 
wiser  as  he  grew  calm. 

But,  even  in  his  immature  age,  he 
had  largely  formed  the  taste  for  which 
he  was  subsequently  so  distinguish- 
ed. Milton's  richness  of  language, 
boundless  learning,  and  scriptural 
grandeur  of  conception,  were  the 
first  and  last  themes  of  his  applause. 
Young,  from  whose  epigrammatic 
labour  of  expression,  and  clouded 
though  daring  fancy,  modern  taste 
shrinks,  was  a  favourite  in  Burke's 


1833.] 


Edmund  Burke, 


281 


day,  and  Burke  followed  the  public 
opinion,  and  satisfied  himself  that  he 
was  cultivating  his  mind  by  com- 
mitting a  large  portion  of  the  dreamy 
reveries  of  the  Night  Thoughts  to 
memory.  He  also  wrote  some  trans- 
lations of  the  Latin  poets,  and  some 
original  verses,  which  exhibiting  his 
command  of  rhyme,  exhibit  nothing 
more. 

Burke's  profession  was  naturally 
marked  out  by  that  of  his  father.  In 
[reland,  where  no  man  is  contented 
with  his  own  rank,  the  son  of  a  thri- 
ving  attorney  is  universally  design- 
ad  for  the  bar.  Burke  put  his  name 
on  the  list  of  the  future  dispensers 
of  justice  in  that  country  of  lawyers, 
Ireland.  But,  by  a  custom  of  the 
Irish  bar  at  that  time,  he  also  enter- 
od  himself  of  the  Middle  Temple  in 
London,  a  measure  now  unnecessary 
lor  the  call  to  the  Irish  bar,  but  still 
generally  adopted,  for  its  advantages 
in  acquainting  the  student  with  the 
habits  of  the  English  bar,  and  in  al- 
lowing the  advocate  to  transfer  him- 
self to  English  practice  whenever 
c  ircumstances  should  induce  him  to 
leave  the  Irish  Courts  for  Westmin- 
ster Hall.  Burke  arrived  in  London 
in  1750.  It  is  remarkable  that  he 
1  ad  already,  in  some  degree,  formed 
the  political  views  which  character- 
ised the  most  eminent  and  conclu- 
ding period  of  his  life ;  thus  the  fea- 
tures of  his  mind,  like  the  features 
of  the  body,  returned  only  to  their 
frst  expression,  and  shewed  that 
his  politics  were  his  nature.  While 
but  a  student  in  the  University,  he 
h  ad  been  roused,  by  his  indignation  at 
fictitious  patriotism,  to  write  a  pam- 
phlet against  Brooke,  the  author  of 
that  much  -  praised,  but  infinitely 
childish  romance,  the  Fool  of  Qua- 
lity, who  aspired  to  the  name  of  a 
popular  champion,  on  the  credit  of 
having  composed  an  insolent  and  ab- 
surd tragedy.  His  second  tribute  to 
good  order  was  a  letter  to  Dr  Lucas, 
a  man  who  bustled  himself  into  im- 
portance with  the  mob  of  the  me- 
ti  opolis,  and  after  a  life  of  clamour, 
ft  ction,  and  persevering  folly,  of  the 
demand  of  rights  that  were  worth 
nothing,  and  the  complaint  of  wrongs 
tl  at  existed  only  in  his  own  brain, 
died  in  the  odour  of  rabble  sanctity, 
leaving  his  debts  and  his  family  as 
his  bequest  to  popular  benefaction. 

The  observant  spirit,  and  philoso- 


phical turn  of  his  mind,  are  striking- 
ly evinced  in  a  correspondence 
which  he  held  with  an  Irish  friend. 
He  remarks  on  his  passage  to  the 
metropolis — "  The  prospects  could 
not  fail  to  attract  the  attention  of 
the  most  indifferent;  country  seats 
sprinkled  round  me  on  every  side, 
some  in  the  modern  taste,  some  in 
the  style  of  old  De  Coverley  Hall,  all 
smiling  on  the  neat  but  humble  cot- 
tage. Every  village  as  neat  and  com- 
pact as  a  bee-hive,  resounding  with 
the  busy  hum  of  industry,  and  inns 
like  palaces." 

He  then  sketches  the  metropolis, 
intelligently,  yet  with  the  ambitious 
and  antithetical  touch  of  clever  inex- 
perience— "  The  buildings  are  very 
fine,  it  may  be  called  the  Pink  of  Vice. 
But  its  hospitals  and  charitable  in- 
stitutions, whose  turrets  pierce  the 
skies,  like  so  many  electrical  con- 
ductors, avert  the  wrath  of  Heaven. 
Her  inhabitants  may  be  divided  into 
two  classes,  the  undoers  and  the  un- 
done !  An  Englishman  is  cold  and 
distant  at  first  ;  he  is  cautious  even  in 
forming  an  acquaintance ;  he  must 
know  you  well  before  he  enters  into 
friendship  with  you;  but  if  he  does, 
he  is  not  the  first  to  dissolve  the 
sacred  bond ;  in  short,  a  real  English- 
man is  one  who  performs  more  than 
he  promises;  in  company, he  is  rather 
silent;  extremely  prudent  in  his  ex- 
pressions, even  in  politics,  his  favour- 
ite topic.  The  women  are  not  quite 
so  reserved,  they  consult  their  glasses 
to  the  best  advantage,  and  as  nature 
is  very  liberal  in  her  gifts  to  their 
persons,  and  even  to  their  minds,  it 
is  not  easy  for  a  young  man  to  escape 
their  glances,  or  to  shut  his  ears  to 
their  softly  flowing  accents. 

"  As  to  the  state  of  learning  in  this 
city,  you  know  I  have  not  been  long 
enough  in  it  to  form  a  proper  judg- 
ment of  the  subject.  1  don't  think, 
however,  there  is  as  much  respect 
paid  to  a  man  of  letters  on  this  side 
of  the  water,  as  you  imagine.  I  don't 
find  that  genius,  the  *  rath  primrose, 
that  forsaken  dies,'  is  patronised  by 
any  of  the  nobility.  So  that  writers 
of  the  first  talents  are  left  to  the 
capricious  patronage  of  the  public." 

All  this  is  like  the  letter  of  any 
other  lively  observer.  But  the  pas- 
sage which  follows,  vindicates  itself 
as  the  property  of  Burke.  "  Notwith- 
standing discouragement,  literature 


28-2 


Edmund  Burke. 


[March, 


is  cultivated  in  a  high  degree — Poetry 
raises  her  enchanting  voice  to  Hea- 
ven— History  arrests  the  wings  of  time 
in  his  flight  to  the  gulf  of  oblivion — 
Philosophy,  the  queen  of  arts,  and 
the  daughter  of  Heaven,  is  daily  ex- 
tend in  slier  intellectual  empire — Fan- 
cy sports  on  airy  wing,  like  a  meteor 
on  the  bosom  of  a  summer  cloud — 
and  even  Metaphysics  spins  her  cob- 
webs and  catches  some  flies"  His 
judgment  of  that  great  scene,in  which 
he  was  so  early  and  so  long  to  be  dis- 
tinguished, is  curious.  "  The  House 
of  Commons  not  unfrequently  ex- 
hibits explosions  of  eloquence,  that 
rise  superior  to  those  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  even  in  their  proudest  days. 
Yet,  after  all,  a  man  will  make  more 
by  the  figures  of  arithmetic  than  the 
figures  of  rhetoric,  unless  he  can  get 
into  the  trade  wind,  and  then  he  may 
sail  secure  over  the  Pactolean  sands." 
Hethentouches  on  the  stage,  which, 
like  every  worshipper  of  the  tradi- 
tional excellence  of  the  drama,he  con- 
cludes to  have  fallen  off  utterly  from 
its  original  merits,  a  complaint  re- 
newed in  every  succeeding  age,  and 
probably  with  much  the  same  forget- 
fulness  of  the  true  state  of  the  former. 
We  are  to  remember,  too,  that  Burke's 
lamentation  was  in  the  days  of  Gar- 
rick,  Barry,  Mrs  Yates,  and  a  whole 
galaxy  of  first-rate  performers  ;  sus- 
tained by  the  activity,  if  not  the  ta- 
lents, of  such  dramatists  as  Murphy, 
the  elder  Colman,  Farquhar,  and  a 
long  list  of  ingenious  men,  who  kept 
the  stage  in  continued  exertion,  and 
whose  labours,  in  not  a  few  instances, 
still  survive  for  the  pleasure  and  in- 
terest of  posterity.  "As  for  the  stage, 
it  is  sunk,  in  my  opinion,  to  the  lowest 
degree ;  I  mean  with  regard  to  the 
trash  that  is  exhibited  on  it.  But  I  don't 
attribute  this  to  the  taste  of  the  au- 
dience, for  when  Shakspeare  warbles 
his  native  woodnotes,  the  boxes,  pit, 
and  gallery  are  crowded, and  the  gods 
are  true  to  every  word,  if  properly 
winged  to  the  heart."  The  whole  let- 
ter is  a  striking  picture  of  his  feelings 
on  the  subjects  of  most  natural  im- 
pressiveness  to  a  young  and  suscepti- 
ble mind.  "  Soon  after  my  arrival  in 
town,  I  visited  Westminster  Abbey. 
The  moment  I  entered,  I  felt  a  kind 
of  awe  pervade  my  mind,  which  I 
cannot  describe ;  the  very  silence 
seemed  sacred.  *  *  *  Some  would 
imagine  that  all  those  monuments 


were  so  many  monuments  of  folly. 
I  don't  think  so.  What  useful  les- 
sons of  morality  and  sound  philoso- 
phy do  they  not  exhibit !  When  the 
highborn  beauty  surveys  her  face  in 
thepolished  Parian,  though  dumb  the 
marble,  yet  it  tells  her  that  it  was 
placed  to  guard  the  remains  of  as  fine 
a  form,  and  as  fair  a  face  as  her  own. 
They  shew,  besides,  how  anxious  we 
are  to  extend  our  loves  and  friend- 
ships beyond  the  grave,  and  to  snatch 
as  much  as  we  can  from  oblivion,  such 
is  our  natural  love  of  immortality. 
But  it  is  here  that  letters  obtain  their 
noblest  triumph  ;  it  is  here  that  the 
swarthy  daughters  of  Cadmus  may 
hang  their  trophies  on  high.  For 
when  all  the  pride  of  the  chisel,  and 
the  pomp  of  heraldry,  yield  to  the 
silent  touches  of  time,  a  single  line, 
a  half  worn  out  inscription,  remain 
faithful  to  their  trust.  Blest  be  the 
man  who  first  introduced  these 
strangers  into  our  islands,  and  may 
they  never  want  protection  or  merit. 
I  have  not  the  least  doubt,  that  the 
finest  poem  in  the  English  language, 
I  mean  Milton's  11  Penseroso,  was 
composed  in  the  long  resounding 
aisle  of  a  mouldering  cloister  or  ivyed 
abbey.  Yet,  after  all,  do  you  know 
that  I  would  rather  sleep  in  the  south- 
ern corner  of  a  little  country  church- 
yard, than  in  the  tomb  of  the  Capu- 
lets  ?  I  should  like,  however,  that 
my  dust  should  mingle  with  kindred 
dust.  The  good  old  expression, '  fa- 
mily burying-ground,'  has  something 
pleasing  in  it,  at  least  to  me." 

At  this  period  of  his  life  he  ap- 
pears to  have  spent  some  time  in 
rambling  through  England,  for  his 
recovery  from  a  tendency  to  con- 
sumption, and  to  have  lingered  away 
the  rest  of  his  hours  in  desultory 
reading.  In  this  way  he  passed,  or 
perhaps  wasted,  the  years  from  1750 
to  1753.  But  such  a  mind  must  have 
had  many  misgivings  in  such  a  course, 
and  he  was  at  length  stimulated  to 
effort,  by  hearing  that  the  Professor- 
ship of  logic  in  Glasgow  was  vacant; 
and  on  this  prospect  he  set  his  heart. 
The  founder,  or  at  least  the  earliest 
ornament,  of  the  metaphysical  school 
of  Scotland,  was  an  Irishman,  Francis 
Hutcheson.  This  circumstance  might 
have  appeared  to  Burke  as  some  en- 
couragement to  an  attempt,  whose 
immediate  motives,  whether  want  of 
money,  want  of  occupation,  or  thirst 


1833.] 


Edmund  Burke. 


283 


of  Scottish  celebrity,  must  now  be 
sought  for  in  vain.  The  attempt  it- 
self has  been  disputed ;  but  it  is  fully 
established  in  evidence,  that  in  1752, 
or  1753,  he  was  a  candidate  for  the 
chair  of  Logic  in  Glasgow,  and  fortu- 
nately for  his  own  renown,  and  the 
reverse  for  that  of  the  electors  and 
the  college,  he  was  an  unsuccessful 
one.  His  triumphant  rival  was  a 
aame,  whose  laurels  seem  to  have 
been  limited  to  Glasgow,  a  Mr  James 
Clow. 

He  had  now  given  up  the  bar; 
whether  through  ill  health,  disin- 
clination to  the  severe  restrictions 
of  its  first  steps,  or  the  general  and 
miscellaneous  style  of  life  and  study 
which  had  become  favourite  and  fa- 
miliar with  him.  He  supped  and 
talked  at  the  Grecian  Coffee-house, 
then  the  evening  resource  of  all  the 
clever  idlers  of  the  Inns  of  Court. 
He  was  asked  to  dinner  by  Garrick, 
then  delighting  all  the  world,  and 
whose  civilities  must  have  been 
highly  flattering  to  an  obscure  Irish 
student.  He  made  an  occasional 
trial  of  his  powers  in  old  Macklin's 
Debating  Society,  and  in  the  inter- 
vals of  his  leisure  he  is  said  to  have 
employed  himself  in  joining  the  ge- 
neral war  of  pamphlets  against  the 
Newcastle  Administration. 

But  this  rambling  life  must  have 
been  insufficient  for  the  vigour  of 
Burke's  mind  ;  it  could  scarcely  have 
received  much  approbation  from  his 
judgment.  The  idea  of  shifting  the 
scene  altogether  at  length  occurred 
to  him,  and  the  prospect  of  a  situa- 
tion in  America,  whether  solicited 
by  himself,  or  offered  by  his  friends, 
seems  to  have  engrossed  him  for  a 
while.  But  his  father's  dislike  to  the 
idea  of  his  looking  for  fortune  in 
lands  so  remote  from  Ireland,  check- 
ed this  cherished  object;  and  Burke, 
in  a  letter  which  begins  with  "  Ho- 
noured sir,"  and  expresses  with  his 
usual  grace  the  feelings  of  a  gentle 
and  dutiful  ^pirit,  gave  up  the  de- 
sign. 

He  lingered  two  years  longer — 
unknown,  but  not  idle;  for  at  the 
end  of  these  two  years,  in  1756,  he 
published  his  "  Vindication  of  Na- 
tural Society,"  and  his  celebrated 
"  Treatise  on  the  Sublime  and  Beau- 
tiful." The  "Vindication"  deserves 
praise  for  its  authorship,  but  pane- 
gyric for  its  intention.  Bolingbroke 


had  given,  from  youth  to  age,  the  un- 
happy example  of  genius  rendered 
useless,  rank  degraded,  and  oppor- 
tunities thrown  away.  Gifted  with 
powers  which  might  have  raised  or 
sustained  the  fortunes  of  empire,  his 
youth  was  distinguished  only  by  sys- 
tematic vice,  his  manhood  by  un- 
principled ambition,  and  his  age  by 
callous  infidelity.  His  life  is  yet  to 
be  xvritten,  and  it  would  form  an 
unrivalled  lesson  to  those  who  solicit 
worldly  distinction,  by  giving  popu- 
larity to  crime.  It  would  shew  the 
profligate  statesman  defeated  in  all 
his  objects,  and  the  still  more  pro- 
fligate champion  of  unbelief  alike 
stung  by  the  censures  and  the  ne- 
glect of  wiser  mankind.  Burke's 
would  have  been  the  pen  to  have 
done  justice  to  such  a  subject.  We 
should  have  seen  his  fine  sagacity 
detecting  the  insidiousness,  the  smi- 
ling hostility  and  the  inveterate  ha- 
tred of  the  enemy  of  government 
and  religion.  His  heart  would  have 
taught  him  to  abhor  the  sullen  ma- 
lignity of  the  infidel,  his  loyalty  to 
expose  the  restless  disaffection  of  the 
rebel,  and  his  sense  of  virtue  to 
scourge  the  impurity  of  the  man  of 
the  passions.  His  singular  know- 
ledge of  past  public  transactions,  and 
his  personal  experience  of  the  life 
of  statesmen,  would  have  given  the 
force  of  maxims  to  his  conclusions  ; 
and  in  the  punishment  of  this  shewy 
impostor,  we  should  have  had  the 
most  eloquent,  majestic,  and  instruc- 
tive of  all  lessons  to  the  rising  mind 
of  nations. 

The  "  Vindication"  was  an  attack, 
not  on  Bolingbroke's  Jacobite  poli- 
tics, but  on  his  irreligion.  A  gross 
and  pernicious  scorn  of  all  the  truths 
which  man  holds  sacred,  had  been 
the  fashion  of  the  age.  It  had  been 
generated  among  the  misty  metaphy- 
sics of  Germany,  and  was  rapidly 
swelled  to  its  full  growth  in  the  pub- 
lic and  personal  licentiousness  of 
the  court  of  France.  From  France, 
England,  disdaining  to  borrow  the 
meanest  implement  for  the  meanest 
uses  of  life,  stooped  to  borrow  the 
favourite  notions  of  party  in  govern- 
ment and  religion.  Bolingbroke, 
exiled  to  France  for  his  political  in- 
trigues, filled  up  the  dreariness  of 
his  solitude  by  copying  French  infi- 
delity, and  paid  his  debt  of  gratitude 
to  England  by  preparing  the  poisons 


284 


Edmund  Burke. 


[March, 


of  Berlin  and  Paris  for  the  lips  of  the 
people.  It  was  to  the  honour  of 
Burke,  that  in  his  youth,  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  general  delusion  of  all 
who  constituted  the  leaders  of  pub- 
lic taste,  he  should  sacredly  discern 
where  the  truth  lay,  and  manfully 
come  forth  armed  in  its  cause.  No- 
minally adopting  the  tenets  of  Bo-- 
lingbroke,  he  pushed  them  on  to 
practical  absurdity.  Applying  to  so- 
ciety the  modes  of  argument  which 
the  infidel  had  applied  to  religion, 
he  shewed  that  it  justified  absurdi- 
ties against  which  common  sense  re- 
volts, and  crimes  against  which  the 
common  safety  arms  itself;  that  the 
plea  which  might  serve  to  overthrow 
religion,  would  be  equally  forcible 
against  the  existence  of  all  order,  and 
that  the  perfection  of  the  infidel  sys- 
tem would  reason  mankind  into  the 
uselessness  of  a  government,  as  ra- 
pidly as  into  the  burden  of  a  reli- 
gion. 

In  a  passage,  which  seems  to  come 
glowing  from  the  pen  of  Boling- 
broke  in  his  hour  of  triumph,  his 
young  antagonist  thus  happily  at 
once  seizes  the  sounding  amplifica- 
tion of  his  style,  and  ridicules  the 
philosophical  folly  of  his  argument : 

"  In  looking  over  any  state,  to  form 
a  judgment  on  it,  it  presents  itself  in 
two  lights,  the  external  and  the  in- 
ternal. The  first,  that  relation  which 
it  bears  in  point  of  enmity  or  friend- 
ship to  other  states.  The  second, 
that  relation  which  its  component 
parts,  the  governors  and  the  govern- 
ed, bear  to  each  other.  *  *  *  * 
The  glaring  side  of  all  national  his- 
tory is  enmity.  The  only  actions  on 
which  we  have  seen,  and  always  will 
see  all  of  them  intent,  are  such  as 
tend  to  the  destruction  of  one  an- 
other. *  War,'  says  Machiavel, '  ought 
to  be  the  only  study  of  a  prince ;' 
and  by  a  prince  he  means  every  sort 
of  state,  however  constituted.  *  He 
ought,'  says  this  great  political  doc- 
tor, *  to  consider  peace  only  as  a 
breathing  time,  which  gives  him  lei- 
sure to  contrive,  and  furnishes  ability 
to  execute  military  plans.'  A  medi- 
tation on  the  conduct  of  political  so- 
cieties made  oldHobbes  imagine  that 
war  was  the  state  of  nature;  and 
truly,  if  a  man  judged  of  the  indivi- 
duals of  our  race  by  their  conduct 
when  united  and  packed  into  nations 
and  kingdoms,  he  might  imagine  that 


every  sort  of  virtue  was  foreign  and 
unnatural  to  the  mind  of  man. 

"  The  first  accounts  which  we  have 
of  mankind  are  but  so  many  accounts 
of  their  butcheries.  All  empires  have 
been  cemented  in  blood;  and  in  these 
early  ages,  when  the  race  of  man- 
kind began  first  to  form  themselves 
into  parties  and  combinations,  the 
first  effects  of  the  combination,  and 
indeed  the  end  for  which  it  seems 
purposely  formed  and  best  calcula- 
ted, was  their  mutual  destruction. 
All  ancient  history  is  dark  and  un- 
certain. One  thing,  however,  is 
clear  :  There  were  conquerors  and 
conquests  in  those  days,  and  conse- 
quently all  that  devastation  by  which 
they  are  formed,  and  all  that  oppres- 
sion by  which  they  are  maintained. 
We  know  little  of  Sesostris,  but  that 
he  led  out  of  Egypt  an  army  of  above 
700,000  men ;  that  he  overran  the 
Mediterranean  coast  as  far  as  Col- 
chis ;  that  in  some  places  he  met  but 
little  resistance,  and  of  course  shed 
not  a  great  deal  of  blood,  but  that  he 
found  in  others  a  people  who  knew 
the  value  of  their  liberties,  and  sold 
them  dear.  Whoever  considers  the 
army  which  this  conqueror  headed, 
the  space  he  traversed,  and  the  oppo- 
sition he  frequently  met, 'with  the 
natural  accidents  of  sickness,  and  the 
dearth  and  badness  of  provision  to 
which  he  must  have  been  subject  in 
the  variety  of  climates  and  countries 
his  march  lay  through — if  he  knows 
any  thing,  he  must  know  that  even 
the  conqueror's  army  must  have  suf- 
fered greatly.  It  will  be  far  from 
excess  to  suppose  that  one-half  was 
lost  in  the  expedition.  If  this  was 
the  state  of  the  victorious,  the  van- 
quished must  have  had  a  much  hea- 
vier loss,  as  the  greatest  slaughter  is 
always  in  the  flight ;  and  great  car- 
nage did  in  those  times  and  countries 
ever  attend  the  first  rage  of  conquest. 
It  will  therefore  be  very  reasonable 
to  allow  on  their  account  as  much 
as,  added  to  the  losses  of  the  con- 
querors, may  amount  to  a  million  of 
deaths.  And  then  we  shall  see  this 
conqueror,  the  oldest  whom  we  have 
on  record,  opening  the  scene  by  the 
destruction  of  at  least  one  million  of 
his  species,  unprovoked  but  by  his 
ambition,  without  any  motives  but 
pride,  cruelty,  and  madness,  and 
without  any  benefit  to  himself,  (for 
Justin  expressly  tells  us  he  did  not 


1833.]  Edmund  Burke. 

maintain  his  conquest,)  but  solely  to 
make  so  many  people  in  so  distant 
countries  feel  experimentally  how 
severe  a  scourge  Providence  intends 
for  the  human  race,  when  it  gives 
one  man  the  power  over  many,  and 
a-ms  his  naturally  impotent  and 
feeble  rage  with  the  hands  of  mil- 
lions, who  know  no  common  princi- 
ple of  action  but  a  blind  obedience 
to  the  passions  of  their  ruler." 

Thus  pursuing  his  way  through 
ancient  history,  and  still  designating 
it  as  one  common  display  of  misery 
and  massacre,  the  whole  resulting 
from  the  facts  that  society  exists,  and 
tl  at  it  has  rulers  at  its  head,  he 
comes  to  the  scene  which  Europe 
exhibited  on  the  fall  of  the  great 
tyrant  dynasty  of  Rome.  "  There 
have  been  periods  when  no  less  than 
universal  destruction  to  the  race  of 
mankind  seems  to  have  been  threat- 
ened. Such  was  that,  when  the 
Goths,  the  Vandals,  and  the  Huns, 
poured  into  Gaul,  Italy,  Spain,Greece, 
and  Africa,  carrying  destruction  with 
them  as  they  advanced,  and  leaving 
horrid  deserts  everywhere  behind 
them.  *  Vastum  ubique  silentium, 
secret!  colics,  fumantia  procul  tecta, 
nomo  exploratoribus  obvius,'  is  what 
Tacitus  calls  '  facies  victorise.'  It 
was  always  so ;  but  here  it  was  em- 
phatically so.  From  the  north  pro- 
ceeded the  swarms  of  Goths,  Van- 
dals, Huns,  Ostrogoths,  who  ran  to- 
wards the  south  into  Africa  itself, 
which  suffered  as  all  to  the  north 
hud  done.  About  this  time,  another 
torrent  of  barbarians,  animated  by 
the  same  fury,  and  encouraged  by 
the  same  success,  poured  out  of  the 
south,  and  ravaged  all  to  the  north- 
east and  west,  to  the  remotest  parts 
of  Persia  on  one  hand,  and  to  the 
banks  of  the  Loire  on  the  other,  de- 
stroying all  the  proud  and  curious 
monuments  of  human  art,  that  not 
even  the  memory  of  the  former  in- 
habitants might  survive.  *  *  *  * 
I  $hall  only,  in  one  word,  mention 
the  horrid  effects  of  bigotry  and  ava- 
ric  e  in  the  conquest  of  Spanish  Ame- 
rica; a  conquest,  on  a  low  estimation, 
efiected  by  the  murder  often  millions 
of  the  species.  *  *  *  *  I  need 
not  enlarge  on  the  torrents  of  silent 
and  inglorious  blood  which  have 
glutted  the  thirsty  sands  of  Afric,  or 
discoloured  the  polar  snow,  or  fed 
th<3  savage  forests  of  America  for  so 


285 


many  ages  of  continual  war.  *  * 
*  *  I  go  upon  a  naked  and  mode- 
rate calculation,  just  enough,  without 
a  pedantical  exactness,  to  give  your 
lordship  some  feeling  of  the  effects 
of  political  society.  I  charge  the 
whole  of  those  effects  upon  political 
society.  The  numbers  I  particulariz- 
ed amount  to  about  thirty-  six  mil- 
lions. *  *  *  *  In  a  state  of 
nature,  it  had  been  impossible  to 
find  a  number  of  men  sufficient  for 
such  slaughters,  agreed  in  the  same 
bloody  purpose.  Society  and  politics, 
which  have  given  us  such  destruc- 
tive views,  have  given  us  also  the 
means  of  satisfying  them.  *  *  *  * 
How  far  mere  nature  would  have 
carried  us,  we  may  judge  by  the  ex- 
ample of  those  animals  which  still 
follow  her  laws,  and  even  of  those  to 
which  she  has  given  dispositions 
more  fierce,  and  arms  more  terrible 
than  any  ever  she  intended  we  should 
use.  It  is  an  incontestible  truth,  that 
there  is  more  havoc  made  in  one 
year  by  men  of  men,  than  has  been 
made  by  all  the  lions,  tigers,  panthers, 
ounces,  leopards,  hyaenas,  rhinoce- 
roses, elephants,  bears,  and  wolves, 
upon  their  several  species,  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world,  though  those 
agree  ill  enough  with  each  other,  and* 
have  a  much  greater  proportion  of 
rage  and  fury  in  their  composition 
than  we  have.  But  with  respect  to 
you,  ye  legislators,  ye  civilizers  of 
mankind,  ye  Orpheuses,  Minuses, 
Solons,  Theseuses,  Lycurguses,  Nu- 
mas,  your  regulations  have  done  more 
mischief  in  cold  blood,  than  all  the 
rage  of  the  fiercest  animals  in  their 
greatest  terrors  or  furies  has  ever 
done  or  ever  could  do." 

He  then,  from  a  long  and  detailed  ex- 
amination of  the  chief  provisions  and 
orders  of  society,  draws  the  conclu- 
sion, that  man  is  a  loser  by  association 
with  his  kind,  by  government,  by  ju- 
risprudence, by  commerce,  by  every 
shape  and  step  of  civilisation.  But  the 
wildest  declaimer  against  religion 
will  protest  against  thus  sending  man 
back  to  the  forest,  and  stripping  him 
of  all  the  advantages  of  society  on 
account  of  the  disadvantages.  He 
will  protest  against  arguing  from  the 
abuse  of  society  in  the  hands  of  a 
certain  number  of  violent  men,  to  its 
vast,  general,  and  beneficial  uses  to 
the  infinite  multitude.  But  the  same 
protest  is  as  directly  applicable  to 


286 


Edmund  Burke. 


[March, 


the  sceptic,  who  rejects  religion  on 
account  of  the  casual  evils  connected 
with  its  progress,  the  religious  wars 
fomented  by  human  passions,  the  cor- 
rupted practices  of  venal  priests,  the 
tyranny  of  jealous  persecutors,  the 
guilty  artifice,  or  the  blinding  super- 
stition.    If  the  essential  good  is  to  be 
rejected  for  the  sake  of  the  accidental 
evil,  then  must  civilisation  be  cast 
away  as  well  as  religion ;  but  if  the 
great  stock  of  human  good  which  re- 
ligion bequeaths  to  mankind,  the  im- 
measurable   consolations,   the   high 
motives,  the  pure  guides,  the  noble 
and  perpetual  stimulants  reaching 
through  all  the  depths  of  the  human 
race,  and  reaching  through  them  all 
undebased  by  human  guilt,  and  main- 
taining the  connexion  of  man  through 
all  his  grades  with  Deity,  are    to 
weigh  heavier  in  the  balance  than 
the  mere  abuses  of  religion  by  man, 
then  let  us  acknowledge  that  the  in- 
fidel is  not  simply  weak,but  criminal, 
that  he  shuts  his  eyes  against  argu- 
ment, and  that  he  is  convicted  of  folly 
by  all  that  remains  to  him  of  reason. 
The  concluding  fragment  of  this 
essay  is  curious,  as  an  evidence  of 
the  early  period  at  which  Burke  had 
matured  his  pen.     The  style  is  no 
longer  the  flowing  and  figurative  de- 
clamation of  Bolingbroke,  it  is  Burke, 
as  he  stood  before  the  world  in  the 
latest  days  of  his  triumph  over  the 
atheistic  and  revolutionary  impulses 
of  Europe;  calm  and  dignified,  cloth- 
ed in  the  garb  of  that  philosophic 
melancholy    which    impressed    his 
practical  wisdfom  so  powerfully  upon 
the  general  heart. 

He  speaks  in  the  person  of  Boling- 
broke. "You  are,  my  lord,  but  just 
entering  into  the  world.  I  am  going 
out  of  it.  1  have  played  long  enough 
to  be  heartily  sick  of  the  drama. 
Whether  I  have  acted  my  part  in  it 
well  or  ill,  posterity  will  judge  with 
more  candour  than  I,  or  than  the  pre- 
sent age,  with  our  present  passions, 
can  possibly  pretend  to.  For  my 
part,  I  quit  it  without  a  sigh,  and 
submit  to  the  sovereign  order  without 
murmuring.  The  nearerwe  approach 
to  the  goal  of. life,  the  better  we 
begin  to  understand  the  true  value 
of  our  existence,  and  the  real  weight 
of  our  opinions.  We  set  out,  much 
in  love  with  both,  but  we  leave  much 
behind  us  as  we  advance.  But  the 
passions  which  press  our  opinions 


are  withdrawn,  one  after  another, 
and  the  cool  light  of  reason,  at  the 
setting  of  our  life,  shews  us  what  a 
false  splendour  played  upon  those 
objects  of  our  more  sanguine  sea- 
sons." 

This  tract  is  remarkable  for  its  de- 
claration of  opinions  on  the  right 
side,  when  it  was  the  pride  of  every 
man  who  pretended  to  literature,  to 
be  in  the  wrong.  But  it  is  scarcely 
less  remarkable,  as  actually  forming 
the  model  of  much  of  that  revolu- 
tionary writing,  which  so  recklessly 
laboured  to  inflame  the  popular 
passions,  on  the  first  burst  of  the 
French  insurgency.  Burke,  in  his 
ridicule,  had  prepared  an  armoury 
for  Paine  in  his  profligate  serious- 
ness. The  contemptuous  flights  of 
the  great  orator  had  pointed  the  way 
for  the  Jacobin  to  ascend  to  the  as- 
sault of  all  that  we  were  accustomed 
to  reverence  and  value.  The  evils 
brought  upon  man  by  feeble  govern- 
ment, misjudging  law,  ministerial 
weaknesses,  and  national  prejudices, 
were  eagerly  adopted  by  the  cham- 
pions of  overthrow,  as  irrefragable 
arguments  against  the  altar  and  the 
throne ;  and  Burke  must  have  seen 
with  surprise,  or  increased  ridicule, 
the  arrows  which  he  had  shot  out  in 
sport,  and  for  the  mere  trial  of  his 
boyish  strength,  gravely  gathered  up, 
and  fitted  to  the  Jacobin  string,  to 
be  used  against  the  noblest  and  most 
essential  institutions  of  the  empire. 

The  essay  attracted  considerable 
notice.  Chesterfield  and  Warburton 
were  said  to  have  regarded  it  for  a 
while  as  an  authentic  work  of  the 
infidel  lord.  The  opinion  prevailed  so 
far,  that  Mallet,  who,  as  the  residuary 
legatee  of  his  blasphemies,  thought 
himself  the  legitimate  defender  of  his 
fame,  volunteered  a  public  disclaimer 
on  the  subject,  arid  the  critics  were 
thenceforth  left  to  wonder  on  whose 
shoulders  the  mantle  of  the  noble 
personage  had  fallen.  Still  Burke 
was  unheard  of,  but  his  second  per- 
formance was  destined  to  do  justice 
to  his  ability.  In  the  same  year  was 
published  the  Treatise  on  the  Sub- 
lime and  Beautiful.  No  work  of  its 
period  so  suddenly  sprang  into  po- 
pularity. The  purity,  vigour,  and 
grace  of  its  language,  the  clearness 
of  its  conceptions,  and  its  bold  soar- 
ings into  the  metaphysic  clouds, 
which,  dark  and  confused  as  they  had 


Edmund  Bur  Jte. 


287 


rendered  all  former  efforts,  were,  by 
the  flashes  of  Burke's  fine  imagina- 
tion, turned  into  brightness  and  gran- 
deur, attracted  universal  praise.    Its 
a  ithor  was  looked  for  among  the 
leading  veterans  of  literature.     To 
the    public    astonishment,    he  was 
found  to  be  an  obscure  student  of 
23,  utterly  unknown,  or  known  only 
by  having  attempted  a  canvass  for  a 
Scotch   professorship,    and    having 
fiiiled.     He  now  began  to  be  felt  in 
society.     The  reputation  of  his  book 
preceded  him,  and  he  gradually  be- 
c.ime  on  a  footing  of  acquaintance,  if 
not  altogether  of  intimacy,  with  the 
more  remarkable  names  of  the  day 
connected  with  life  and  literature; 
Pulteney,  Earl   of  Bath,  Markham, 
s  oon  after  Archbishop  of  York,  Rey- 
nolds, Soame  Jenyns,  Lord   Little- 
ton, Warburton,   Hume,   and  John- 
son.    This  was  a  distinction  which 
implied  very  striking   merits  in  so 
young  a  man,  unassisted  «by  rank  or 
opulence,  and  with  the  original  sin  of 
being  an  Irishman,  a  formidable  dis- 
qualification in  the  higher  circles  of 
England  fifty  years  ago.     This  trea- 
tise had  been  the  pioneer  to  his  storm- 
ing of  the  sullen  rampart  of  English 
formality.     But  to  have  not  only 
climbed  there,  but  made  'good  his 
lodgment,  evidently  implies  personal 
n  terits  of  no  ordinary  kind.    To  good- 
humoured  and  cordial  manners,  to 
singular  extent  and  variety  of  know- 
It  dge,  he  added  great  force  and  ele.- 
g.ince   of   conversation.     Johnson's, 
e?en  the  fastidious  Johnson's,  opi- 
nion of  him,  is  well  known,  as  pla- 
c  ng  him  already  in  the  very  highest  of 
intellectual  companionship.  —  "Burke 
it  an  extraordinary  man,  his  stream 
Of  talk  is  perpetual."    Another  of  his 
dicta  was,  "  Burke's  talk  is  the  ebul- 
lition  of  his  mind;  he  does  not  talk 
from  a  desire  of  distinction,  but  be- 
c  mse  his  mind  is  full."  —  "  Burke  is 
the  only  man  whose  common  conver- 
sation corresponds  with  the  general 
fame  which  he  has  in  the  world. 
Take  up  whatever  topic  you  please, 
hi  is  ready  to  meet  you."    In  another 
ii,  stance,  where  some  one  had  been 
p  lying  himself  the  tribute  due  to  his 
ntemorable  powers,  he  again  gave 
tLe  palm  to  his  friend.    "  Burke,  sir, 
i^  such  a  man,  that  if  you  met  him  for 
the  first  time  in  the  street,  where 
you  were  stopped  by  a  drove   of 
oten,  and  you  and  he  stepped  aside 


for  shelter  but  for  five  minutes,  he'd 
talk  to  you^in  such  a  manner,  that 
when  you  parted,  you  would  say, — 
that  is  an  extraordinary  man.  Now, 
you  may  be  long  enough  with  me 
without  finding  anything  extraordi- 
nary." 

A  portion  of  this  fortunate  quality 
must  be  attributed  to  his  fondness 
for  general  study,  and  the  vigorous 
memory  by  which  he  retained  all 
that  he  had  acquired.  But  a  much 
larger  portion  must  be  due  to  that  sa- 
lient and  glowing  power  of  thought, 
that  vivid  mental  seizure,  by  which 
all  his  knowledge  became  a  member 
of  his  mind;  by  which  every  new 
acquisition  resolved  itself  into  an 
increase,  not  of  his  intellectual  bur- 
den, but  of  the  essential  activity  and 
strength  of  his  faculties.  He  had  a 
great  assimilating  mind.  Johnson's 
often-recorded  expression,  "  that  no 
man  of  sense  would  meet  Mr  Burke 
by  accident  under  a  gateway,  to  avoid 
a  shower,  without  being  convinced 
that  he  was  the  first  man  in  Eng- 
land," found  a  striking  illustration, 
a  few  years  after,  in  the  testimony  of 
an  utter  stranger.  Burke,  in  passing 
through  Litchfield,  had  gone  with  a 
friend  to  look  at  the  cathedral,  while 
his  horses  were  changing.  One  of 
the  clergy,  seeing  two  gentlemen 
somewhat  at  a  loss  in  this  vast  build- 
ing, politely  volunteered  as  their  ci- 
cerone. The  conversation  flowed, 
and  he  was  speedily  struck  with  sur- 
prise at  the  knowledge  and  brilliancy 
of  one  of  the  strangers.  In  his  sub- 
sequent account  of  the  adventure  to 
some  friends,  who  met  him  hastening 
along  the  street,  "  I  have  been  con- 
versing," said  he,  "  for  this  half  hour, 
with  a  man  of  the  most  extraordinary 
powers  of  mind,  and  extent  of  infor- 
mation, which  it  has  ever  been  my 
fortune  to  meet,  and  lam  now  going 
to  the  inn  to  ascertain,  if  possible, 
who  the  stranger  is."  That  stranger 
had  completely  overlaid  the  cice- 
rone, even  in  his  local  knowledge. 
On  every  topic  which  came  before 
them,  whether  the  architecture,  his- 
tory, remains,  income,  learning  of 
the  ancient  ornaments  of  the  chap- 
ter, persecutions,  lives,  and  achieve- 
ments, the  stranger  was  boundless 
in  anecdote  and  illustration.  The 
clergyman's  surprise  was  fully  ac- 
counted for,  by  being  told  at  the  inn 
that  this  singular  companion  was  Mr 


288 


Edmund  Burke. 


[March, 


Burke,  and  the  general  regret  of  all 
to  whom  he  mentioned  the  circum- 
stance, was,  that  the  name  had  not 
been  known  in  time  for  them  to  have 
taken  advantage  of  so  high  a  grati- 
fication. 

But,  for  three  years  more,  this  me- 
morable man  was  confined  to  the 
struggles  of  private  life.  He  was 
still  actively,  though  obscurely,  em- 
ployed in  writing  or  editing  a  His- 
tory of  the  European  Settlements  in 
America,  in  seven  heavy  volumes, 
which  obtained  but  slight  public  no- 
tice; laying  the  foundations  for  a 
History  of  England,  which  never 
reached  beyond  a  few  sheets ;  and 
establishing  and  editing,  in  1758,  in 
conjunction  with  Dodsley,  the  An- 
nual Register.  In  this  work,  the 
genius  of  the  author  is  in  disguise. 
We  look  in  vain  for  the  fire,  the  fan- 
cy, which  seemed  to  be  constituent 
features  of  his  authorship.  And  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  features  of 
the  whole  performance,  is  the  strong 
self-denial  to  which  the  philosopher 
and  the  orator  had  already  learned 
to  tame  down  the  ardour  and  anima- 
tion of  his  mind.  But  the  work  was 
judiciously  conceived  :  it  came  forth 
at  a  time  when  the  public  required 
something  more  than  a  chronicler  of 
the  passing  day;  and,  like  all  works 
which  fill  up  a  chasm  in  public  cu- 
riosity, it  succeeded  to  a  remarkable 
extent.  Five  or  six  editions  of  the 
earlier  volumes  were  rapidly  recei- 
ved. But  income  from  such  sources 
must  be  precarious.  He  had  mar- 
ried, had  a  son ;  he  had  hitherto  made 
no  advance  in  an  actual  provision  for 
life;  and  a  few  years  more  of  the 
natural  toils  which  beset  a  man  left 
to  his  own  exertions  for  the  support 
of  a  family,  would  probably  have 
driven  him  to  America,  his  old  and 
favourite  speculation  against  the 
frowns  of  fortune  in  Europe.  At 
length  the  life  for  which  he  was 
made,  the  stirring  and  elevated  in- 
terests of  political  and  parliamentary 
distinction,  appeared  to  open  before 
him.  He  owed  this  change  to  an 
Irishman,  the  Earl  of  Charlemont. 
Ireland  still  remembers  the  name  of 
that  estimable  person  with  gratitude. 
A  narrow  fortune,  and  humble  ta- 
lents, did  not  prevent  him  from  being 
a  great  public  benefactor.  He  was 
the  encourager  of  every  scheme  for 
national  advantage,  the  patron  of  lite- 


rature, the  head  of  the  chief  literary 
institution  of  Ireland,  and  of  every 
other  institution  tending  to  promote 
the  good  of  the  country.  Though 
living  much  on  the  Continent,  and 
in  England  in  early  life,  and  long  as- 
sociated with  all  that  was  eminent 
in  rank  and  talents  in  Great  Britain, 
he  generously  and  honestly  fixed  his 
residence  on  his  native  soil,  turbulent 
as  it  was,  remote  from  all  the  scenes 
congenial  to  his  habits,  perplexed 
with  furious  party,  and  beggared  by 
long  misrule.  For  this  determina- 
tion, he  seems  to  have  had  no  other 
ground  than  a  sense  of  duty.  And 
he  had  his  reward.  No  man  in  Ire- 
land was  reverenced  with  such  true 
and  unequivocal  public  honour.  In 
all  the  warfare  of  party,  no  shaft  ever 
struck  his  pure  and  lofty  crest.  Old 
connexions,  and  the  custom  of  the 
time,  which  made  every  man  of  in- 
dependent fortune  enter  public  life 
on  the  side  of  opposition,  designated 
him  a  Whig.  But  no  man  less  bowed 
to  partisanship,  no  man  more  clearly 
washed  the  stains  of  faction  from 
his  hands,  no  man  was  farther  from 
the  insanity  of  revolution.  With  gen- 
tle, but  manly  firmness,  he  repelled 
popularity,  from  the  moment  when 
it  demanded  his  principles  as  its  pur- 
chase. With  generous,  but  indignant 
scorn,  he  raised  up  his  voice  equally 
against  the  insidious  zeal  which 
would  substitute  an  affected  love  of 
country  for  a  sense  of  duty ;  and  the 
insurrectionary  rage  which  would 
cast  off  the  mild  dominion  of  Eng- 
land, for  the  lust  of  democracy  at 
home.  He  finally  experienced  the 
fate  of  all  men  of  honour  thrown  into 
the  midst  of  factions.  His  directness 
was  a  tacit  reproach  on  their  obli- 
quity ;  his  simple  honour  was  felt  to 
be  a  libel  on  their  ostentatious  hypo- 
crisy. He  had  been  elected  by  the 
national  acclamation,  to  the  com- 
mand of  the  Irish  Volunteers,  a  self- 
raised  army  of  50,000  men.  He  had 
conducted  this  powerful  and  peril- 
ous force  through  an  anxious  time, 
without  collision  with  the  govern- 
ment, or  with  the  people.  But,  when 
French  principles  began  to  infest  its 
ranks,  he  remonstrated  ,•  the  remon- 
strance was  retorted  in  a  threat  of 
the  loss  of  his  popularity.  He  em- 
braced the  alternative  of  a  man  of 
honour,  and  resigned.  But  the  resig- 
nation was  fatal  to  the  success  of  his 


1333.1 


Edmund  Burke. 


289 


threateners.  When  he  laid  the  staff 
out  of  his  hands,  he  laid  down  with 
it  the  credit  of  the  Volunteers.  They 
lest  the  national  confidence  from  that 
hour.  Rude  and  violent  agitators 
fi  :st  usurped  the  power,  then  divided 
it,  and  then  quarrelled  for  the  divi- 
sion. The  glaring  evil  of  the  bayo- 
net drawn  for  political  discussion, 
startled  the  common  sense  of  the  na- 
tion, and  drove  it  to  take  refuge  with 
the  minister.  The  army,  which  had 
been  raised  amid  the  shouts  of  the 
nation,  was  now  cashiered  by  its  uni- 
versal outcry.  The  agitators  went 
down  among  the  common  wreck, 
and,  in  the  subsidence  of  the  general 
swell  and  uproar  of  the  popular  mind, 
the  fame  and  virtues  of  the  venera- 
bJe  commander  of  the  Volunteers, 
alone  floated  undiminished  to  the 
shore. 

But,  if  for  one  quality  alone,  the 
name  of  this  nobleman  ought  to  be 
held  in  memory.  Perhaps  no  pub- 
lic individual  of  his  day  extended 
such  ready  and  generous  protection  to 
men  of  ability,  in  their  advancement 
in  the  various  ways  of  life.  He  had 
two  boroughs  at  his  command  in  the 
Irish  House  of  Commons,  and,  in  all 
the  venality  which  so  daringly  distin- 
guished partisanship  in  that  House, 
no  one  ever  heard  of  the  sale  of  the 
boroughs  of  Lord  Charlemont.  He 
applied  his  influence  to  the  manly 
and  high-minded  purpose  of  intro- 
ducing men  of  talents  into  the  Legis- 
lature. 

An  accidental  intercourse  with 
Burke,  chiefly  in  consequence  of  the 
character  which  he  derived  from  the 
treatise  on  the  Sublime  and  Beauti- 
ful, induced  him  to  serve  his  inter- 
ests, by  a  connexion  with  the  Secre- 
tary for  Ireland,  so  well  known  by 
the  name  of  single-speech  Hamilton. 

Hamilton's  character  is  a  problem 
to  this  hour.  A  single  effort  of  elo- 
quence had  placed  him  among  the 
hopes  of  the  British  senate.  He  ne- 
v<sr  repeated  it.  Its  reputation,  and 
the  friendship  of  Lord  Halifax,  then 
President  of  the  Board  of  Trade, 
n  ade  him  a  member  of  the  Board  in 
1^56.  Hamilton  still  continued  si- 
h  nt.  In  four  years  after,  he  was 
made  Secretary  for  Ireland,  on  the 
appointment  of  his  noble  friend  as 
Lord  Lieutenant.  In  the  Irish  House, 
the  necessities  of  his  situation,  as 
Prime  Minister  of  the  Viceroyalty, 


overcame  his  nervousness,  and  he 
spoke,  on  several  occasions,  with  re- 
markable effect.  But  on  his  return 
to  the  English  Parliament,  his  powers 
were  again  shut  up;  and,  by  a  strange 
pusillanimity,  a  tenderness  of  orato- 
rical repute,  unworthy  of  the  mem- 
ber  of  an  English  public  assembly, 
during  the  remainder  of  his  life,  hia 
voice  was  never  heard.  Yet,  proba- 
bly no  man  led  a  more  anxious  and 
self-condemning  life.  During  this  en- 
tire period,  public  distinction,  and 
distinction  peculiarly  by  eloquence, 
seems  to  have  never  left  his  contem- 
plation. He  compiled,  he  wrote,  he 
made  commonplaces  of  rhetoric,  he 
was  perpetually  preparing  for  the 
grand  explosion  to  which  he  was  ne- 
ver to  lay  the  train.  He  saw,  and 
we  may  well  suppose  with  what  bit- 
ter stings  to  his  vanity,  the  contem- 
poraries, whose  talents  he  scorned, 
hastening  on  in  the  path  which  he 
longed  yet  feared  to  tread,  and 
snatching  the  laurels  that  had  hung 
down,  soliciting  his  hand.  He  saw 
a  new  generation  start  up  while  he 
pondered,  and  entering  upon  con- 
tests whose  magnitude  rendered 
all  the  past  trivial,  and  displaying 
powers  which  threw  the  mere  rhe- 
torician into  the  shade,  obtain  the 
most  magnificent  prizes  of  eloquence. 
Still  he  continued  criticising,  prepa- 
ring for  the  great  effort  that  was  never 
to  be  made,  and  pondering  on  the 
fame  which  he  had  already  suffered 
hopelessly  to  escape,  until  he  sank 
out  of  the  remembrance  of  society, 
and  dwindled  into  the  grave.  Per- 
haps literary  history  has  seldom  af- 
forded an  example  of  vanity  so  com- 
pletely its  own  punisher ;  his  extra- 
vagant sense  of  the  merit  of  a  single 
effort,  strangled  every  effort  to  come  ; 
he  was  stifled  in  his  own  fame ;  his 
vanity  was  suicidal. 

With  a  superior  of  this  order,  jea- 
lous, anxious,  and  severe,  it  was  im- 
possible that  Burke's  open  tempera- 
ment, and  gallant  dependence  on  his 
own  great  powers,  should  long  cordi- 
ally agree.  At  the  end  of  two  years, 
he  suddenly  abandoned  the  private 
secretaryship,  to  which  he  declared 
Hamilton,  in  the  spirit  of  tyranny, 
had  annexed  degrading  conditions, 
and  in  1763  returned  indignantly  to 
England,  to  take  the  chances  of  be- 
ginning the  world  anew. 

But  the  world  on  which  he  now 


290 

fixed  his  eyes,  wore  a  different  aspect 
from  the  humble  and  cheerless  world 
which  he  had  so  long  contemplated 
in  his  closet.  His  Irish  Secretaryship 
had  made  him  feel  his  faculties  for 
public  life ;  it  had  thrown  him  into 
those  waves  which  might  waft  him  on 
to  the  most  brilliant  fortune.  He  had 
invigorated  every  muscle  of  his  mind 
by  the  practical  labours  of  office. 
Those  two  years,  toilsome  as  they 
were  in  the  passing,  and  painful  in 
the  termination,  had  made  him  a 
statesman.  He  was  thenceforward 
marked  with  the  stamp  of  public  life; 
we  hear  no  more  day-dreams  of  me- 
lancholy independence  in  America. 
From  this  moment,  he  was  committed 
to  the  cause  in  England.  He  buckled 
on  his  golden  armour,  and  entered 
the  lists  tor  life  within  the  realm 
which  no  man  more  contributed  to 
adorn  and  to  save.  Within  two  years 
after  his  return  from  Ireland,  he  com- 
menced this  career.  In  1765,  the 
Marquis  of  Rockingham  was  appoint- 
ed Premier.  Burke  was  recommend- 
ed to  him  as  private  secretary,  and 
the  Minister  gladly  availed  himself 
of  the  services  of  a  man,  already  so 
distinguished  for  literary  excellence 
and  official  ability.  This  recommend- 
ation, equally  fortunate  on  both  sides, 
was  chiefly  due  to  Mr  Fitzherbert,  a 
man  of  birth  and  accomplishment, 
who  had  known  Burke  at  Johnson's 
celebrated  club.  Of  Fitzherbert  him- 
self, Johnson  has  left  the  following 
graphic  sketch  : — "  There  was  no 
sparkle,  no  brilliancy  in  Fitzherbert; 
but  I  never  knew  a  man  who  was  so 
generally  acceptable.  He  made  every 
body  quite  easy,overpowered  nobody 
by  the  superiority  of  his  talents,  made 
no  man  think  the  worse  of  himself 
by  being  his  rival,  seemed  always  to 
listen;  did  not  oblige  you  to  hear 
much  from  him,  and  did  not  oppose 
what  you  said." 

Burke's  tardy  progress  to  the  sta- 
tion for  which  nature,  genius,  and 
acquirement  had  formed  him,  is  an- 
other among  the  thousand  proofs  of 
the  fallacy,  that  talents  make  their 
own  fortune.  We  see  here  a  man 
of  the  highest  abilities,  with  those 
abilities  directed  to  the  express  la- 
bours of  public  life,  associating  with 
a  round  of  leading  persons  in  life 
and  literature,  blameless  in  his  pri- 
vate conduct,  undegraded  by  pecu- 
niary difficulty,  ardent  in  spirit,  and 


Edmund  Burke.  [March, 

giving  evidence  of  admirable  quali- 
ties for  the  service  of  the  state  ;  and 
yet  we  see  this  man  of  talent  and  dili- 
gence, of  vigorous  learning  and  pub- 
lic virtue,left  to  linger  in  obscurity  for 
ten  of  the  most  vivid  years  of  his  being, 
admired  and  overlooked,  applauded 
and  neglected,  down  to  the  point  of 
abandoning  England,  and  fixing  him- 
self a  reluctant  exile  in  a  foreign 
country,  and  from  this  fate  rescued 
by  the  mere  accident  of  club  com- 
panionship, indebted  for  the  whole 
change  in  his  prospects,  for  the  inter- 
position between  eminence  in  Eng- 
land and  banishment  to  America,  to 
the  casual  civility  of  a  good-natured 
man  of  conversation.  The  truth  is, 
that  genius  is  not  the  quality  for  this 
self-elevation.  It  is  too  fine,  too  fas- 
tidious, too  delicate  in  its  sense  of 
degradation,  and  too  proud  in  its  es- 
timate of  its  own  rank,  to  take  the 
better  and  humiliating  chances  of  the 
world  alone.  It  has  the  talon,  and 
the  plume,  and  the  eye  that  drinks 
in  the  congenial  splendour  of  the 
sun.  But  those  very  attributes  and 
organs  are  its  disqualifications  for 
the  work  that  is  to  be  done  by  the 
mole-eyed  and  subterranean  ambi- 
tion of  the  routine  of  public  life. 
This  is  the  evil  of  all  long  established 
governments.  Public  employ,  the 
object  of  the  most  generous  of  all 
ambitions,  is  surrounded  with  a  sys- 
tem of  artificial  obstacles,  a  circum- 
vallation  of  dependence  through 
which  no  man  can  make  his  way  by 
his  single  assault.  Patronage  holds 
the  key  of  every  gate  of  the  citadel. 
Family  influence,  personal  connex- 
ion, private  obligations,  all  must  sign 
the  passport  that  admits  the  new  man 
within  the  lines  and  ramparts  of  this 
singularly  jealous  and  keenly  guard- 
ed place  of  strength.  It  is  only  in 
the  great  general  changes  of  the 
state,  in  the  midst  of  mighty  revolu- 
tions and  sweeping  overthrows  of 
established  authority,  when  the 
old  bulwarks  are  broken  down  into 
fragments,  that  young  talent  can  des- 
pise ancient  vigilance,  force  its  way 
over  the  ruins,  and  be  master,  in  its 
own  right,  unindebted  but  to  its  own 
solitary  prowess  and  self-dependent 
energy. 

Yet  all  may  be  for  the  best.  Even 
in  the  restraints  laid  upon  the  sali- 
ency  of  genius,  there  may  be  that 
good  which  redounds  in  securing 


1833. 


Edmund  tyurke. 


291 


states  from  rash  ambition,  the  beset- 
ting sin  of  powerful  minds.  It  may 
t  e  useful  even  to  the  productive  ser- 
vices  of  such  minds,  that  they  should 
undergo  in  part  the  training  that  be- 
1  >ngs  to  delay  and  disappointment. 
The  pride  of  talent  may  be  wisely 
tiught  that  the  feelings  of  a  race 
whose  mediocrity  it  would  be  ready 
to  trample  under  its  feet,  that  the 
commonplaces  and  forms  of  socie- 
ty, that  even  the  feeble  prejudices 
T.iich  grow  up  with  old  institutions, 
rke  the  moss  and  weedy  blossoms, 
1  armless  ornaments  round  the 
v/alls  of  our  castles,  are  entitled  to 
some  share  of  its  regard  ',  that  there 
are  other  ministers  of  good  on  earth, 
t  ian  the  impetuous  stride  and  burn- 
ing glance  of  genius ;  that  the  general 
genial  harvests  of  social  life  are  not 
t  j  be  ploughed  in  by  the  lightning, 
cor  reaped  by  the  whirlwind.  At 
L?ast,  we  may  well  rejoice  in  the  al- 
ternative which  leaves  us  the  quiet 
of  society,  undisturbed  by  revolu- 
t  on.  To  pass  in  peace  through  life 
ii  the  first  gift  of  government  to 
rations.  A  few  "  bright  particular 
stars"  may  thus  be  lost  to  the  na- 
t  onal  eye,  glittering  for  a  moment, 
aud  then  sunk  below  the  horizon  for 
ever.  But  we  may  well  be  content 
with  a  sky  which  gives  us  the  Tight 
of  day  and  the  seasons  in  their  time, 
unstartled  by  the  terrors  or  the  won- 
ders of  those  flaming  phenomena 
which,  if  they  descend  to  increase 
the  splendour,  may  come  to  shock 
the  harmony  of  the  sphere. 

Burke  was  now  brought  into  Par- 
liament for  Wendover,  in  Bucking- 
hamshire, by  the  influence  of  Lord 
\erney,  and  on  July  the  17th,  1765, 
received  his  appointment  as  private 
secretary  to  the  Minister.  Yet  even 
at  this  moment  his  fortunes  were  on 
the  verge  of  wreck.  His  country 
operated  against  him ;  and,  as  in  the 
crude  conceptions  of  the  English  po- 
pulace, every  Irishman  must  be  a 
F  oman  Catholic  and  a  Jacobite,  the 
o  d  Duke  of  Newcastle,  a  man  who 
through  life  exhibited  the  most  cu- 
rious combination  of  acuteness  and 
absurdity,  of  address  in  office,  and 
eccentricity  everywhere  else,  in- 
stantly adopting  the  wisdom  of  the 
coffee-houses,  hurried  to  the  Mar- 
q.iis  of  Rockingham  to  protest  against 
Irs  bringing  this  firebrand  into  the 
n  agazine  of  gunpowder  which  then 


composed  the  Ministry.  Tbe  Mar- 
quis, a  simple  man,  was  terrified  at 
what  he  had  done;  but  a  straight- 
forward one,  he  had  the  manliness 
to  mention  the  statement  immediate- 
ly to  his  new  associate.  Burke,  pro- 
bably not  without  some  contempt 
for  the  understandings  of  both  the 
noble  Lords,  satisfactorily  shewed 
that  it  was  even  possible  to  be  an 
Irishman  and  a  Protestant  at  the 
same  time;  and  referring  to  his  career 
in  the  College,  where  he  had  obtain- 
ed a  scholarship, — an  honour  re- 
served expressly  for  Protestant  stu- 
dents,— he  at  length  succeeded  in 
appeasing  the  trepidations  of  the  two 
Ministers,  and  establishing  the  facts, 
that,being  a  Protestant  gentleman  by 
birth,  he  was  not  a  Jesuit,  and  being 
educated  in  the  Irish  University  for 
the  bar,  he  was  not  educated  for  a 
priest  at  St  Omers. 

But  it  may  be  easily  conceived 
that  this  rapidity  of  suspicion  was 
not  palatable  to  the  feelings  of  a  man 
like  its  object.  He  instantly  retort- 
ed upon  the  Premier ;  and  declared 
that  his  retaining  office  was  thence- 
forth incompatible  with  his  feelings; 
that  suspicion  so  easily  roused  and 
so  readily  adopted,  would  naturally 
introduce  reserve  into  their  inter- 
course; and  that  conceiving  a  half 
confidence  to  be  worse  than  none, 
he  must  immediately  resign.  The 
Marquis  listened,  but  he  was  an  old 
English  gentleman.  The  dignity  of 
conscious  spirit  and  virtue  in  Burke 
attracted  only  his  applause.  He  de- 
sired that  the  subject  should  be  en- 
tirely forgotten,  professed  himself 
more  than  ever  gratified  by  the  man- 
liness of  his  conduct,  and  refused  to 
hear  of  his  resignation.  Burke,  of 
course,  gave  way  to  this  generous 
refusal,  and  proved  himself  worthy 
of  the  most  perfect  confidence,  by 
his  zeal  and  services  during  the  life 
of  his  noble  friend,  and  by  many  an 
eloquent  tribute  to  his  grave.  In 
one  of  his  speeches  in  Parliament, 
several  years  after  the  death  of  the 
Marquis,  he  thus  feelingly  alluded 
to  his  appointment  and  his  patron : — 

"  In  the  year  sixty-five,  being  in 
a  very  private  station,  far  enough 
from  any  idea  of  business,  and  not 
having  the  honour  of  a  seat  in  this 
House,  it  was  my  fortune,  unknow- 
ing and  unknown  to  the  then  Minis- 
try, by  the  intervention  of  a  common 


292 


Edmund  Burke. 


[March, 


friend,  to  become  connected  with  a 
very  noble  person  at  the  head  of  the 
Treasury  department.  It  was  indeed 
in  a  situation  of  little  rank  and  of  no 
consequence,  suitable  to  the  medio- 
crity of  my  talents  and  pretensions; 
but  a  situation  near  enough  to  ena- 
ble me  to  see,  as  well  as  others,  what 
was  going  on.  And  I  did  see  in  this 
noble  person  such  sound  principles, 
such  an  enlargement  of  mind,  such 
clear  and  sagacious  sense,  and  such 
unshaken  fortitude,  as  bound  me,  as 
well  as  others  belter  than  me,  by  an 
inviolable  attachment  to  him  from 
that  time  forward." 

The  new  Ministry  opened  the  ses- 
sion of  Parliament  on  the  14th  of 
January,  1766.  Burke  immediately 
shewed  the  value  of  his  accession. 
His  first  speech  was  on  American 
affairs,  and  his  force,  fancy,  and  in- 
formation, astonished  the  House. 
Pitt,  (Lord  Chatham,)  whose  praise 
was  fame,  followed  him  in  the  de- 
bate, and  pronounced  a  panegyric 
(a  most  unusual  condescension)  on 
the  new  orator.  He  observed  that 
"  the  young  member  had  proved  him- 
self a  very  able  advocate.  He  had 
himself  intended  to  enter  at  length 
into  the  details,  but  he  had  been  an- 
ticipated with  so  much  ingenuity  and 
eloquence,  that  there  was  little  left 
for  him  to  say.  He  congratulated 
him  on  his  success,  and  his  friends 
on  the  value  of  the  acquisition  which 
they  had  made." 

The  stirring  times  through  which 
we  have  passed,  and  the  still  more 
stirring  times  which  seem  to  lie  be- 
fore us,  throw  an  air  of  lightness 
over  transactions  deemed  momen- 
tous in  the  days  of  our  fathers.  The 
last  quarter  of  a  century  shoots  up 
between  like  the  pillar  of  the  Is- 
raelites, covering  all  behind  us  with 
cloud,  and  all  before  us  with  flame. 
We  have  become  accustomed  to  a 
larger  wielding  of  power  for  larger 
consequences, — not  armies  but  na- 
tions marching  into  the  field — not  em- 
pires but  continents  convulsed  with 
overthrow,  or  rejoicing  in  the  frac- 
ture of  their  chains, — conspiracies  of 
kingdoms,  and  triumphs  of  the  world. 
To  us  the  strifes  of  domestic  party, 
which  excited  the  passions  of  our 
ancestors,  have  the  look  of  child's 
play ;  we  hear  the  angry  declama- 
tion and  the  prophetic  menace,  with 
something  not  far  from  scorn  for  the 


men  who  uttered  and  the  men  who 
believed.     The  whole  has  too  much 
the  air  of  a  battle  on  the  stage.  And 
it  must  be  acknowledged  that  the 
mimic  spirit    of    the  hostility  was 
well  authenticated  in  the  perpetual 
changes  of  the  actors,  in  the  unhesi- 
tating shiftings  of  their  costume,  in 
their  rapid  transitions  from  banner  to 
banner,  in  their  adoption  night  after 
ni^ht  of  new  characters,  and  their 
being  constant  to  nothing  but  a  de- 
termination to  be  always  before  the 
public,  until  age   or  national  con- 
tempt drove  them  from  the  scene. 
But  other  things  and  other  times  are 
in  reserve  for  their  offspring.     We 
see  the  gathering  of  storms  that  shall 
try  the  strength  of  every  institution 
of  England  and  mankind.  A  new  evil 
has  been  let  loose  upon  the  earth, 
from  a  darker  source  than  any  that 
the  timid  crimes  or  colourless  fol- 
lies of  past  ages  ever  opened.  French 
Jacobinism  has  spread  through  the 
world.     Its  Babel  was  cast  down  in 
France,  but  the  fall  has  diminished 
nothing  of  its  malignity,  and  nothing 
of    its    power.      Its    confusion    of 
tongues  there  has  only  inducted  it 
into  the  knowledge  of  every  lan- 
guage on  earth,  and  the  scattered 
strength  of  atheism  and  revolt  has 
gone  forth  to  propagate  the  kingdom 
of  violence,  and  the  idolatry  of  the 
passions,  round  the  globe.    The  mul- 
titude in  every  quarter  of  Europe 
are  already  in  the  hands  of  Jacobin- 
ism. A  spirit  of  fantastic  and  scorn- 
ful innovation  is  at  this  time  abroad, 
marshalling  every  casual  discontent 
into  its  levy  against  the  liberties  and 
thrones  of  all  nations;  every  com- 
plaint of  idleness,  of  folly,  of  for- 
tune;   of  the  common    chances   of 
nature;  even  scarcity,  disease,  the 
simple  inclemencies  of  the  seasons, 
swell  the  same  muster-roll  of  grie- 
vances with  misgovernment;   until 
the  signal  is  given,  and  with  rebellion 
in  the  van,  and  rapine  in  the  rear,  the 
whole    sullen    battalion    is    moved 
against  the  last  refuges  of  law,  go- 
vernment, and  religion.  Unless  some 
hand  mightier  than  that  of  human 
championship  drive  back  the  temp- 
ter to  his  dungeon,  the  ruin  of  all 
that  deserves   our  homage   is    ine- 
vitable.    The  rise  or  fall  of  rival  ad- 
ministrations will  then  cease  to  be 
a  matter  of  moment  to  any  living  be- 
ing. Be  their  merits  what  they  may, 


1633.] 


Edmund  Burke. 


293 


they  will  hold  their  power  but  by 
the  caprice  of  the  crowd.  If  they 
are  virtuous,  they  will  but  raise  the 
scaffold  for  themselves ;  if  they  are 
vi  -ious,  they  will  but  wash  it  with 
the  blood  of  others.  All  the  old  ge- 
nerous impulses  to  public  service, 
all  the  glowing  and  lofty  aspirations 
which  gave  men  wings  in  their  as- 
cent up  the  steeps  of  honour,  and 
m;ide  the  ruggedness  of  the  height, 
and  the  tempests  on  its  brow,  only 
dearer  portions  of  the  triumph,  will 
be  at  an  end  ;  there  will  be  but  one 
motive  to  labour,  pelf  and  lust;  one 
check  to  treason,  fear.  Successive 
administrations  will  be  gathered  and 
du  solved  with  the  rapidity  of  a  sno  w- 
ba  1.  Their  rise  and  progress  will  be 
no  more  noted,  and  no  more  worth 
be  ing  noted,  than  the  floating  of  bub- 
bles down  the  stream.  The  names 
of  Whig  and  Tory  will  be  equally 
obnoxious,  or  equally  forgotten.  One 
great  faction  will  absorb  all.  A  hun- 
dred-headed democracy  will  usurp 
thv  functions  of  government,  and 
tui  n  ministers  into  clerks,  and  cabi- 
net s  into  bureaus  for  registering  the 
plunder,  or  tribunals  for  shedding 
the  blood  of  the  nation.  Is  this  an 
imaginary  picture  of  the  rule  of  the 
multitude?  Or  is  it  some  sullen  rem- 
nant dug  up  from  the  sepulchres, 
where  the  crimes  of  antiquity  lie, 
fortunately  hid  from  the  world  ?  Is 
it  not  even  a  creation  of  our  own 
day,  is  not  its  fiery  track  felt  still 
across  every  field  of  France  ?  We 
there  saw  a  power,  which  had  no 
name  in  courts  or  cabinets,  start  up 
with  the  swiftness  of  an  exhalation, 
and  spread  death  through  the  state. 
England  was  saved ;  over  her  a  great 
protection  was  extended.  A  man  of 
the  qualities  that  are  made  for  the 
higii  exigencies  of  empires,  guided 
her  councils,  'and  appealing  to  the 
memories  and  the  virtues  of  the 
country,  rescued  the  constitution. 
Let  the  successors  to  his  power  be 
the  successors  to  his  intrepidity,  and, 
no  matter  by  what  name  they  are 
known,  we  shall  honour  them.  No 
voh  e  of  ours  shall  call  their  triumph 
in  question,  or  be  fretfully  raised  in 
the  general  acclamation  that  follows 
thei  •  car  to  the  temple  jof  victory. 
But  the  time  for  the  old  feeble  com- 
plia  ices  is  past  in  every  kingdom  of 
Europe.  The  time  for  stern  deter- 

XXXJII.    NO.  CCV. 


mination,  prompt  vigour,  sleepless 
vigilance,  and  sacred  fidelity, is  come. 
The  materials  of  revolt  are  gathered 
and  heaped  high,  and  ferment  in 
every  province  of  the  Continent. 
We  know  the  conflagration  that  is 
prepared  at  home,  we  have,  heard 
the  insolent  menace  of  the  hundred 
thousands  that  are  to  march  with 
banners  flying  from  our  manufactu- 
ring towns  to  meet  the  insurgent 
million  of  the  capital,  and  concoct 
laws  for  King,  ministers,  and  nation, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  pike.  But 
we  know,  too,  how  such  menaces 
were  met  before;  how  the  throne 
was  strengthened  by  the  very  blast 
that  was  to  scatter  its  fragments 
through  the  world  ;  how  the  temple, 
instead  of  a  ruin,  was  turned  into 
an  asylum  for  the  grateful  virtues 
of  the  land  ;  how  the  national  terror 
was  transmuted  into  valour  and  pa- 
triotism ;  and  even  in  the  rolling  of 
the  thunders  that  still  shook  the 
Continent,  England  saw  but  the 
agency  of  a  power  above  man,  armed 
for  the  preservation  of  her  empire. 

Burke's  early  distinction  in  Par- 
liament was  the  result  of  a  mind 
remarkably  constituted  for  public 
effort ;  but  it  was  also  the  result  of 
that  active  and  masculine  diligence 
which  characterised  him  through 
life.  Contemplating  statesmanship 
as  holding  the  highest  rank  of  intel- 
lectual pursuits,  and  not  unnaturally 
excited  by  the  lustre  of  its  rewards, 
he  had  from  an  early  period  applied 
himself  to  the  study  of  politics;  as 
he  advanced  nearer  to  the  confines 
of  public  life,  he  had  adopted  the 
practical  means  of  exercise  in  speak- 
ing, in  some  instances  at  debating 
clubs,  of  attending  the  debates  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  of  making 
himself  acquainted  with  the  princi-* 
pal  subjects  which  were  likely  to 
attract  discussion.  Such  was  his 
diligence,  that  on  the  subject  which 
must  have  been  the  most  repulsive 
to  his  soaring  mind,  the  details  of 
the  commercial  system,  he  was  soon 
conceived  to  be  among  the  best  in- 
formed men  in  England. 

This  was  the  day  of  ministerial 
revolution — cabinets  were  abortions. 
The  reign  had  commenced  with  an 
unpopular  ministry,  solely  sustained 
by  the  character  of  the  monarch. 
But  no  ministry  can  stand  long  on 


•294 


Edmund  Burke. 


[March, 


any  strength  but  its  own.  The  King, 
weary  of  upholding  the  Bute  cabinet 
against  its  original   tendency  to  go 
down,  at  length  cast  it  off,  arid  it  sank 
never  to  rise  again.     The  Grenville 
ministry  succeeded  to  its  place,  and 
its  unpopularity.      It  was  charged 
with  the  Bute    principles  without 
their    palliatives,    with   purchasing 
place  by  the  spoils  of  the  people,  with 
crushing  the  national  liberties  with 
one  hand,  while  it  was  surrendering 
the   national   honour  to  foreigners 
with  the  other ;  of  being  a  govern- 
ment of  nepotism,  favouritism,  and 
secret  patronage,  a  Bute  ministry  iti 
masquerade.    The  general  outcry  at 
once  demanded  its  overthrow,  and 
the  restoration  of  Pitt.     The  King, 
with  a  submissiveness  which  fully 
contradicts  the  charges  of  obstinacy, 
now  offered  the  government  to  the 
man  of  the  popular  choice.     Burke, 
in  a  letter  to  the  celebrated  Flood, 
written  in  1765,  with  admirable  saga- 
city, narrates  the  course  of  the  nego- 
tiation, and  almost  predicts  its  results. 
"  There  is  a  strong  probability  that 
new  men  will  come  in,  and  not  im- 
probably with  new  ideas.     There  is 
no  doubt  that  there  is  a  fixed  reso- 
lution to  get  rid  of  them  all,  (unless 
perhaps  of  Gren-ville,)  butprincipally 
of  the  Duke  of  Bedford.  So  that  you 
will  have  much  more  reason  to  be 
surprised  to  find  the  ministry  stand- 
ing by  the  end  of  the  next  week,  than 
toliear  of  their  entire  removal."  His 
idea  of  Lord  Chatham  is  curious, 
and   the  event  shewed   his  know- 
ledge of  that  memorable  man's  cha- 
racter. "Nothing  but  an  INTRACTA- 
BLE temper  in  your  friend  Pitt  can 
prevent  a  most  admirable  and  last- 
ing system  from  being  put  together. 
And  this  crisis  will  shew  whether 
pride  or  patriotism  be  predominant 
in  his  character ;  for  you  may  be  as- 
sured, he  has  it  now  in  his  power  to 
come  into  the  service  of  his  country 
upon  any  plan   of  politics   he  may 
think  proper  to  dictate,  with  great 
and  honourable  terms  for  himself  and 
every  friend  he  has  in  the  world,  and 
with  such  a  strength  of  power  as 
will   be  equal    to  every  thing  but 
absolute  despotism  over   the    King 
and  kingdom.  A  few  days  will  shew 
whether  he  will  take  this  part,  or  that 
of  continuing  on  his  back  at  Hayes 
talking  fustian!  excluded  from  all 
ministerial,  and  incapable  of  all  Par- 


liamentary service.  For  his  gout  i* 
worse  than  ever,  but  his  pride  may 
disable  him  more  than  his  gout." 

The  history  amply  confirmed  the 
conjecture.  The  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land was  sent  by  the  King  to  offer 
the  premiership  to  Pitt.  He  refused 
it.  The  ministry,  elated  by  the  dis- 
covery that  a  substitute  was  not  to 
be  found,  and  indignant  at  the  at- 
tempt to  find  one,  raised  their  de- 
mands upon  the  King.  But  the  royal 
resources  were  not  yet  exhausted, 
and  within  two  months  the  Marquis 
of  Rockingham  was  placed  at  the 
head  of  a  new  cabinet.  Burke's 
panegyric  on  the  premier  was  the 
exuberance  of  a  glowing  fancy  set 
in  motion  by  a  grateful  heart.  But 
it  was  an  error.  The  Marquis  was 
not  the  leader  to  collect  the  scattered 
.  energies  of  party,  and  shape  them 
into  system.  Compared  with  Bute, 
he  wanted  conciliation,  and  with 
Grenville,  knowledge  of  life  and 
business.  Formal  and  frigid,  rely- 
ing upon  personal  rank  for  official 
dignity,  and  for  public  confidence  on 
hereditary  prejudices,  and  forgetting 
the  new  element  which  had  risen  to 
disperse  all  such  prejudices,  he 
found  himself  suddenly  in  the  rear 
of  public  opinion,  saw  even  his  own 
adherents  starting  forward  before 
him  ;  saw  his  whole  force  broken 
up,  and  after  a  struggle  of  a  few 
months  between  pride  and  feeble- 
ness, retreated  from  a  field  into 
which  he  ought  never  to  have  enter- 
ed. Burke,  on  this  event,  probably 
as  a  matter  of  duty,  wrote  his  de- 
fence,, "  A  short  History  of  a  short 
Administration,"  a  work  of  a  few 
pages,  and  dry  as  it  was  brief.  A 
dull  epitaph,  and  only  the  fitter  for 
the  tomb  that  it  covered. 

Pitt  now  came  in  in  triumph,  with 
the  people  yoked  to  his  chariot;  the 
King  more  reluctantly,  but  nearly 
as  much  yoked  as  the  people  ;  he  ra- 
pidly formed  an  administration,  and 
commenced  his  career  with  anenergy 
which  justified  the  national  election. 
But  with  all  the  qualities  which 
could  raise  him  to  the  highest  rank, 
he  wanted  the  one  important  quality 
which  could  alone  keep  him  there. 
He  made  no  allowances  for  the  feel- 
ings, the  habits,  or  the  weaknesses 
of  other  men.  In  a  despotic  govern- 
ment, perhaps,  he  would  have  been 
minister  for  life,  and  the  admiration, 


1833.] 
if  not  the   terror, 


of  Europe; 

•learness  of  political  vision,  the  lofty 
mastery  with  which  he  grasped  the 
thunders  of  the  state,  and  the  unerr- 
ing vigour  with  which  he  launched 
t'iern,  his  natural  habits  of  command, 
his  severe  integrity,  and  his  brilliant, 
bold,  and  indefatigable  ambition, 
would  have  achieved  all  the  miracles 
el'  despotic  policy,  and  raised  a  small 
kingdom  into  power,  or  extended  a 
1  irge  one  into  European  supremacy. 
But  the  time  for  this  display  of  un- 
iiiitigated  strength  was  past  in  Eng- 
1  md.  Even  in  France,  the  era  of  the 
llichlieus  and  Mazarines  was  no 
laore.  Great  schemes  of  independ- 
ent government  were  no  longer  to  be 
created.  The  minister  must  work 
vith  such  materials  as  were  supplied 
t  >  him,  and  Chatham,  who,  under  a 
Philip  the  Second,  would  have  bro- 
ken down  the  Netherlands,  or  stifled 
their  hostility  by  throwing  the  weight 
cf  the  world  upon  them  ;  or  under  a 
Henry  the  Eighth,  would  have  alike 
t -am  pled  out  the  Reformation,  or 
swept  its  enemies  before  the  breath 
of  his  nostrils,  according  to  the  ca- 
price of  his  sovereign  ;  was  forced  in 
tie  day  of  George  the  Third,  to  con- 
cede and  compromise,  to  feel  the 
tenure  of  his  power  dependent  on 
men  whom  he  could  scarcely  stoop 
to  acknowledge  as  his  associates,  to 
ballast  the  vessel  of  the  State  with 
even  the  fragments  of  former  party, 
and,  having  done  all,  to  see  the  helm 
wrenched  from  his  hand. 

The  difficulty  of  forming  the  new 
cabinet,  and  the  disunions  which  so 
quickly  gave  the  King  the  power  of 
dissolving  it,  were  popularly  carica- 
tured by  Burke.  "He  (Lord  Chat- 
ham)  put  together  a  piece  of  joinery 
so  crossly  indented  and  whimsically 
dove-tailed,  a  cabinet  so  variously 
iilaid,  such  a  piece  of  diversified 
mosaic,  such  a  tesselated  pavement 
v  ithout  cement,  here  a  bit  of  black 
s1  one  and  there  a  bit  of  white,  pa- 
tiiots  and  courtiers,  king's  friends 
a  id  republicans,  Whigs  and  Tories, 
ti  eacherous  friends  and  open  ene- 
n  ies,  that  it  was  indeed  a  very  cu- 
rious show,  but  utterly  unsafe  to 
touch  and  unsure  to  stand  on.  The 
c  illeagues  whom  he  had  assorted  at 
tie  same  board,  stared  at  each  other, 
a  id  were  obliged  to  ask, — Sir,  your 
n  ime  ?  Sir,  you  have  the  advantage 
01  me. — Mr  Such- a- one — I  beg  a 


Edmund  Burke.  295 

his  thousand  pardons.  I  venture  to  say 
that  it  did  so  happen,  that  persons 
had  a  single  office  divided  between 
them,  who  had  never  spoken  to  each 
other  in  their  lives." 

Burke,  on  the  fall  of  his  friends, 
withdrew  for  a  few  months  to  Ire- 
land. He  felt,  with  a  just  sense  of 
his  own  reputation,  that  overtures 
would  probably  be  made  to  him,  and, 
with  a  sense  of  delicacy  sufficiently 
remarkable  in  a  young  statesman, 
determining  to  avoid  even  the  impu- 
tation of  waiting  to  be  purchased,  he 
took  his  departure  within  two  days 
of  the  ministerial  retirement.  But 
the  changes  of  cabinets  were  now 
comparatively  unimportant  to  his  for- 
tunes. He  had  shewn  what  he  was, 
and  he  could  be  forgotten  no  more. 
He  had  now  risen  to  the  surface,  and 
no  fall  of  ministers  could  carry  him 
down  with  them  again.  Once  set 
floating  on  the  tide  of  public  affairs, 
he  had  within  him  a  buoyancy  that 
nothing  could  overweigh;  the  pro- 
bability even  was,  that  every  swell 
and  agitation  of  the  surface  would 
only  lift  him  still  higher,  and  make 
his  qualities  more  conspicuous  in  the 
general  struggle.  The  impression 
made  on  his  friends  in  London,  is 
strikingly  recorded  in  a  letter  of 
Johnson  to  Langton,  in  1766.  "  We 
have  the  loss  of  Burke's  company 
since  he  has  been  engaged  in  public 
business,  in  which  he  has  gained 
more  reputation  than  perhaps  any 
man  at  his  first  appearance  ever 
gained  before.  He  made  two  speeches 
in  the  House,  for  repealing  the  Stamp 
Act,  which  were  publicly  commend- 
ed by  Mr  Pitt,  and  have  filled  the 
town  with  wonder.  Burke  is  a  great 
man,  and  is  expected  soon  to  attain 
civil  greatness."  The  Chatham  Mi- 
nistry followed  the  fate  of  its  pre- 
decessors. Raised  in  defiance  of 
the  throne,  it  was  naked  on  the  side 
of  prerogative  ;  and  while  it  was  en- 
gaged in  defending  itself  from  the 
new  hostility  of  the  people,  it  received 
a  blow  against  which  it  had  made  no 
preparation;  the  ministry  fell  under 
the  royal  hand.  Pitt,  too  proud  to 
capitulate,  and  deserted  by  his  troops, 
gave  up  the  contest  at  once,  and  left 
his  power  to  be  partitioned  among 
his  deserters.  The  Duke  of  Grafton 
was  placed  at  the  head  of  a  cabinet 
formed  of  recreants  of  all  parties ; 
and  one  of  the  most  ineffective  and 


296 


Edmund  Burke. 


[March, 


characterless  cabinets  that  England 
ever  saw,  began  its  operations,  with 
a  populace  inflamed  to  the  most  ex- 
traordinary excesses,  with  a  failing 
finance,  a  general  convulsion  of  the 
commercial  system,  and  the  whole 
body  of  the  colonies  in  uproar,  hurl- 
ing scorn  on  the  mother  country,  de- 
nying and  defying  her  laws,  disputing 
her  rights,  and  with  the  same  rebelli- 
ous banners  waving  from  their  shores 
to  repel  the  authority  of  England,  and 
welcome  the  alliance  of  her  enemies. 

Burke  was  now  the  acknowledged 
leader  of  that  part  of  opposition  wh  ich 
professed  the  principles  of  the  Mar- 
quis of  Rockingham ;  Mr  Grenville, 
of  thatpart  which  had  fallen  with  him- 
self from  power.  No  two  men  could 
have  fewer  conceptions  in  common. 
Differing  in  all  points  of  policy,  they 
were  kept  together  only  by  their 
hostility  to  the  weak  and  wavering 
cabinet,  whose  overthrow  they  hour- 
ly contemplated.  At  length,  a  pam- 
phlet entitled,  "  The  present  State  of 
the  Nation,"  written  by  either  Mr 
Grenville,  or  his  former  secretary 
Mr  Knox,  under  his  dictation,  and 
containing  some  sarcasms  on  the 
Rockingham  Ministry,  brought  Burke 
into  action.  He  flew  to  the  defence 
of  a  cause  which  he  considered  his 
own,  and  by  his  "  Observations  on  a 
late  State  of  the  Nation,"  completely 
retorted  the  charges,  and  added  to 
his  fame  all  that  profound  thought, 
exact  details  of  the  national  interests, 
and  animated  eloquence  could  give. 
But  the  chief  excellence  of  all  this 
eminent  person's  works  is,  that  they 
are  for  the  general  experience  of 
mankind ;  they  are  not  the  artificial 
ornaments  of  the  hour,  but  instinct 
with  a  spirit  of  life,  which  makes 
them  flourish  as  green  as  ever  from 
generation  to  generation.  Rapid 
and  brilliant  as  his  conceptions  rise 
from  the  passion  of  the  moment,  and 
transitory  as  may  be  the  circum- 
stances of  their  origin,  they  have  in 
them  nothing  transitory,  nothing  of 
the  meteor ;  they  take  their  place  at 
a  height  above  the  vapours  of  this 
dim  world,  and  minister  illumination 
to  every  age  to  come.  He  thus  speaks 
of  the  fatal  facility  with  which  pub- 
lic men  slide  into  apostasy — (The 
Bedford  party  had  at  this  period  se- 
ceded from  their  old  friends,  and 
joined  administration) — 

"  It  is  possible  to  draw,  even  from 


the  very  prosperity  of  ambition,  ex- 
amples of  terror,  and  motives  to 
compassion.  1  believe  the  instances 
are  exceedingly  rare,  of  men  imme- 
diately passing  over  the  clear,  marked 
line  of  virtue,  into  declared  vice  and 
corruption.  There  are  a  sort  of  middle 
tints  and  shades  between  the  two  ex- 
tremes ;  there  is  something  uncertain 
on  the  confines  of  the  two  empires, 
which  they  first  pass  through,  and 
which  renders  the  change  easy  and 
imperceptible.  There  are  even  a  sort 
of  splendid  impositions,  so  well  con- 
trived, that  at  the  very  time  when 
the  path  of  rectitude  is  quitted  for 
ever,  men  seem  to  be  advancing  into 
some  higher  and  nobler  road  of  pub- 
lic conduct.  Not  that  such  imposi- 
tions are  strong  enough  in  them- 
selves; but  that  a  powerful  interest, 
often  concealed  from  those  whom  it 
affects,  works  at  the  bottom  and  se- 
cures the  operation.  Men  are  thus 
debauched  away  from  those  legiti- 
mate connexions,  which  they  had 
formed  on  a  judgment,  early  perhaps, 
but  sufficiently  mature,  and  wholly 
unbiassed." 

With  what  countenance  might 
some  of  the  apostates  who  carried 
the  Catholic  question  look  in  this  mir- 
ror held  up  to  them  by  the  frowning 
genius  of  Burke  !  With  what  shame 
and  remorse  might  those  who  have  ' 
still  the  power  of  feeling,  see  the 
features  stamped  by  that  guiltiest  of 
all  tergiversations  !  With  what  ter- 
ror might  those  who  are  beyond 
shame  see  their  crime  blazoned  and 
thrown  into  hideous  light,  for  the 
scorn  and  warning  of  all  posterity ! 
The  only  distinction  between  Burke 
and  the  reality  is,  that  the  apostasy 
which  is  long  to  wreak  its  retribu- 
tion on  England,  had  none  of  the 
flowery  descants,  the  smooth  and 
stealing  lapses,  the  gentle  labyrin- 
thine circuits  into  vice.  There  was 
no  gradation.  The  treachery  did  not 
condescend  to  wear  a  mask,  nor  the 
wooer  to  desire  one;  the  crime  was 
embraced  in  all  its  deformity,  and 
the  criminals  boasted  of  the  open- 
ness of  the  intrigue,  and  made  a  re- 
putation of  the  audacity  with  which 
they  abandoned  every  sense  of  per- 
sonal and  public  honour. 

The  picture  of  the  bond  slaves  of 
party,  who  begin  by  sacrificing  their 
principles,  and  then  sacrifice  their 
friends,  is  incomparable.  "  People 


1833.] 


Edmund  Burke. 


297 


not  well  grounded  in  the  principles 
of  public  morality,  find  a  set  of 
maxims  in  office  ready  made  for 
them,  which  they  assume  as  natural- 
ly and  inevitably  as  any  of  the  in- 
signia or  instruments  of  the  situa- 
tion. A  certain  tone  of  the  solid  and 
practical  is  immediately  acquired. 
Every  former  profession  of' public 
spirit  is  to  be  considered  as  a  de- 
bauch of  youth,  or,  at  least,  as  a  vi- 
sionary scheme  of  unattainable  per- 
fection. The  very  idea  of  consisten- 
cy is  exploded.  The  convenience  of 
the  business  of  the  day  is  to  furnish 
the  principle  for  doing  it.  Then  the 
whole  ministerial  cant  is  quickly  got 
by  heart.  The  prevalence  of  faction  is 
to  be  lamented.  All  opposition  is  to 
be  regarded  as  the  effect  of  envy  and 
disappointed  ambition.  All  admini- 
strations are  declared  to  be  alike. 
Flattering  themselves  that  their 
power  is  become  necessary  to  the 
support  of  all  order  and  government, 
every  thing  which  tends  to  the  sup- 
port of  that  power  is  sanctified,  and 
becomes  a  part  of  the  public  interest. 

"  Growing  every  day  more  formed 
:o  affairs,  and  better  knit  in  their 
imbs;  when  the  occasion  (now  their 
jnly  rule)  requires  it,  they  become 
capable  of  sacrificing  those  very  per- 
sons to  whom  they  had  before  sacri- 
iced  their  original  friends.  It  is 
:iow  only  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
business  to  alter  an  opinion,  or  to 
betray  a  connexion.  Frequently  re- 
linquishing one  set  of  men  and  adopt- 
ing another,  they  grow  into  a  total 
indifference  to  human  feeling,  as  they 
had  before  to  moral  obligation,  un- 
lil,  at  length,  no  one  original  impres- 
i-ion  remains  on  their  minds,  every 
principle  is  obliterated,  every  senti- 
i  aent  effaced. 

"  In  the  meantime,  that  power 
vhich  all  these  changes  aimed  at 
securing,  remains  still  as  tottering 
{ nd  uncertain  as  ever.  They  are  de- 
livered up  into  the  hands  of  those 
who  feel  neither  respect  for  their 
I  ersons,  nor  gratitude  for  their  fa- 
^  ours ;  who  are  put  about  them  in 
appearance  to  serve,  in  reality  to 
£  overn  them ;  and  when  the  signal 
i  >  given,  to  abandon  and  destroy 
t  lem,  in  order  to  set  up  some  new 
dupe  of  ambition,  who  in  his  turn 
jsa  rd  crj>stl  ofiw  fX'TB(J 
>3m£3  i  jn^5 

.     f.  ••-;•• 


is  to  be  abandoned  and  destroyed. 
Thus  living  in  a  state  of  continual 
uneasiness  and  ferment,  softened 
only  by  the  miserable  consolation  of 
giving  now  and  then  preferments  to 
those  for  whom  they  have  no  value, 
they  are  unhappy  in  their  situation, 
yet  find  it  impossible  to  resign  ;  un- 
til at  length,  soured  in  temper,  and 
disappointed  by  the  very  attainment 
of  their  ends,  in  some  angry,  in  some 
haughty,  in  some  negligent  moment, 
they  incur  the  displeasure  of  those 
upon  whom  they  have  rendered  their 
very  being  dependent.  Then,  *  pe- 
rierunt  tempora  longi  servitii  ;'  they 
are  cast  off  with  scorn,  emptied  of 
all  natural  character,  of  all  intrinsic 
worth,  of  all  essential  dignity,  and 
deprived  of  every  consolation  of 
friendship.  Having  rendered  all  re- 
treat to  old  principles  ridiculous, 
and  to  old  regards  impracticable  ; 
not  being  able  to  counterfeit  plea- 
sure, or  to  discharge  discontent, 
it  is  more  than  a  chance,  that  in  the 
delirium  of  the  last  stage  of  their  dis- 
tempered power,  they  make  an  in- 
sane political  testament,  by  which 
they  throw  all  their  remaining  weight 
and  consequence  into  the  scale  of 
their  declared  enemies,  and  avowed 
authors  of  their  destruction.  Thus 
they  finish  their  course.  Had  it  been 
possible,  that  the  whole,  or  even  a 
great  part  of  those  effects  on  their 
fortunes,  could  have  appeared  to 
them  in  their  first  departure  from 
the  right,  it  is  certain  that  they  would 
have  rejected  every  temptation  with 
horror." 

We  shall  now  fiave  to  follow  Burke 
through  more  various  and  elevated 
transactions;  in  which  he  was  no 
longer  the  contemplatist,  but  a  great 
leader  of  the  contest.  The  sounds 
of  war  and  anarchy  were  coming 
from  America,  they  were  reverberat- 
ing from  Ireland,  they  were  pre- 
paring to  be  answered  by  a  tenfold 
roar  from  France  ;  every  principle 
of  national  stability  was  to  b.e  tried 
in  its  turn.  The  character  of  Religion, 
Loyalty,  and  Government,  was  to 
undergo  the  fiercest  ordeal  known 
in  history,  and  at  every  trial,  the  ge- 
nius and  wisdom  of  Burke  were  to 
be  among  the  most  conspicuous 
guides  of  the  land.  niEn\  biotfasfl 
bfo  iterfo  «IOT*  bsfasrv 


- 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[March, 


TOM  CRINGLE  S  LOU. 

CHAP.  XIX. 


BRINGING  UP  LEE  WAY. 


"  Aud  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean,  and  my  joy, 

Of  youthful  sports,  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne  like  thy  bubbles  onward— From  a  boy, 

I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers.     They  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 

Made  them  a  terror,  'twas  a  childish  fear  ; 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 

And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane." 

Childe  Harold. 


Heaven's  verge  extreme 


Reverberates  the  bombs  descending  star, 

And  sounds  that  mingled  laugh,  and  shout  and  scream> 

To  freeze  the  Wood,  in  one  discordant  jar, 

Rung  to  the  peeling  thunderbolts  oi  war. 

#  *  *  * 

While  rapidly  the  marksman's  shot  prevailed, 
And  aye  as  if  for  death  some  lonely  trumpet  wailed." 

Gertrude  of  Wyoming. 


THE  puncture  in  Mr  Bang's  neck 
from  the  boarding-pike  was  not  very 
deep,  still  it  was  an  ugly  lacerated 
wound  ;  and  if  he  had  not,  to  use  his 
own  phrase,  been  somewhat  bull- 
necked,  there  is  no  saying  what  the 
consequences  might  have  been. 

"  Tom,  my  boy,"  said  he,  after 
the  doctor  was  done  with  him,  "  I 
am  nicely  coopered  now — nearly  as 
good  as  new — a  little  stiffish  or  so — 
lucky  to  have  such  a  comfortable 
coating  of  muscle,  otherwise  the 
carotid  would  have  been  in  danger. 
So  come  here,  and  take  your  turn, 
and  I  will  hold  the  candle." 

It  was  dead  calm,  and  as  I  had  de- 
sired the  cabin  to  be  used  as  a  cock- 
pit, it  was  at  this  time  full  of  poor 
fellows,  waiting  to  have  their  wounds 
dressed,  whenever  the  surgeon  could 
go  below.  The  lantern  was  brought, 
and,  sitting  down  on  a  wadding 
tub,  I  stripped.  The  ball,  which  I 
knew  had  lodged  in  the  fleshy  part 
of  my  left  shoulder,  had  first  of  all 
struck  me  right  over  the  collar- 
bone, from  which  it  had  glanced, 
and  then  buried  itself  in  the  muscle 
of  the  arm,  just  below  the  skin, 
where  it  stood  out,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  sloe  both  in  shape  and  colour.  The 
collar-bone  was  much  shattered,  and 
my  chest  was  a  good  deal  shaken, 
and  greatly  bruised ;  but  I  had  per- 
ceived nothing  of  all  this  at  the  time 
I  was  shot;  the  sole  perceptible  sen- 
sation was  the  pinch  in  the  shoulder, 
as  already  described.  I  was  much 
surprised  (every  man  who  has  been 


seriously  hit  being  entitled  to  expa- 
tiate) with  the  extreme  smallness 
of  the  puncture  in  the  skin  through 
which  the  ball  had  entered;  you 
could  not  have  forced  a  pea  through 
it,  and  there  was  scarcely  any  flow 
of  blood. 

"  A  very  simple  affair  this,  sir," 
said  the  surgeon,  as  he  made  a*  mi- 
nute incision  right  over  the  ball,  the 
instrument  cutting  into  the  cold  dull 
lead  with  a  cheep,  and  then  press- 
ing his  fingers,  one  on  each  side 
of  it,  it  jumped  out  nearly  into 
Aaron's  mouth. 

"  A  pretty  sugar-plum,  Tom  —  if 
that  collar-bone  of  yours  had  not 
been  all  the  harder,  you  would  have 
been  embalmed  in  a  gazette,  to  use 
your  own  favourite  expression.  But, 
my  good  boy,  your  bruise  on  the 
chest  is  serious  ;  you  must  go  to  bed, 
and  take  care  of  yourself." 

Alas  !  there  was  no  bed  for  me  to 
o  to.  The  cabin  was  occupied  by 

e  wounded,  where  the  surgeon 
was  still  at  work.  Out  of  our  small 
crew,  nine  had  been  killed,  and  ele- 
ven wounded,  counting  passengers 
—  twenty  out  of  forty-  two  —  a  fearful 
proportion. 

At  length  the  night  fell. 

"  Pearl,  send  some  of  the  people 
aft,  and  get  a  spare  square-sail  from 
the  sail  maker,  and"  — 

"  Will  the  awning  not  do,  sir?" 

"  To  be  sure  it  will,"  said  I—  it 
did  not  occur  to  me.  "  Get  the 
awning  triced  up  to  the  stancheons, 
and  tell  my  steward  to  get  the  beds 


g 
th 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


299 


m  deck — a  few  flags  to  shut  us  in 
will  make  the  thing  complete." 

[t  was  done ;  and  while  the  sharp 
^ries  of  the  wounded,  who  were  im- 
mediately under  the  knife  of  the  doc- 
tor, and  the  low  moans  of  those 
whose  wounds  had  heen  dressed, 
jr  were  waiting  their  turn,  reached 
jur  ears  distinctly  through  the  small 
*ky-light,  our  beds  were  arranged 
on  deck,  under  the  shelter  of  the 
iwning,  a  curtain  of  flags  veiling 
our  quarters  from  the  gaze  of  the 
crew.  Paul  Gelid  and  Pepperpot 
occupied  the  starboard  side  of  the 
little  vessel ;  Aaron  Bang  and  my- 
self the  larboard.  By  this  time  it 
was  close  on  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  I  had  merely  looked  in  on 
our  friends,  ensconced  as  they  were 
in  their  temporary  hurricane  house  ; 
for  I  had  more  work  than  I  could 
accomplish  on  deck  in  repairing  da- 
mages. Most  of  our  standing,  and 
great  part  of  our  running  rigging, 
had  been  shot  away,  which  the  tired 
crew  were  busied  in  splicing  and 
knotting,  the  best  way  they  could. 
Our  main-mast  was  very  badly 
wounded  close  to  the  deck.  It  was 
fished  as  scientifically  as  our  cir- 
cumstances admitted.  The  fore- 
mast had  fortunately  escaped — it 
was  untouched ;  but  there  were  no 
fewer  than  thirteen  round  shot 
through  our  hull,  five  of  them  being 
between  wind  and  water. 

When  every  thing  had  been  done 
which  ingenuity  could  devise,  or  the 
most  determined  perseverance  exe- 
cute, I  returned  to  our  canvass-shed 
aft,  and  found  Mr  Wagtail  sitting  on 
the  deck,  arranging,  with  the  help  of 
my  steward,  the  supper  equipment 
to  the  best  of  his  ability.  Our  meal, 
as  may  easily  be  imagined,  was  fru- 
gal in  the  extreme— salt  beef,  bis- 
cuit, some  roasted  yams,  and  cold 
grog — some  of  Aaron's  excellent 
rum.  But  I  mark  it  down,  that  I 
question  if  any  one  of  the  four  who 
partook  of  it,  ever  made  so  hearty 
a  supper  before  or  since.  We  work- 
ed away  at  the  junk  until  we  had 
polished  the  bone,  clean  as  an  ele- 
phant's tusk,  and  the  roasted  yams 
disappeared  in  bushels-full ;  while 
the  old  rum  sank  in  the  bottle,  like 
mercury  in  the  barometer,  indica- 
ting an  approaching  gale. 

"  I  say,  Tom,"  quoth  Aaron,"  how 
do  you  feel,  my  boy  ?" 


"  W7hy,  not  quite  so  buoyant  as  I 
could  wish.  To  me  it  has  been  a 
day  of  fearful  responsibility."  - 

"  And  well  it  may,"  said  he.  "  As 
for  myself,  I  go  to  rest  with  the  tre- 
mendous consciousness  that  even  I, 
who  am  not  a  professional  butcher, 
have  shed  more  than  one  fellow- 
creature's  blood — a  trembling  con- 
sideration— and  all  for  what,  Tom  ? 
You  met  a  big  ship  in  the  dark,  and 
desired  her  to  stop.  She  said  she 
would  not.  You  said/  You  shall.' — 

She  rejoined,  '  I'll  be  d d  if  I  do.' 

And  thereupon  you  set  about  com- 
pelling her  ;  and  certainly  you  have 
interrupted  her  course  to  some  pur- 
pose, at  the  trivial  cost  of  the  lives 
of  only  five  or  six  hundred  human 
beings,  whose  hearts  were  beating 
cheerily  within  these  last  six  hours, 
but  whose  bodies  are  now  food  for 
fishes." 

I  was  stung.  "  At  your  hands, 
my  dear  sir,  I  did  not  expect  this, 
and" 

"  Hush,"  said  he,  "  I  don't 
blame  you— it  is  all  right;  but  why 
will  not  the  Government  at  home 
arrange  by  treaty  that  this  nefarious 
trade  should  be  entirely  put  down  ? 
Surely  all  our  victories  by  sea  and 
land  might  warrant  our  stipulating 
for  so  much,  in  place  of  hugger-mug- 
gering with  doubtful  ill- defined  trea- 
ties, specifying  that  you  Johnny  Cra- 
peau,  and  you  Jack  Spaniard,  shall 
steal  men,  and  deal  in  human  flesh, 
in  such  and  such  a  degree  of  latitude 
only,  while,  if  you  pick  up  one  single 
slave  a  league  to  the  northward  or 
southward  of  the  prescribed  line  of 
coast,  then  we  shall  blow  you  out  of 
the  water  wherever  we  meet  you. 
Why  should  poor  devils,  who  live  in 
one  degree  of  latitude,  be  kidnap- 
ped, whilst  we  make  it  felony  to 
steal  their  immediate  neighbours?" 
Aaron  waxed  warm  as  he  proceeded 
— «*  If  slavery  be  that  Upas-tree,  un- 
der whose  baleful  shade  every  kind- 
ly feeling  in  the  human  bosom,  whe- 
ther of  master  or.  servant,  withers 
and  dies,  I  ask,  who  planted  it  ?  If 
it  possess  such  a  magical,  and  incre- 
dible, and  most  pestilential  quality, 
that  the  English  gentleman  who  shall 
be  virtuous  and  beneficent,  and  just 
in  all  his  ways,  before  he  leaves  home, 
and  after  he  returns  home,  shall,  du- 
ring his  temporary  sojourn  within  its 
influence,  have  his  warm  heart  ot 


300 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


[March, 


flesh  smuggled  out  of  his  bosom,  by 
some  hocus  pocus,  utterly  unintelli- 
gible to  any  unprejudiced  rational 
being,  or  have  it  indurated  into  the 
flint  of  the  nether  milstone,  or  frozen 
into  a  lump  of  ice" — 

"  Lord,"  ejaculated  Wagtail, "  only 
fancy  a  snow-ball  in  a  man's  sto- 
mach, and  in  Jamaica  too  !" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Waggy,  my 
love,"  continued  Aaron ;  "  if  all  this 
were  so,  I  would  again  ask,  who 
planted  it  ? — say  not  that  we  did  it — 
I  am  a  planter,  but  I  did  not  plant 
slavery.  I  found  it  growing  and 
flourishing,  and  fostered  by  the 
government,  and  made  my  nest 
amongst  the  branches  like  a  respect- 
able corbie  craw,  or  a  pelican  in  a 
wild-duck's  nest,  with  all  my  pretty 
little  tender  black  branchers  hopping 
about  me,  along  with  numberless 
other  unfortunates,  and  now  find 
that  the  tree  is  being  uprooted  by 
the  very  -hands  that  planted  and 
nourished  it,  and  seduced  me  to  live 
in  it,  and  all". 

I  laughed  aloud — "  Come,  come, 
my  dear  sir,  you  are  a  perfect  Lord 
Castlereagh  in  the  congruity  of  your 
figures.  How  the  deuce  can  any 
living  thing  exist  among  the  poison- 
ous branches  of  the  Upas-tree — or  a 
wild-duck  build" 

"  Get  along  with  your  criticism 
Tom — and  don't  laugh,  hang  it,  don't 
laugh — but  who  told  you  that  a  cor- 
bie cannot  ?" 

"  Why  there  are  no  corbies  in  Java." 

"  Pah—  botheration — there  are  pe- 
licans then ;  but  you  know  it  is  not 
an  Upas-tree,  you  know  it  is  all  a 
chimera,  and  like  the  air-drawn  dag- 
ger of  Macbeth,  that  'there  is  no 
such  thing.'  Now,  that  is  a  good 
burst,  Gelid,  my  lad,  a'u't  it?"  said 
Bang,  as  he  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
again  launched  forth. 

"  Our  Government  shall  quarrel 
about  sixpence  here  or  sixpence 
there,  of  discriminative  duty  in  a  fo- 
reign port,  while  they  have  clapt  a 
knife  to  our  throats,  and  a  flaming 
faggot  to  our  houses,  by  absurd 
edicts  and  fanatical  intermeddling 
with  our  own  colonies,  where  the 
slave-trade  has  notoriously,  and  to 
their  own  conviction,  entirely  ceased; 
while  they  will  not  put  out  their  lit- 
tle finger,  nay,  they  calmly  look  on, 
and  permit  a  traffic  utterly  repug- 


nant to  all  the  best  feelings  of  our 
nature,  and  baneful  to  an  incalcula- 
ble degree  to  our  own  West  Indian 
possessions  ;  and  the  suppression  of 
which — Lord,  what  a  thing  to  think 
of ! — has  nearly  deprived  the  world 
of  the  invaluable  services  of  me, 
Aaron  Bang,  Esquire,  Member  of 
Council  of  the  Island  of  Jamaica, 
and  Gustos  Rotulorum  Populorum 
Jig  of  the  Parish  of" 

"  Lord,"  said  Wagtail,  «  why,  the 
yam  is  not  half  done." 

"  But  the  rum  is — ah  !"  drawled 
Gelid. 

"  D— —  the  yam  and  the  rum  too," 
rapped  out  Bang.  "  Why,  you  belly- 
gods,  you  have  interrupted  such  a 
torrent  of  eloquence !" 

I  began  to  guess  that  our  friends 
were  waxing  peppery.  "  Why,  gen- 
tlemen, I  don't  know  how  you  feel, 
but  /  am  regularly  done  up — it  is 
quite  calm,  and  I  hope  we  shall  all 
sleep,  so  good-night." 

We  nestled  in,  and  the  sun  had 
risen  before  I  was  called  next  morn- 
ing^  I  hope 

"  I  rose  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 
Upon  that  morrow's  morn." 

"  On  deck,  there,"  said  I,  while 
dressing.  Mr  Peter  Swop,  one  of 
the  Firebrand's  master-mates,  and 
acting-master  of  the  Wave,  popped 
in  his  head  through  the  opening  in 
the  flags.  "  How  is  the  weather, 
Mr  Swop  ?" 

"  Calm  all  night,  sir ;  not  a  breath 
stirring,  sir." 

"Are  the  sails  shifted?"  said  I, 
"  and  the  starboard  main-shrouds 
replaced  ?'' 

"  They  are  not  yet,  sir;  the  sails 
are  on  deck,  and  the  rigging  is  now 
stretching,  and  will  be  all  ready  to 
get  over  the  mast-head  by  breakfast- 
time,  sir." 

"  How  is  her  head  ?" 

«  Why,"  rejoined  Swop,  "  it  has 
been  boxing  all  round  the  compass, 
sir,  for  these  last  twelve  hours;  at 
present  it  is  north-east." 

"  Have  we  drifted  much  since  last 
night,  Mr  Swop  ?" 

"  No,  sir — much  where  we  were, 
sir,"  rejoined  the  master. 

There  are  several  pieces  of 
wreck,  and  three  dead  bodies,  float- 
ing close  to,  sir." 

By  this  time  I  was  dressed,  and 
. 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


301 


had  gone  from  under  the  awning 
on  deck.  The  first  thing  L  did,  was 
to  glance  my  eye  over  the  nettings, 
and  there  perceived,  on  our  quarter, 
three  dead  bodies,  as  Mr  Swop  had 
said,  floating,-— one  a  white  Spaniard, 
and  the  others  the  corpses  of  two  un- 
fortunate Africans,  who  had  perish- 
ed miserably  when  the  brig  went 
down.  The  white  man's  remains, 
swollen,  as  they  were,  from  the  heat 
of  the  climate,  and  sudden  putre- 
faction consequent  thereon,  floated 
quietly  within  pistol-shot,  motionless 
and  still;  but  the  bodies  of  the  two 
negroes  were  nearly  hidden  by  the 
clustering  sea-birds  which  had  perch- 
ed on  them.  There  were  at  least  two 
dozen  shipped  on  each  carcass,  busy 
with  their  beaks  and  claws,  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  water  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  seemed 
quite  alive,  from  the  rushing  and 
walloping  of  numberless  fishes,  who 
were  tearing  the  prey  piecemeal. 
The  view  was  any  thing  but  pleasant, 
and  I  naturally  turned  my  eyes  for- 
ward to  see  what  was  going  on  in 
the  bows  of  the  schooner.  I  was 
startled  from  the  number  of  black 
faces  which  T  saw.  "  Why,  Mr  Tail- 
tackle,  how  many  of  these  poor  crea- 
tures have  we  on  board  ?" 

"  There  are  fifty-nine,  sir,  under 
hatches  in  the  forehold,"  said  Timo- 
thy, "  and  thirty-five  on  deck  ;  but  I 
hope  we  shan't  have  them  long,  sir. 
It  looks  like  a  breeze  to  windward. 
We  shall  have  it  before  long,  sir." 

At  this  moment  Mr  Bang  came  on 
deck.  "  Lord,  Tom,  I  thought  it  was 
a  flea-bite  last  night,  but,  mercy,  I 
am  as  stiff  and  sore  as  a  gentleman 
need  be.  How  do  you  feel  ?  I  see 
you  have  one  of  your  fins  in  a  sling, 
—  eh?" 

"  I  am  a  little  stiff,  certainly ;  how- 
ever, that  will  go  off;  but  come  for- 
ward here,  my  dear  sir;  come  here, 
and  look  at  this  shot-hole — saw  you 
ever  any  thing  like  that  ?" 

This  was  the  smashing  of  one  of 
our  pumps  from  a  round  shot,  the 
splinters  from  which  were  stuck  into 
the  bottom  of  the  launch,  which  over- 
hung it,  forming  really  a  figure  very 
like  the  letter  A. 

:  "  Don't  take  it  to  myself,  Tom- 
no,  not  at  all." 

At  this  moment  the  black  savages 
on  the  forecastle  discovered  our 
friend,  and  shouts  of"  Sheik  Coco- 


loo"  rent  the  skies.  Mr  Bang,  for  a 
moment,  appeared  startled,  and,  so 
far  as  I  could  judge,  he  had  forgotten 
that  part  of  his  exploit,  and  did  not 
know  what  to  make^of  it,  until  at  last 
the  actual  meaning  seemed  to  flash  on 
him,  and,  with  a  shout  of  laughter,  he 
bolted  in  through  the  opening  of  the 
flags  to  his  former  quarters  below  the 
awning.  I  descended  to  the  cabin, 
breakfast  having  been  announced, 
and  sat  down  to  our  meal,  confront- 
ed by  Paul  Gelid  and  Pepperpot 
Wagtail.  Presently  we  heard  Aaron 
sing  out,  the  small  skuttle  being 
right  overhead,  "  Pegtop,  come  here, 
Pegtop,  I  say,  help  me  on  with  my 
neckcloth — so — that  will  do  ;  now  I 
shall  go  on  deck.  Why,  Pearl,  my 
boy,  what  do  you  want  ?"  and  before 
Pearl  could  get  a  word  in,  Aaron 
continued,  "  I  say,  Pearl,  go  to  the 
other  end  of  the  ship,  and  tell  your 
Coromantee  friends  that  it  is  all  a 
humbug — that  I  am  not  the  Sultan 
Cocoloo ;  farthermore,  that  I  have 
not  a  feather  in  my  tail  like  a  palm 
branch,  of  the  truth  of  which  I  offer 
to  give  them  ocular  proof." 

Pearl  made  his  salam.  "  Oh,  sir, 
I  fear  that  we  must  not  say  too  much 
on  that  subject ;  we  have  not  irons 
for  one-half  of  them  savage  negirs  ;" 
the  fellow  was  as  black  as  a  coal 
himself;  "  and  were  they  to  be  unde- 
ceived, why,  reduced  as  our  crew  is, 
they  might  at  any  time  rise  on,  and 
massacre  the  whole  watch." 

"  The  devil !"  we  could  hear  friend 
Aaron  say ;  «'  oh,  then,  go  forward, 
and  assure  them  that  1  am  a  bigger 
ostrich  than  ever,  and  I  shall  asto- 
nish them  presently,  take  my  word 
for  it.  Pegtop,  come  here,  you 
scoundrel,"  he  continued  ;  "  I  say, 
Pegtop,  get  me  out  my  uniform 
coat," — our  friend  was  a  captain  of 
Jamaica  militia — "so — and  my  sword 
— that  will  do— and  here,  pull  off  my 
trowsers,  it  will  be  more  classic  to 
perambulate  in  my  shirt,  in  case  it 
really  be  necessary  to  persuade  them 
that  the  palm  branch  was  all  a  figure 
of  speech.  Now,  my  hat — there — 
walk  before  me,  and  fan  me  with  the 
top  of  that  herring  barrel." 

This  was  a  lid  of  one  of  the  wad- 
ding-tubs, which,  to  come  up  to  Jig- 
maree's  notions  of  neatness,  had  been 
fitted  with  covers,  and  forth  stumped 
Bang,  preceded  by  Pegtop  doing  the 
honours.  But  the  instant  he  appear- 


302 

ed  from  beneath  the  flags,  the*  same 
wild  shout  arose  from  the  captive 
slaves  forward,  who,  that  is  stich  of 
them  as  were  not  fettered,  imme- 
diately began  to  bundle  and  tumble 
round  our  friend,  rubbing  their  flat 
noses  and  woolly  heads  all  over  him, 
and  taking  hold  of  the  hem  of  his  gar- 
ment, whereby  his  personal  decency 
was  so  seriously  periled,  that  after 
an  unavailing  attempt  to  shake  them 
off,  he  fairly  bolted,  and  ran  for  shel- 
ter, x>nce  more,  under  the  awning, 
amidst  the  suppressed  mirth  of  the 
whole  crew,  Aaron  himself  laughing 
louder  than  any  of  them  all  the 
while.  "  1  say,  Tom,  and  fellow- 
sufferers,"  quoth  he,  after  he  had  run 
to  earth  under  the  awning,  and  look- 
ing down  the  scuttle  into  the  cabin 
where  we  were  at  breakfast,  "  how 
am  I  to  get  into  the  cabin  ?  if  I  go 
out  on  the  quarter-deck  but  one 
arm's  length,  in  order  to  reach  the 
companion,  these  barbarians  will  be 
at  me  again.  Ah,  I  see" — 

Whereupon,  without  more  ado,hev 
stuck  his  legs  down  through  the 
small  hatch  right  over  the  breakfast 
table,  with  the  intention  of  descend- 
ing, and  the  first  thing  he  accom- 
plished, was  to  pop  his  foot  into  a 
large  dish  of  scalding  hominy,  or 
hasty-pudding,  made  of  Indian  corn 
meal,  with  which  Wagtail  was  in  the 
habit  of  commencing  his  stowage  at 
breakfast.  But  this  proving  too  hot 
for  comfort,  he  instantly  drew  it  out, 
and  in  his  attempt  to  reascend,  he 
stuck  his  bespattered  toe  into  Paul 
Gelid's  mouth.  "  Oh  !  oh !"  exclaim- 
ed Paul,  while  little  Wagtail  lay 
back  laughing  like  to  die ;  but  the 
next  instant  Bang  gave  another 
struggle,  or  wallop,  like  a  pelloch 
in  shoal-water,  whereby  Pepperpot 
borrowed  a  'good  kick  on  the  side 
of  the  head,  and  down  came  the 
Great  Ostrich,  Aaron  Bang,  but  with- 
out any  feather  in  his  tail,  as  i  can 
avouch,  slap  upon  the  table,  smash- 
ing cups  and  saucers,  and  hominy, 
and  devil  knows  what  all,  to  pieces, 
as  he  floundered  on  the  board.  This 
was  so  absurd,  that  we  were  all  ob- 
liged to  give  uncontrolled  course 
to  our  mirth  for  a  minute  or  two, 
when,  making  the  best  of  the  wreck, 
we  contrived  to  breakfast  in  tole- 
rable comfort. 

Soon  after  the  meal  was  finished, 
a  light  air  enabled  us  once  more  to 


Tom  Cringles  Lug, 


[March, 


lie  our  course,  and  we  gradually 
crept  to  the  northward,  until  twelve 
o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  after  which 
time  it  fell  calm  again.  I  went  down 
to  the  cabin ;  Bang  had  been  over- 
hauling my  small  library,  when  a 
shelf  gave  way  (the  whole  affair 
having  been  injured  by  a  round  shot 
in  the  action,  which  had  torn  right 
through  the  cabin),  so  down  came 
several  scrolls,  rolled  up,  and  cover- 
ed with  brown  paper. 

"  What  are  all  these?"  I  could 
here  our  friend  say. 

"  They  are  my  logs,"  said  I. 

"  Your  what?" 

"  My  private  journals." 

"  Oh,  i  see,"  said  Aaron.  "  I  will 
have  a  turn  at  them,  with  your  per- 
mission. But  what  is  this  so  care- 
fully bound  with  red  tape,  and  seal- 
ed, and  marked — let  me  see,  '  Tho- 
mas Cringle,  his  log'book.' " 

He  looked  at  me.—"  Why,  my 
dear  sir,  to  say  the  truth,  that  is  my 
first  attempt;  full  of  trash,  believe 
me ; — what  else  could  you  expect 
from  so  mere  a  lad  as  I  was  when 
I  wrote  it  ?" 

"  *  The  child  is  father  to  the  man,' 
Tom,  my  boy ;  so  may  I  peruse  it ; 
may  I  read  it  for  the  edification  of 
my  learned  allies,— Pepperpot  Wag- 
tail, and  Paul  Gelid,  Esquires  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  1  replied,  "  no  objec- 
tion in  the  world,  but  you  will  laugh 
at  me,  I  know;  still,  do  as  you 
please,  only,  had  you  not  better  have 
your  wound  dressed  first?" 

"  My  wound!  Poo,  poo!  just 
enough  to  swear  by — a  flea-bite — 
never  mind  it;  so  here  goes — 

"  Thomas  Cringle,  his  log-book. — 
"  Arrived  in  Portsmouth,  by  the  De- 
fiance, at  ten,  a.  m.  on  such  a  day. 
Waited  on  the  Commissioner,  to 
whom  I  had  letters,  and  said  I  was 
appointed  to  the  Torch.  Same  day, 
went  on  board  and  took  up  my  berth 
in  said  vessel" — 

"Ahem,  ahem!"  quoth  Bang; 
"  stifling  hot  berth  ;  mouldy  biscuit ; 
and  so  on." 

"  Why,  nothing  very  entertaining 
in  all  this,  certainly — let  me  see, — 
"  My  mother's  list  makes  it  fifteen 
shirts,  whereas  I  only  have  twelve." 

"  Come,"  said  Bang,  "  that  is  an 
incident." 

"  Admiral  made  the  signal  to 
weigh,  wind  at  S  W.,  fresh  and 
squally.  Stockings  should  be  one 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


dozen  worsted,  three  of  cotton,  two 
of  silk  ;  find  only  half  a  dozen  worst- 
ed, two  of  cotton,  and  one  of  silk. 
Fired  a  gun,  and  weighed." 

"  Who  ?"  quoth  Aaron, "  you  or  the 
Admiral,  or  the  worsted,  cotton,  or 
silk  stockings  ?" 

"  Oh,  botheration !  I  said  you 
would  glean  nothing  worth  having, 
my  dear  sir,  and  you  see  I  did  not 
deceive  you." 

"  Possibly  not,"quoth  he,  "  but  let 
me  judge  for  myself,  Master  ^Turn- 
mas" 

"  Downs — Goodwin  Sands." — 

"  Hum,  hum !  Ah,  come,  here  is 
something  continuous.  Let  me  clear 
my  harmonious  voice.  Wagtail,  my 
boy — Gelid,  dear,'lend  me  your  ears, 
they  are  long  enough, — they  would 
make  purses,  if  not  silk  ones.  Here 
goes" — 

"  Tom  Cringle's  first  log.— Sailed 
for  the  North  Sea,  deucedly  sea-sick; 
was  told  that  fat  pork  was  the  best 
specific,  if  bolted  half  raw;  did  not 
find  it  much  of  a  tonic ; — passed  a 
terrible  night,  and  for  four  hours  of 
it  obliged  to  keep  watch,  more  dead 
than  alive.  On  the  evening  of  the 
third  day,  we  were  off  Harwich,  and 
then  got  a  slant  of  wind  that  enabled 
us  to  lay  our  course." 

"  Lie  our  course,  I  would  have 
written,"  said  Aaron. 

"  We  stood  on,  and  next  morning, 
in  the  cold,  miserable,  drenching 
haze  of  an  October  daybreak,  we 
passed  through  a  fleet  of  fishing- 
boats  at  anchor.  '  At  anchor,'  thought 
I, '  and  in  the  middle  of  the  sea,' — 
but  so  it  was — all  with  their  tiny 
cabooses,  smoking  cheerily,  and  a 
solitary  figure,  as  broad  as  it  was 
long,  stifly  walking  to  and  fro  on 
the  confined  decks  of  the  little  ves- 
sels. It  was  now  that  for  the  first 
time  I  knew  the  value  of  the  saying, 
'  a  fisherman's  walk,  two  steps  and 
overboard.'  With  regard  to  these 
same  fishermen,  I  cannot  convey  a 
better  notion  of  them,  than  by  de- 
scribing one  of  the  two  North  Sea 
pilots  whom  we  had  on  board :  well, 
this  pilot  was  a  tall,  raw-boned  sub- 
ject, about  six  feet  or  so,  with  a  blue 
face — I  could  not  call  it  red,  and  a 
hawk's-bill  nose,  of  the  colour  of 
bronze.  His  head  was  defended 
from  the  weather  by  what  is  tech- 
nically called  a  south-west,  pronoun- 
ced sow-west,  cap,  which  is  in  shape 


303 

like  the  thatch  of  a  dustman,  com- 
posed of  canvass,  well  tarred,  with 
no  snout,  and  having  a  long  flap 
hanging  down  the  back  to  carry  the 
rain  over  the  cape  of  the  jacket. 
His  chin  was  embedded  in  a  red 
comforter  that  rose  to  his  ears,  His 
trunk  was  first  of  all  cased  in  a  shirt 
of  worsted  stocking-net ;  over  this 
he  had  a  coarse  linen  shirt,  then  a 
thick  cloth  waistcoat;  a  shag  jacket 
was  the  next  layer,  and  over  that  was 
rigged  the  large  cumbrous  pea  jacket, 
reaching  to  his  knees.  As  for  his 
lower  spars,  the  rig  was  still  more 
peculiar: — first  of  all,  he, had  on  a 
pair  of  most  comfortable  woollen 
stockings,  what  we  call  fleecy  hosiery 
— and  the  beauties  are  peculiarly  nice 
in  this  respect, — then  a  pair  of  strong 
fearnaught  trowsers ;  over  these 
again  are  drawn  up  another  pair  of 
stockings,  thick  rig- and-furrow,  as 
we  call  them  in  Scotland,  and  above 
all  this  were  drawn  a  pair  of  long, 
well -greased,  and  liquored  boots, 
reaching  half  way  up  the  thigh,  and 
altogether'impervious  to  wet.  How- 
ever comfortable  this  costume  may  be 
in  bad  weather  in  board,  it  is  clear 
enough  that  any  culprit  so  swathed, 
would  stand  a  poor  chance  of  being 
saved,  were  he  to  fall  overboard. 
The  wind  veered  round  and  round, 
and  baffled,  and  checked  us  off,  so 
that  it  was  the  sixth  night  after  we 
had  taken  our  departure  from  Har- 
wich before  we  saw  Heligoland  light. 
We  then  bore  away  for  Cuxhaven, 
and  I  now  knew  for  the  first  time 
that  we  had  a  government  emissary 
of  some  kind  or  another  on  board, 
although  he  had  hitherto  confined 
himself  strictly  to  the  captain's  ca- 
bin. 

"  All  at  once  it  came  on  to  blow 
from  the  north-east,  and  we  were 
again  driven  back  among  the  Eng- 
lish fishing-boats.  The  weather  was 
thick  as  butter-milk,  so  we  had  to 
keep  the  bell  constantly  ringing,  as 
we  could  not  see  the  jib-boom-end 
from  the  forecastle.  Every  now 
and  then  we  heard  a  small,  hard, 
clanking  tinkle,  from  the  fishing- 
boats,  as  if  an  old  pot  had  been 
struck  instead  of  a  bell,  and  a  faint 
hollo,  "  Fishing- smack,"  as  we  shot 
past  them  in  the  fog,  while  we  could 
scarcely  see  the  vessels  at  all.  The 
morning  after  this  particular  time  to 
which  I  allude,  was  darker  than  any 


304 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[March, 


which  had  gone  before  it;  absolutely 
you  could  not  see  the  breadth  of  the 
ship  from  you;  and  as  we  had  not 
taken  the  sun  for  five  days,  we  had 
to  grope  our  way  almost  entirely  by 
the  lead.  I  had  the  forenoon  watch, 
during  the  whole  of  which  we  were 
amongst  a  little  fleet  of  fishing- 
boats,  although  we  could  scarcely 
see  them,  but  being  unwilling  to  lose 
ground  by  lying  to,  we  fired  a  gun 
every  half  hour,  to  give  the  small 
craft  notice  of  our  vicinity,  that  they 
might  keep  their  bells  a-going.  Every 
three  or  four  minutes,  the  marine 
drum-boy,  or  some  amateur  per- 
former,— for  most  sailors  would  give 
a  glass  of  grog  any  day  to  be  allowed 
to  beat  a  drum  for  five  minutes  on 
end, — beat  a  short  roll,  and  often  as 
we  drove  along,  under  a  reefed  fore- 
sail, and  close  reefed  topsails,  we 
could  hear  the  answering  tinkle  be- 
fore we  saw  the  craft  from  which  it 
proceeded, and  when  we  did  perceive 
her  as  we  flew  across  her  stern,  we 
could  only  see  it,  and  her  mast,  and 
one  or  two  well  swathed,  hardy  fish- 
ermen, the  whole  of  the  little  vessel 
forward  being  hid  in  a  cloud. 

"  I  had  been  invited  this  day  to  dine 
with  the  Captain,  Mr  Splinter,  the 
first  lieutenant  being  also  of  the 
party;  the  cloth  had  been  with- 
drawn, and  we  had  all  had  a  glass  or 
two  of  wine  a-piece,  when  the  fog 
settled  down  so  thickly,  although  it 
was  not  more  than  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  that  the  captain  desired 
that  the  lamp  might  be  lit.  It  was 
done,  and  I  was  remarking  the  con- 
trast between  the  dull,  dusky,  brown 
light,  or  rather  the  palpable  London 
fog  that  came  through  the  sky-light, 
and  the  bright  yellow  sparkle  of  "the 
lamp,  when  the  second  lieutenant, 
Mr  Treenail,  came  down  the  ladder. 

"  *  We  have  shoaled  our  water  to 
five  fathom,  sir — shells  and  stones. 
Here,  Wilson,  bring  in  the  lead.' 

"  The  leadsman,  in  his  pea  jacket 
and  shag  trowsers,  with  the  rain- 
drop hanging  to  his  nose,  and  a  large 
knot  in  his  cheek  from  a  junk  of  to- 
bacco therein  stowed,  with  pale,  wet 
visage,  and  whiskers  sparkling  with 
moisture,  while  his  long  black  hair 
hung  damp  and  lank  over  his  fine 
forehead,  and  the  stand-up  cape  of 
his  coat,  immediately  presented  him- 
self at  the  door,  with  the  lead  in  his 
,  an  octagonal  shaped  cone,  like 


the  weight  of  a  window  sash,  about 
eighteen  inches  long,  and  two  inches 
diameter  at  the  bottom,  tapering 
away  nearly  to  a  point  at  top,  where 
it  was  flattened,  and  a  hole  pierced 
for  the  line  to  be  fastened  to.  'At 
the  lower  end — the  butt-end,  as  I 
would  say — there  was  ahollo  w  scoop- 
ed out,  and  filled  with  grease,  so 
that,  when  the  lead  was  cast,  the 
quality  of  the  soil,  sand,  or  shells,  or 
mud,  that  came  up  adhering  to  this 
lard,  indicated,  along  with  the  depth 
of  water,  our  situation  in  the  North 
Sea ;  and  by  this,  indeed,  we  guided 
our  course,  in  the  absence  of  all 
opportunity  of  ascertaining  our  posi- 
tion by  observations  of  the  sun.  The 
Captain  consulted  the  chart — '  Sand 
and  shells ;  why,  you  should  have 
deeper  water,  Mr  Treenail.  Any  of 
the  fishing-boats  near  you  ?' 

" '  Not  at  present,  sir ;  but  we  can- 
not be  far  off  some  of  them.' 

"  *  Well,  let  me  know  when  you 
come  near  any  of  them.' 

"  A  little  after  this,  as  became  my 
situation,  I  rose  and  made  my  bow, 
and  went  on  deck.  By  this  time  the 
night  had  fallen,  and  it  was  thicker 
than  ever,  so  that,  standing  beside 
the  man  at  the  wheel,  you  could  not 
see  farther  forward  than  the  booms ; 
yet  it  was  not  dark  either,  that  is,  it 
was  moonlight,  so  that  the  haze, 
thick  as  it  was,  had  that  silver  gauze- 
like  appearance,  as  if  it  had  been 
luminous  in  itself,  that  cannot  be  de- 
scribed to  any  one  who  has  not  seen 
it.  The  gun  had  been  fired  just  as  I 
came  on  deck,  but  no  responding 
tinkle  gave  notice  of  any  vessel  be- 
ing in  the  neighbourhood.  Ten  mi- 
nutes, it  may  have  been  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  when  a  short  roll  of  the 
drum  was  beaten  from  the  forecas- 
tle, where  I  was  standing.  At  the 
moment,  I  thought  I  heard  a  holla, 
but  I  could  not  be  sure ;  presently  I 
saw  a  small  light,  with  a  misty  halo 
surrounding  it,  just  under  the  bow- 
sprit— '  Port  your  helm,'  sung  out 
the  boatswain  ;  '  port  your  helm,  or 
we  shall  be  over  a  fishing-boat !'  A 
cry  arose  from  beneath  ;  a  black  ob- 
ject was  for  an  instant  distinguish- 
able, and  the  next  moment  a  crash 
was  heard ;  the  spritsail-yard  rat- 
tled, and  broke  off  sharp  at  the  point, 
where  it  crossed  the  bowsprit ;  and 
a  heavy  smashing  thump  against  our 
bows  told  in  fearful  language  that 


1833.] 


Tout  Crinyle's  Log. 


we  had  run  her  down.  Three  of  the 
;nen  and  a  boy  hung  on  by  the  rig- 
ging of  the  bowsprit,  and  were 
brought  safely  on  board;  but  two 
poor  fellows  perished,  with  their 
ijoat.  It  appeared  that  they  had 
broken  their  bell,  and  although  they 
saw  us  coming,  they  had  no  better 
means  than  shouting,  and  showing  a 
light,  to  advertise  us  of  their  vici- 
nity. 

"  Next  morning  the  wind  once  more 
chopped  round,  and  the  weather 
'leared,and  infour-and-twenty  hours 
thereafter  we  were  off  the  mouth  of 
the  Elbe,  with  three  miles  of  white 
foaming  shoals  between  us  and  the 
land  atCuxhaven,roaringandhissing, 
as  if  ready  to  swallow  us  up.  It  was 
Sow  water,  and,  as  our  object  was  to 
land  the  Emissary  at  Cuxhaven,  we 
had  to  wait,  having  no  pilot  for  the 
port,  although  we  had  the  signal  fly  ing 
for  one  all  morning,  until  noon,  when 
we  ran  in  close  to  the  green  mound 
which  constituted  the  rampart  of  the 
fort  at  the  entrance.  To  our  great 
surprise,  when  we  hoisted  our  co- 
lours and  pennant,  and  fired  a  gun 
to  leeward,  there  was  no  flag  hoisted 
in  answer  at  the  flag-staff,  nor  was 
there  any  indication  of  a  single  living 
soul  on  shore  to  welcome  us.  Mr 
Splinter  and  the  Captain  were  stand- 
ing together  at  the  gangway — *  Why, 
sir,'  said  the  former,  *  this  silence 
somewhat  surprises  me  :  what  say 
you,  Cheragoux  ?'  to  the  govern- 
ment emissary  or  messenger  already 
mentioned,  who  was  peering  through 
the  glass  close  by. 

« <  Why,  mi  Lieutenant,  I  don't  cer- 
tain dat  all  ish  right  on  sore  dere.' 

"  '  No,'  said  Captain  Deadeye ; 
'  why,  what  do  you  see  ?' 

"  '  It  ish  not  so  mosh  vat  I  shee,  as 
vat  I  no  shee,  sir,  dat  trembles  me. 
It  cannot  surely  be  possib  dat  de 
Prussian  an'  Hanoverian  troop  have 
left  de  place,  and  dat  dese  dem 
Franceman  ave  advance  so  far  as  de 
Elbe  autrefois,  dat  ish,  once  more  ?' 

"  *  French,'  said  Deadeye ;  *  poo, 
nonsense;  no  French  hereabouts; 
none  nearer  than  those  cooped  up  in 
Hamburgh  with  Davoust,  take  my 
word  for  it.' 

"  *  I  sail  take  your  vord  for  any  ting 
else  in  de  large  vorld,  mi  Capitan ; 
but  I  see  someting  glance  behind  dat 
rampart,  parapet  you  call,  dat  look 
dem  like  de  shako  of  de  mfdnterie 

0 


Icgere  of  dat  willain  de  Emperor 
Napoleon.  Ah  !  I  see  de  red  worst- 
ed epaulet  of  de  grenadier  also ; 
sacre,  vat  is  dat  pof  of  vite  smoke  ?' 

"  What  it  was  we  soon  ascertained 
to  our  heavy  cost,  for  the  shot  that 
had  been  fired  at  us  from  a  long  32- 
pound  gun,  took  effect  right  abaft  the 
foremast,  and  killed  three  men  out- 
right, and  wounded  two.  Several 
other  shots  followed,  but  with  less 
sure  aim.  Returning  the  fire  was  of 
no  use,  as  our  carronades  could  not 
have  pitched  their  metal  much  more 
than  half-way ;  or,  even  if  they  had 
been  long  guns,  they  would  merely 
have  plumped  the  balls  into  the  turf 
rampart,  without  hurting  any  one. 
So  we  wisely  hauled  off,  and  ran  up 
the  river  with  the  young  flood  for 
about  an  hour,  until  we  anchored 
c^lose  to  the  Hanoverian  bank,  near 
a  gap  in  the  dike,  where  we  waited 
till  the  evening. 

"  As  soon  as  the  night  fell,  a  boat 
with  muffled  oars  was  manned,  to 
carry  the  messenger  on  shore.  I  was 
in  it ;  Mr  Treenail,  the  second  lieu- 
tenant, steering.  We  pulled  in  right 
for  a  breach  in  the  dike,  lately  cut 
by  the  French,  in  order  to  inundate 
the  neighbourhood  ;  and  as  the  Elbe 
at  high  water  is  hereabouts  much 
higher  than  the  surrounding  country, 
we  were  soon  sucked  into  the  cur- 
rent, and  had  only  to  keep  our  oars 
in  the  water,  pulling  a  stroke  now 
and  then  to  give  the  boat  steerage 
way.  As  we  shot  through  the  gap 
into  the  smooth  water  beyond,  we 
then  once  more  gave  way,  the  boat's 
head  being  kept  in  the  direction  of 
lights  that  we  saw  twinkling  in  the 
distance,  apparently  in  some  village 
beyond  the  inner  embankment,  when 
all  at  once  we  dashed  in  amongst 
thousands  of  wild-geese,  which  rose 
with  a  clang,  and  a  concert  of  quack- 
ing, screaming,  and  hissing,  that  was 
startling  enough.  We  skimmed  stea- 
dily on  in  the  same  direction — *  Oars, 
men  !'  We  were  by  this  time  close 
to  a  small  cluster  of  houses,  perched 
on  the  forced  ground  or  embank- 
ment, and  the  messenger  hailed  in 
German. 

"  *  Qui  vive !'  sung  out  a  gruff 
voice ;  and  we  heard  the  clank  of  a 
musket,  as  if  some  one  had  cast  it 
from  his  shoulder,  and  caught  it  in 
his  hands,  as  he  brought  it  down  to 
the  charge.  Our  passenger  seemed 


306 

a  little  taken  aback;  but  he  hailed 
again,  still  in  German.  *  Parole? 
replied  the  man.  A  pause.  *  The 
watch  word,  or  I  fire.'  We  had  none 
to  give. 

"  '  Pull  round,  men,'  said  the  Lieu- 
tenant, with  great  quickness ;  '  pull 
the  starboard  oars;  we  are  in  the 
wrong  box ;  back  water  the  larboard. 
That's  it !  give  way,  men.' 

"  A  flash — crack  went  the  sentry's 
piece,  and  ping  sung  the  ball  over 
our  heads.  Another  pause.  Then 
a  volley  from  a  whole  platoon.  Again 
all  was  dark  and  silent.  Presently  a 
field-piece  was  fired,  and  several 
rockets  were  let  off  in  our  direction, 
by  whose  light  we  could  see  a  whole 
company  of  French  soldiers  standing 
to  their  arms,  with  several  cannon, 
but  we  were  speedily  out  of  the 
reach  of  their  musketry ;  but  several 
round  shots  were  fired  at  us,  that 
hissed,  recochetting  along  the  water 
close  by  us.  Not  a  word  was  spoken 
in  the  boat  all  this  time,  but  we  con- 
tinued to  pull  for  the  opening  in  the 
dike,  although,  the  current  being 
strong  against  us,  we  made  but  little 
way ;  while  the  chance  of  being  cut 
off  by  the  Johnny  Crapeaus  getting 
round  the  top  of  the  embankment, 
so  as  to  command  the  gap  before  we 
could  reach  it,  became  every  mo- 
ment more  alarming. 

"  The  messenger  was  in  great  tribu- 
lation, and  made  several  barefaced 
attempts  to  stow  himself  away  under 
the  stern  sheets. 

"Thegallantfellows  who  composed 
the  crew  strained  at  their  oars  until 
every  thing  cracked  again ;  but  as  the 
flood  made,  the  current  against  us 
increased,  and  we  barely,  held  our 
own.  '  Steer  her  out  of  the  current, 
man,'  said  the  lieutenant  to  the 
coxswain ;  the  man  put  the  tiller  to 
port  as  he  was  ordered. 

" '  Vat  you  do  soch  a  ting  for,  Mr 
Capitan  Lieutenant  ?'  said  the  emis- 
sary. '  Oh !  you  not  pershave  you 
are  rone  in  onder  de  igh  bank.  How 
you  shall  satisfy  me,  no  France  in- 
fanterie  legere  dere,  too,  more  as  in 
de  fort,  eh  ?  How  you  sail  satisfy 
me,  Mister  Capitan  Lieutenant,  eh  ?' 
"  '  Hold  your  blasted  tongue,  will 
you,'  said  Treenail,  '  and  the  in- 
fantry legere  be  damned  simply. 
Mind  your  eye,  my  fine  fellow,  or  I 
shall  be  much  inclined  to  see  whether 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[March, 


you  will  be  legere  in  the  Elbe  or  no. 
Hark !' 

"  We  all  pricked  up  our  ears,  and 
strained  our  eyes,  while  a  bright, 
spitting,  sparkling  fire  of  musketry 
opened  at  the  gap,  but  there  was  no 
ping  pinging  ot  the  shot  overhead. 

"  '  They  cannot  be  firing  at  us,  sir,' 
said  the  coxswain ;  *  none  of  them 
bullets  are  telling  here  away.' 

"  Presently  a  smart  fire  was  return- 
ed in  three  distinct  clusters  from  the 
water,  and  whereas  the  firing  at  first 
had  only  lit  up  the  dark  figures  of 
the  French  soldiery,  and  the  black 
outline  of  the  bank  on  which  they 
were  posted,  the  flashes  that  answer- 
ed them  shewed  us  three  armed 
boats  attempting  to  force  the  passage. 
In  a  minute  the  firing  ceased;  the 
measured  splash  of  oars  was  heard, 
as  boats  approached  us. 

" '  Who's  there  ?'  sung  out  the  lieu- 
tenant. 

"  *  Torches,'  was  the  answer. 

" '  All's  well, Torches,'  rejoined  Mr 
Treenail ;  and  presently  the  jolly- 
boat,  and  launch  and  cutter  of  the 
Torch,  with  twenty  marines,  and  six- 
and-thirty  seamen,  all  armed,  were 
alongside. 

" '  What  cheer,  Treenail,  my  boy  ?' 
quoth  Mr  Splinter. 

"'  Why,not  much;  theFrench,  who 
we  were  told  had  left  the  Elbe  en- 
tirely, are  still  here,  as  well  as  at 
Cuxhaven,not  in  force  certainly,  but 
sufficiently  strong  to  have  peppered 
us  very  decently.' 

" '  What,  are  any  of  the  people 
hurt  ?' 

" '  No,'  said  the  garrulous  emissary. 
*  No,  not  hurt,  but  some  of  us  fright- 
ened leetle  piece — ah,  very  mosh,  Je 
vous  assure.3 

"  *  Speak  for  yourself,  Master  Ple- 
nipo,'  said  Treenail.  *  But,  Splinter, 
my  man,  now  since  the  enemy  have 
occupied  the  dyke  in  front,  how  the 
deuce  shall  we  get  back  into  the 
river,  tell  me  that'?' 

"  *  Why,'  said  the  senior  lieuten- 
ant, *  we  must  go  as  we  came.' 

"  And  here  the  groans  from  two  poor 
fellows  who  had  been  hit  were  heard 
from  the  bottom  of  the  launch.  The 
cutter  was  by  this  time  close  to  us, 
on  the  larboard  side,  commanded  by 
Mr  Julius  Caesar  Tip,  the  senior 
midshipman,  vulgarly  called  in  the 
jOr  the  art  of  sinking,  from 
3 


]  833.  j 


Tom  Cringle  s  Log. 


his  rather  uiiromantic  ripmo.  Here 
also  a  low  moaning  evinced  the  pre- 
cision of  the  Frenchman's  fire. 

"  *  Lord,  Mr  Treenail,  a  sharp 
brush  that  was.' 

"  '  Hush/  quoth  Treenail.  At  this 
moment  three  rockets  hissed  up  into 
the  dark  sky,  and*  for  an  instant  the 
hull  and  rigging  of  the  sloop  of  war 
at  anchor  in  the  river,  glanced  in  the 
blue- white  glare,  and  vanished  again, 
like  a  spectre,  leaving  us  in  more 
thick  darkness  than  before. 

"  *  Gemini !  what  is  thatno  w  ?'  quoth 
Tip,  as  we  distinctly  heard  the  com- 
mixed rumbling  and  rattling  sound 
of  artillery  scampering  along  the 
dike. 

"  *  The  ship  has  sent  up  these  rock- 
ets to  warn  us  of  our  danger,'  said  Mr 
Treenail.  '  What  is  to  be  done  ? 
Ah,  Splinter,  we  are  in  a  scrape — 
there  they  have  brought  up  field- 
pieces,  don't  you  hear '?' 
\  "  Splinter  had  heard  it  as  well  as  his 
junior  officer.  '  True  enough,  Tree- 
nail ;  so  the  sooner  we  make  a  dash 
through  the  opening  the  better.' 

"  *  Agreed.' 

"  By  some  impulse  peculiar  to 
British  sailors,  the  men  were  just 
about  cheering,  when  their  com- 
manding officer's  voice  controlled 
them.  '  Hark,  my  brave  fellows, 
silence  as  you  value  your  lives.' 

"  So  away  we  pulled,  the  tide  bein^ 
now  nearly  on  the  turn,  and  present- 
ly we  were  so  near  the  opening  that 
we  could  see  the  signal-lights  in  the 
rigging  of  the  sloop  of  war.  All  was 
quiet  on  the  dike. 

"  *  Zounds,  they  have  retreated  after 
all,'  said  Mr  Treenail. 

"  *  Whoo — o,  whoo — o,'  shouted  a 
gruff  voice  from  the  shore. 

"  '  There  they  are  still/  said  Splin- 
ter. *  Marines,  stand  by,  don't  throw 
away  a  shot ;  men,  pull  ijke  fury.  So, 
give  way  my  lads,  a  minute  of  that 
strain  will  shoot  us  along  side  of  the 
old  brig — that's  it — hurrah  !' 

" '  Hurrah  !'  shouted  the  men  in 
answer,  but  his  and  their  exclama- 
tions were  cut  short  by  a  volley  of 
musketry.  Thefierce  mustaches,  pale 
faces,  glazed  shakoes,  blue  uniforms, 
and  red  epaulets,  of  the  French  in- 
fantry, glanced  for  a  moment,  and 
then  all  was  dark  again. 

"'  Fire  !'  The  marines  in  the  three 
boats  returned  the  salute,  and  by  the 
flashes  we  saw  three  pieces  of  field 


307 

artillery  in  the  very  act  of  being  un- 
lirnbered.  We  could  distinctly  hear 
the  clash  of  the  mounted  artillery- 
men's sabres  against  their  horses' 
flanks,  as  they  rode  to  the  rear,  their 
burnished  accoutrements  glancing  at 
every  sparkle  of  the  musketry.  We 
pulled  like  fiends,  and  being  the  fast- 
est boat,  soon  headed  the  launch  and 
cutter,  who  were  returning  the  ene- 
my's fire  brilliantly,  when  crack — a 
six-pound  shot  drove  our  boat  into 
staves,  and  all  hands  were  the  next 
moment  squattering  in  the  water.  I 
sank  a  good  bit,  I  suppose,  for  when 
I  rose  to  the  surface,  half  drowned 
and  giddy  and  confused,  and  striking 
out  at  random,  the  first  thing  I  recol- 
lected was,  a  hard  hand  being  wrung 
into  my  neckerchief,  while  a  gruff 
voice  shouted  in  my  ear — 
"  *  liendez  vous,  mon  cher.' 
"  Resistance  was  useless.  I  was 
forcibly  dragged  up  the  bank,  where 
both  musketry  and  cannon  were  still 
playing  on  the  boats,  which  had,  how- 
ever, by  this  time  got  a  good  offing. 
I  soon  knew  they  were  safe  by  the 
Torch  opening  a  fire  of  round  and 
grape  on  the  head  of  the  dike,  a  cer- 
tain proof  that  the  boats  had  been 
accounted  for.  The  French  party 
now  ceased  firing,  and  retreated  by 
the  edge  of  the  inundation,  keeping 
the  dike  between  them  and  the  brig, 
all  except  the  artillery,  who  had  to 
scamper  off,  running  the  gauntlet  on 
the  crest  of  the  embankment  until 
they  got  beyond  the  range  of  the 
carronades.  I  was  conveyed  between 
two  grenadiers,  along  the  water's 
edge,  so  long  as  the  ship  was  firing ; 
but  when  that  ceased,  I  was  clapped 
on  one  of  the  limbers  of  the  field- 
guns,  and  strapped  down  to  it  be- 
tween two  of  the  artillerymen. 

"  We  rattled  along,  until  we  came 
up  to  the  French  bivouac,  where 
round  a  large  fire,  kindled  in  what 
seemed  to  have  been  a  farmyard, 
were  assembled  about  fifty  or  sixty 
French  soldiers.  Their  arms  were 
piled  under  a  low  projecting  roof  of 
an  out-house,  while  the  fire  flickered 
upon  their  dark  figures,  and  glanced 
on  their  bright  accoutrements,  and 
lit  up  the  wall  of  the  house  that  com- 
posed one  side  of  the  square.-  I  was 
immediately  marched  between  a  file 
of  men,  into  a  small  room  in  the  out- 
house, where  the  commanding  offi- 
cer of  the  detachment  was  seated  at 


308 

a  table,  a  blazing  wood  fire  roaring 
in  the  chimney.  He  was  a  genteel, 
slender,  dark  man,  with  very  large 
black  mustaches,  and  fine  sparkling 
black  eyes,  and  had  apparently  just 
dismounted,  for  the  mud  was  fresh 
on  his  boots  and  trowscrs.  The  lat- 
ter were  blue,  with  a  broad  gold  lace 
down  the  seam,  and  fastened  by  a 
strap  under  his  boot,  from  which 
projected  a  long  fixed  spur" 

"  Nothing  very  noticeable  in  all 
this,"  said  Mr  Bang. 

"  Possibly  not,  my  dear  sir,"  I  re- 
plied ;  "  but  to  me  it  was  remarkable 
as  an  unusual  dress  for  a  militaire, 
the  British  army  being,  at  the  time  I 
write  of,  still  in  the  age  of  breeches 
and  gaiters  or  tall  boots,  long  cues 
and  pipeclay — that  is,  those  troops 
which  I  had  seen  at  home,  although 
I  believe  the  great  Duke  had  already 
relaxed  a  number  of  these  absurdi- 
ties in  Spain." 

"  His  single-breasted  coat  was 
buttoned  close  up  to  his  throat,  and 
without  an  inch  of  lace  except  on  his 
crimson  collar,  which  fitted  close 
round  his  neck,  and  was  richly  em- 
broidered with  gold  acorn  and  oak 
leaves,  as  were  the  crimson  cuffs  to 
his  sleeves.  He  wore  two  immense 
and  very  handsome  gold  epaulets. 

«  «  My  good  boy,'  said  he,  after  the 
officer  who  had  captured  me  had  told 
his  story — *  so  your  Government 
thinks  the  Emperor  is  retreating  from 
the  Elbe  ?' 

"  I  was  a  tolerable  French  scholar, 
as  times  went,  and  answered  him  as 
well  as  I  could. 

"'I  have  said  nothing  about  that, 
sir ;  but,  from  your  question,  I  pre- 
sume you  command  the  rear-guard, 
Colonel  y 

"  *  How  strong  is  your  squadron  on 
the  river  ?'  said  he,  parrying  the 
question. 

"  '  There  is  only  one  sloop  of  war, 
sir' — and  I  spoke  the  truth. 

"  He  looked  at  me,  and  smiled  in- 
credulously ;  and  then  continued — 

"'Idon't  command  the  rear-guard, 
sir — but  rVaste  time — are  the  boats 
ready  ?' 

"  He  was  answered  in  the  affirma- 
tive, 

"  *  Then  set  fire  to  the  houses,  and 
let  off  the  rockets;  they  will  see  them 
at  Cuxhaven — men,  fall  in — march' — 
and  off  we  all  trundled  towards  the 
river  again. 


Turn  Cringle  s  Log. 


[March, 


"  When  we  arrived  there,  we  found 
ten  Blankenese  boats,  two  of  them 
very  large,  and  fitted  with  sliding 
platforms.  The  four  field-pieces 
were  run  on  board,  two  into  each ; 
one  hundred  and  fifty  men  embarked 
in  them  and  the  other  craft,  which  I 
found  partly  loaded  with  sacks  of 
corn.  I  was  in  one  of  the  smallest 
boats  with  the  colonel.  When  we 
were  all  ready  to  shove  off, '  Lafont,' 
said  he,  '-are  the  men  ready  with 
their  couteaux  ?* 

"  '  They  are,  sir,'  replied  the  ser- 
geant. 

"'Then  cut  the  horses' throats— but 
no  firing.'  A  few  bubbling  groans, 
and  some  heavy  falls,  and  a  strug- 
gling splash  or  two  in  the  water, 
showed  that  the  poor  artillery  horses 
had  been  destroyed. 

"  The  wind  was  fair  up  the  river, 
and  away  we  bowled  before  it.  It 
was  clear  to  me  that  the  colonel 
commanding  the  post  had  overrated 
our  strength,  and,  under  the  belief 
that  we  had  cut  him  off  from  Cux- 
haven, he  had  determined  on  falling 
back  on  Hamburgh. 

"  When  the  morning  broke,  we  were 
close  to  the  beautiful  bank  below 
Altona.  The  trees  were  beginning  to 
assume  the  russet  hue  of  autumn, 
and  the  sun  shone  gaily  on  the  pretty 
villas  and  bloomin  gartens  on  the 
hill  side,  while  here  and  there  a 
Chinese  pagoda,  or  other  fanciful 
pleasure-house,  with  its  gilded  trel- 
lised  work,  and  little  bells  depend- 
ing from  the  eaves  of  its  many  roofs, 
glancing  like  small  golden  balls,  rose 
from  out  the  fast  thinning  recesses 
of  the  woods.  But  there  was  no  life 
in  the  scene — 'twas  '  Greece,  but 
living  Greece  no  more,' — not  a  fish- 
ing-boat was  near,  scarcely  a  solitary 
figure  crawled  along  the  beach. 

" '  What  is  that  ?'  after  we  had 
passed  Blaukeuese,  said  the  colonel 
quickly.  '  Who  are  those  ?'  as  a 
group  of  three  or  four  men  present- 
ed themselves  at  a  sharp  turning  of 
the  road,  that  wound  along  the  foot 
of  the  hill  close  to  the  shore. 

"  '  The  uniform  of  the  Prussians,' 
said  one. 

"  '  Of  the  Russians,'  said^another. 

"  '  Poo,'  said  a  third,  '  it  "is  a  pic- 
ket of  the  Prince's;'  and  so  it  was, 
but  the  very  fact  of  his  having  ad- 
vanced his  outposts  so  far,  shewed 
how  he  trembled  for  his  position. 


1833.] 


Tom  Crinyle's  Log. 


After  answering  their  haiJ,  we  push- 
ed on,  and  as  the  clocks  were  stri- 
king twelve,  we  were  abreast  of  the 
strong  beams  that  were  clamped  to- 
gether with  iron,  and  constituted  the 
boom  or  chief  water  defence  of  Ham- 
burgh. We  passed  through,  and 
found  an  entire  regiment  under  arms, 
close  by  the  Custom-house.  Some- 
how or  other,  I  had  drank  deep  of 
that  John  Bull  prejudice,  which  de- 
lights to  disparage  the  physical  con- 
formation of  our  Gallic  neighbours, 
and  hugs  itself  with  the  absurd  no- 
tion, '  that  on  one  pair  of  English 
legs  doth  march  three  Frenchmen.' 
But  when  I  saw  the  weather-beaten 
soldier-like  veterans,  who  formed 
this  compact  battalion,  part  of  the 
elite  of  the  first  corps>  more  com- 
manding in  its  aspect  from  severe 
service  having  worn  all  the  gilding 
and  lace  away — '  there  was  not  a 
piece  of  feather  in  the  host' — I  felt 
the  reality  before  me  fast  overcom- 
ing my  preconceived  opinion.  I  had 
seldom  or  ever  seen  so  fine  a  body  of 
men,  tall,  square,  and  muscular,  the 
spread  of  their  shoulders  set  off  from 
their  large  red  worsted  epaulets, 
and  the  solidity  of  the  mass  increa- 
sed by  their  wide  trowsers,  which  in 
my  mind  contrasted  advantageously 
with  the  long  gaiters  and  tight  inte- 
guments of  our  own  brave  fellows. 

"  We  approached  a  group  of  three 
mounted  officers,  and  in  a  few  words 
the  officer,  whose  prisoner  I  was,  ex- 
plained the  affair  to  the  chefde  batta- 
lion, whereupon  I  was  immediately 
placed  under  the  care  of  a  sergeant  and 
six  rank  and  file,  and  marched  along 
the  chief  canal  for  a  mile,  where  I 
could  nothelpremarking  thenumber- 
less  large  rafts — you  could  not  call 
them  boats— of  unpainted  pine  timber, 
which  had  arrived  from  the  upper 
Elbe,  loaded  with  grain,  with  gardens, 
absolute  gardens,  and  cow-houses, 
and  piggeries  on  board  ;  while  their 
crews  of  Fierlanders,  men,  women, 
and  children,  cut  a  most  extraordi- 
nary appearance, — the  men  in  their 
jackets,  with  buttons  like  pot  lids, 
and  trowsers  fit  to  carry  a  month's 
provender  and  a  couple  of  children 
in;  and  the  women  with  bearings 
about  the  quarters,  as  if  they  had  cut 
holes  in  large  cheeses,  three  feet  in 
diameter  at  least,  and  stuck  them- 
selves through  them — such  sterns — 
and  as  to  their  costumes,  all  very  fine 
VOL,  xxxm.  NO.  ccv. 


30D 

in  a  Flemish  painting,  but  the  devils 
appeared  to  be  awfully  nasty  in  real 
life." 

"  Oh,  Tom,"  said  Aaron,  "  very 
impure  figures  all  these." 

"  But  we  carried  on  until  we  came 
to  a  large  open  space  fronting  a 
beautiful  piece  of  water,  which  I  was 
told  was  the  Alster.  As  I  walked 
through  the  narrow  streets,  I  was 
struck  with  the  peculiarity  of  the 
gables  of  the  tall  houses  being  all 
turned  towards  the  thoroughfare, 
and  with  the  stupendous  size  of  the 
churches.  We  halted  for  a  moment, 
in  the  porch  of  one  of  them,  and  my 
notions  of  decency  were  not  a  little 
outraged,  by  seeing  it  filled  with  a 
squadron  of  dragoons,  the  men  being 
in  the  very  act  of  cleaning  their 
horses.  At  length  we  came  to  the 
open  space  on  the  Alster,  a  large 
parade,  faced  by  a  street  of  splendid 
houses  on  the  left  hand,  with  a  row 
of  tree&between  them,  and  the  water 
on  the  right  There  were  two  regi- 
ments of  foot  bivouacking  here,  with 
their  arms  piled  under  the  trees, 
while  the  men  were  variously  em- 
ployed, some  on  duty  before  the 
houses,  others  cleaning  their  accou- 
trements, and  others  again  playing 
at  all  kinds  of  games.  Presently  we 
came  to  a  crowd  of  soldiers  cluster- 
ed round  a  particular  spot,  some 
laughing,  others  cracking  coarse 
jests,  but  none  at  all  in  the  least  se- 
rious. We  could  not  get  near 
enough  to  see  distinctly  what  was 
going  on;  but  we  afterwards  saw, 
when  the  crowd  had  dispersed, 
three  men  in  the  dress  of  respectable 
burghers,  hanging  from  a  low  gibbet, 
— so  low  in  fact,  that  although  their 
heads  were  not  six  inches  from  the 
beam,  their  feet  were  scarcely  three 
from  the  ground.  WTe  soon  arrived  at 
the  door  of  a  large  mansion,  fronting 
this  parade,  where  two  sentries  were 
walking  backwards  and  forwards 
before  the  door,  while  five  dragoon 
horses,  linked  together,  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  with  one  sol- 
dier attending  them,  but  there  was 
no  other  particular  bustle,  to  mark 
the  headquarters  of  the  General 
commanding.  We  advanced  to  the 
entrance — the  sentries  carry  ing  arms, 
and  were  immediately  ushered  into 
a  large  saloon, the  massive  stair  wind- 
ing up  along  the  walls,  with  the  usual 
heavy  wooden  balustrade.  We  as- 
x 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


510 

cended  to  the  first  floor,  where  we 
were  encountered  by  three  aides-de- 
camp, in  full  dress,  leaning  with  their 
backs  against  the  hard- wood  railing, 
laughing  and  joking  with  each  other, 
while  two  wall-lamps  right  opposite 
cast  a  bright  flashing  light  on  their 
splendid  uniforms.  They  were  all 
decor e  with  one  order  or  another. 
We  approached. 

«"  Whence,  and  whohave  we  here?' 
said  one  of  them,  a  handsome  young 
man,  apparently  not  above  twenty- 
two,  as  I  judged,  with  small  tiny 
black,  jet-black,  mustaches,  and  a 
noble  countenance ;  fine  dark  eyes, 
and  curls  dark  and  clustering. 

"  The  officer  of  my  escort  answer- 
ed, '  A  young  Englishman, — enseigne 
de  vaisseau.' 

"  I  was  no  such  thing,  as  a  poor 
middy  has  no  commission,  but  only 
his  rating,  which  even  his  captain, 
without  a  court-martial,  can  take 
away  at  any  time,  and  turn  him  be- 
fore the  mast. 

"  At  this  moment,  I  heard  the  clang 
of  a  sabre,  and  the  jingle  of  spurs 
on  the  stairs,  and  the  group  was 
joined  by  my  captor,  Colonel  *  *  *. 

"'*  Ah,  colonel  !'  exclaimed  the 
aides,  in  a  volley,  '  where  the  devil 
have  you  come  from  ?  We  thought 
you  were  in  Bruxelles  at  the  near- 
est.' 

"  The  colonel  put  his  hand  on  his 
lips  and  smiled,  and  then  slapped  the 
young  officer  who  spoke  first  with 
his  glove.  *  Never  mind,  boys,  I  have 
come  to  help  you  here — you  will 
need  help  before  long; — but  how 

is  ?'  Here  he  made  a  comical 

contortion  of  his  face,  and  drew  his 
ungloved  hand  across  his  throat. 
The  young  officers  laughed,  and 
pointed  to  the  door.  He  moved 
towards  it,  preceded  by  the  youngest 
of  them,  who  led  the  way  into  a  very 
lofty  and  handsome  room,  elegantly 
furnished,  with  some  fine  pictures 
on  the  *valls,  a  handsome  sideboard 
of  plate,  a  rich  Turkey  carpet — an 
unusual  thing  in  Germany— on  the 
floor,  and  a  richly  gilt  pillar,  at  the 
end  of  the  room  farthest  from  us,  the 
base  of  which  contained  a  stove, 
which,  through  the  joints  of  the  door 
of  it,  appeared  to  be  burning  cheerily. 

"  There  were  some  very  handsome 
sofas  and  ottomans  scattered  through 
the  room,  and  a  grand  piano  in  one 
corner,  the  furniture  being  covered 


[March, 


with  yellow,  or  amber-coloured 
velvet,  with  Abroad  heavy  draperies 
of  gold  fringe,  like  the  bullion  of 
an  epaulet.  There  was  a  small 
round  table  near  the  stove,  on  which 
stood  a  silver  candlestick,  with  four 
branches  filled  with  wax  tapers ;  and 
bottles  of  wine,  and  glasses.  At  this 
table  sat  an  officer,  apparently  about 
forty-five  years  of  age.  There  was 
nothing  very  peculiar  in  his  appear- 
ance; he  was  a  middle-sized  man, 
well  made  apparently.  He  sat  on 
one  chair,  with  his  legs  supported  on 
another." 

"  All  very  natural,"  again  said  our 
friend  Aaron. 

"  His  white-topped  boots  had  been 
taken  off,  and  replaced  by  a  pair  of 
slipshod  slippers ;  his  splashed  white 
kerseymere  pantaloons,  seamed  with 
gold,  resting  on  the  unfrayed  velvet 
cushion;  his  blue  coat,  covered  with 
rich  embroidery  at  the  bosom  and 
collar,  was  open,  and  the  lappels 
thrown  back,  displaying  a  richly  em- 
broidered crimson  velvet  facing,  and 
an  embroidered  scarlet  waistcoat; 
a  large  solitary  star  glittered  on  his 
breast,  and  the  Grand  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honour  sparkled  at  his 
button-hole;  his  black  neckerchjef 
had  been  taken  off;  and  his  cocked 
hat  lay  beside  him  on  a  sofa,  mas- 
sively laced,  the  edges  richly  orna- 
mented with  ostrich  down ;  his  head 
was  covered  with  a  red  velvet  cap, 
with  a  thick  gold  cord  twisted  two 
or  three  turns  round  it,  and  ending 
in  two  large  tassels  of  heavy  bullion ; 
he  wore  very  large  epaulets,  and 
his  sword  had  been  inadvertently,  as 
I  conjectured,  placed  on  the  table,  so 
that  the  point  of  the  steel  scabbard 
rested  on  the  ornamental  part  of  the 
metal  stove. 

"  His  face  was  good,  his  hair  dark, 
forehead  without  a  wrinkle,  high  and 
massive,  eyes  bright  and  sparkling, 
nose  neither  fine  nor  dumpy— a  fair 
enough  proboscis  as  noses  go." 

"  Now,"  quoth  Aaron,  "  very  in- 
explicit all  this,  Tom.  Why,  I  am 
most  curious  in  noses.  I  judge  of 
character  altogether  from  the  nose. 
I  never  lose  sight  of  a  man's  snout, 
albeit  I  never  saw  the  tip  of  my  own. 
You  may  rely  on  it,  that  it  is  all  a 
mistake  to  consider  the  regular  Ro- 
man nose,  with  a  curve  like  a  shoe- 
maker's paring-knife,  or  the  straight 
Grecian,  with  a  thin  transparent 


1833.] 


.     Tom  Crinylcs  Log, 


ridge,  that  you  can  see  through,  or 
the  Deutsch  meerschaum,  or  the  Sax- 
on pump-handle,  or  the  Scotch  ?null, 
or  any  other  nose,  that  can  be  taken 
hold  of,  as  the  standard  gnomon.  No, 
no;  1  never  saw  a  man  with  a  large 
nose  who  was  not  a  blockhead— eh  ! 
Gelid,  rny  love  ?  The  pimple  for 
me — the  regular  pimple. — But  a/- 

tons" 

"  There  was  an  expression  about 
;he  upper  lip  and  mouth  that  I  did 
not   like — a  constant   nervous  sort 
jf  lifting  of  the  lip  as  it  were ;  and 
.is  the  mustache  appeared  to  have 
jeen  recently  shaven  off,  there  was 
a  white  blueness  on  the  upper  lip, 
hat    contrasted   unpleasantly  with 
•he  dark  tinge  which  he  had  gal- 
lantly wrought  for  on  the  glowing 
nands  of  Egypt,  the  bronzing  of  hia 
general   features   from   fierce   suns 
and  parching  winds.    His  bare  neck 
;md  hands  were  delicately  fair,  the 
former  firm  and  muscular,  the  lat- 
ler  slender  and  tapering,  like  a  wo- 
man's. He  was  reading  a  gazette,  or 
t  ome  printed  paper,  when  we  enter- 
ed ;  and  although  there  was  a  toler- 
sible  clatter  of  muskets,  sabres,  and 
t  purs,  he  never  once  lifted  his  eye 
i  n  the  direction  where  we  stood.  Op- 
posite this  personage,  on  a  low  chair, 
\vith  his  legs  crossed,  and  eyes  fixed 
en  the  ashes  that  were  dropping  from 
the  stove,  with    his    brown    cloak 
hanging  from  his  shoulders,  sat  a 
f  hort  stout  personage,  a  man  about 
Ihirty  years  of  age,  with  very  fair 
ilaxen  hair,  a  florid  complexion,  a 
very  fair  skin,  and  massive  German 
features.  The  expression  of  his  face, 
t  o  far  as  such  a  countenance  could 
l>e  said  to  have  any  characteristic 
<  xpression,  was  that  of  fixed  sorrow. 
But  before  I  could  make  any  other 
observation,  the   aide-de-camp   ap- 
proached with  a  good  spice  of  fear 
;  nd  trembling,  as  I  could  see. 

"  *  Colonel  *  *  *  to  wait  on  your 
Highness.' 

"  '  Ah !'  said  the  officer  to  whom 
he  spoke,  *  ah,  colonel,  what  do  you 
1  ere  ?  Has  the  Emperor  advanced 
j  gain  ?' 

" '  No,'  said  the  officer, '  he  has  not 
i  dvanced  ;  but  the  rear-guard  were 

(  ut  off  by  the  Prussians,  and  the 

1  ght,  with  the grenadiers,  are 

row  in  Cuxhaven.' 

" '  Well,'  replied  the  general, « but 
1  ow  come  you  here  ?' 


311 

"  '  Why,  Marshal,  we  were  de- 
tached to  seize  a  depot  of  provisions 
in  a  neighbouring  village,  arid  had 
made  preparations  to  carry  them  off, 
when  we  were  attacked  through  a 
gap  in  the  dike,  by  some  armed 
boats  from  an  English  squadron,  and 
hearing  a  distant  firing  at  the  very 
moment,  which  I  concluded  to  be 
the  Prussian  advance,  I  conceived  all 
chance  of  rejoining  the  main  army  at 
an  end,  and  therefore  I  shoved  off  in 
the  grain-boats,  and  here  I  am.' 

"  '  Glad  to  see  you,  however,'  said 
the  general, '  but  sorry  for  the  cause 
why  you  are  here  returned. — Who 
have  we  got  here — what  boy  is  that  ?' 
"  *  Why,'  responded  the  colonel, 
'  that  lad  is  one  of  the  British  offi- 
cers of  the  force  that  attacked  us.' 

"  *  Ha,'  said  the  general  again, — 
'  how  did  you  capture  him  V 

"  « The  boat  (one  of  four)  in  which 
he  was  in  was  blown  to  pieces  by  a 
six- pound  shot.  He  was  the  only  one 
of  the  enemy  who  swam  ashore.  The 
rest,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  were 
picked  up  by  the  other  boats.' 

"  *  So,'  grumbled  the  general, '  Bri- 
tish ships  in  the  Elbe  ?' 

"  The  colonel  continued.  *  I  hope, 
Marshal,  you  will  allow  him  his  pa- 
role ?— he  is,  as  you  see,  quite  a 
child.' 

"  *  Parole !'  replied  the  Marshal, — 
*  parole ! — such  a  mere  lad  cannot 
know  the  value  of  his  promise.' 

"Asuddenfitofrashnesscameover 
me.  I  could  never  account  for  it. 

" '  He  is  a  mere  boy,'  reiterated  the 
Marshal.  *  No,  no— send  him  to  pri- 
son ;'  and  he  resumed  the  study  of 
the  printed  paper  he  had  been  read- 
ing. 

**  I  struck  in,  impelled  by  despair, 
for  I  knew  the  character  of  the  man 
before  whom  I  stood,  and  I  remem- 
bered that  even  a  tiger  might  be 
checked  by  a  bold  front — *  1  am  an 
Englishman,  sir,  and  incapable  of 
breaking  rny  plighted  word.' 

"  He  laid  down  the  paper  he  was 
reading,  and  slowly  lifted  his  eyes, 
and  fastened  them  on  me, — *  Ha,' 
said  he,  *  ha — so  young — BO  reck- 
less ?' 

"  '  Never  mind  him,  Marshal,'  said 
the  colonel.  *  If  you  will  grant  him 

his  parole,  I' 

"  '  Take  it,  colonel— take  it— take 
his  parole,  not  to  go  beyond  the 
ditch.' 


312 

"  '  But  I  decline  to  give  any  such 
promise,'  said  I,  with  a  hardihood 
which  at  the  time  surprised  me,  and 
has  always  done  so. 

"  f  Why,  my  good  youth,'  said  the 
general,  in  great  surprise,  *  why  will 
you  not  take  advantage  of  the  offer 
—a  kinder  one,  let  me  tell  you,  than 
I  am  in  the  habit  of  making  to  an 
enemy?'  *«'»«'»• 

"  *  Simply,  sir,  because  I  will  en- 
deavour to  escape  on  the  very  first 
opportunity.' 

" '  Ha !'  said  the  Marshal  once  more, 
'  this  to  my  face  ?  Lafontaine,'— to 
the  aide-de-camp*—'  a  file  of  sol- 
diers.' The  handsome  young  officer 
hesitated — hung  in  the  wind,  as  we 
say,  for  a  moment — moved,  as  I  ima- 
gined, by  my  extreme  youth.  This 
irritated  the  Marshal— he  rose,  and 
stamped  on  the  floor.  The  colonel 
essayed  to  interfere.  '  Sentry— sen- 
try— a  file  of  grenadiers — take  him 

forth,  and' here  he  energetically 

clutched  the  steel  hilt  of  his  sword, 
and  instantly  dashed  it  from  him — 
'  Sacre  /—the  devil— what  is  that  ?' 
and  straightway  he  began  to  pirouette 
on  one  leg  round  the  room,  shaking 
his  right  hand,  and  blowing  his  fin- 
gers. 

"  The  officers  in  waiting  could  not 
stand  it  any  longer,  and  burst  into  a 
fit  of  laughter,  in  which  their  com- 
manding officer,  after  an  unavailing 
attempt  to  look  serious — I  should  ra- 
ther write  fierce— joined,  and  there 
he  was,  the  bloody  Davoust — Duke 
of  Auerstad — Prince  of  Eckmuhl — 
the  Hamburgh  Robespierre — the  ter- 
rible Davoust — dancing  all  around 
the  room,  in  a  regular  guffawy  like  to 
split  his  sides.  The  heated  stove  had 
made  the  sword,  which  rested  on  it, 
nearly  red-hot. 

"  All  this  while  the  quiet,  plain-look- 
ing, little  man  sat  still.  He  now  rose ; 
but  I  noticed  that  he  had  been  fixing 
his  eyes  intently  on  me.  I  thought  I 
could  perceive  a  tear  glistening  in 
them  as  he  spoke. 

"  *  Marshal,  will  you  intrust  that 
boy  to  me  ?' 

« « Poo,'  said  the  Prince,  still  laugh- 
ing, '  take  him — do  what  you  will 
with  him ;' — then,  as  if  suddenly  re- 
collecting himself, '  But,  Mr  ***,  #ow 
must  be  answerable  for  him — he 
must  be  at  hand  if  I  want  him.' 

'*  The  gentleman  who  had  so  unex- 


Tum  Cringle's  Log. 


[March, 


pectedly  patronised  me  rose,  and 
said, '  Marshal,  I  promise.' 

«  « Very  well,'  said  Davoust.  '  La- 
fontaine, desire  supper  to  be  sent 
up.' 

"  It  was  brought  in,  and  my  new 
ally  and  I  were  shewn  out. 

"  As  we  went  down  stairs,  we  look- 
ed into  a  room  on  the  ground  floor,  at 
the  door  of  which  were  four  soldiers 
with  fixed  bayonets.  We  there  saw, 
for  it  was  well  lit  up,  about  twenty 
or  five-and-twenty  respectable-look- 
ing men,  very  English  in  appearance, 
all  to  their  long  cloaks,  an  unusual 
sort  of  garment  to  my  eye  at  that 
time.  The  night  was  very  wet,  and 
the  aforesaid  garments  were  hung  on 
pegs  in  the  wall  all  round  the  room, 
which  being  strongly  heated  by  a 
stove,  the  moisture  rose  up  in  a  thick 
mist,  and  made  the  faces  of  the 
burghers  indistinct. 

"  They  were  all  busily  engaged  talk- 
ing to  each  other,  some  to  his  neigh- 
bour, the  others  across  the  table,  but 
all  with  an  expression  of  the  most 
intense  anxiety. 

"  '  Who  are  these  ?'  said  I  to  my 
guide. 

"  *  Ask  no  questions  here?  said  he, 
and  we  passed  on. 

"lafter  wards  learned  that  they  were 
the  hostages  seized  on  for  the  tri- 
fling contribution  of  fifty  millions  of 
francs,  which  had  been  imposed  on 
the  doomed  city,  and  that  this  very 
night  they  had  been  torn  from  their 
families,  and  cooped  up  in  the  way  I 
had  seen  them,  where  they  were  ad- 
vertised they  must  remain  until  the 
money  should  be  forthcoming. 

"  As  we  walked  along  the  streets, 
and  crossed  the  numerous  bridges  of 
the  canals  and  branches  of  the  river, 
we  found  all  the  houses  lit  up,  by 
order,  as  I  learned,  of  the  French 
marshal.  The  rain  descended  in  tor- 
rents, sparkling  past  the  lights,  while 
the  city  was  a  desert,  with  one  dread- 
ful exception ;  for  we  were  waylaid 
at  almost  every  turn  by  groups  of 
starving  lunatics,  their  halt-naked  fi- 
gures and  pale  visages  glimmering 
in  the  glancing  lights,  under  the  drip- 
ping rain ;  and,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  numerous  sentries  scatteredalong 
thethoroughfares, Ibelieve  we  should 
have  been  torn  to  pieces  by  bands  of 
moping  idiots,  now  rendered  fero- 
cious from  their  sufferings,  in  con- 


1833.] 


Tom  Ciingles  Log. 


sequence  of  the  madhouses  having 
been  cleared  of  their  miserable,  help- 
less inmates, in  order  to  be  converted 
into  barracks  for  the  troops.  At  all 
of  these  bridges  sentries  were  post- 
ed, past  which  my  conductor  and 
myself,  to  my  surprise,  were  franked 
by  the  sergeant  who  accompanied  us 
giving  the  countersign.  At  length, 
civilly  touching  his  cap,  although  he 
did  not  refuse  the  piece  of  money 
tendered  by  my  friend,  he  left  us, 
wishing  us  good  night,  and  saying 
the  coast  was  clear.  We  proceeded 
without  farther  challenge,  until  we 
came  to  a  very  magnificent  house, 
with  some  fine  trees  before  it.  We 
approached  the  door,  and  rung  the 
door-bell.  It  was  immediately  open- 
ed, and  we  entered  a  large  desolate- 
looking  vestibule,  about  thirty  feet 
square,  filled  in  the  centre  with  a 
number  of  bales  of  goods,  and  a  va- 
riety of  merchandise,  while  a  heavy 
wooden  stair,  with  clumsy  oak  ba- 
lustrades, wound  round  the  sides  of 
it.  We  ascended,  and  turning  to  the 
right,  entered  a  large  well-furnished 
room,  with  a  table  laid  out  for  sup- 
per, with  lights,  and  a  comfortable 
stove  at  one  end.  Three  young  of- 
ficers of  cuirassiers,  in  their  superb 
uniforms,  whose  breast  and  back 
pieces  were  glittering  on  a  neigh- 
bouring sofa,  and  a  colonel  of  artil- 
lery, were  standing  round  the  stove. 
The  colonel,  the  moment  we  entered, 
addressed  my  conductor. 

"  '  Ah, ,  we  are  devilish  hun- 
gry— Icfi  bin  dew.  Verhungern  nahe — 
and  were  just  on  the  point  of  order- 
ing in  the  provender,  had  you  not 
appeared.'  A  little  more  than  that, 
thought  I ;  for  the  food  was  already 
smoking  on  the  table. 

"  Mine  host  acknowledged  the 
speech  with  a  slight  smile. 

<: '  But  who  have  we  here  ?'  said 
one  of  the  young  dragoons ; — he 
waited  a  moment — *  Etes  vous  Fran- 
~qis  ?'  I  gave  him  no  answer.  He 
:hen  addressed  me  in  German : — 
Sprechen  sie  gelanfiy  Deutsch  ?' 

" '  Why,'  chimed  in  my  conductor, 
he  does  speak  a  little  French,  indif- 
erently  enough  ;  but  still' 

"  «  Well,  my  dear ,  how  have 

you  sped  with  the  Prince  ?' 

"'  Why,  colonel,'  said  my  protector, 
n  his  cool  calm  way, '  as  well  as  I  ex- 
pected. I  was  of  some  service  to  him 
he  was  here  before,  at  the  time 


he  was  taken  so  very  ill,  aud  he  has 
not  forgotten  it,  so  I  am  not  included 
amongst  the  unfortunate  detenus  for 
the  payment  of  the  fine.  But  that  is 
not  all,  for  I  am  allowed  to  go  to- 
morrow to  my  father's,  and  here  is 
my  passport.' 

"  *  Wonders  will  never  cease,'  said 
the  colonel ;  *  but  who  is  that  boy  ?' 

"  *  He  is  one  of  the  crew  of  the 
English  boat  which  tried  to  cut  off 

Colonel the  other  evening,  near 

Cuxhaven.  His  life  was  saved  by  a 
very  laughable  circumstance,  cer- 
tainly,— merely  by  the  marshal's 
sword,  from  resting  on  the  stove,  ha- 
ving become  almost  red-hot.'  And 
here  he  detailed  the  whole  transac- 
tion as  it  took  place,  which  set  the 
party  a-laughing  most  heartily. 

"  I  will  always  bear  witness  to  the 
extreme  amenity  with  which  I  was 
now  treated  by  the  French  officers. 
The  evening  passed  over  quickly. 
About  eleven  we  retired  to  rest,  my 
friend  furnishing  me  with  clothes, 
and  warning  me  that  next  morning 
he  would  call  me  at  daylight  to  pro- 
ceed to  his  father's  country  seat, 
where  he  intimated  that  I  must  re- 
main in  the  meantime. 

"  Next  morning  I  was  roused  ac- 
cordingly, and  a  long,  low,  open  car- 
riage rattled  up  to  the  door,  just  be- 
fore day  dawn.  Presently  the  re- 
veill  was  beaten,  and  answered  by 
the  different  posts  in  the  city,  and  on 
the  ramparts. 

"We  drove  on,  merely  shewing  our 
passport  to  the  sentries  at  the  differ- 
ent bridges,  until  we  reached  the 
gate,  where  we  had  to  pull  up  until 
the  officer  on  duty  appeared,  and  had 
scrupulously  compared  our  personal 
appearance  with  the  written  descrip- 
tion. All  was  found  correct,  and  we 
drove  on.  It  surprised  me  very  much, 
after  having  repeatedly  heard  of  the 
great  strength  of  Hamburgh,  to  look 
out  on  the  large  mound  of  green  turf 
that  constituted  its  chief  defence.  It 
is  all  true  that  there  was  a  deep  ditch 
and  glacis  beyond  ;  but  there  was  no 
covered  way,  and  both  the  scarp  and 
counterscarp  were  simple  earthen 
embankments,  so  that,  had  the  ditch 
been  filled  up  with  fascines,  there 
was  no  wall  to  face  the  attacking 
force  after  crossing  it,  nothing  but 
a  green  mound,  precipitous  enough, 
certainly,  and  crowned  with  a  low 
parapet  wall  of  masonry,  and  brist- 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


314 

ling  with  batteries  about  half  way 
down,  so  that  the  muzzles  of  the  guns 
were  flush  with  the  neighbouring 
country  beyond  the  ditch.  Still  there 
was  wanting,  to  my  imagination,  the 
strength  of  the  high  perpendicular 
wall,  with  its  gaping  embrasures,  and 
frowning  cannon.  All  this  time  it 
never  occurred  to  me,  that  to  breach 
such  a  defence  as  that  we  looked 
upon  was  impossible.  You  might 
have  plumped  your  shot  into  it  until 
you  had  converted  it  into  an  iron 
mine,  but  no  chasm  could  have  been 
forced  in  it  by  all  the  artillery  in 
Europe;  so  battering  in  breach  was 
entirely  out  of  the  question,  and  this, 
in  truth,  constituted  the  great  strength 
of  the  place.  We  arrived,  after  an 
hour's  drive,  at  the  villa  belonging 
to  my  protector's  famity,  and  walked 
into  a  large  room,  with  a  comfortable 
stove,  and  extensive  preparations 
made  for  a  comfortable  breakfast. 

"  Presently  three  young  ladies  ap- 
peared ;  they  were  his  sisters ;  blue 
eyed,  fair  haired,  white  skinned, 
round  sterned,  piump  little  par- 
tridges. 

"'  Habcn  sie  gefiuhstucht?'  said 
the  eldest. 

"  '  Pas  encore?  said  he  in  French, 
with  a  smile.  '  But,  sisters,  I  have 
brought  a  stranger  here,  a  young  Eng- 
lish officer,  who  was  recently  cap- 
tured in  the  river.' 

"  *  An  English  officer  !'  exclaimed 
the  three  ladies  looking  at  me,  a  poor 
little  dirty  midshipman,  in  my  soiled 
linen,  unbrushed  shoes,  dirty  trow- 
sers  and  jacket,  with  rny  little  square 
of  white  cloth  oa  the  collar;  and  I 
began  to  find  the  eloquent  blood 
mantling  in  my  cheeks,  and  tingling 
in  my  ears;  but  their  kindly  feelings 
got  the  better  of  a  gentle  propensity 
to  laugh,  and  the  youngest  said — 

" '  Sie  sind  gerade  zu  rcchter  zeli 
gekommen?  When,  finding  that  her 
German  was  Hebrew  to  me,  she  tried 
the  other  tack.  *  Vow*  arrivez  a 
proposy  le  dejeioie  est  pret^ 

"  However,  I  soon  found  that  the 
moment  they  were  assured  that  I 
xvas  in  reality  an  Englishman,  they 
all  spoke  English,  ami  exceedingly 
well  too.  Our  meal  was  finished, 
and  I  was  standing  fit  the  window 
looking  out  on  a  small  lawn,  where 
evergreens  df  the  most  beautiful 
kinds  were  chequered  with  little 
round  clumps  of  most  luxuriant 


[March, 


hollyhocks,  and  the  fruit-trees  in  the 
neighbourhood  were  absolutely  bend- 
ing to  the  earth  under  their  loads  of 
apples  and  pears. 

"  Presently  my  friend  came  up  to 
me ;  my  curiosity  could  no  longer  be 
restrained.  *  Pray,  my  good  sir, 
what  peculiar  cause,  may  1  ask,  have 
you  for  shewing  me,  an  entire  stran- 
ger to  you,%ll  this  unexpected  kind- 
ness ?  I  am  fully  aware  that  I  have  no 
claim  on  you.' 

"  *  My  good  boy,  you  say  true ;  but 
I  have  spent  the  greatest  part  of  my 
life  in  London,  although  a  Ham- 
burgher  born,  and  I  consider  you 
therefore  in  the  light  of  a  country- 
man ;  besides,  I  will  not  conceal  that 
your  gallant  bearing  before  Davoust 
riveted  my  attention,  and  engaged 
my  good  wishes.' 

" '  But  how  come  you  to  have  so 
much  influence  with  the  mon — ge- 
neral, I  mean ':' 

"  '  For  several  reasons,'  he  replied ; 
r  for  those,  amongst  others,  you  heard 
the  colonel  who  has  taken  the  -small 
liberty  of  turning  me  out  of  my  own 
house  in  Hamburgh,  mention  last 
night  at  supper;  but  a  man  like  Da- 
voust cannot  be  judged  of  by  com- 
mon rules.  He  has,  in  short,  taken  a 
fancy  to  me,  for  which  you  may  thank 
your  stars — although  your  life  has 
been  actually  saved  by  the  Prince 
having  burned  his  fingers.  But  here 
comes  my  father.' 

"  A  venerable  old  man  entered  the 
room,  leaning  on  his  stick.  I  was 
introduced  in  due  form. 

u  *  He  had  breakfasted  in  his  own 
room,'  he  said,  '  having  been  ailing, 
but  he  could  not  rest  quietly  after 
he  had  heard  there  was  an  English- 
man in  the  house  until  he  had  him- 
self welcomed  him.' 

"  I  shall  never  forget  the  kindness 
I  experienced  from  this  worthy  fa- 
mily— for  three  days  I  was  fed  and 
clothed  by  them  as  if  I  had  been  a 
member  of  the  family.  Like  a  boy 
as  I  was,  I  had  risen  early  on  the 
fourth  morning  at  grey  dawn,  to  be 
aiding  in  dragging  the  fish-pond,  so 
that  it  might  be  cleaned  out.  This 
was  an  annual  amusement,  in  which 
the  young  men  and  women  in  the  fa- 
mily, under  happier  circumstances, 
had  been  in  the  invariable  custom  of 
joining,  nud,  changed  as  these  were, 
they  btill  preserved  the  fashion.  The 
seine  was  cast  in  at  one  end,  loaded 


183S.] 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


at  the  bottom  with  heavy  sinks,  and 
buoyant  at  the  top  with  cork  floats. 
We  hauled  it  along  the  whole  length 
of  the  pond,  thereby  driving  the  fish 
into  an  enclosure  about  twenty  feet 
square,  with  a  sluice  towards  the 
pond,  and  another  fronting  the  dull 
ditch  that  flowed  past  beyond  it. 
Whenever  we  had  hunted  the  whole 
of  the  finny  tribes  (barring  those 
slippery  youths  the  eels,  who,  with 
all  their  cleverness,  were  left  to  dry 
in  the  mud)  into  the  toils,  we  fill- 
ed all  the  tubs,  and  pots  and  pans, 
and  vessels  of  all  kinds  and  descrip- 
tions, some  of  them  unnameable, 
with  the  fat  honest-looking  Dutch- 
men, the  carp  and  tench,  who  really 
submitted  to  their  captivity  with  all 
the  resignation  of  most  ancient  and 
quiet  watchmen,  scarcely  indicating 
any  sense  of  the  irksomeness  of  cap- 
tivity, except  by  a  lumbering  slug- 
gish flap  of  their  broad  heavy  tails. 

"  A  transaction  of  this  kind  could 
not  take  place  amongst  a  group  of 
young  folks  without  shouts  of  laugh- 
ter, and  it  was  not  until  we  had 
caught  the  whole  of  the  fish  in  the 
pond,  and  placed  them  in  safety,  that 
I  had  leisure  to  look  about  me.  The 
city  lay  about  four  miles  distant  from 
us.  The  whole  country  about  Ham- 
burgh is  level,  except  the  right  bank 
below  it,  of  the  noble  river  on  which 
it  stands,  the  Elbe.  The  house  where 
I  was  domiciled  stood  on  nearly  the 
highest  point  of  this  bank,  which  gra- 
dually sloped  down  into  a  swampy 
hollow,  nearly  level  with  the  river. 
It  then  rose  again  gently  until  the 
swell  was  crowned  with  the  beauti- 
ful town  of  Altona,  and  immediately 
beyond  appeared  the  ramparts  and 
tall  spires  of  the  noble  city  itself. 

"  The  morning  had  been  thick  and 
foggy,  but  as  the  sun  rose,  the  white 
mist  that  had  floated  over  the  whole 
country,  gradually  concentrated  and 
settled  down  into  the  hollow  between 
us  and  Hamburgh,  covering  it  with 
an  impervious  veil,  which  even  ex- 
tended into  the  city  itself,  filling  the 
lower  part  of  it  with  a  dense  white 
bank  of  fog,  which  rose  so  high  that 
the  spires  alone,  with  one  or  two  of 
the  most  lofty  buildings,  appeared 
above  the  rolling  sea  of  white  fleece- 
like  vapour,  as  if  it  had  been  a  model 
of  the  stronghold,  in  place  of  the  rea- 
lity, packed  in  white  wool,  so  ^dis- 
tinct did  it  appear,  diminished  as  it 


315 

was  in  the  distance.  On  the  tallest 
spire  of  the  place,  which  was  now 
sparkling  in  the  early  sunbeams,  the 
French  flag,  the  pestilent  tricolor, 
that  Upas-tree,  waved  sluggishly  in 
the  faint  morning  breeze." 

"  Upas-tree—bad  simile,  with  regard 
to  a  flag,"  grunted  Bang ;  but  I  let 
him  go  on. 

"  It  attracted  my  attention,  and  I 
pointed  it  out  to  my  patron.  Pre- 
sently it  was  hauled  down,  and  a  se- 
ries of  signals  was  made  at  the  yard- 
arm  of  a  spar,  that  had  been  slung 
across  it.  Who  can  they  be  tele- 
graphing to  ?  thought  I,  while  I  could 
notice  my  host  assume  a  most  an- 
xious and  startled  look,  while  he 
peered  down  into  the  hollow ;  but  he 
could  see  nothing,  as  the  fog  bank 
still  filled  the  whole  of  the  space  be- 
tween the  city  and  the  acclivity  where 
we  stood. 

" '  What  is  that  ?'  said  I ;  for  I 
heard,  or  thought  I  heard,  a  low  rum- 
bling rushing  noise  in  the  ravine. 
Mr  ***  heard  it  as  well  as  I  ap- 
parently, for  he  put  his  finger  to 
his  lips — as  much  as  to  say,  *  Hold 
your  tongue,  my  good  boy — nous  ver- 
rons.' 

"  It  increased— the  clattering  of 
horses'  hoofs,  and  the  clang  of  scab- 
bards was  heard,  and,  in  a  twinkling, 
the  hussar  caps  of  a  squadron  of 
light  dragoons  emerged  from  out  the 
fog  bank,  as,  charging  up  the  road, 
they  passed  the  small  gate  of  green 
basket-work  at  a  hand-gallop.  I 
ought  to  have  mentioned  before  that 
my  friend's  house  was  situated  about 
half  way  up  the  ascent,  so  that  the 
rising  ground  behind  it  in  the  oppo- 
site direction  from  the  city,  shutout 
all  view  towards  the  country.  After 
the  dragoons  passed,  there  was  an  in- 
terval of  two  minutes,  when  a  troop 
of  flying  artillery,  with  three  six- 
pound  field- pieces,  rattled  after  the 
leading  squadron,  the  horses  all  in  a 
lather,  at  full  speed,  with  the  guns 
bounding  and  jumping  behind  them 
as  if  they  had  been  playthings,  fol- 
lowed by  their  caissons.  Presently 
we  could  see  the  leading  squadron 
file  to  the  right—clear  the  low  hedge 
— and  then  "disappear  over  the  crest 
of  the  hill.  Twenty  or  thirty  pion- 
eers, who  had  been  carried  forward 
behind  as  many  of  the  cavalry,  were 
now  seen  busily  employed  in  filling 
up  the  ditch,  and  cutting  down  the 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


316 

short  scrubby  hedge ;  and  presently, 
the  artillery  coming  up  also,  filed  off 
sharply  to  the  right,  and  formed  on 
the  very  summit  of  the  hill,  distinct- 
ly visible  between  us  and  the  grey 
cold  streaks  of  morning.  By  the  time 
we  had  noticed  this,  the  clatter  in 
our  immediate  neighbourhood  was 
renewed,  and  a  group  of  mounted 
officers  dashed  past  us,  up  the  path, 
like  a  whirlwind,  followed,  at  a  dis- 
tance of  twenty  yards,  by  a  single 
cavalier,  apparently  a  general  officer. 
These  did  not  stop,  as  they  rode  at 
speed  past  the  spot  where  the  artil- 
lery were  in  position,  but,  dipping 
over  the  summit,  disappeared  down 
the  road,  from  which  they  did  not 
appear  to  diverge,  until  they  were 
lost  to  our  view  beyond  the  crest  of 
the  hill.     The  hum  and  buzz,  and 
anon,  the  *  measured  tread  of  march- 
ing men,'  in  the  valley  between  us 
and  Hamburgh,  still  continued.  The 
leading  files  of  a  light  infantry  regi- 
ment now  appeared,  swinging  along 
at  a  round  trot,  with:  their  muskets 
poised    in    their    right    hands — no 
knapsacks  on  their  backs.     They  ap- 
peared to  follow  the  route  of  the 
group  of  mounted  officers,  until  we 
could  see  a  puff  of  white  smoke, 
then  another  and  a  third  from  the 
field-pieces,  followed  by  thudding 
reports,  there  being  no  high  ground 
nor  precipitous  bank,  nor  water  in 
the  neighbourhood  to    reflect    the 
sound,  and  make  it  emulate  Jove's 
thunder.     At  this,  they  struck  across 
the  fields,  and  forming  behind  the 
guns,  lay  down  flat  on  their  faces, 
where  they  were  soon  hid  from  our 
view  by  the  wreaths  of  white  smoke, 
as  the  sluggish  morning  breeze  roll- 
ed  it  down  the  hill  side  towards 
us. 

"<  What  the  deuce  can  all  this 
mean — is  it  a  review  ?'  said  I,  in  my 
innocence. 

"  '  A  reconnaissance  in  force,' 
groaned  my  friend.  "  '  The  Allied 
troops  must  be  at  hand — now,  God 
help  us!' 

"  The  women,  like  frightened 
hares,  paused  to  look  up  in  their  bro- 
ther's face,  as  he  kept  his  eye  stea- 
dily turned  towards  the  ridge  of  the 
hill,  and,  when  he  involuntarily 
wrung  his  hands,  they  gave  a  loud 
scream,  a  fearful  concerto,  and  ran 
off  into  the  house." 


[March, 


"  A  loud  scream — a  fearful  con- 
certo," quoth  Bang—"  Bad  phrase, 
Tom ;  but  let  us  get  along." 

"  The  breeze  at  this  moment 
*  aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast/ 
and  we  heard  a  faint  bugle  call,  like 
an  echo  wail  in  the  distance,  from 
beyond  the  hill.  It  was  instantly 
answered  by  the  loud,  startling  blare 
of  a  dozen  of  the  light  infantry  bugles 
above  us  on  the  hill-side,  and  we 
could  see  them  suddenly  start  from 
their  lair,  and  form  ;  while  between 
us  and  the  clearing  morning  sky,  the 
cavalry,  magnified  into  giants  in  the 
strong  relief  on  the  outline  of  the 
hill,  were  driven  in  straggling  patrols, 
like  chaff,  over  the  summit — their 
sabres  sparkling  in  the  level  sun- 
beams, and  the  reports  of  the  red 
flashes  of  their  pistols  crackling  down 
upon  us. 

"  *  They  are  driven  in  on  the  in- 
fantry,' said  Mr  ***.  He  was  right 
— but  the  light  battalion  immediate- 
ly charged  over  the  hill,  with  a  loud 
hurrah,  after  admitting  the  beaten 
horse  through  their  intervals,  who, 
however,  to  give  the  devils  their  due, 
formed  again  in  an  instant,  under  the 
shelter  of  the  high  ground.  The  ar- 
tillery again  opened  their  fire — the 
cavalry  once  more  advanced,  and 
presently  we  could  see  nothing  but 
the  field-pieces,  with  their  three  se- 
parate groups  of  soldiers  standing 
quietly  by  them,  —  a  sure  proof 
that  the  enemy's  pickets  were  now 
out  of  cannon-shot,  and  had  been 
driven  back  on  the  main  body,  and 
that  the  reconnaissance  was  still  ad- 
vancing. 

"  What  will  not  an  habitual  expo- 
sure to  danger  do,  even  with  tender 
women  ? 

"  *  The  French  Kave  advanced,  so 
let  us  have  our  breakfast,  Julia,  my 
dear,'  said  Mr  ***,  as  we  entered 
the  house.  '  The  Allied  Forces  would 
have  been  welcome,  however ;  and 
surely,  if  they  do  come,  they  will 
respect  our  sufferings  and  helpless- 
ness.' 

"  The  eldest  sister,  to  whom  he 
spoke,  shook  her  head  mournfully  j 
but,  nevertheless,  betook  herself  to 
her  task  of  making  coffee. 

"  «  What  rumbling  and  rattling  is 
that?'  said  ***  to  an  old  servant 
who  had  just  entered  the  room. 

"  c  Two  waggons  with   wounded 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


317 


onwards  to- 


men,  sir,  have 
wards  the  town.' 

"'Ah!'  said  mine  host,  in  great 
bitterness  of  spirit. 

"  But  allons,  we  proceeded  to  make 
the  best  use  of  our  time — Ham,  good 
—fish,  excellent — eggs,  fresh — cof- 
fee, superb — when  we  again  heard 
the  field-pieces  above  us  open  their 
fire,  and  in  the  intervals  we  could 
distinguish  the  distant  rattle  of  mus- 
ketry. Presently  this  rolling  fire 
slackened,  and  after  a  few  scattering 
shots  here  and  there,  ceased  altoge- 
ther; but  the  cannon  on  the  hill 
still  continued  to  play.  We  were  by 
this  time  all  standing  in  a  cluster  in 
the  porch  of  the  villa,  before  which 
stood  the  tubs  with  the  finny  spoil 
of  the  fish-pond,  on  a  small  paddock 
of  velvet  grass,  about  forty  yards 
square,  separated  from  the  high-road 
by  a  low  ornamental  fence  of  green 
basket-work,  as  already  mentioned. 
The  firing  from  the  great  guns  in- 
creased, and  every  now  and  then  I 
thought  I  heard  a  distant  sound,  as 
f  the  reports  of  the  guns  above  us 
had  been  reflected  from  some  pre- 
cipitous bank. 

"  '  I  did  not  know  that  there  was 
any  echo  here,'  said  the  youngest 
girl. 

"  '  Alas,  JanetteP  said  her  bro- 
ther, '  I  fear  that  is  no  echo ;'  and 
he  put  up  his  hand  to  his  ear,  and 
listened  in  breathless  suspense.  The 
sound  was  repeated. 

" '  The  Russian  cannon  replying  to 
hose  on  the  hill !'  said  Mr  ###,  with 
startling  energy.  '  God  help  us  !  it 
can  no  longer  be  an  affair  of  posts ; 
the  heads  of  the  Allied  columns  must 
be  in  sight,  for  the  French  skirmish- 
ers are  unquestionably  driven  in.' 

"  A  French  officer  at  this  moment 
•attled  past  us  down  the  road  at 
^peed,  and  vanished  in  the  hollow, 
taking  the  direction  of  the  town.  His 
lat  fell  off,  as  his  horse  swerved  a 
ittle  at  the  open  gate,  as  he  passed. 
fie  never  stopped  to  pick  it  up. 
Presently  a  round  shot,  with  a  loud 
•inging  and  hissing  sound,  pitched 
over  the  hill,  and  knocked  one  of 
:he  fish-tubs  close  to  us  to  pieces, 
scattering  the  poor  fish  all  about  the 
lawn.  With  the  recklessness  of  a 
mere  boy  I  dashed  out,  and  was 
busy  picking  them  up,  when  Mr 
***  called  to  me  to  come  back. 

"  '  Let  us  go  in,  and  await  what 


may  befall ;  I  dread  what  the  ty' — 
Here  he  prudently  checked  himself, 
remembering  no  doubt,  '  that  a  bird 
of  the  air  might  carry  the  matter'— 
c  I  dread  what  he  may  do,  if  they 
are  really  investing  the  place.  At 
any  rate,  here,  in  the  very  arena 
where  the  struggle  will  doubtless  be 
fiercest,  we  cannot  abide.  So  go, 
my  dear  sisters,  and  pack  up  what- 
ever you  may  have  most  valuable, 
or  most  necessary.  Nay,  no  tears  ; 
and  I  will  attend  to  our  poor  old 
father,  and  get  the  carriage  ready, 
if,  God  help  me,  I  dare  use  it.' 

"  '  But  where,  in  the  name  of  all 
that  is  fearful,  shall  we  go  ?'  said 
his  second  sister.  '  Not  back  to 
Hamburgh — not  to  endure  another 
season  of  such  deep  degradation— 

not   to  be   exposed   to  the Oh 

brother,  you  saw  we  all  submitted 
to  our  fate  without  a  murmur,  and 
laboured  cheerfully  on  the  fortifi- 
cations, when  compelled  to  do  so 
by  that  inhuman  monster  Davoust, 
amidst  the  ribaldry  of  a  licentious 
soldiery,  merely  because  poor  Ja- 
nette  had  helped  to  embroider  a 
standard  for  the  brave  Hanseatic 
Legion — you  know  how  we  bore  this* 
— here  the  sweet  girl  held  out  her 
delicate  hands,  galled  by  actual  and 
unwonted  labour — '  and  many  other 
indignities,  until  that  awful  night, 
when — No,  brother,  we  shall  await 
the  arrival  of  the  Russians,  even 
should  we  see  our  once  happy  home 
converted  into  a  field  of  battle;  but 
into  the  city  we  shall  not  go.' 

"'  Be  it  so  then,  my  dearest  sister. 
— Wilhelm,  put  up  the  stuhl  wagen.' 
"He  had  scarcely  returned  into  the 
breakfast-room,  when  the  door  open- 
ed, and  the  very  handsome  young  of- 
ficer, the  aide-de-camp  of  the  Prince, 
whom  I  had  seen  the  night  I  was  car- 
ried before  Davoust,  entered,  splash- 
ed up  to  the  eyes,  and  much  heated 
and  excited.  I  noticed  blood  on  the 
hilt  of  his  sword.  His  orderly  sat 
on  his  foaming  steed,  right  opposite 
where  I  stood,  wiping  his  bloody 
sabre  on  his  horse's  mane.  The  wo- 
men grew  pale;  but  still  they  had 
presence  of  mind  enough  to  do  the 
honours  with  self-possession.  The 
stranger  wished  us  a  good  morning; 
and  on  being  asked  to  sit  down  to 
breakfast,  he  unbuckled  his  sword, 
threw  it  from  him  with  a  clash  on 
the  floor,  and  then,  with  all  the  grace 


918 

in  the  world,  addressed  himself  to 
discuss  the  comestibles.  He  tried  a 
slight  approach  to  jesting  now  and 
then;  but  seeing  the  heaviness  of 
heart  which  prevailed  amongst  the 
women,  lie,  with  the  good-breeding 
of  a  man  of  the  world,  forbore  to 
press  his  attentions. 

"  Breakfast  being  finished,  and  the 
ladies  having  retired,  he  rose,  buck- 
led on  his  sword  again,  drew  on  his 
gloves,  and  taking  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  he  advanced  to  the  window, 
and  desired  his  men  '  to  fall  in/ 

*' '  Men — what  men  ?'  said  poor 
Mr  ***. 

" '  Why,  the  Marshal  has  had  a 
company  of  sapeurs  for  these  three 
days  back  in  the  adjoining  village — 
they  are  now  here.' 

"'Here!'  exclaimed  ***;  *  what 
do  the  sappers  here  ?'  Two  of  the 
soldiers  carried  slow  matches  in 
their  hands,  while  their  muskets 
were  slung  at  their  backs.  «  There 
is  no  mine  to  be  sprung  here  ?' 

"  The  young  officer  heard  him 
with  great  politeness,  but  declined 
giving  any  answer.  The  next  mo- 
ment he  turned  towards  the  ladies, 
and  was  making  himself  as  agree- 
able as  time  and  circumstances 
would  admit,  when  a  shot  came 
crashing  through  the  roof,  broke 
down  the  ceiling,  and  knocking  the 
flue  of  the  stove'to  pieces,  rebound- 
ed from  the  wall,  and  rolled  harm- 
lessly beneath  the  table.  He  was 
the  only  person  who  did  not  start, 
or  evince  any  dread.  He  merely  cast 
his  eves  upward  and  smiled.  He 
then  turned  to  poor  ***,  who  stood 
quite  collected,  but  very  pale,  near 
where  the  stove  had  stood,  and  held 
out  his  hand  to  him. 

"  *  On  my  honour,'  said  the  young 
soldier,  *  it  grieves  me  to  the  very 
heart;  but  I  must  obey  my  orders. 
It  is  no  longer  au  affair  of  posts;  the 
enemy  is  pressing  on  us  in  force.  The 
Allied  columns  are  in  sight;  their 
cannon-shot  have  but  now  penetra- 
ted your  roof ;  we  have  but  driven 
in  their  pickets;  very  soon  they 
will  be  here ;  and  in  the  event  of 
their  advance,  my  orders  are  to 
burn  down  this  house  and  the  neigh- 
buring  village.' 

"  A  sudden  flash  rushed  into  Mr 
***'»  face.  «  Indeed!  does  the 
Prince  really' — : — 

"  The  young  officer  bowed,  and 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[March, 


with  something  more  of  sternness  in 
his  manner  than  he  had  yet  used,  he 
said,  '  Mr  *  *  *,  I  duly  appreciate 
your  situation,  and  respect  your 
feelings;  but  the  Prince  of  Eck- 
muhl  is  my  superior  officer,  and 
under  other  circumstances' — Here 
he  slightly  touched  the  hilt  of  his 
sword. 
"  «  For  myself  I  don't  care,'  said 

*  *  *;  *  but  what  is  to  become  of  my 
sisters  ?' 

"  *  They  must  proceed  to  Ham- 
burgh.' 

"  «  Very  well— let  me  order  the 
stuhl  wagen,  and  give  us,  at  all 
events,  half  an  hour  to  move  our 
valuables.' 

"  «  Certainly,'  said  the  young  offi- 
cer ;  '  and  1  will  myself  see  you  safe 
into  the  city.' 

"  Who  says  that  eels  cannot  be 
made  used  to  skinning  ?  The  poor 
girls  continued  their  little  prepara- 
tions with  an  alacrity  and  presence 
of  mind  that  truly  surprised  me. 
There  was  neither  screaming  nor 
fainting,  and  by  the  time  the  car- 
riage was  at  the  door,  they,  with 
two  female  domestics,  were  ready 
to  mount.  I  cannot  better  describe 
their  vehicle,  than  by  comparing  it 
to  a  canoe  mounted  on  four  wheels, 
connected  by  a. long  perch,  with  a 
coach-box  at  the  bow,  and  three  gig 
bodies  hung  athwart  ships,  or  slung 
inside  of  the  canoe,  by  leather  thongs. 
At  the  moment  we  were  starting,  Mr 
***  came  close  to  me  and  whis- 
pered, *  Do  you  think  your  ship  will 
still  be  in  the  river 'r* 

"  I  answered  that  I  made  no  doubt 
she  was. 

"  '  But  even  if  she  be  not/  said  he, 

*  the  Holstein  bank  is  open  to  us. 
Anywhere     but    Hamburgh     now' 
And  the  scalding  tears  ran^down  his 
cheeks. 

"  At  this  moment  there  was  a  bus- 
tle on  the  hill  top,  and  presently  the 
artillery  began  once  more  to  play, 
while  the  musketry  breezed  up  again 
in  the  distance.  A  mounted  bugler 
rode  half  way  down  the  hill,  and 
sounded  the  recall.  The  young  offi- 
cer hesitated.  The  man  waved  his 
hand,  and  blew  the  advance. 

"  '  It  must  be  for  us — answer  it/ 
His  bugle  did  so.  '  Bring  the  pitch, 
men — the  flax — so  now — break  the 
windows,  and  let  the  air  in — set  the 
house  on  fire ;  and,  Sergeant  Guido, 


1533.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


319 


remain  to  prevent  it  being  extin- 
guished—I shall  fire  the  village  as 
we  pnss  through.' 

"  He  gave  the  word  to  face  about, 
uid  desiring  the  men  to  follow  ut 
Liie  same  swinging  run  with  which 
liie  whole  of  the  infantry  had  origi- 
lally  advanced,  he  spurred  his  horse 
.igaiust  the  hill,  and  soon  disappeared. 

"  My  host's  resolution  seemed  now 
.aken.     Turning  to  the  sergeant— 
My  good  fellow,  the  reconnoisance 
ivill  soon  be  returning;  I  shall  pre- 
cede it  into  the  town.' 

"  The  man,  a  fine  vieux  moustache, 
jesitated. 

"  My  friend  saw  it,  and  hit  him  in 
;i  Frenchman's  most  assailable  quar- 
A." 

"  Which  is  that, Tom?"  said  Aaron ; 
'*  stem  or  stern — a  priori,  or  a 
^os,?» 

"  Now,  don't,  my  dear  sir,"  said  I, 
.  ntreatingly.  He  read  on, — "  The 
'adies,  my  good  man — the  ladies — 
;rou  would  not  have  them  drive  pell- 
mell  in  with  the  troops,  exposed  most 
jikely  to  the  fire  of  the  Prussian  ad- 
vanced guard,  would  you  ?" 

"  The  man  grounded  his  musket, 
and  touched  his  cap — '  Pass  on.' 

"  Away  we  trundled,  until  coming 
10  a  cross-roa'd,  we  turned  down  to- 
wards the  river,  and  at  the  angle  we 
could  see  thick  wreaths  of  smoke 
curling  up  into  the  air,  shewing  that 
ihe  barbarous  order  had  been  but 
\  oo  effectually  fulfilled. 

"  <  What  is  that  ?'  said  ***.  A 
horse  with  his  rider  entangled,  and 
dragged  by  the  stirrup,  passed  us  at 
lull  speed,  leaving  a  long  track  of 
blood  on  the  road.  *  W7ho  is  that?' 
The  coachman  drove  on,  and  gave 
no  answer;  until,  at  a  sharp  turn, 
we  came  upon  the  bruised  and  now 
breathless  body  of  the  young  officer, 
who  had  so  recently  obeyed  the  sa- 

age  behests  of  his  brutal  command- 
er.    There  was  a  musket-shot  right 
in  the  middle  of  his  fine  forehead, 
;  ike  a  small  blue  point,  with  one  or 
uvo  heavy   black  drops   .of   blood 
oozing  from  it.    His  pale  features 
•  /ore  a  mild  and  placid  expression, 
« evincing  that  the  numberless  lacera- 
i  ions  and  bruises,  which  were  evi- 
dent through  his  torn  uniform,  had 
>een  inflicted  on  a  breathless  corpse." 
"  But  what  became  of  the  empty 
•»orse,  Tom  ?"     I  laughed. 
"  Ah,  you  nauticals— no  interest 


in  that  noble   animal — all   tar  and 
pitch  with  you" 

Mr  Bang  had  before  now  been 
awfully  gravelled,  whenever  he 
came  in  contact  with  the  few  words 
of  German  which  had  been  intro- 
duced into  the  Log,  but  at  present 
ho  was  nonplussed  altogether.  Ta- 
king up  the  thread  of  the  story 
which  we  have  just  dropped,  the 
Log  went  on  to  say,  "  That  the  stulil 
wagcn  had  carried  on  for  a  mile  far- 
ther or  so,  but  the  firing  seemed  to  ap- 
proximate, whereupon  our  host  sung 
out" — "  Lord,"  said  Aaron,  "  what 
a  queer  dialect !  Why,  deuce  take 
me  if  I  can  pronounce  it !  I  say, 
Thomas,  how  do  you  give  this  ?" 

"  Why,  as  it  is  written,  my  dear 
sir ;  but  stop,  I  will  read  it — Fahrt 
Zu,  Schwager — Wir  Kommen  nicht 
waiter."  The  tenderness  ofthe  German 
pronunciation,  if  he  had  ever  heard 
it  spoken,  would  have  saved  all  the 
worthy  fellow's  scruples. 

"  The  driver  of  the  stuhl  wagen 
skulled  along,  until  we  arrived  at 
the  beautiful,  at  a  mile  off,  but  the 
beastly,  when  close  to,  village  of 
Blankenese." 

"  Vile  style  that,"  again  chimed 
in  Aaron,  "absolutely  vicious — why, 

Tom" 

"  Now,  my  dear  sir,"  said  I, 
"  I  have  repeatedly  told  you  I  was  a 
mere  boy,  and" 

"  Poo,  poo,"  quoth  the  planting 
attorney;  "  let  me  jog  on." 

"  When  the  voiture  stopped  in  the 
village,  there  seemed  to  be  a  nonplus- 
ationy  to  coin  a  word  for  the  nonce, 
between  my  friend,  and  his  sisters. 
Tliey  said  something  very  sharply; 
and  with  a  degree  of  determination, 
that  startled  me.  He  gave  no  an- 
swer. Presently  the  Amazonian 
attack  was  renewed. 

"  «  W7e  shall  go  on  board,'  said 
they.1 

"  '  Very  well,'  said  he ; '  but  have 
patience,  have  patience.' 

"  '  No,  no ;  Wann  wird  man  sich 
einschiffen  miissen?' 

"  By  this  time  we  were  in  the  heart 
of  the  village,  and  surrounded  with 
a  whole  lot,  forty  at  the  least,  of 
Blankenese  boatmen.  We  were  not 
long  in  selecting  one  of  the  fleetest- 
looking  of  those  very  fleet  boats, 
when  we  all  trundled  on  board,  and 
I  now  witnessed  what  struck  me  as 
being  an  awful  sign  of  the  times. 


Tom  Oringlt?*  Log. 


320 

The  very  coachman  of  the  stuhl  wa- 
ff en,  after  conversing  a  moment  with 
his  master,  returned  to  his  team,  tied 
the  legs  of  the  poor  creatures  as  they 
stood,  and  then  with  a  sharp  knife 
cut  their  jugular  veins  through  and 
through  on  the  right  side,  having  pre- 
viously reined  them  up  sharp  to  the 
left,  so  that,  before  starting,  we  could 
see  three  of  the  team,  which  con- 
sisted of  four  superb  bays  when  we 
started,  level  with  the  soil  and  dead ; 
the  near  wheeler  only  holding  out 
on  his  forelegs. 

"  We  shoved  off  at  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  forenoon,  and  after  having 
twice  been  driven  into  creeks  on  the 
Holstein  shore  by  bad  weather,  we 
arrived  about  two  next  morning 
safely  on  board  the  Torch,  which 
immediately  got  under  weigh  for 
England.  After  my  story  had  been 
told  to  the  Captain,  I  left  my  pre- 
server and  his  sisters  in  his  hands, 
and  I  need  scarcely  say  that  they 
had  as  hearty  a  welcome  as  the 
worthy  old  soul  could  give  them, 
and  dived  into  the  midshipman's 
birth  for  a  morsel  of  comfort,  where, 
in  a  twinkling,  I  was  far  into  the 
secrets  of  a  pork  pie." 

"  A  pork  pie !"  said  Aaron  Bang. 

"  A  pork  pie  !"  said  Paul  Gelid. 

"  Why  do  you  know,"  said  Mr 
Wagtail—"  I— why,  I  never  in  all 
my  life  saw  a  pork  pie." 

"  My  dear  Pepperpot,"  chimed  in 
Gelid,  "  we  both  forget.  Don't  you 
remember  the  day  we  dined  with 
the  Admiral  at  the  Pen,  in  July  last  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Wagtail, "  I  totally  for- 
get it."  Bang,  I  saw,  was  all  this 
while  chuckling  to  himself — "  I  ab- 
solutely forget  it  altogether." 

"  Bless  me,"  said  Gelid,  "  don't 
you  remember  the  beautiful  cali- 
peever  we  had  that  day  ?" 

"  Really  I  do  not,"  said  Pepper- 
pot,  "  I  have  had  so  many  good  feeds 
there." 

,  "  Why,"  continued  Gelid,  "  Lord 
love  you,  Wagtail,  not  remember 
that  calipeever,  so  crisp  in  the  broil- 
ing?" 

"  No,"  said  Wagtail,  «  really  I  do 
not." 


[March, 


"  Lord,  man,  it  had  a  pudding  in 
its  belly." 

"  Oh,  now  I  remember,"  said 
Wagtail. 

Bang  laughed  outright,  and  I  could 
not  help  making  a  hole  in  rny  man- 
ners also,  even  prepared  as  I  was  for 
my  jest  by  my  sable  crony  Pegtop. 

Aaron  looked  at  me  with  one  of 
his  quizzical  grins;  "  Cringle,  my 
darling,  do  you  keep  these  Logs 
still  ?" 

"  I  do,  my  dear  sir,  invariably." 

"What,"  struck  in  little  Wagtail, 
"  the  deuce,  for  instance,  shall  I,  and 
Paul,and  Aaron  there,all  be  embalm- 
ed or  preserved"  ("  Say  pickled," 
quoth  the  latter)  "  in  these  said  logs 
of  yours  ?"  This  was  too  absurd,  and 
I  could  not  answer  my  allies  for 
laughing.  Gelid  had  been  swaying 
himself  backwards  and  forwards, 
half  asleep,  on  the  hind  legs  of  his 
chair  all  this  while,  puffing  away  at 
a  cigar. 

"  Ah!"  said  he  half  asleep,  and 
but  partly  overhearing  what  was 
going  on ;  "  Ah,  Tom,  my  dear,  you 
don't  say  that  we  shall  all  be  handed 
down  to  our  poster" — along  yawn — 
"  to  our  poster" — another  yawn — 
when  Bang,  watching  his  opportu- 
nity as  he  sat  opposite,  gently  touch- 
ed one  of  the  fore-legs  of  the  ba- 
lanced chair  with  his  toe,  while  he 
finished  Gelid's  sentence  by  inter- 


jecting, '  iors,'  as  the  Conch  fell  back 
and  floundered  over  on  his  stern. 
His  tormentor  drawling  out  in  wick- 
ed mimicry — 

"  Yes,  dear  Gelid,  so  sure  as  you 
have  been  landed  down  on  your  pos- 
teriors now,  ah,  you  shall  be  handed 
down  to  your  posterity  hereafter,  by 
that  pestilent  little  scamp  Cringle. 
Ah,  Tom,  I  know  you — Paul,  Paul, 
it  will  be  paulo  post  futurum,  with 
you,  my  lad." 

Here  we  were  interrupted  by  my 
steward's  entering  with  his  tallow 
face.  "  Dinner  on  the  table,  sir." 
We  adjourned  accordingly. 

"  We  shall  take  the  balance  of 
the  log  to-morrow,  Tom,  eh  ?"  said 
el  Seiior  Bang. 


1833.] 


Tithes. 


321 


TITHES. 


TITHES— are  they  not  a  grievous 
impost— are  they  not  a  tax  upon  in- 
dustry —  paid  by  the  consumer  ? 
Irish  tithes—are  they  not  peculiarly 
odious  and  oppressive,  superadding 
to  all  the  other  objections  to  which 
they  are  liable,  this  chief  one,  that 
people  of  one  denomination  are  com- 
pelled to  pay  the  religious  instruc- 
tors of  those  of  another  ?  These  are 
questions  much  agitated  at  the  pre- 
sent day;  and  to  the  consideration 
of  which  we  have  resolved  to  devote 
a  few  pages. 

The  view  which  we  propose  to 
take  will  be  strictly  practical.  We 
will,  "therefore,  consider  tithes  not 
as  they  were,  but  as  they  are ;  not 
as  they  have  reference  to  the  rights 
of  the  clergy  "  en  posse"  but  to  the 
exercise  of  those  rights  "  in  actu  /" 
our  object  being  to  see  how  the  pre- 
sent system  actually  works,  and  to 
endeavour,  with  as  much  fairness  as 
possible,  to  ascertain  the  value  of 
the  objections  that  have  been  alleged 
against  it. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  to  be  ob- 
served, that  a  very  considerable  por- 
tion of  the  land  of  this  country  is  not 
subject  to  tithe.  We  believe  about 
one-third,,  at  least,  may  be  so  reckon- 
ed. But  the  amount  of  this  exemp- 
tion is  usually  measured  by  the  in- 
crease in  the  rent  of  such  land,  over 
and  above  the  rent  of  land  not  so 
exempted.  Now,  that  the  tenant  can 
be  benefited  by  a  mere  transfer  to  the 
landlord  of  proceeds  which  would 
otherwise  belong  to  the  clergyman, 
is  more,  we  think,  than  the  new  doc- 
trines of  political  economy  have  as 
yet  made  plain  to  the  common  sense 
of  mankind.  But  of  this  anon. 

It  is,  in  the  next  place,  to  be  con- 
sidered, that  by  law  all  lands  for  the 
first  time  brought  into  cultivation, 
are  exempt  from  tithes  for  seven 
years :  a  provision  which  would  seem 
well  calculated  to  render  that  possi- 
ble case,  which  is  such  a  favourite 
with  our  modern  illuminees,  namely, 
that  land  which  cannot  pay  a  rent, 
may  yet  be  subjected  to  tithe,  a  per- 
fect nonentity  in  practice. 

The  case  which  we  are  to  consi- 
der, therefore,  is  simply  this,  that 
land  which  has  been  at  least  seven 


years  under  cultivation,  is  liable  to 
the  subtraction  of  a  tenth  of  its  pro- 
duce, which  goes  into  the  granary  of 
the  clergyman,  or  is  by  him  com- 
muted for  money.  Now,  in  consi- 
dering whether  this  is,  or  is  not,  a 
grievance,  the  first  question  that  oc- 
curs is,  does  such  land,  or  does  it 
not,  pay  a  rent  ?  For,  if  it  does,  it  is 
quite  clear  that  its  produce  is  more 
than  sufficient  to  pay  the  wages  of 
labour  and  the  profits  of  stock  j  and 
tithe  can  only  be  a  grievance  when, 
by  a  collusion  between  landlord  and 
tenant,  a  rent  is  exacted  and  agreed 
to,  which  encroaches  on  the  rights  of 
the  clerical  proprietor.  In  that  case, 
he  must  either  forego  his  just  de- 
mand, or  enforce  it  by  compelling 
the  tenant  to  pay  him  his  dues  out 
of  the  fund  destined  to  the  replacing 
of  his  capital.  For  instance,  sup- 
pose the  produce  of  the  land  repre- 
sented by  40 
If  we  represent  the  wages  of 
labour  and  the  profits  of 
stock  by  15 

There  will  remain,  after  these 
are  deducted,  30 

Now  the  full  tithe  of  the  gross 
produce  will  be  4 


So  that  here  will  remain  to 
the  cultivator,  after  tithe  is 


26 


Unless,  therefore,  the  produce  re- 
presented by  tHis  last  number  be 
insufficient  to  remunerate  the  labour 
and  capital  employed  by  rearing  it, 
it  is  clear  that  tithe  can  be  no  grie- 
vance to  the  farmer.  And  if  it  be 
insufficient,  why  should  the  labour 
and  capital  be  so  employed  ?  If  the 
former  were  compelled  to  cultivate 
under  adverse  circumstances,  he 
might  complain.  But  when  he 
chooses  to  do  so,  either  his  conduct  is 
unwise,  or  his  complaint  is  unfound- 
ed ;  and,  in  neither  case,  can  he  or 
ought  he,  to  look  for  redress  from 
the  legislature.  Should  he,  however, 
say,  that  he  would  be  very  well  sa- 
tisfied with  the  return  indicated  by 
the  number  26,  but  that  a  large  de- 
duction must  be  made  from  that  in 
the  shape  of  rent,  the  answer  is  ob- 


352 


Tithes. 


[March, 


vious,  as  an  honest  man,  he  should 
not  agree  to  pay  a  rent  which  should 
leave  him  unable  to  liquidate  a  claim 
that  was  anterior  to  such  an  obligation. 
Now,  in  point  of  fact,  is  any  land 
subject  to  tithe,  which  either  does 
not,  or  might  not  yield  a  rent  ?  We 
believe  not.  We  believe,  that  in  the 
United  Empire  none  such  could  be 
truly  specified.  And,  if  this  be  so, 
is  it  not  clear  to  demonstration,  that 
tithe  is  not  considered,  either  by  land- 
lords or  tenants,  an  impost  which 
overburdens  the  land  ?  Since,  if  they 
did  so  consider  it,  they  could  not 
demand,  or  submit,  to  a  rent,  with- 
out acting,  at  the  same  time,  with 
cruelty,  impolicy,  and  injustice. 

When  a  farmer  is  about  to  make 
an  offer  for  land,  he  considers  the 
various  claims  to  which  it  is  subject, 
and  which  must  be  satisfied  before 
it  can  make  him  any  return ;  and  he 
either  will  not,  or  ought  not,  to  make 
any  offer  which  does  not  leave  him 
a  profit  in  the  concern,  after  all  pre- 
vious charges  have  been  paid.  Now, 
if  it  do  leave  him  this  profit,  he  may 
be  glad  of  his  bargain ;  and,  if  it  do 
not,  he  has  no  one  to  blame  but  him- 
self. 

But  the  proprietor,  he  who  holds 
the  land  in  fee,  is  not  he  a  sufferer 
by  the  exaction  of  tithes  ?  Certain- 
ly not.  He  is  possessed  of  the  land 
either  by  grant  or  purchase.  If  by 
the  former,  tithe  was  expressly  re- 
served ;  so  that  THAT  portion  of  the 
produce  never  was  his.  If  by  the 
latter,  the  amount  of  tithe  was  taken 
into  account  in  estimating  the  value 
of  the  land,  and  the  purchase-money 
was  only  an  equivalent  for  its  value 
diminished  by  that  amount,  so  that 
in  neither  case  can  the  proprietor  be 
said  to  be  aggrieved. 

If,  indeed,  a  tyrannical  govern- 
ment were  to  force  upon  an  honest 
and  patriotic  gentleman  a  property 
of  three  or  four  thousand  a- year, 
upon  condition  of  his  paying  tithes, 
we  think  he  would  have  much  rea- 
son to  complain.  But  when  he  ac- 
cepts the  grant  gladly  upon  such 
conditions,  we  rather  think  it  a  lit- 
tle unreasonable  in  his  successors, 
whose  rights  are  all  derived  from 
him,  to  set  up  any  claim  to  hold  the 
land  without  complying  with  these 
conditions.  If  they  are  discontented 
with  the  conditions,  let  them  relin- 


quish the  land.  But,  if  they  resolve 
to  hold  the  land,  let  them  adhere  to 
the  conditions.  These  are  no  harder 
now  than  they  were  at  first.  And 
the  tenants  of  any  of  these  proprie- 
tors might,  with  as  much  colour  of 
justice,  withhold  from  them  their 
rents,  as  they  withhold  from  the  mi- 
nisters of  religion  the  funds  alloca- 
ted for  their  maintenance,  and  secu- 
red to  them  by  the  very  instruments 
by  which  the  right  of  exacting  these 
rents  was  created. 

It  should,  then,  be  constantly  held 
in  mind,  that  tithe  is  a  lien  upon 
land  which  precedes  rent;  which  was 
created  before  rent  was  paid ;  for 
which  a  due  allowance  was  made  in 
the  various  arrangements  between 
landlord  and  tenant;  and  which, 
therefore,  without  any  hardship, 
may,  and  by  common  equity  ought 
to  be  satisfied, before  any  rent  should 
be  exacted. 

It  will,  however,  be  said,  that,  al- 
though neither  landlords  nor  tenants 
have  reason  to  complain  of  tithes, 
the  public  at  large  may  have  reason 
so  to  complain ;  in  as  much  as  tithes 
are  paid  by  the  consumer.  This  is 
the  new  form  which  the  question 
has  assumed,  and  which  has  been 
given  to  it  by  the  late  David  Ricar- 
do.  It  deserves,  and  it  shall  receive 
an  attentive  consideration. 

Ricardo's  notion  respecting  tithes 
is  a  kind  of  corollary  deduced  from 
his  theory  of  rent.  To  understand 
the  former,  therefore,  it  will  be  ne- 
cessary to  state  the  latter. 

The  cause  of  rent  he  asserts  to  be 
the  varying  fertility  of  different  soils. 
And  rent  itself  he  defines  to  be  the 
difference  between  the  produce  of 
the  same  amount  of  capital,  when 
employed  upon  inferior  and  superior 
land.  It  will,  he  says,  be  the  same 
thing  to  a  cultivator  to  invest  a  small- 
er capital  in  the  cultivation  of  pro- 
ductive ground,  and  pay  a  certain 
rent,  as  to  invest  a  larger  capital  in 
the  cultivation  of  ground  for  which 
he  may  pay  no  rent,  but  which  is  less 
productive. 

If  Ricardo  had  contented  himself 
with  stating  this  as  a  fact,  without 
proceeding  to  assign  it  as  a  cause,  or 
to  make  it  the  foundation  of  a  theory, 
itwouldbeall  very  well.  It  might  even 
serve  to  illustrate  the  law  according 
to  whicn  rent  varies.  But  it  is  sur- 


1833.] 


Tithes. 


223 


; 


prising,  that  it  should  have  escaped 
1  is  penetration,  that  rent  would  exist 
i '  there  was  no  difference  in  the  fer- 
t  Hty  of  land,  provided  only  its  extent 
was  limited:  and  that  it  is  that,  as 
compared  with  the  wants  of  mankind, 
3  ud  not  its  varying  fertility,  that  is 
t  ie  cause  of  rent,  which,  although  it 
may  be  in  many  instances  measured, 
yet  is  never  occasioned  by  that  dif- 
ference of  productiveness  to  which 
by  hiqi  it  is  solely  attributed.  But 
upon  this  subject  we  cannot  do  bet- 
tor than  lay  before  the  reader  the 
clear  and  conclusive  observations  of 
Colonel  Thomson.  In  his  tract,  en- 
titled, "  The  True  Theory  of  Rent," 
he  thus  writes — "  In  this  account, 
the  matters  of  fact  stated  in  the  out- 
sot  are  entirely  and  absolutely  true. 
The  fallacy  lies  in  assuming  to  be  the 
c.iuse,  what  in  reality  is  only  a  con- 
sequence. Proof  spirit  sells  for  a 
certain  price,  and  more  diluted  spi- 
rits sell  for  inferior  prices  till  they 
come  to  that  which  is  worth  no  more 
tl  an  water  ; — therefore,  the  reason 
why  proof  spirit  sells  for  a  high 
p  -ice  is,  that  there  are  weaker  spi- 
ri  s  which  are  selling  for  a  lower; 
and  if  there  had  happened  to  have 
boen  no  weaker  spirits,  the  proof 
spirit  would  not  have  sold  at  all. 
T  iis  is  a  specimen  of  the  kind  of 
fallacy  involved.  There  is  precisely 
th 8  same  nullity  of  proof,  that  what 
is  quite  true  with  respect  to  the  con- 
ccmitant  circumstances  when  they 
happen  to  exist,  is  therefore  the  es- 
sential and  inseparable  cause,  with- 
01 1  which  the  principal  phenomenon 
could  not  have  taken  place.  When 
it  happens,  or  even  if  it  always  hap- 
pens, that  there  exist  soils  of  various 
degrees  of  productiveness  down  to 
th  it  which  does  no  more  than  replace 
th  i  expense  of  cultivation  with  the 
necessary  profit,  and  that  men  are 
m  >reover  acquainted  with  the  art  of 
forcing  increased  crops,  by  the  appli- 
ca  ion  of  more  capital — all  that  is 
strted  with  respect  to  the  rent  being 
eq  lal  to  the  difference  between  the 
hit  hest  and  the  lowest  returns,  is  as 
necessarily  and  undeniably  true  ns 
an  r  thing  that  has  been  stated  with 
respect  to  proof  spirit.  But  all  this 
is  no  manner  of  evidence  that  these 
circumstances  are  the  causes  of  the 
principal  phenomenon,  and  that  it 
could  not  have  existed  without 
th(  m, — in  one  case  more  than  in  the 


other.  In  both  cases  this  kind  of 
conclusion  is  a  pure  fallacy,  a  simple 
'  non  causa  pro  causa?  On  the  truth 
or  falsehood  of  this  hang  the  merits 
of  the  whole  of  what  is  called  the 
Ricardo  Theory  of  Rent,  and  the 
consequences  derived  from  it." 

In  point  of  fact,  the  inferior  soils, 
instead  of  being  the  cause  why  rent 
increases,  are  rather  causes  why  it  is 
limited  in  its  amount.  The  only  effect 
of  their  non-existence  in  any  given 
case  would  be,  to  cause  the  rent  of 
the  superior  qualities  of  land  to  be 
higher.  They  are  brought  into  cul- 
tivation for  the  purpose  of  reducing 
the  monopoly  price,  which  would  be 
obtained  by  the  cultivation  of  better 
land,  if  there  were  no  other  compe- 
titors in  the  market. 

"  The  value  of  corn,"  says  Ri- 
cardo, "  is  regulated  by  the  quantity 
of  labour  bestowed  .on  its  produc- 
tion on  that  quality  of  land,  or  with 
that  portion  of  capital  which  pays  no 
rent."  Principles  of  Political  Eco- 
nomy.—?. 62. 

"  The  value  of  corn,"  observes 
Colonel  Thomson,  "  is  not  regulated 
by  this ;  but  does  itself  regulate  the 
quality  of  land  and  the  portion  of 
capital,  that  can  be  brought  into  ac- 
tion with  a  profit.  The  inverted  pro- 
position, as  given  above,  amounts  to 
saying,  that  the  price  of  corn  is  re- 
gulated by  the  cost  for  which  it  can 
be  produced,  on  the  best  quality  of 
land,  or  with  the  least  portion  of  ca- 
pital that  can  be  brought  into  acti- 
vity, with  a  living  profit  at  the  going 
price;  or,  in  other  words,  that  the 
price  is  regulated  by  the  price,  which 
is  reasoning  in  a  circle." 

"  Again,"  Ricardo  says,  "  nothing 
is  more  common  than  to  hear  of  the 
advantages  which  the  land  possesses 
over  every  other  source  of  useful 
produce,  on  account  of  the  surplus 
which  it  yields  in  the  form  of  rent. 
Yet  when  the  land  is  most  abundant, 
most  productive,  and  most  fertile,  it 
yields  no  rent ;  and  it  is  only  when 
its  powers  decay,  and  less  is  yielded 
in  return  for  labour,  that  a  share  of 
the  original  produce  of  the  more  fer- 
tile portion  is  set  apart  for  rent." 

Upon  this,  Colonel  Thomson  re- 
marks.— "  Among  the  properties  here 
assigned  as  the  causes  of  no  rent,  the 
property  of  abundance,  or  of  unap- 
propriated land  not  having  begun  to 
be  scarce,  is  the  only  effective  one. 


224 

The  rise  in  the  price  of  agricultural 
produce,  at  one  and  the  same  time 
raises  rent,  and  makes  it  practicable  to 
cultivate  land  less  fertile,  or  whose 
powers  have  been  decayed.  But 
there  is  no  foundation  for  the  invert- 
ed proposition,  that  it  is  only  when 
the  powers  of  land  decay,  that  there 
will  be  rent.  There  would  be  rent 
though  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
decayed  or  inferior  land  within  the 
circle  to  which  a  given  community 
is  limited  for  its  supply,  as  soon  as 
the  demand  for  corn  began  to  press 
against  the  limits  of  the  produce. 
The  fact  of  there  being  either  decay- 
ed or  inferior  land  at  all,  is  itself  but 
an  accident,  which  might  have  been 
or  might  not  have  been,  like  the  fact 
of  there  being  weak  or  inferior  spi- 
rits ;  and  has  no  more  to  do  with  the 
general  cause  of  rent,  than  the  fact 
of  there  being  weak  spirits  has  to  do 
with  the  general  fact  of  spirits  sell- 
ing for  a  price.  If  any  man  were  to 
assert  that  proof  spirits  sold  for  a 
high  price,  because  there  were  weak- 
er spirits  that  were  selling  for  a 
lower,  it  would  be  clear  that  the 
whole  was  a  fallacy,  cultivated  for 
the  sake  of  the  inference.  The  case 
of  rent  is  of  the  same  kind  ;  and  the 
false  inference,  for  the  sake  of  which 
the  fallacy  is  cultivated,  is  that  tithes 
fall  on  the  consumer" 

We  have  chosen  to  state  the  ques- 
tion, not  as  it  may  be  said  to  exist 
between  churchmen  and  economists, 
but  between  different  classes  of  the 
economists  themselves.  Colonel 
Thomson  is  no  bigot.  He  cannot  be 
reckoned  amongst  the  friends  of  the 
Church  as  a  religious  establishment. 
On  many,  and  on  vital  questions,  the 
Destructives  claim  him  as  their  own. 
But  he  is  a  well-informed  gentleman, 
whose  time  in  the  University  was 
not  thrown  away;  and  the  labour 
which  he  bestowed  on  the  severer 
sciences  has  so  disciplined  his  mind 
and  sharpened  his  intellect,  that  he 
sees  at  a  glance  the  weak  points  in 
the  positions  of  his  less  lettered 
brethren,  whose  reasonings  are  as 
inaccurate  as  their  principles  are 
dangerous. 

This  able  logician  has  stated  the 
matter  at  issue  with  a  candour  that 
commands  respect,  and  a  clearness 
that  renders  comment  unnecessary. 
Land  is  cultivated  only  because  the 
cultivation  of  it  is  profitable  j  such 


Tithes.  [March, 

cultivation  is  only  profitable  be- 
cause of  the  existence  of  a  class  of 
persons  who  are  willing  to  give  the 
cultivators  a  remunerating  price ;  in 
proportion  as  demand  thus  presses 
upon  supply,  in  the  same  proportion 
will  it  be  profitable  to  cultivate  land 
upon  which,  in  order  to  produce  the 
same  returns,  more  of  capital  and  of 
labour  must  be  expended.  But  it 
is  the  previous  willingness  to  give 
the  price,  which  in  every  case  causes 
the  cultivation  of  the  land ;  not  the 
cultivation  of  the  land  which  induces 
a  necessity  of  giving  the  price.  In 
other  words,  it  is  the  market  that 
governs  the  farmer,  not  the  farmer 
the  market. 

It  is  true  that  the  expenses  of  cul- 
tivation will  determine,  in  one  direc- 
tion, the  price  for  which  corn  will 
be  sold ;  that  is,  it  will  determine 
its  lowest  price,  which  may  rise, 
however,  "  to  an  extent  only  limited 
by  the  circumstances  of  the  particu- 
lar case,  whenever  the  competition 


increases  the  price  faster  than  the 
outlay  the  pro 
of  Rent,  p.  17. 


price  ras 
>duce." — 


True  Theory 


Supposing  all  land  to  be  subject 
to  tithe,  (which  is  not  the  case  uni- 
versally^) and  supposing  all  land  for 
the  first  time  brought  into  cultivation 
subject  to  tithe,  (which  is  not  the 
case  at  all,')  upon  these  suppositions, 
the  produce  of  nine-tenths  of  the 
land  must  be  sufficient  to  remunerate 
the  cultivators,  before  the  whole  of 
it  can  be  brought  into  cultivation; 
and  therefore  the  consumers  must 
pay  the  tithe,  provided  the  tithe  is  the 
only  residuum,  after  the  expenses  of 
cultivation  have  been  paid.  For,  in 
this  case,  there  can  be  no  rent ;  the 
tithe,  the  profits  of  stock,  and*  the 
wages  of  labour,  absorbing  the  whole 
of  the  treasure.  Or,  if  the  tithe  be 
considered  a  rent,  as  in  truth  it  is, 
here  is  a  case  in  which  rent  must  be 
paid  by  the  consumer.  But,  even  in 
this  extreme  case,  it  is  to  be  observed, 
that  it  is  the  willingness  of  the  con- 
sumers to  pay  the  tax  which  induces 
the  growers  to  cultivate,  not  a  dis- 
position on  the  part  of  the  growers 
to  cultivate,  which  compels  the  con- 
sumers to  pay  the  tax. 

Viewing  the  matter  in  this  light, 
(which  the  reader  will  be  good 
enough)  to  hold  in  mind  is  not  the 
practical  view  of  the  question,)  eco- 
nomists have  represented  tithe  as 


1833.] 


Tithes. 


325 


though  it  diminished  by  one-tenth 
the  fertility  of  land.  Because  the 
farmer  must  be  content  to  remune- 
rate himself  out  of  nine-tenths,  it  is, 
they  say,  as  though  the  other  tenth 
were  not  in  existence.  But  this  is 
not  so.  Undoubtedly,  if  the  fertility 
of  the  land  were  reduced  by  one- 
umth,  provided  the  same  relation  sub- 
sisted between  supply  and  demand, 
the  former  must  get  for  the  nine- 
tenths  as  much  as  he,  under  other 
circumstances,  would  get  for  the 
whole.  The  case  to  be  considered, 
however,  is  one  where  the  farmer 
gets  a  price  for  the  nine-tenths  suffi- 
cient to  cover  the  expenses  of  the 
whole,  and  where  another  party,  the 
clergyman,  for  instance,  gets  a  pre- 
sent of  the  other  tenth.  Now  this 
other  tenth  will,  undoubtedly,  be  em- 
ployed in  encouraging  the  industry 
of  various  tradesmen  and  manufac- 
turers, and,  so  far,  in  contributing 
to  the  effectual  demand  which  ena- 
bles the  farmer  to  cultivate : — and  so 
far  as  it  has  this  effect,  it  must  be  re- 
garded, pro  tanto,  as  an  abatement  of 
the  tax;  for,  if  the  imposition  of  a 
tithe  enhance  the  selling  price  of 
corn,  the  existence  of  tithe  constitutes 
an  additional  fund  which  enables  the 
purchasers  to  pay  it.  This  is  a  case 
where  diminution  of  amount  is  in  some 
degree  compensated  by  increase  of 
value ;  for  what  is  taken  from  the 
farmer  is  not  destroyed,  but  conven- 
ed into  equivalents,  by  which  the 
worth  of  the  remainder  is  augmented. 
But  ours  is  a  practical  question. 
We  are  more  concerned  with  the  real 
state  of  the  case,  than  with  one  which 
has  not,  as  far  as  we  know,  been  at 
any  time  realized  anywhere,  and 
which,  while  the  law  remains  as  it 
is,  could  not  possibly  be  realized  in 
the  British  Empire.  For  more  than 
one- third  of  the  land  in  Great  Britain 
is,  or  may  be  considered  as,  TITHE- 
FREE.  According  to  a  statement  in 
the  Edinburgh  Encyclopaedia,  (Vol. 
ix.  p.  32,)  the  total  annual  value  of 
all  the  land  in  England  and  Wales,  in 
1815,  amounted  to  L.29,476,850.  It 
also  appears,  that  lands  of  the  annual 
value  of  L.7,904,378,  are  WHOLLY 
tithe-free ;  while  lands  of  the  annual 
value  of  L.856,183  are  tithe-free  in 
part ;  and  lands  of  the  annual  value 
of  L.498,823  pay  only  a  low  modus. 
Now  upon  these  facts  we  cannot  do 
better  than  avail  ourselves  of  the 

VOL.  XXXIII,   NO,  CCV. 


conclusive  reasoning  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review ;  an  authority  which 
we  will  not  be  accused  of  selecting 
because  of  its  partiality  to  the  claims 
of  a  Church  establishment.  Having 
admitted  that  the  principle  of  Ricar- 
do  holds  good  under  the  circum- 
stances which  he  has  supposed,  the 
reviewer  observes,  "  that  these  are 
not  the  circumstances  under  which 
the  agriculturists  of  Great  Britain 
are,  or  ever  have  been  placed.  So  far, 
indeed,  is  it  from  being  true  that  all, 
or  nearly  all,  our  lands  are  affected 
by  the  burden  of  tithe,  that  it 
appears  that  almost  a  third  part  of 
the  land  of  England  and  Wales  is 
exempt  from  it,  exclusive  of  consi- 
derable tracts  in  Ireland,  and  of  the 
whole  of  Scotland.  And  such  being 
the  case,  it  is  quite  idle  to  suppose 
that  the  cultivators  of  the  tithed  lands 
have  had  any  power  so  to  narrow 
the  supply  of  corn  brought  to  mar- 
ket, as  to  throw  any  considerable 
portion  of  the  burden  of  tithes  on 
the  consumers.  Had  the  extent  of 
tithe-free  land  been  inconsiderable, 
they  might  have  thrown  the  greater 
part  of  it  upon  them  ;  but  when  they 
have  had  to  come  into  competition, 
not  with  a  few,  but  with  a  third  of 
the  cultivators  of  England,  and  all 
those  of  Scotland,  it  is  obvious  that 
the  price  of  corn  must  have  been  re- 
gulated by  the  price  for  which  it  can 
be  raised  on  the  last  lands  cultivated 
that  are  free  from  tithe,  and  not  by 
what  it  could  be  raised  for  on  the 
last  lands  cultivated  that  are  subject 
to  that  charge.  It  appears,  there- 
fore, that  if  the  whole  land  of  the 
empire  had  been  subject  to  tithes, 
the  proposition  advanced  by  Mr 
Ricardo,  that  tithes  do  not  fall  on 
rent,  but  on  the  consumer,  would, 
under  the  existing  restraints  on  im- 
portation, have  been  strictly  true. 
Inasmuch,  however,  as  this  is  not  our 
situation — as  a  very  large  proportion 
of  our  lands  is  not  subject  to  tithes, 
and  the  cultivators  of  the  tithed  lands 
are,  in  consequence,  without  the 
means  of  limiting  the  supply  and 
raising  the  prices,  the  proposition  ad- 
vanced by  Dr  Smith,  that  tithes  con- 
stitute a  portion  of  the  rent  of  the 
land,  and  that  their  payment  has  no 
effect  on  the  price  of  corn,  is  MOST 

CERTAINLY  CORRECT." 

So  far  the  reviewer  is  perfectly 
conclusive.    It  is  clearly  and  unde- 
Y 


326 


Tithes. 


[March, 


niably  true,  that  tithe  cannot  con- 
stitute any  part  of  the  market  price 
of  corn,  when  that  price  is  regulated 
by  the  produce  raised  upon  lands 
that  are  tithe-free.  And  it  must, 
generally  speaking,  be  so  regulated, 
when  so  large  a  proportion  of  the 
lands  employed  in  agriculture  is  so 
circumstanced.  Price  rises,  not  be- 
cause tithe  is  paid,  but  because  de- 
mand presses  against  supply.  No 
man  will  cultivate  his  ground  merely 
in  order  to  pay  a  tithe,  if  he  can  do 
nothing  more.  Price  must  have  risen 
in  consequence  of  an  increase  in  the 
effectual  demand,  before  land  which 
is  subject  to  tithe  will  be  cultivated ; 
and  thus  the  market  price  of  all  pro- 
duce grown  upon  the  lands  of  a 
better  quality  will  have  so  far  ex- 
ceeded the  cost  price,  as  to  leave, 
after  paying  the  profits  of  stock  and 
the  wages  of  labour,  a  very  consi- 
derable residuum,  which  will  be 
shared  between  the  clergyman  and 
the  landlord ;  the  clergyman  separa- 
ting his  tenth,  and  the  landlord  ap- 
propriating the  remainder. 

But  we  do  not  agree  with  this  able 
writer,  that  even  if  all  lands  were 
subject  to  a  uniform  tithe,  that  bur- 
den could  be  thrown  upon  the  con- 
sumer in  any  case,  beyond  the  pre- 
cise point  of  time  when  the  market 
price  was  just  sufficient  to  pay  the 
tithe,  the  profits  of  stock,  and  the 
other  expenses  of  cultivation.  Up 
to  that  point  of  time,  the  land  would 
not  be  cultivated ;  for  no  one  would 
consent  to  cultivate  it  at  a  loss.  And 
after  that  point  of  time  there  would 
begin  to  accumulate  that  residuum 
above  the  cost  price,  which  consti- 
tutes the  fund  out  of  which  tithe 
and  rent  must  be  finally  paid.  So 
that  the  tithe  would  be  thrown  up 
upon  what  may  be  denominated  the 
surplus  profits ;  and,  therefore,  could 
not,  in  any  such  case,  constitute  any 
portion  of  the  expenses  of  produc- 
tion. 

This,  however,  will  be  said  to  be 
the  question — Would  it  be  thus 
thrown  up,  or  would  it  be  projected 
upon  the  consumers  ?  Projected 
upon  the  consumers,  say  Ricardo  and 
his  disciples ;  because  corn  is  a  ne- 
cessary which  the  public  must  pur- 
chase, and  for  which  the  farmers  can, 
accordingly,  get  their  own  price. 
Now  this  position  directly  contra- 
dicts what  we  should  have  thought 


might  almost  pass  for  a  truism, 
namely,  that  the  market  governs  the 
farmer,  not  the  farmer  the  market.  If 
that  be  true,  it  is  undoubtedly  true, 
that  the  farmer,  in  taking  land,  will 
consider  not  what  price  he  may  le 
able  to  extort,  but  what  price  the  pub- 
lic are  witting  to  give  for  his  produce. 
His  bargain  with  the  landlord  will, 
therefore,  be  made  with  reference  to 
existing  prices,  and  he  will  consent 
to  pay  only  such  a  rent  as  leaves 
him  able  to  pay  the  other  burdens  to 
which  the  land  is  liable,  after  having 
replaced  his  capital  and  realized  his 
profits.  At  least,  no  prudent  man 
would  make  any  other  kind  of  bar- 
gain. It  may  be  added,  that  if  the 
farmer  may  govern  the  market  so  as 
to  make  the  consumer  pay  the  tithe, 
there  is  no  reason  why  he  may  not 
also  govern  it  so  as  to  make  him  pay 
the  rent,  or,  indeed,  to  carry  prices 
to  any  height  that  might  be  dictated 
by  his  cupidity. 

But  farmers  have  no  such  power 
over  the  market.  If  they  had,  it 
would  be,  ultimately,  most  injurious 
to  themselves.  Like  other  dealers, 
they  will  consider  themselves  suffi- 
ciently remunerated  if  they  are  able 
to  replace  their  capital,  with  the  ordi- 
nary profits  of  stock.  And  like  other 
dealers  they  will  only  calculate  upon 
being  able  so  to  do,  when  a  willing- 
ness to  give  remunerating  prices  has 
been  previously  evinced  by  the  pub- 
lic. To  act  upon  any  other  principle, 
would  be  to  reverse  the  maxim 
which,  in  all  such  matters,  usually 
governs  the  conduct  of  mankind. 

If  farmers  may  throw  the  tithe  on 
the  consumers,  in  the  manner  Ricar- 
do has  supposed,  there  is  no  reason 
why  they  might  not  throw  upon  them 
a  sum  equivalent  to  tithe,  supposing 
tithe  to  be  extinguished.  So  that,  at 
all  events,  the  public  would  not  be- 
nefit by  their  extinction,  unless  far- 
mers may  be  supposed  to  be  more 
willing  to  pay  a  tax,  than  to  realize 
a  personal  advantage. 

If  the  landowner  united  in  his 
own  person  the  characters  of  land- 
lord and  cultivator,  it  is  clear  that 
the  charge  of  tithe  must  fall  upon 
him.  And  we  fully  subscribe  to  the 
dictum  of  Colonel  Thomson,  "  that 
what  he  cannot  keep  himself,  he  can 
never  recover  from  others  by  the  in- 
vention of  selling  it  to  them  with 
their  eyes  open." 


1333.]  Tithes. 

"  If  it  is  urged,"  says  the  Colonel, 
"  that  such  landowners  might  reco- 
\er  the  tax  from  the  consumers,  by 
raising  the  price  of  corn,—  the  an- 
swer is,  that  the  operation  of  their 
individual  interests  will  prevent  it. 
If  they  raise  the  price  of  corn,  it  is 
manifest  that  less  must  be  sold.  A 
high  price  spins  out  the  consumption 
of  a  deficient  harvest,  and  would 
cause  only  a  portion  of  equal  magni- 
t  ide  to  be  consumed  out  of  a  plenti- 
f  il  one.  But  none  of  the  landowners 
vould  place  so  much  confidence  in 
union  among  his  brethren,  as  either 
t)  throw  away  corn  already  in  his 
barns,  when  he  had  the  option  of 
s  illing  it,  —  or  refuse  to  grow  it,  when 
by  the  sale  of  it  he  could  obtain  what 
he  considers  a  reasonable  profit.  The 
quantity  of  corn  grown  and  sold, 
therefore,  will  not  be  diminished  by 
a  ay  such  combination;  and  if  the 
quantity  is  not  diminished,  the  price 
for  which  it  is  sold  cannot  be  increa- 
sed. If  there  was  no  monopoly  gain, 
fie  case  would  be  very  different  in- 
deed. For  then  the  tax  would  oblige 
the  landowners  to  contract  their 
growth,  till  the  price  rose  to  what 
v^ould  pay  them  for  their  trouble; 
in  the  same  manner  as  other  produ- 
cers do  in  similar  circumstances. 
And  the  landowners  themselves  will 
actually  do  this,  with  respect  to  that 
portion  of  their  produce  which  will 
not  pay  them  the  necessary  profits 
of  stock." 

His  observations  are  no  less  valu- 
able or  conclusive  upon  that  case, 
vhich  has  furnished  their  most  plau- 
s:ble  topics  to  the  advocates  of  the 
contrary  opinion. 

"  The  cheval  de  bataille  of  those 
vho  believe  that  taxes  on  agricultu- 
ral produce  fall  on  the  consumers,  is 
the  malt  tax.  If  a  tax  is  laid  on  malt, 
tfie  price  of  beer  rises  till  the  tax  is 
recovered  to  the  dealers  ;  and  it 
vould  do  the  same  if  the  tax  were 
l:iid  on  barley.  What  then,  they  say, 
s  >  clear  as  that  the  tax  falls  on  the 
consumers  ?  The  fallacy  here  is  in 
bringing  forward  only  half  the  case. 

'  a  tax  is  laid  on  barley,  the  quan- 


327 


t  ty  of  land  laid  down  with  barley 
v  ill  be  diminished,  in  such  a  manner 
a?  according  to  the  guesses  of  the 
growers  will  cause  the  price  to  rise  to 
what,  after  paying  the  tax,  will  make 
i'  as  advantageous  to  grow  barley  as 
aiy  thing  else.  And  though  the 


guesses  may  be  rough  and  imperfect 
the  first  year,  they  will  be  better  in 
every  succeeding  year,  and  will  in 
the  end  attain  to  the  greatest  exact- 
ness that  can  be  desired.  But  if  the 
price  of  barley  is  raised  through  the 
quantity  being  diminished,  the  prices 
of  some  other  kinds  of  produce  must 
fall,  through  the  quantity  grown 
being  increased,  —  for  the  land  will 
be  employed  in  growing  something 
else.  The  landowners,  therefore, 
furnish  the  tax,  and  in  the  first  in- 
stance recover  it  from  the  consu- 
mers of  barley  in  the  price.  But  on 
the  other  hand  they  suffer  a  reduc- 
tion of  the  prices  of  other  kinds  of 
produce  ;  which  makes  a  deduction 
from  their  recovery  of  the  tax,  and  a 
set-off  to  the  consumers  of  agricul- 
tural produce  against  the  increased 
price  paid  for  the  article  taxed.  The 
consumers  of  beer  pay  a  higher  price 
for  their  barley,  and  consume  less; 
but  the  consumers  of  wheat  or  of 
something  else,  pay  a  lower  price  for 
what  they  consume,  and  consume 
more.  There  is  some  loss  of  busi- 
ness to  maltsters,  brewers,  and  publi- 
cans ;  but  there  is  an  increase  of 
business  to  millers,  bakers,  or  who- 
ever are  the  dealers  in  the  articles 
whose  consumption  is  increased. 
And  as  no  man  lives  on  beer  alone, 
the  tax  will  be  compensated,  at 
all  events,  in  a  certain  degree,  not 
only  to  the  consumers  of  agricultural 
produce  in  the  aggregate,  but  to 
every  individual  consumer  of  beer 
also.  And  if  it  should  turn  out  in  the 
end,  that  the  aggregate  gains  of  the 
consumers,  by  the  reduction  of  the 
prices  of  other  things,  are  equal  to 
their  losses  by  the  rise  of  barley,  — 
or,  in  other  words,  that  they  have  paid 
the  same  sum  for  the  whole  produce 
as  before,—  the  consumers  will  be  just 
where  they  were,  with  the  exception 
of  the  altered  proportions  which 
have  been  forced  upon  them,  and 
the  landowners  will  have  furnished 
the  tax  without  recovery." 

Nor,  upon  the  assertion  that,  inas- 
much as  tithe  has  a  tendency  to  throw 
a  certain  portion  of  land  out  of  cultiva- 
tion, and  thereby  create  a  diminution 
of  produce,  the  price  must  be  raised 
till  it  makes  the  produce  the  same  as 
before,  because  men  cannot  go  without 
the  produce,  are  his  reasonings  less 
pertinent  or  constraining. 

"  The  fallacy,"  he  says,  "  here,  as 


328 


Tithes, 


[March* 


has  been  mentioned  already  is  in  the 
inattention  to  the  nature  ot  effectual 
demand,  and  the  assumption  that  the 
produce  cannot  be  diminished.  It  is 
not  true  that  men  say, '  we  must  and 
will  have  such  and  such  a  quantity 
of  corn,  whatever  may  be  the  price.' 
But  they  say,  *  we  will  have  as  much 
as  it  is  more  convenient  for  us  to 
pay  for  at  the  price  for  which  the 
grower  will  grow  it,  than  do  without 
it.'  It  is  a  question  of  equilibrium, 
between  the  inconvenience  of  pay- 
ing a  high  price,  and  the  incon- 
venience of  economizing  in  the  use  of 
corn ;  and  whatever  may  be  the  laws 
by  which  the  magnitude  of  these  two 
inconveniences  severally  vary,  there 
must  be  an  equilibrium  somewhere, 
at  a  point  short  of  consuming  the  old 
quantity.  That  men  cannot  live  with- 
out a  certain  quantity,  meaning  there- 
by some  quantity  »  of  food,  is  true ; 
but  it  is  not  true  that  men  are  living 
on  a  fixed  quantity,  which  will  not 
be  diminished  on  an  increase  of  price. 
At  the  siege  of  Gibraltar,  General 
Elliott  ascertained  by  experiment 
upon  himself,  that  a  man  can  live  on 
four  ounces  of  food  per  day.  If  this 
is  assumed  as  the  smallest  quantity 
on  which  life  can  be  sustained,  it  is 
still,  in  the  first  place,  not  true  that 
the  community,  or  any  considerable 
portion  of  its  members,  are  living  on 
four  ounces  of  food  per  day;  and, 
secondly,  even  if  it  was  true,  the  re- 
sult of  an  increase  of  price  would  be, 
not  that  the  same  quantity  of  food 
would  continue  to  be  bought  by  the 
consumers,  whatever  was  the  price, 
but  that  the  population  would  begin 
to  decrease  by  all  the  modes  conse- 
quent on  insufficient  food,  and  that 
for  this  decrement  there  would  be  no 
food  bought  at  all.  So  far  from  there 
being  any  necessity  that  the  same 
quantity  of  food  shall  be  bought,  it 
does  not  even  follow  that  the  buyers 
shall  all  live  to  buy.  But  there  is  no 
necessity  for  pushing  the  argument 
to  this  length.  It  is  sufficient  to  at- 
tend to  the  fact,  that  when  there  is 
a  necessity  for  the  consumption  be- 
ing diminished,  because  the  corn  is 
not  there  to  be  consumed,  an  increase 
of  price  is  the  engine  that  carries 
it  into  effect ;  a  clear  proof  that  in- 
crease of  price  diminishes  consump- 
tion." 

Upon  this  part  of  the  subject  it 
can  be  scarcely  necessary  to  add  a 


sentence  more.  Colonel  Thomson  has 
settled  the  question.  Tithe  is  not  paid 
by  the  consumer,  even  as  rent  is  not 
paid  by  the  consumer.  Both  are 
paid  out  of  that  surplus  fund  which, 
according  to  the  settled  laws  which 
regulate  the  growth  and  the  sale  of 
agricultural  produce,  MUST  be  accu- 
mulated,though  neither  landlords  nor 
clergymen  were  in  existence. 

Upon  the  whole,  we  are  not  sur- 
prised at  the  prejudice  which  some 
of  our  political  economists  cherish 
against  Universities.  They  must  con- 
sider that,  by  their  means,  in  the  per- 
son of  Colonel  Thomson,  a  most 
hopeful  disciple  has  been  woefully 
perverted.  Had  it  not  been  for  his 
pernicious  scientific  education,  and 
his  acquaintance  with  logic,  he  never 
would  have  been  a  dissenter  from 
their  views,  or  led  to  question  the 
soundness  of  the  principles  upon 
which  they  proposed  to  carry  on 
their  sapping  and  mining  operations 
against  the  Established  Church. 

Before  we  take  leave  of  him,  we 
cannot  but  observe,  that,  while  we 
are  thankful  for  the  instruction  which 
his  pages  have  imparted  to  us,  we 
lament  that  his  discussion  of  the 
question  has  not  been  somewhat  more 
expanded.  We  fear  that  many  of  his 
readers  will  have  reason  to  consi- 
der him  liable  to  the  censure  which 
Horace  pronounces,  when  he  says, 
"  Brems  esse  laboro,  obscurus  fio" 
This  cannot  proceed  from  barren- 
ness of  imagination.  Colonel  Thom- 
son's illustrations  are  as  ready  and 
pertinent,  as  his  reasoning  is  perspi- 
cuous and  strong.  It  is  therefore 
solely  to  be  attributed  to  the  severity 
of  the  school  in  which  he  has  been 
trained,  to  the  rigidly  scientific  ha- 
bits into  which  his  mind  has  been 
disciplined;  and  we  could  wish  to 
succeed  in  persuading  him,  that, 
without  in  the  least  departing  from 
academic  dignity  and  scholastic 
strictness,  it  would  be  possible  for 
him  to  convey  his  thoughts  in  a  man- 
ner much  more  level  to  the  capacities 
of  all  sorts  and  descriptions  of  read- 
ers. He  can  have  no  interest  in 
hiding  his  light  under  a  bushel. 

But  we  must  return  to  our  subject. 
Whether  tithes  are,  or  are  not,  paid 
by  the  consumer,  are  they  not  a  tax 
upon  industry  ?  We  think  not ;  and 
we  shall  give  our  reasons.  Those 
who  take  the  most  adverse  view  of 


Tithes. 


\  833.] 

the  subject,  represent  tithes  as  dimi- 
rishing  by  one- tenth  the  fertility  of 
lind.  Now,  it  is  certain,  that  land  is 
of  various  degrees  of  fertility ;  that 
one  quality  ot  land  is  by  much  more 
than  one- tenth  more  fertile  than 
mother.  But  has  it  ever  yet  been 
t  ontended  that  this  disadvantage  un- 
der which  the  inferior  land  lies,  is  a 
tax  upon  industry  ?  No.  Simply  be- 
( ause  there  was  noChurch  Establish- 
ment to  be  subverted  by  such  a  mis- 
representation. The  land  which  is 
thus  comparatively  unproductive  will 
rot  be  cultivated,  until  prices  rise  to 
t,  height  that  will  remunerate  the 
farmer.  It  is  the  same  with  land 
subject  to  tithe.  Both  causes  may 
retard  cultivation ;  and  so  far,  leave 
industry  unemployed.  But  neither 
(an  be  truly  said  to  tax  industry. 
Industry  is  not  exerted  upon  the 
land,  until  its  exertion  may  put  it  be- 
yond the  tax.  The  industry  that  is 
thus  called  into  action  is  amply  re- 
munerated. The  farmer  cannot  com- 
plain when  he  is  enabled  to  pay  the 
wages  of  labour,  and  to  realize  the 
profits  of  stock.  And  the  public  can- 
not complain  when  they  get  what 
they  want,  at  the  price  for  which 
they  are  willing  to  procure  it. 

When  men  talk  of  tithe  as  a  tax 
upon  industry,  it  would  be  very  well 
if  they  remembered  that  the  produc- 
tions of  the  earth  are  a  bounty  upon 
industry;  that  although  they  may 
plant  and  water,  it  is  God  that  gives 
t  he  increase.  If  this  truth  was  more 
strongly  imprinted  upon  their  minds, 
we  should  hear  less  of  an  objection 
that  savours  so  much  of  impiety  and 
ingratitude.  A  tax  upon  industry! 
Why  it  is  just  such  language  as  we 
Might  expect  to  hear,  if  they  were 
themselves  the  creators  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  earth,  and  were  in- 
debted for  nothing  to  the  goodness 
of  Providence  !  A  seed  is  deposited 
in  the  ground ;  it  is  returned  fifty- 
fold  ;  and  those  upon  whom  the  be- 
neficence of  God  thus  overflows, 
think  it  a  hard  thing  to  be  asked  to 
<  ontribute  a  tithe  of  what  he  has 
himself  given  them  to  his  service! 
Truly  may  it  be  said,  "  the  ox  know- 
(st  his  owner,  and  the  ass  his  mas- 
ter's crib  ;  but  Israel  doth  not  know; 
i!iy  people  do  not  consider."  We 
shall  not  at  present  stop  to  indite  a 
homily  upon  this;  but,  if  the  objec- 
tors to  whom  we  have  alluded  would 


only  imagine  what  they  themselves' 
would  thinkof  individuals  who  might 
have  received  from  some  great  man 
a  favour,  similar  to  that  for  which 
they  must  feel  themselves  indebted 
to  the  great  Creator,  and  yet  who  re- 
fused to  acknowledge  it,  by  making 
some  small  returns  for  his  service ; 
appropriating  greedily,  and  without 
thanks ;  and  giving  grudgingly,  and 
of  necessity ;  in  a  word,  cramming, 
while  they  blasphemed  the  feeder; 
they  would  have  some  faint  idea  of 
what  may  be  justly  thought  of  their 
own  language  when  they  complain 
of  tithe  as  a  tax  upon  industry ! 
But  we  well  know,  that  a  considera- 
tion such  as  this  will  only  provoke  the 
sneers  of  the  utilitarians.  Upon  them 
we  urge  it  not.  Against  such  an- 
tagonists we  rest  satisfied  with  ha- 
ving proved  that  tithe  is  no  tax  upon 
industry ;  a  position  which  they  may 
deny,  and  they  may  mystify;  but 
which  they  will  find  it  difficult  to 
disturb,  unless  they  can  shew  that 
there  is  a  tax  upon  industry  where 
there  is  no  industry  to  be  taxed;  or 
where  the  growers  are  remunerated  by 
existing  prices  where  any  industry  is 
exerted. 

It  has  been  said  that  tithes  are  an 
obstacle  to  improvement;  and,  in 
some  few  instances,  they  may  be  so 
considered.  We  are,  therefore,  de- 
sirous to  see  adopted  any  reasonable 
and  practicable  modification  of  the 
system  by  which  the  objection  might 
be  removed.  We  are  sure  that,  ul- 
timately, it  must  be  for  the  benefit 
of  the  clergy  as  well  as  of  the  laity, 
that  the  country  should  be  improved; 
that  two  blades  of  grass  should  be 
made  to  grow  where  but  one  grew 
before;  and  we  are  satisfied,  that 
no  serious  objection  would  be  made 
to  any  proposal  for  abating  or  mo- 
derating the  imposition  of  tithes,  in 
any  cases  where  it  could  be  clearly 
shewn,  or  for  any  length  of  time  dur- 
ing which  it  could  be  clearly  proved, 
that  they  would  be  an  obstacle  to 
improvement.  The  cases,  however, 
are  but  few  in  which  a  relief  from 
tithe  would  encourage  enterprise; 
and,  therefore,  the  cases  can  be  but 
few  in  which  the  burden  of  them 
discourages  cultivation.  But,  be  this 
as  it  may,  we  meet  the  objection 
fairly,  by  proposing  a  remedy.  Thus 
we  test  the  sincerity  of  our  oppo- 
nents ;  to  whom,  indeed,  we  do  less 


380 


Tithes. 


[March, 


than  justice,  if  they  are  not  more 
tender  of  their  objection  than  we  are 
even  of  tithe,  or  if  they  would  wish 
to  see  the  grievance  which  they  com- 
plain of  redressed,whenit  may,  here- 
after, operate  as  a  lever  for  the  over- 
throw of  an  offensive  system.  When 
an  objection  is  a  pretext,  and  not  a 
cause,  it  must  be  something  very  dif- 
ferent from  truth  and  reason,  that 
can  prevail  against  it. 

When  it  is  said  that  taxes  are  paid 
by  the  landlord,  it  must  not  be  sup- 
posed, that  they  fall  upon  the  indi- 
vidual commonly  so  called,  but  only 
that  they  are  taken  from  a  fund  which 
is  denominated  rent,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  the  funds  which  supply 
the  profits  of  stock,  and  the  wages 
of  labour.  The  landlord  has  no  more 
right  to  the  tenth,  which  he  merely 
hands  over  to  the  party,  whether  lay 
or  clerical,  for  whose  benefit  it  has 
been  reserved,  than  he  has  to  any 
other  property  of  which  he  might  be 
the  trustee  ;  or  than  his  tenants  have 
to  the  sums  which  they  have  stipu- 
lated to  pay  him,  as  considerations 
for  their  respective  farms.  And  yet, 
even  by  a  respectable  writer  in  the 
Quarterly  Review,  the  matter  has 
been  thus  misrepresented.  Tithes 
have  been  represented  as  a  grievance 
upon  the  landlord,  from  which  he 
ought  to  be  relieved  !  (vol.  xliv,  page 
37),  as  if  he  had  received  a  grant  of 
the  land  tithe-free ;  or  took  no  care 
to  be  indemnified  for  its  amount 
when  he  made  the  purchase !  For  if 
he  gave  for  nine-tenths  the  price  of 
the  whole,  he  was  a  fool.  And  if  he 
claims  a  dominion  over  the  whole, 
having  purchased  but  nine-tenths, 
he  is  a  knave.  In  neither  case  can 
he  call  for  the  protection  of  the  le- 
gislature, which  should  not  counte- 
nance his  knavery,  and  cannot  pre- 
vent his  infatuation.  No.  It  is  every 
whit  as  false,  to  maintain  that  tithe 
is  paid  by  the  landlord,  as  that  it  is 
paid  by  the  consumer.  It  constituted 
a  lien  upon  the  land  before  the  pro- 
prietor came  into  possession,  the 
liquidation  of  which  should  precede 
rent,  which  ought  to  commence  only 
when  that  lien  had  been  satisfied. 
So  that  nothing  could  be  more  equi- 
table, than  to  make  the  owners  of  all 
lands  which  paid  a  rent,  accountable 
for  the  tithe ;  for  the  tithe  ought  to 
be  considered  as  in  their  hands,  from 
the  very  moment  that  rent  began  to 


be  exacted.  The  landlord  has  no 
right,  to  appropriate  any  portion  of 
the  residuum  above  the  profits  of 
stock  and  the  wages  of  labour  to  his 
own  purposes,  until  he  satisfies  those 
who  have  previous  claims;  and  as 
such,  the  law  recognises  the  claims 
of  the  individuals  who  may  be  de- 
nominated ecclesiastical  landlords; 
whose  rights  were  secured  to  them, 
at  the  time  when  the  lay  proprietors 
came  into  possession  of  the  fee,  and 
which  cannot  be  violated,  without  a 
fatal  departure  from  the  principle, 
by  the  maintenance  of  which  can 
property  of  every  other  description 
alone  be  protected.  The  lay  land- 
lords, therefore,  in  paying  tithes,  pay 
nothing  that  may  be  called  their  own, 
and,  therefore,  as  far  as  they  are  con- 
cerned, tithes  are  no  grievance. 

But,  Irish  tithes,  who  can  stand  up 
for  them,  are  they  not  altogether  in- 
defensible ?  There,  a  people  pro- 
fessing one  religion,  are  compelled 
to  support  the  ministers  of  those  who 
profess  another !  A  little  patience, 
gentle  reader.  We  are  no  advocates 
of  what  is  indefensible;  but,  we  have, 
we  confess,  as  yet  to  learn,  that  such 
an  epithet  is  fairly  applicable  to  the 
Church  of  Ireland. 

Let  us  take  the  supposition  most 
favourable  to  our  opponents,  and  for 
which  Mr  O'Connell,  the  bitterest 
enemy  of  the  Church  of  Ireland, 
most  loudly  contends,  namely,  that 
tithes  are  paid  by  the  consumer;  and, 
we  ask,  who  are  the  consumers  of 
Irish  produce  ?  The  answer  must 
be,  the  people  of  England.  They  are 
the  consumers  of  Irish  produce;  and, 
therefore,  according  to  the  state- 
ments of  the  Irish  anti-tithe  con- 
spirators themselves,  they  are  the 
payers  of  the  Irish  tithes.  So  that, 
admitting  their  own  principle,  the 
Irish  are  not  burdened  with  that  ob- 
noxious impost ;  and,  so  far  from  its 
being  true,  that  the  Popish  people  of 
Ireland  are  supporting  a  Protestant 
clergy,  it  is  much  more  consonant  to 
truth,  to  affirm  that  the  Protestant 
people  of  England  are  supporting  a 
Popish  clergy  in  Ireland. 

And  this,  in  point  of  fact,  is  the 
real  state  of  the  case,  as  would  very 
soon  be  felt  if  the  export  trade  were 
discontinued.  The  prices  which  the 
Irish  farmers  are  enabled  to  obtain 
for  raw  produce  in  England,  deter- 
mine the  price  for  which  it  sells  in 


1833.]  Tithes. 

Ireland.  There  is  a  monopoly  esta- 
blished in  their  favour,  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  Poland  and  Prussia,  and  other 
countries  by  which  they  might  be 
undersold;  and  this  has  caused  de- 
mand so  far  to  gain  upon  supply  as 
to, increase,  very  considerably  in- 
deed, that  surplus  above  the  expenses 
of  cultivation,  out  of  which  both  rent 
and  tithes  are  ultimately  paid.  It 
is,  therefore,  as  false  as  it  is  mis- 
chievous to  allege,  that  the  sum  paid 
to  the  Established  clergy  in  Ireland,  is 
wrung  from  the  hard  pittance  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  labourer.  That 
labourer  would  not  find  his  comforts 
one  whi^  increased  (whatever  they 
might  be  diminished)  if  tithes  were 
henceforth  abolished.  And  the 
farmers  or  the  landed  proprietors, 
merely  hand  over  to  the  clergyman 
a  sum  upon  which  they  can,  by  pos- 
sibility, have  no  claim,  and  which 
they  never  would  have  received  had 
not  the  prices  of  their  produce  been 
raised  by  English  capital  and  English 
consumers. 

Nor  can  it  be  said  that  the  people 
of  England  are  sufferers  by  being 
thus  burdened  with  the  support  of 
the  Church  of  Ireland.  In  whatever 
degree  the  export  trade  has  a  ten- 
dency to  raise  the  price  of  corn  in 
Ireland,  it  must  have  a  similar  ten- 
dency to  lower  it  in  England.  If 
aew  lands  are  called  into  cultivation 
in  the  one  case,  old  lands  must  be 
thrown  out  of  cultivation  in  the 
other.  So  that  while  the  surplus 
fund  for  the  payment  of  rent  and 
tithe  in  the  one  country  is  increased, 
in  the  other  it  either  does  not  in- 
crease, or  diminishes;  and,  conse- 
quently, the  people  have  less  to  pay 
'n  one  direction,  the  more  they  have 
:o  pay  in  the  other.  The  value  of 
cheir  own  produce  is  diminished  in 
proportion  as  that  of  Irish  produce 
s  increased  ;  and  by  how  much  the 
amount  of  the  whole  falls  short  of 
,vhat  it  would  be  if  they  were  the 
iole  cultivators,  by  so  much  must 
hey  be  considered  gainers.  The 
English  only  purchase  Irish  produce 
>ecause  it  is  cheaper  than  their  own ; 
ind  while  they  have  the  benefit  of 
his  cheapness,  they  should  not 
grudge  those  to  whom  they  are  in- 
debted for  it,  the  benefit  of  their 
custom.  Neither  do  they.  They  are 
•vise  enough  to  know  what,  in  this 
: espect  at  least,  is  their  true  interest. 


331 

Indeed,  if  there  be  any  party  who 
have  a  right  to  complain,  they  are 
the  English  clergy  and  land  proprie- 
tors, whose  property  is  diminished 
both  in  value  and  amount  by  the 
same  cause  which  increases  the  tithe 
and  the  rental  of  Ireland. 

The  grievance,  therefore,  of  which 
the  agitators  complain  is,  that  a  sum 
derived  from  English  capital  is  recei- 
ved and  spent  'amongst  themselves  ! 
It  is  curious  that  they  do  not  make 
the  increase  of  rent,  which  has  also 
been  the  consequence  of  the  trade 
with  England,  a  ground  of  complaint. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  it  would  be 
less  palpably  unreasonable  so  to  do. 
For  rent  is  often  spent  out  of  the 
country;  tithe  seldom  or  never. 
Rent  contributes  to  the  encourage- 
ment of  absentees;  tithes  to  that  of 
a  resident  gentry.  The  landlord  is 
often  felt  as  an  oppressor;  the  cler- 
gyman generally  as  a  benefactor  to 
his  neighbourhood.  Indeed,  we  have 
reason  to  believe  that  the  poor  peo- 
ple themselves  are  at  length  begin- 
ning to  be  sensible  of  this.  It  has 
been  reported  to  us,  upon  authority 
by  which  we  have  never  been  de- 
ceived, that  the  peasantry  in  the 
county  of  Kilkenny,  where  the  hos- 
tility against  tithe  raged  fiercest,  are 
at  length  fully  sensible  of  the  folly 
of  banishing  the  clergy  from  their 
homes.  The  labourers  feel,  that, 
whatever  the  farmers  and  landown- 
ers may  have  gained  by  withholding 
the  tithe,  they  have  been  no  gainers 
by  the  loss  of  employment,  or  the 
absence  of  that  kindliness  and  those 
courtesies  which  they  always  expe- 
rienced from  the  clergy  of  the  Esta- 
blished Church.  Let  any  unpreju- 
diced man  go  into  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Dr  Hamilton,  or  Dr  Butler, 
and  witness  the  keen  regret  with 
which  the  majority  of  even  their  Ro- 
man Catholic  parishioners  regard 
their  absence,  let  him  witness  the 
charities  which  have  been  suspend- 
ed, the  good  works  which  have  been 
interrupted,  the  civilizing  influences 
which  have  been  withdrawn,  and  he 
will  be  able  to  form  some  estimate 
of  the  mischief  which  has  been  done 
by  that  malignant  system  of  combi- 
nation which  has  driven  these  re- 
spected gentlemen,  and  numbers  like 
them,  from  their  several  spheres  of 
activity  and  benevolence.  We  verily 
believe  that  this  system  could  not  be 


33-J 


Tithes. 


[March, 


maintained,  were  it  not  that  the  poor 
people  have  now  no  adequate  protection 
against  it.  ITS  SANCTIONS  HAVE  NOW 

BECOME  MORE  TERRIBLE   THAN  THOSE 

OF  THE  LAWS  OF  THE  LAND  !  And  Cap- 
tain Rock  is  feared  and  obeyed, 
while  the  enactments  of  the  nominal 
legislature  are  regarded  as  little 
more  than  so  much  waste  paper  I 

In  the  preceding  paragraphs  we 
have  admitted,  for  argument  sake, 
that  it  is  unjust  to  call  upon  people, 
professing  one  form  of  religion,  to 
contribute  to  the  maintenance  of  the 
religious  teachers  of  those  of  another; 
and  we  have  been  satisfied  with 
shewing,  that,  in  point  of  fact,  such 
an  objection  is  unfounded — that  no 
such  demand  is,  in  reality,  made. 
But  even  if  we  were  unable  to  shew, 
as  we  trust  we  have  shewn,  upon 
their  own  principles,  that  the  com- 
plaints of  the  Agitators  are  without 
any  basis  in  truth,  we  could  not  for 
a  moment  admit  that  it  is  unjust  to 
expect  of  dissenters  of  every  deno- 
mination to  contribute  to  the  main- 
tenance of  that  Church  which  is  by 
law  established ;  because,  to  admit 
such  a  principle  would  be  to  strike 
at  the  very  foundation  of  an  Esta- 
blished Church. 

Dissent  is  not  a  privilege,  but  an 
indulgence.  To  say  that  those  who 
disapprove  of  the  religion  adopted 
by  the  state,  are  to  be  exempted 
from  any  share  of  the  expenses  at- 
tending its  maintenance,  is  to  pro- 
claim a  bounty  upon  dissent,  which 
must  render  it  impossible,  in  the 
long  run,  to  uphold  any  form  of  na- 
tional religion.  Thus,  a  toleration 
of  error  would  proceed  to  the  ex- 
tent of  an  intolerance  of  truth ;  and 
the  only  mode  of  faith  for  which  no 
sufficient  provision  could  be  made, 
which  might  at  the  same  time  secure 
its  purity  and  its  permanency,  would 
be  that  very  one  which  might  be 
judged  most  agreeable  to  the  pre- 
cepts and  maxims  of  Holy  Scripture. 

For,  to  what  purpose  is  any  form 
of  divine  worship  established,  if 
every  individual  is  at  the  same  time 
told  that  he  is  at  liberty  to  use  his 
own  discretion  in  contributing  or  not 
contributing  his  stipend  for  its  sup- 
port, just  as  he  thinks  proper  ?  Even 
of  those  who  approve  of  it,  how  many 
will  contribute,  when  they  may  re- 
fuse ?  In  how  many  will  coldness, 
indifference,  caprice,  operate  to  pre- 


vent or  retard  the  performance  of  a 
bounden  duty  ?  And  if  such  be  the 
case  with  those  whose  inclinations 
may  be  said  to  be  favourable,  what 
may  not  be  apprehended  from  those 
whose  dispositions  are  decidedly  ad- 
verse ?  To  place  a  Church  upon  such 
a  footing,  would  resemble  the  folly 
of  building  a  house  upon  sand. 
When  the  winds  rose,  and  the  rains 
fell,  and  the  floods  came,  they  would 
beat  upon  that  church,  and  it  would 
fall,  and  great  would  be  the  fall  of  it. 

It  may  be  allowed  that  it  certainly 
would  be  impracticable  thus  to  pro- 
cure a  sufficient  support  for  any  sys- 
tem of  national  religion;  but  that 
no  such  system  ought  to  be  establish- 
ed ;  that  religion,  like  every  thing 
else,  should  be  left  to  find  its  own 
level,  and  depend,  altogether,  for  its 
countenance  or  its  rejection,  upon 
the  common  sense  and  the  natural 
honesty  of  mankind.  This  is  the  view 
of  the  subject  which  we  know  is  ta- 
ken by  the  great  majority  of  those 
who  are  loudest  in  their  denuncia- 
tions against  tithes,  and  who,  in  ob- 
jecting against  them,  may  be  consi- 
dered as  only  carrying  into  effect  one 
of  their  engines  of  hostility  against 
the  Church  Establishment  But  it 
would,  surely,  be  more  manly,  as 
well  as  more  fair  and  rational,  to 
object  to  the  Establishment  in  the 
first  instance,  and  then,  if  the  objec- 
tions should  be  considered  sound, 
proceed  to  the  abolition  of  tithe  ; 
than  begin  by  seeking  for  such  abo- 
lition, although  tithe  may  be  the  only 
practicable  mode  of  ensuring  a  suf- 
ficient maintenance  for  such  an  Esta- 
blishment, should  the  allegations  of 
its  defamers  prove  unfounded.  In 
this  latter  case  it  might,  perchance, 
be  found  that  punishment  rather 
hastily  anticipated  conviction  ; — and 
thus,  while  the  trial  of  the  Establish- 
ment only  served  to  evince  its  truth 
and  its  purity,  it  would  be  attended, 
contemporaneously,  with  such  a  con- 
fiscation of  its  revenues  as  must  en- 
sure its  downfall  and  its  degrada- 
tion. 

But,  to  advert  for  a  moment  (for 
we  cannot  afford  space  to  discuss  it  at 
any  length)  to  the  notion  that  no 
particular  mode  of  faith  should  be 
established,  because  men  will  be  led, 
naturally,  to  approve  of,  and  to  adopt 
that  which  is  the  best,  it  may  be 
admitted,  that  if  the  assertion  were 


833.]  Tithes. 

i  rue,  the  advice  were  good ;  as,  on     bitation  and 
rhe  other  hand,  it  cannot  be  denied,     resembling 
that  the  advice  is  not  good  if  the 
assertion  be  unfounded. 

This  maxim  of  the  free  traders  in 
Christianity  would  be  just,  if  men 
were  as  much  alive  to  their  eternal, 
is  they  are  to  their  temporal,  inte- 
rests. When  men  are  in  want  of  corn, 
ivine,  oil,  or  any  other  necessaries  or 
conveniencies,  their  wants  are  the 
parents  of  skill  and  enterprise,  which 
soon  enable  them  to  procure  what 
.hey  desire.  But,  the  more  they 
stand  in  need  of  religion,  the  less  they 
are  conscious  of  that  need ;  and,  con- 
sequently, if  the  most  important 
concern  is  not  to  be  entirely  ne- 
glected, there  is  a  necessity  for  taking, 
511  that  respect,  some  better  care  of 
them  than  they  are  likely  to  take  of 
.hemselves. 

The  very  passions,  prejudices,  in- 
terests, and  attachments,  which  cause 
ihem  to  take  excellent  precaution 
J'or  their  well-being  in  the  present 
world,  are  most  adverse  to  their 
\vell-being  in  the  world  to  come. 
And,  therefore,  no  wise  legislators 
cither  ever  have,  or  ever  will  act 
upon  the  principle  of  leaving  reli- 
gion to  find  its  own  level,  by  not 
establishing  any  particular  church, 
or,  by  removing  the  muniments  and 
abolishing  the  privileges  of  one  that 
has  been  established;  even  as  the 
Hollanders  will  not  act  upon  the 
principle  of  suffering  the  sea  to  find 


333 

a  name. '  Instead  of 
a  voice  crying  in  the 
wilderness,"  its  ministers  taught  as 
those  "having  authority;"  and  a 
provision  was  made  which  secured 
adequate  instruction,  in  all  things 
"  pertaining  to  life  and  to  godliness," 
to  all  classes  included  between  the 
humblest  and  the  most  exalted. 

We  are  not  here  discussing  the 
comparative  claims  of  different 
churches  to  the  favour  or  the  pre- 
ference of  the  state.  In  that  matter, 
as  in  all  others,  the  wisdom  of  the 
community,  as  expressed  by  the  le- 
gislature, must  decide.  We  are 
merely  contending  for  the  propriety, 
nay,  the  necessity,  of  giving  a  per- 
manent subsistence  and  an  authori- 
zed exposition  to  whatever  mode  of 
religious  belief  may  be  supposed  to 
afford  the  most  adequate  represen- 
tation of  Christianity.  Respecting 
this  mode  of  belief  there  may  be 
various  opinions ;  and  it  is  the  right 
of  every  individual  to  submit  any 
objections  which  he  may  entertain 
against  it  to  the  judgment  of  the 
community ;  but,  it  is  also  his  duty 
to  be  obedient  to  the  laws  by  which 
it  has  been  established,  and  neither 
to  commit  nor  to  countenance  any 
violence  by  which  its  stability  might 
be  endangered.  While  he  may  do 
any  thing  which,  by  influencing  the 
judgments  of  our  senators,  might  tend 
to  its  reform  or  alteration,  he  should 
do  nothing,  which,  by  acting  on  the 


its  natural  level,  by  the  removal  of    fears,  the  prejudices,  or  the  cupidity 

of  the  multitude,  might  lead  to  its 
subversion.  A  wise  and  liberal  go- 
vernment will  equally  avoid  the  dan- 
gerous extremes  of  prescribing  error, 
so  that  it  may  not  be  gainsaid,  and 
proscribing  truth,  so  that  it  dare  not 
be  defended. 

But,  as  surely  as  a  knowledge  of 
our  duty  towards  God  is  necessary 
to  the  performance  of  our  duty  to- 
wards man,  as  surely  as  there  is  no 
security  that  a  community  will  con- 
tain good  citizens,  unless  it  also  con- 
tain good  Christians,  so  surely  is  it 
a  duty  incumbent  upon  princes  and 
governors  to  provide  the  means  of 
religious  instruction  for  those  over 
whom  they  are  appointed  to  preside ; 
and  whatever  may  be  the  varieties 
of  opinion  which  it  may  be  expe- 
dient to  permit  amongst  their  sub- 
jects, no  one,  unless  by  his  own  choice, 
or  through  his  own  faulty  should  be 


ihose  mounds  and  barriers  by  which 
5  lone  they  have  been  hitherto  pro- 
tected from  its  inundation. 

On  the  contrary,  wise  legislators 
have  always  admitted  that  they  never 
«;ould  secure  the  social  and  political, 
i  intil  they  had  done  what  in  them 
lay  to  secure  the  moral  and  religious 
Avell-being  of  the  people.  Man  must 
be  regarded  in  his  relation  to  God, 
before  the  duties  can  be  defined,  or 
the  rules  laid  down,  which  should 
determine  his  conduct  in  relation  to 
nan.  In  this  country,  the  govern- 
ment have  been  so  fully  sensible  of 
this,  that  the  Church  has  been,  from 
tne  very  earliest  period,  incorporated 
with  the  state,  and  the  leading  truths  of 
cur  religious  belief  made,  as  it  were, 
tie  corner-stones  of  our  civil  polity. 

Religion,  which  else  had  been  an 
"  airy  nothing,"  "  a  rhapsody  of 
\-ords,"  thus  obtained  "  a  local  ha- 


334 


Tithes. 


[March, 


left  uninstructed  in  that  "  more  ex- 
cellent way"  which  bears  the  most 
authentic  impress  of  the  Christian 
revelation. 

For  this  great  purpose,  (which 
combines  considerations  of  moral 
duty  with  those  of  state  necessity,) 
it  is  right  that  a  provision  should  be 
made  to  which  all  classes  may  con- 
tribute, even  as  they  contribute  to 
the  accomplishment  of  any  other 
object  which  may  be  judged  expe- 
dient for  the  well-being  of  the  com- 
munity. And  an  individual  could  no 
more  plead  dissent  in  bar  to  the  tax 
which  might  thus  be  imposed  upon 
him  for  the  support  of  an  Establish- 
ment, than  he  could  plead  a  leaning  to- 
wards republicanism  in  bar  to  the  tax 
which  might  be  imposed  upon  him  for 
the  support  of  the  monarchy.  In  both 
cases,  provided  dissent  proceed  not 
to  the  extent  of  an  open  attempt  to 
subvert  the  Establishment,  it  may  be 
tolerated-j  and  provided  a  leaning 
towards  republicanism  proceed  not 
to  manifest  itself  by  any  overt  act  of 
hostility  against  the  monarchy,  it 
may  be  endured.  But  in  neither 
case  should  either  the  one  or  the 
other  be  permitted  to  disturb  the 
settled  arrangements  of  society,  much 
less  to  tamper  with  the  foundations 
of  social  order.  With  opinion,  as 
such,  the  state  will  not  meddle,  as 
long  as  it  does  not  meddle  with  the 
state ;  but  the  very  moment  the  laws 
are  resisted,  or  force  or  violence  is 
employed  for  the  purpose  of  defeat- 
ing their  provisions,  that  moment  it 
becomes  necessary  to  take  the  most 
effectual  measures  that  such  force  or 
violence  shall  not  be  successful. 

But  America,  it  will  be  said — look 
to  America!  and  we  say,  look  to 
America.  In  arguing  with  compe- 
tent judges,  we  would  be  content  to 
rest  the  whole  question  upon  the 
practical  evidence  of  the  necessity 
of  a  state  religion  which  the  very  con- 
dition, both  moral  and  political,  of 
America  affords.  We  might  refer,  in 
illustration  of  this,  to  numberless  in- 
stances, in  which  the  moral  appetite 
has  been  either  starved  or  pampered 
•—either  unduly  or  viciously  excited, 
or  injuriously  or  mischievously  re- 
pelled ;  and  all  for  the  want  of  that 
steady  and  fostering  guidance  which 
might  educate  piety  and  repress  ex- 
travagance— thatsober,benignantma- 
triculation  of  the  community,  which 


would  be  effected  by  a  well- chosen 
and  a  wisely  administered  Church 
Establishment.  But  we  forbear.  The 
government  of  America  has  as  yet 
scarcely  witnessed  two  generations. 
The  cup  of  the  Amorites  is  not  yet 
full.  And  events  are  already  has- 
tening forward,  which  admonish  us, 
that  before  a  third  generation  elapses, 
many,  by  whom  the  pernicious  mis- 
policy  of  America,  in  neglecting  the 
important  concern  of  religion,  is  at 
present  but  too  fondly  admired,  will 
point  to  it  as  a  warning,  and  not  as 
an  example. 

But  the  absence  of  a  religious 
Establishment,  in  a  country  that  has 
never  had  one,  is  a  very  different 
thing  from  its  removal  in  a  country 
where  it  had  long  subsisted.  In  the 
former  case,  necessity  will  havegiven 
rise  to  many  expedients,  by  which 
its  absence  may  be,  in  some  imper- 
fect manner,  supplied.  The  moral 
appetite  will  not  be  altogether  re- 
pressed, although  it  may  not  be  na- 
turally or  healthily  exercised.  Just 
as  in  individuals  who  are  born  with 
imperfectly  formed  lungs,  the  liver 
sometimes  performs  some  of  the  of- 
fices of  the  defective  organ ;  so  there 
may  arise,  and  there  will  arise  in 
such  a  community,  some  mode,  how- 
ever imperfect  or  inadequate,  of  dis- 
charging the  function  of  an  Establish- 
ed Church.  But  in  the  latter  case, 
where  a  Church  Establishment  had 
long  subsisted,  and  where  its  influ- 
ence was  suddenly  suspended,  with- 
out any  compensatory  provision  ha- 
ving been  made  to  remedy  the  great 
derangement  which  must  thus  arise 
in  the  moral  and  the  social  system, 
we  recognise  one  of  those  instances 
of  sudden  and  fatal  injury  to  a  mor- 
tal part — a  plucking  out,  as  it  were, 
or  a  laceration  of  the  lungs — from 
which  scarcely  any  thing  less  than 
the  dissolution  of  the  body  politic  is 
to  be  apprehended. 

Now,  such  must  be  precisely  the 
effect  of  any  violence  by  which  the 
Established  Church  in  these  coun- 
tries may  be  overthrown.  It  is  co- 
eval with  the  monarchy.  It  has  grown 
with  its  growth,  and  strengthened 
with  its  strength.  Its  ministers  con- 
stitute one  of  the  estates  of  the  realm ; 
and  its  property  is  held  by  a  tenure 
more  ancient  and  more  venerable 
than  that  of  any  other  property  in 
the  land.  A  sudden  violence  to  such 


L833.J 


Tithes. 


335 


,in  establishment  must  give  a  shock 
1.0  society  which  it  could  not  easily 
recover,  even  independently  of  the 
t.erious  moral  loss  which  must  attend 
i  lie  suspension  of  its  holy  and  benig- 
jiant  ministrations. 

"  But  are  not  these  holy  and  be- 
nignant ministrations  sometimes  sus- 
pended, or  worse  than  suspended, 
l>y  the  unhappy  collisions  upon  mo- 
ney matters  which  take  place  be- 
tween the  clergy  and  their  flocks?" 
Here,  again,  we  are  willing  to  meet 
the  objectors  half  way,  and  to  ac- 
knowledge the  beneficial  consequen- 
(  es  that  would  flow  from  an  arrange- 
ment, by  which  the  clergy,  in  what 
legarded  their  own  maintenance, 
might  be  separated  altogether  from 
secular  considerations.  The  diffi- 
culty has  been,  to  combine  security 
<>f  property,  with  that  privilege  of 
exemption  from  the  cares  and  an- 
xieties of  worldly  business,  which  it 
is  so  desirable,  for  many  reasons, 
that  the  clergy  should  enjoy,  so  that 
c  ffectual  care  might  be  taken,  that, 
while  their  whole  time  might  be  de- 
^  oted  to  the  great  business  of  their 
<  ailing,  the  patrimony  of  the  Church 
should  not  be  wasted.  Now,  this 
( ifficulty  is,  we  think,  most  satisfac- 
torily obviated,  in  the  plan  which  Dr 
Whately,  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin, 
1  itely  submitted  to  the  Committee 
cf  the  House  of  Lords,  before  whom 
le  was  examined  upon  the  state  of 
Ireland.  He  proposes,  that  parishes 
s  lould  be  congregated  into  unions, 
and  as  many  as  could  be  conve- 
riently  managed,  placed  under  the 
superintendence  of  some  experien- 
c  ed  and  responsible  individual  in  all 
natters  relating  to  the  incomes  of 
tie  incumbents — his  duty  and  au- 
t  jority  being  somewhat  similar  to 
t  lat  which  is  at  present  discharge.d 
a  id  exercised  by  the  bursars  of  our 
I  niversities.  Thus,  the  property  of 
tie  Church  would  be  as  well  se- 
cired  as  the  property  of  our  col- 
lt  ges ;  and,  while  the  clergy  were 
M  ndistracted  in  the  blessed  occupa- 
t  on  of  "rightly  dividing  the  word 


of  truth,"  the  stewards,  to  whom  the 
care  of  their  secular  concerns  had 
been  committed,  would  "  give  them 
their  meat  in  due  season." 

Here,  then,  is  a  plan  by  which 
the  objection  above  stated,  may  be 
fairly  and  fully  met.  But  are  the 
objectors  satisfied  ?  No.  Why  ? 
Simply  because  their  allegation  was 
a  pretext  for  the  destruction  of  the 
Church,  and  was  not  urged  with  any 
view  to  the  remedying  of  a  defect, 
or  the  removal  of  an  inconvenience. 
Mr  O'Connell  now  complains  more 
loudly  of  the  remedy  than  he  ever 
before  complained  of  the  disease; 
and  this,  and  all  other  objections 
which  he  and  his  faction  may  urge, 
will  be  cherished  with  as  much  more 
lingering  obstinacy  as  a  knavish  men- 
dicant cherishes  his  sores,  which 
are  more  offensive  to  the  eye,  than 
injurious  to  the  health,  and  more 
profitable  in  the  exhibition,  than 
painful  in  the  endurance. 

It  was  not  our  intention  to  have 
travelled  into  any  matter  not  strictly 
referable  to  the  economical  consider- 
ation of  the  question  of  tithe.  Our 
space  does  not  permit  us  to  enlarge 
upon  the  peculiar  claim  of  the  Eng- 
lish and  Irish  Church  Establishments 
to  a  liberal  and  independent  provi- 
sion ; — but  we  trust  enough  has  been 
already  said  to  evince  the  unreason- 
ableness and  the  futility  of  the  cavils 
which  have  been  raised  against  the 
mode  in  which  they  are  at  present 
supported. 

It  has  been  shewn  that  tithe  does 
not  fall  upon  the  consumer;  that  he 
does  not  pay  more  for  raw  produce 
than  he  should  pay  if  tithe  were  re- 
moved. For,  though  it  be  granted 
that  the  imposition  of  tithe  checks 
production,  it  must  also  be  admitted, 
that  the  limitation  of  production 
checks  population ;  so  that  the  sup- 
ply will  still  bear  the  same  relation 
to  the  demand,  and  the  consumer, 
after  tithe  has  been  abolished,  will 
have  precisely  the  same  and  no 
greater  facilities  for  procuring  corn 
than  he  had  before.* 


*  Colonel  Thomson  calculates,  upon  grounds  which  appear  to  us  solid,  that  the 
li  ss  arising  out  of  prevention  of  production  caused  by  tithes,  supposing  them  to  be 
u  liversal,  may  be  estimated  at  less  than  the  hundred  and  twelfth  part.  He  then 
p  -oceeds  to  estimate  what  the  loss  would  be,  supposing  the  clergy  paid  by  an  im- 
p  jst  on  manufactures. 

"  The  value,"  he  says,  "of  the  whole  annual  produce  of  the  agriculture  in  Great 


236  Tithes.  [March, 

It  has  been  shewn  that  tithe  does  are  not  obliged  to  residence,  neither 
not  fall  upon  the  landlord ;  that  is,  is  the  performance  of  any  duty  corn- 
that  the  individual  commonly  so  pulsory  upon  them.  Can  it,  there- 
called  is  not  deprived  of  any  thing  fore,  be  the  interest  of  the  culti- 
wliicli  he  could  truly  call  his  own,  in  vators  to  diminish  the  fund  appro- 
consequence  of  the  imposition  of  priated  to  the  first,  when  the  only 
tithe ;  which  should  be  considered  effect  of  such  diminution  must  be  to 
as  a  pre-existing  and  paramount  increase  the  fund  appropriated  to  the 
claim  upon  the  land,  the  satisfaction  second?  No,  surely;  unless  it  be 
of  which  should  precede  any  accumu-  their  interest  to  increase  wages 
lationfor  the  benefit  of  the  landlord.  while  they  diminish  service — a  para- 

The  true  mode  of  considering  the  dox  which,  although  it  might  qua- 

matter  would   be  to  suppose  that  lify  economists  for  depriving  of  their 

there  are  two  kinds  of  landlords,  hire  the  useful   labourers    in   the 

One  kind  are  obliged  to  reside  upon  Church,  would    disentitle  them  to 

the  land,  and  to  perform  various  du-  object  against  the  sinecure  clergy, 
ties,  which  have  an  important  bear-         It  is  also  to  be  considered,  that  the 

ing  upon  the  well-being  of  the  cul-  first  class,  or  the  ecclesiastical  land- 

ti vators  of  the  soil.    The  other  kind  lords,  as  they  may  be  called,  hold 


Britain,  compared  with  that  of  manufactures,  has  been  estimated  as  being  one  to 
three.  If,  then,  the  support  of  the  clergy  were  to  be  raised  by  a  tax  on  the  produce 
of  manufactures  instead  of  agriculture,  the  tax  must  be  a  third  of  a  tithe,  or  3|-  per 
cent.  And  the  consequence  of  this  would  be,  in  addition  to  the  tax  being  paid  by  the 
consumer,  to  cause  a  gratuitous  loss,  or  prevention  of  production,  which,  if  ten  per 
cent  may  be  assumed  as  the  average  rate  of  manufacturing  profits,  would  be  equal  to 
ten-elevenths  of  3^  per  cent  on  the  whole  amount  of  goods  manufactured.  And  the 
value  of  this  would  be  to  the  value  of  the  hundred  and  twelfth  part  of  the  agricul- 
tural produce,  which  is  what  is  supposed  to  be  kept  out  of  existence  by  the  system 
of  tithe,  as  ^i-  x  y^  X  3°  X  3 to  *  divided  by  1 12,  or  as  ^L.  to  _1^,  or  something 
more  than  10  to  1 ; — an  inequality  not  to  be  got  over  by  any  conceivable  inaccura- 
cies in  the  numerical  assumption.  In  which  it  is  remarkable,  that  the  result  is  in- 
dependent of  the  comparative  values  of  agricultural  and  manufactured  produce,  and 
will  be  the  same,  whatever  is  their  proportion.  The  explanation  of  which  is,  that  if 
the  manufactured  produce  is  less,  a  greater  portion  of  it  must  be  taken. 

"Hence,  the  real  state  of  the  charge  against  tithes  is,  first,  that  the  tax,  with  the 
exception  of  a  trifling  reaction,  is  paid  by  the  landlords,  instead  of  being  paid  by  the 
consumers,  as  would  have  been  the  case  if  it  had  been  levied  upon  manufactures ;  and, 
secondly,  that  there  is  a  saving  of  more  than  nine -tenths  of  the  loss  or  prevention  of  produc- 
tion, which  would  have  taken  place  by  the  other  mode.  When  tithes  are  asserted  to  be  a  pe- 
culiarly pernicious  and  impolitic  mode  of  taxation,  these  facts  are  always  kept  out  of 
sight.  The  proof  of  the  assertion  falls  to  the  ground  upon  examination,  like  the 
proof  of  many  other  popular  outcries.  As  the  woodpecker,  the  rook,  and  the  goat- 
sucker, have  been  persecuted  time  out  of  mind  for  imaginary  injuries,  so  the  eccle- 
siastical rook  has  been  charged  with  collecting  his  subsistence  in  a  manner  pecu- 
liarly injurious  to  the  public,  through  clear  ignorance  or  concealment  of  the  nature 
of  the  process.  Some  species  of  commutation  might,  possibly,  be  better  still.  But 
it  is  plain  that  the  extended  outcry  has  been  made,  either  through  ignorance,  or  a 
desire  to  direct  the  hostility  of  the  community  to  a  particular  quarter  by  misrepre- 
sentation. 

"  If  a  third  part  of  the  land  is  tithe- free,  (as  is  understood  to  be  the  case  in  Eng- 
land,) one-third  must  be  deducted  from  the  estimate  of  the  effect  of  tithes.  And  the 
effect  of  the  abolition  of  the  other  two-thirds  would  be,  that  the  produce  of  the 
country  would  be  increased  by  two-thirds  of  a  hundred  and  twelfth,  or  ifi  ;  which, 
if  it  took  place  all  at  once,  would  cause  the  price  of  corn  to  fall  by  a  quantity  which, 
on  account  of  the  comparative  smallness  of  the  increase,  must  be,  at  all  events,  not 
very  remote  from  the  ratio  of  the  increase; — or,  if  corn  is  supposed  at  56s.  and  four- 
pence  a- quarter.  But  this  fall  of  price  (being,  in  fact,  the  small  reaction  men- 
tioned under  the  heads  of  tithes  and  taxes  on  the  produce  of  land,  and  to  which,  in 
those  places  also,  the  same  observation  may  be  applied)  will  be  only  temporary.  And 
the  reason  of  this  is,  the  certainty  that  any  given  permanent  alteration  in  the  quantity 
of  corn,  will  ultimately  produce  a  corresponding  alteration  in  the  population  that  is 
to  consume  it,  and  so  bring  back  corn  to  the  old  price. 


1833.]  Tithes. 

whatever  they  possess  in  virtue  of 
qualifications  which  may  be  possess- 
ed by  any  other  individuals  in  the 
community.  Is  it  an  evil,  that  the 
humblest  "individual  may  entertain 
tfc  e  hope  that  his  son  or  his  son-in-law 
may,at  some  future  time,  be  a  Bishop 
of  Winchester,  or  an  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  ?  What  interest  can  he 
have  in  diminishing  the  chances  of 
such  an  event,  by  confiscating  the 
fixed  estates  of  the  clergy,  or  contri- 
buting to  connect  them  with  a  spe- 
cies of  property,  to  the  enjoyment  of 
which  neither  he  nor  any  one  be- 
longing to  him  can  establish  any 
cl  aim  ?  Is  it  any  grievance  to  him 
that  all  the  landed  property  of  the 
country  is  not  locked  up  in  entail, — 
but  that  some  portion  of  it  is  thrown 
open  to  enlightened  competition, 
acd  made  attainable  by  means  of 
moral  and  intellectual  qualifications? 

It  has  been  shewn,  that  the  outcry 
against  Irish  tithes,  whether  paid  by 
the  landlord,  or  paid  by  the  consu- 
mer, is  altogether  unfounded.  It  is 
net  true  that  the  Roman  Catholics 
of  Ireland  are  burdened  with  the 
support  of  the  Protestant  establish- 
ment. If  tithe  be  paid  by  the  con- 
sumer, as  the  demagogues  contend, 
th<3  people  of  England  are  saddled 
with  that  tax;  and  not  only  with 
that,  but  also  with  the  stipend,  what- 
ever it  is,  by  which  the  Popish  pea- 
sant maintains  his  own  clergy.  If  it 
be  paid  out  of  the  fund  denominated 
rent,  it  is  merely  handed  over  by  the 
land  proprietors,  who  are,  generally 
speaking,  Protestants,  to  those  for 
wltom  it  has  been  received  in  trust, 
namely,  the  Established  clergy.  It 
is  also  to  be  held  in  mind,  that  this 
fund  is  chiefly  created  by  English 
competition  for  Irish  produce  ;  and, 
therefore,  in  reality,  falls  much  more 
upon  the  land  in  England  than  the 
land  in  Ireland. 

The  case,  therefore,  is  clear.  The 
only  question  is,  will  the  Govern- 
ment so  consider  it, — or  will  they 
surrender  the  Irish  Church  to  the 
demands  of  the  Irish  demagogues, 
and  the  fierce  hostility  of  the  Irish 


337 

insurgents  ?  There  are  many  reasons 
which  render  it  most  important  to 
the  Irish  insurgents,  that  their  de- 
mands should  be  complied  with; 
and  not  the  least  material  of  these  is 
the  persuasion  under  which  they 
labour,  that  the  very  instant  the 
Church  is  abandoned,  the  Union  may 
bo  considered  as  repealed.  Will 
this  operate  as  a  motive  with  our 
governors,  to  enter  into  a  bond  of 
sleeping  partnership  with  the  mid- 
day assassins  and  the  midnight  in- 
cendiaries, by  whom  the  Irish  clergy 
have  been  plundered  and  proscri- 
bed ?  Or,  are  the  laws  to  have  their 
course;  and  is  injured  innocence  to 
be  protected,  and  outraged  justice  to 
be  vindicated  ?  Are  the  unoffending 
pastors  of  an  unoffending  people  to 
be  outlawed,  and  hunted  from  their 
homes ;  or,  are  the  murderers  to  be 
arrested  in  their  career  of  blood,  and 
made  to  feel  that  there  is  at  length 
a  limit  to  forbearance,  and  that  atro- 
cities may  no  longer  be  perpetrated 
with  impunity,  because  the  objects 
of  them  are  distinguished  by  the 
evangelical  virtues  ?  These  are  ques- 
tions which  we  will  not  prejudge. 
We  have  joined  issue  upon  them 
with  the  disturbers  of  the  public 
tranquillity ;  and  the  case  is  at  pre- 
sent before  the  Reformed  Parlia- 
ment. But  we  can  have  no  hesita- 
tion in  saying,  that  the  decision  to 
which  they  may  come  upon  it  will 
determine  the  fate  of  the  empire. 

For  our  parts,  we  have  done  our 
duty.  We  have  stated  our  case  with 
freedom,  and  without  partiality.  WTe 
are  not  conscious  of  having  courted 
popularity,  or  of  having  truckled  to 
power.  We  have  done  our  best  to 
examine  the  question  at  issue,  with 
minds  unbiassed  by  favour  or  pre- 
judice;—and  if  those  before  whom 
it  must  shortly  come  for  a  final  hear- 
ing, can  only  say  as  much,  we  have 
no  fears  for  the  result;— if  it  should 
be  otherwise,  (which  may  Heaven 
avert !)  upon  their  heads  be  the  guilt 
and  the  misery  which  must  necessa- 
rily flow  from  their  mispolicy  and 
injustice. 


Ireland.    No.  777. 


[March, 


IRELAND. 

No.  III. 


THE  ADMINISTRATION  OF  JUSTICE. 


THE  time  is  fast  approaching,  when 
the  state  of  Ireland  will  force  itself 
on  the  consideration  of  the  most  re- 
luctant legislature.  For  a  quarter  of 
a  century  past  it  has  been  a  subject 
to  which  the  attention  of  Govern- 
ment has  been  constantly  directed, 
and  on  which  unnumbered  reports 
have  been  made  by  Parliament,  but 
which,  from  its  complication,  its  dif- 
ficulty, and  its  apparent  hopeless- 
ness, has  never  led  to  any  important 
measures.  Constantly  enquiring 
about  Ireland,  they  have  never  done 
any  thing  effective,  and  the  country 
has  gone  on  from  bad  to  worse,  un- 
der the  system  of  concession,  first 
recommended  by  the  Whigs,  since 
acted  upon  by  the  Tories,  and  at 
length  carried  to  an  extravagant  ex- 
tent by  Ministers,  till  at  last  all  sem- 
blance of  order  has  disappeared,  and 
society  has  reached  a  degree  of 
anarchy  unparalleled  in  any  Chris- 
tian state. 

It  is  earnestly  to  be  hoped  that 
Ireland  will  no  longer  be  considered 
as  a  subject  of  party  contention.  It 
has  been  so  much  too  long,  both 
among  its  own  fervid  inhabitants, 
and  the  great  parties  who  divide 
Great  Britain.  The  extravagance  to 
which  faction  has  risen  in  that  un- 
happy land,  is  one  great  cause  of  the 
total  absence  of  any  great  legislative 
measures,  or  any  firm  steps  for  the 
tranquillization  of  its  inhabitants; 
and  until  it  is  looked  to  in  a  cool  dis- 
passionate strain,  by  the  English  le- 
gislature, and  all  the  enlightened 
classes  in  this  country,  no  efficient 
measures  for  its  relief  ever  will  be 
adopted.  It  is  a  remarkable  but  me- 
lancholy fact,  that  while  the  Irish 
are  continually  complaining  of  the 
oppressive  nature  of  the  English  go- 
vernment, and  the  vast  injury  they 
have  sustained  from  the  ascendency 
of  the  Protestant  party,  they  have 
never  been  able  to  point  out  any 
specific  or  intelligible  plan  for  the 
relief  of  the  prevailing  suffering. 
The  lower  orders  of  the  peasantry 
seem  to  have  only  one  plan  on  all 


occasions,  which  is,  to  shoot  every 
man  who  attempts  any  practical  im- 
provement in  the  country,  and  burn 
any  witnesses  who  depone  against 
them  in  a  court  of  justice,  while  the 
better  classes  of  the  Catholics  con- 
tent themselves  with  eternal  decla- 
mations on  English  injustice,  without 
proposing  any  thing  whatever  for 
the  removal  of  the  evils  of  which 
they  complain.  O'Connell,  indeed, 
and  the  Repealers,  have  a  clear  re- 
medy for  all  these  grievances,  which 
is  to  repeal  the  Union,  and  subject 
Ireland  to  a  separate  legislature.  But 
without  stopping  to  dwell  on  the 
impossibility  of  such  a  measure  be- 
ing carried,  fraught  as  it  obviously 
is  with  the  immediate  dismember- 
ment of  the  empire,  the  establish- 
ment of  French  influence  in  the  sis- 
ter island,  and  a  bellum  ad  interne- 
cionem  between  the  two  countries, 
it  is  sufficient  to  observe,  that  our 
sprightly  neighbours  do  not  as  yet 
possess  within  themselves  the  ele- 
ments requisite  to  form  a  useful  le- 
gislature. 

They  forget,  when  they  make  this 
demand,  that  the  experiment  has 
been  tried  for  many  hundred  years, 
and  totally  failed.  Till  the  Union  in 
1800,  Ireland  was  governed  by  a  lo- 
cal legislature  ;  and  yet  the  country, 
on  their  own  shewing,  was  all  along 
in  the  most  miserable  state;  and 
certainly  the  degraded  habits  and 
redundant  numbers  of  the  poor,  suf- 
ficiently demonstrate  that  no  mea- 
sures for  their  practical  improve- 
ment ever  were  adopted  by  their 
Irish  rulers.  Arthur  Young  observes, 
that  the  Parliament  of  Ireland,  in 
one  of  those  fits  of 'insanity ,  to  which 
they  were  occasionally  subject,  once 
passed  a  resolution,  that  any  lawyer 
who  lent  his  aid  to  any  process  for  the 
recovery  of  tithes,  should  be  debar- 
red from  practising  in  the  courts  of 
law ;  and  such,  in  truth,  was  too  fre- 
quently the  character  of  their  legis- 
lature. Like  all  rude  and  uncivilized 
but  impassioned  nations,  their  mea- 
sures were  characterised  by  vehe- 


1 833.]  Ireland. 

raent  resentment  at  individuals,  but 
no  measures  for  the  general  benefit. 
These  Parliaments,  it  is  true,  were 
c  liefly  assembled  under  Protestant 
influence ;  but  it  will  hardly  be  as- 
serted, that  the  wisdom  of  their  de- 
c;  sions  is  likely  to  be  much  increa- 
sed by  the  admission  of  O'Connell 
and  his  band  of  Catholic  Repealers ; 
and,  in  truth,  such  is  the  exaspera- 
tion of  the  parties  in  Ireland  at  each 
01  her,  and  the  vehement  passions 
which  they  bring  to  bear  upon  pub- 
lic affairs,  that  it  is  apparent  that  the 
dissolution  of  the  Union  would  be 
instantly  followed  by  such  extreme 
measures  as  would  speedily  rouse  a 
civil  war,  of  the  most  sanguinary 
character,  over  the  whole  country, 
and  terminate  in  the  re-establish- 
ment of  English  ascendency,  after 
years  of  suffering,  as  the  only  means 
of  saving  either  life  or  fortune  out 
of  the  general  wreck. 

Holding  it,  therefore,  as  a  propo- 
sition too  clear  to  admit  of  dispute, 
that  the  amelioration  of  Ireland  is  to 
be  based  on  British  connexion,  and 
founded  on  the  measures  to  be 
brought  forward  in  the  British  Par- 
liament, we  shall  consider  the  means 
which  exist  for  the  alleviation  or  re- 
moval of  Irish  grievances,  and  by 
which  ultimately  the  state  of  that 
country  may  be  rendered  somewhat 
more  tranquil  than  it  is  under  its 
present  distracted  rule. 

We  have  already  stated,  in  the  first 
paper  of  this  series,  that  the  great 
and  lasting  misfortune  in  Ireland 
has  been  that  they  have  received  in- 
stitutions in  imitation  of  England, 
for  which  they  are  obviously  disqua- 
lified, and  which  are  adapted  to  a 
totally  different  state  of  society ;  and 
that,  in  consequence,  the  ad  ministra- 
tion of  justice  has  become  defective, 
the  protection  of  life  and  property 
imperfect,  and  impunity  been  prac- 
tically afforded  to  criminals  and  anar- 
chists of  the  very  worst  description. 
Thi  i  is  an  evil  of  the  utmost  magni- 
tude; striking,  as  it  obviously  does, 
at  c  very  species  of  industry,  or  the 
groYrth  of  any  habits  of  subordina- 
tion or  regularity,  and  tending  to 
conlinue  that  state  of  anarchy  in 
whi<  h  the  country  has  so  long  been 
plurged,  and  which  perpetuates  the 
redundant  and  miserable  population, 
which  has  so  extensively  overspread 
the  Uritish  isles, 


No.  III. 


339 


The  obvious  and  only  remedy  for 
this  deplorable  state  of  things,  lies 
in  the  establishment  of  a  vigorous 
and  efficient  government,  so  orga- 
nized as  to  meet  and  curb  the  wick- 
ed in  all  their  enterprises ;  and  that 
by  such  means  the  disturbances  of 
Ireland  might  be  effectually  quelled, 
and  order  completely  re-established, 
is  evident  from  the  success  which 
has  attended  similar  undertakings  in 
other  countries  where  the  case  was, 
to  all  appearance,  still  more  hope- 
less. Scotland,  in  1696,  was  very 
nearly  in  as  bad  a  state  as  Ireland  is 
now.  Its  whole  population  was  not 
1,000,000;  and  of  these  200,000  were 
sturdy  beggars,  who  lived  at  free 
quarter  on  the  inhabitants,  and,  as 
Fletcher  of  Saltoun  said  in  his 
memorable  speech  on  the  subject, 
feared  neither  God  nor  man.  The 
country  was  divided  by  religion; 
had  been  the  seat  of  civil  war  for 
seventy  years;  and  its  nobles,  in- 
stead of  being  disposed  to  co-ope- 
rate with  Government  for  the  resto- 
ration of  order,  were  almost  all 
leagued  together  to  place  a  rival  fa- 
mily on  the  throne.  How  then  was 
this  state  of  anarchy  checked  in  that 
country?  By  an  admirably  orga- 
nized system  of  criminal  law,  and  a 
resolute  executive,  which  gradually 
extinguished  the  private  feuds  of 
the  inhabitants,  rendered  hopeless 
the  system  of  intimidation  and  vio- 
lence which  had  so  long  prevailed, 
and  at  length  established  order  and 
tranquillity  throughout  a  kingdom 
which  had  been  desolated  by  feuds 
and  civil  wars  for  three  centuries. 
Ireland  is  doubtless  in  a  deplorable 
state  of  anarchy;  but  it  is  not  so 
bad  as  La  Vendee  and  Britanny  were, 
after  a  million  of  Frenchmen  had 
perished  in  the  desperate  conflict  of 
which  that  heroic  land  was  the 
theatre,  and  every  family  mourned 
several  of  its  members  cut  off  by  re- 
publican vengeance ;  and  yet  by  the 
able  efforts  of  Hoche  and  Carnot, 
followed  by  the  wise  measures  of 
Napoleon,  peace  was  completely  re- 
stored to  its  infuriated  inhabitants. 
It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  the  thing 
may  be  done ;  the  only  question 
is,  whether  Government  have  reso- 
lution enough  to  go  on  with  the  ne- 
cessary measures  to  effect  the  object. 

The  root  of  the  whole  evils  com- 
plained of  in  the  administration  of 


Ireland.    No.  Ill, 


ustice  in  Ireland,  is  to  be  found  in 
the  placing  the  chief  execution  of  the 
criminal  law  in  the  hands  of  an  un- 
paid magistracy,  composed  of  gen- 
tlemen of  the  country  who  are  per- 
sonally implicated  in  the  feuds  which 
divide  the  inhabitants,  instead  of 
intrusting  it  to  public  officers  con- 
nected with  government,  and  acting 
under  the  control  of  an  undivided 
responsibility.  We  are  quite  aware 
what  tender  ground  this  is,  and  how 
nearly  it  touches  many  of  the  most 
venerable  and  esteemed  institutions 
of  England.  In  the  observations 
which  follow,  therefore,  we  mean 
nothing  disrespectful  to  the  centre 
of  the  empire.  We  know  how  well 
their  criminal  machinery  acts  there, 
and  what  a  magnificent  example  of 
civilisation  has  grown  up  under  its 
influence.  What  we  allege  is,  that  it 
is  unsuited  to  the  more  fervid  tempe- 
rament, stronger  passions,  and  infe- 
rior civilisation  of  the  sister  island ; 
and  that,  without  disputing  its  effi- 
cacy in  England,  it  may  at  least  be 
affirmed  that  experience  has  proved 
that  it  is  entirely  inapplicable  to  the 
Irish  population. 

We  have  the  less  hesitation  in 
bringing  forward  these  views,  be- 
cause they  are  entirely  conformable 
to  the  opinion  entertained  by  the 
committee,  who  have  collected  such 
a  valuable  mass  of  evidence  on  the 
state  of  Ireland  during  the  last  ses- 
sion of  Parliament. — In  their  Report 
it  is  stated,— 

"  The  defects  in  the  means  of  admi- 
nistering the  laws  consist  principally  in 
the  magistrates  not  having  proper  legal 
assistance  in  discharging  what  may  be 
considered  the  technical  and  formal  parts 
of  their  duties  ;  in  the  insufficient  means 
for  investigating  and  tracing  crimes,  from 
their  commission  to  the  arrest  of  the  de- 
linquents; and  also  in  great  negligence 
and  irregularity  in  conducting  all  the  pro- 
ceedings, from  the  time  of  the  arrest 
until  the  delinquents  are  brought  before 
the  judge  and  jury  for  trial;  and  above 
all,  in  the  want  of  some  system  for  the 
speedy  and  immediate  bringing  to  justice 
offenders  against  the  public  peace,  so  as 
to  meet  in  an  early  stage  the  effect  of  con- 
spiracies to  subvert  the  law. 

"  In  order  to  provide  a  remedy  for 
these  defects  the  Committee  are  of  opi- 
nion, that  instead  of  a  Clerk  of  the  Crown 
for  each  circuit  in  Ireland,  there  ought  to 
be,  according  to  the  plan  recently  acted 


[March, 

upon  by  the  Irish  Government  in  the 
case  of  one  circuit,  a  Clerk  of  the  Crown 
for  each  county;  and  that  he  should  be 
made  an  efficient  officer  for  assisting  the 
magistrates  in  the  investigation  of  crimes 
immediately  on  their  commission,  and  in 
taking  examinations.  For  this  purpose 
he  should  have  an  office  in  the  county 
town,  and  a  sufficient  number  of  clerks 
to  attend  and  afford  assistance  to  the  ma- 
gistrates at  the  petty  sessions,  to  receive 
their  instructions,  and  to  be  ancillary  to 
them  in  every  respect  in  the  discharge 
of  their  duties  for  the  detection  and  pu- 
nishment of  crime.  The  establishing  of 
an  efficient  office  of  this  kind  would  not 
only  very  much  contribute  to  render  the 
laws  more  powerful,  in  preventing  the 
violation  of  them  with  so  much  impunity 
as  is  now  the  case,  but  it  would  also  be 
of  great  value  in  introducing  a  salutary 
improvement  in  the  discharge  of  the  ma- 
gisterial duties,  by  rendering  their  pro- 
ceedings more  strictly  conformable  to  the 
forms  and  rules  of  law  ;  a  circumstance 
which  will  lead  to  a  more  upright  and 
efficient  administration  of  justice,  and  go 
far  at  the  same  time  to  remove  unfavour- 
able impressions  sometimes  entertained 
by  the  people  against  the  magistrates." 

The  remedy  here  proposed  is  not 
only  one  of  obvious  utility,  and  plain- 
ly suitable  to  the  evils  which  have 
risen  to  so  alarming  a  height,  but  it 
is  one  of  tried  efficacy  and  experi- 
enced fitness  in  another  part  of  the 
island,  where  the  anarchy  now  felt 
in  Ireland  once  existed  to  as  great 
an  extent;  but  it  has  gradually  been 
brought  under  by  the  steady  adop- 
tion of  the  very  system  of  criminal 
justice,  which  a  sense  of  unbearable 
evils  has  here  suggested  to  the  Par- 
liamentary committee  on  Irish  af- 
fairs. 

The  Procurator  Fiscals,  as  they 
are  called,  of  the  Scotch  counties, 
who  have  been  in  full  activity  for 
the  last  150  years,  are  exactly  the 
clerks  of  the  crown  suggested  for 
the  Irish  counties.  They  are  public 
officers  appointed  for  each  county, 
by  the  Crown,  or  the  Sheriff,  and 
they  are  intrusted  with  the  prepara- 
tion of  all  the  criminal  cases  which 
occur  within  their  district.  When 
any  offence  is  committed,  the  injur- 
ed party  lays  his  story  before  this 
officer,  and  he  thenceforward  has  no 
trouble  in  the  matter,  except  to  ap- 
pear and  give  evidence  when  called 
on  for  that  purpose.  In  this  way  the 


1833.] 


Ireland.    No.  III. 


341 


investigation  of  crimes  is  intrusted 
to  a  public  officer,  without  any  divi- 
sion of  responsibility,  who  is  con- 
stantly on  the  spot  ready  to  receive 
information,  and  who  soon  acquires, 
Tom  his  extensive  experience  in 
these  matters,  a  degree  of  skill  which 
no  person  but  one  of  professional 
habits  can  by  possibility  attain.  The 
number  of  cases  amounting  in  the 
larger  counties  to  300  or  400,  which 
annually  go  through  the  office  of 
this  officer, rendershim and  his  clerks 
in  a  short  time  perfectly  familiar, 
not  only  with  the  forms  of  criminal 
procedure,  but  the  mode  of  detect- 
ing crime,  the  haunts  of  offenders, 
and  the  most  desperate  characters 
v/ho  infest  his  district,  while  at  the 
same  time  his  public  situation  ren- 
ders him  incomparably  less  the  ob- 
jict  of  popular  obloquy,  than  coun- 
ty gentlemen  or  clergymen,  who  act 
as  justices  of  the  peace.  So  com- 
pletely has  this  been  proved  by  ex- 
perience in  Scotland,  that  though  the 
justices  have  the  same  power  in  most 
respects  as  their  English  brethren, 
their  criminal  jurisdiction  has  almost 
fillen  into  disuse,  and  all  the  crimi- 
nal business  is  prepared  by  these 
public  officers,  in  whose  hands  ex- 
perience has  proved  it  is  so  much 
better  conducted  than  by  private 
individuals,  or  the  ordinary  magis- 
tracy. 

But  it  is  not  enough  that  an  officer 
with  an  efficient  board  of  clerks 
should  exist  in  every  county  to  pre- 
pare all  the  criminal  cases  which 
o^cur  in  his  district ;  it  is  indispen- 
sable thfot  some  means  should  also 
b.}  devised  for  trying  offences  imme- 
d'ately  when  they  arise,  and  not  per- 
mitting the  ruinous  delay  to  ensue 
•which  now  generally  intervenes  be- 
tv/een  the  commission  of  the  crime 
and  the  punishment  of  the  offenders. 
As  matters  stand  in  Ireland  at  pre- 
sent, it  generally  happens  that  the 
violent  and  illegal  associations  with 
which  the  country  in  the  South  and 
Vest  is  everywhere  more  or  less 
o\  erspread,  acquire  an  uncontrolled 
command  over  the  lives  and  proper- 
ties of  the  inhabitants  before  any 
C')urt  meets  for  the  punishment  of 
ths  numerous  crimes  which  have 
been  committed  by  its  members; 
and  thus  the  disorders  are  all  com- 
mUted  before  the  terrible  examples 
oc  cur,  which  are  intended  to  overawe 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCV. 


the  guilty.  The  authority  of  the  law, 
indeed,  is  in  the  end  vindicated ;  but 
not  until  murder,  conflagration,  and 
robbery  have  for  months  overspread 
the  land;  and  when  the  assizes  or 
special  commission  do  meet,  it  is 
only  to  wreak  the  vengeance  of  an 
offended  nation  upon  hundreds  of 
captives,  who  were  led  to  the  perpe- 
tration of  their  crimes  by  the  tardi- 
ness of  the  law  in  unsheathing  its 
sword.  The  committee  have  also 
reported  on  this  evil,  and  the  means 
of  remedying  it. 

"  In  adverting  to  the  late  mischievous 
associations  in  the  Queen's  County,  un- 
der the  name  of  Whitefeet,  and  the  fre- 
quent recurrence  of  similar  associations 
in  other  parts  of  Ireland,  the  Committee, 
although  impressed  with  the  strongest 
disinclination  to  recommend  any  new  law 
which  should  in  any  degree  be  a  depar- 
ture from  the  established  constitutional 
rule  of  law,  when  they  see  by  experience 
so  much  crime  has  been  committed,  and 
so  much  injury  sustained,  from  time  to 
time,  from  these  associations,  are  of  opi- 
nion, a  law  might  be  passed  which,  with- 
out being  in  any  degree  a  departure  from 
the  principles  of  the  Constitution,  would 
enable  the  Executive  Government  to  put 
into  force  the  administration  of  justice 
more  speedily,  and  at  a  less  expense,  than 
can  be  done  at  present.  But  before  they 
proceed  to  state  the  provisions  of  such  a 
law,  they  beg  to  remark,  that  although  it 
is  quite  true,  as  has  been  stated  by  the 
Chief  Justtes  of  the  King's  Bench,  in  his 
charge  to  the  Grand  Jury  of  the  Queen's 
County,  that  the  ordinary  and  regular 
laws  have  been  found  sufficient  to  put 
down  the  various  Whiteboy  associations 
which  have  from  time  to  time  existed,  it 
is  equally  true,  that  in  every  instance 
every  association  has  made  itself  complete 
master  of  the  county  where  it  has  been 
formed,  and  committed  ail  kinds  of  crimes 
and  enormities  with  impunity  for  a  con- 
siderable period  before  the  enforcement 
of  the  powers  of  the  law  has  produced  a 
remedy.  The  practice  of  having  recourse 
to  a  Special  Commission,  as  the  means 
of  carrying  into  effect  a  vigorous  applica- 
tion of  the  rigours  of  the  law,  has  led  to 
this  ;  and  while  this  practice  is  the  sole 
remedy  which  is  had  recourse  to,  the  same 
result  will  necessarily  occur,  because  the 
expense  which  attends  the  sending  down 
of  a  Special  Commission,  and  the  difficul- 
ty ot  making  out  a  case  for  it  to  act  upon, 
must  lead  to  postponing  the  appointment 
of  it  until  a  long  time  after  an  illegal  con- 
spiracy has  commenced  its  operations.  In 
z 


342 


Ireland.     No.  III. 


[March, 


point  of  fact,  although  the  law  has  in  ge- 
neral proved  sufficiently  strong  and  effec- 
tual for  the  ultimate  suppression  of  White- 
boy  associations,  it  has  not  been  effec- 
tual in  affording  protection  to  the  public 
against  being  exposed  to  the  crimes  and 
atrocities  of  those  conspiracies  for  a  con- 
siderable period  previous  to  their  being 
completely  repressed. 

"  The  first  object  of  the  law  which  the 
Committee  recommend  to  be  passed,  is 
to  give  power  to  the  Lord  Lieutenant  of 
Ireland,  if  a  case  of  violent  disturbance 
of  the  peace  by  a  Whiteboy  association 
shall  actually  occur,  to  issue  his  warrant 
for  a  special  assembling  of  the  Court  of 
Quarter  Sessions,  at  a  period  when,  ac- 
cording to  the  ordinary  course  of  the  law, 
it  could  not  assemble ;  and  if  the  occa- 
sion should  seem  to  require  it,  to  appoint 
a  person  of  high  standing  at  the  bar  to 
act  as  Assessor  to  the  Court.  The  Court 
to  try  all  prisoners  charged  with  White- 
boy  and  other  offences  below  the  rank  of 
capital  felonies ;  and  to  continue  to  sit  by 
adjournment  from  time  to  time  until  tran- 
quillity shall  be  restored." 

An  able  officer,  Colonel  Sir  John 
Harvey,  holding  a  high  situation  in 
the  Irish  police,  gives  the  following 
decisive  evidence  in  favour  of  a  pub- 
lic prosecutor  in  Ireland  :— 

"  Da  you  think  that  the  English  principle 
of  law,  that  the  person  injured  shall  be 
the  prosecutor  for  the  injury,  and  incur 
the  expense  of  seeking  redress,  though 
the  injury  is  considered  to  be  an  injury 
to  the  public,  should  be  applied  to  Ire- 
land ? — No  ;  I  think  it  should  always  be 
treated  as  an  injury  to  the  public,  and  a 
public  prosecutor  appointed;  that  might 
remedy  the  evil. 

"  If  there  was  a  public  officer  that 
should  take  charge  of  the  informations 
laid  before  the  magistrate,  and  superintend 
laying  the  bills  before  the  grand  jury,  and, 
if  found,  see  that  the  case  was  properly 
conducted  in  court ;  if  all  that  was  con- 
ducted by  a  public  officer  at  the  public 
expense,  would  that  tend  to  give  the  law 
full  effect?— Yes,  and  it  would  lead  to 
create  a  respect  for  the  law,  which  does 
not  now  exist. 

"  Is  there  not  now  so  much  impunity 
that  the  people  are  careless  of  commit- 
ting offences  ? — Such  has  long  been  my 
impression. 

"  May  not  the  impunity  allowed  in 
those  smaller  crimes  in  ordinary  times, 
form  the  basis  and  tend  to  the  extension 
of  insurrectionary  crimes,  when  attempted 
to  be  introduced  by  some  factious  or 
"Whitefeet  party?— Yes,  I  think  so. 


"  And  that  the  present  laxity  amounts 
to  a  sort  of  bounty  upon  crime  ? — Yes,  it 
relaxes  the  morals  of  the  people,  and 
makes  them  indifferent  to  the  commis- 
sion of  petty  crimes;  whereas  if  they  were 
properly  punished,  we  should  have  a  very 
different  state  of  things  in  Ireland." 

Here  again  we  have  experience  in 
Ireland,  leading  to  the  adoption  of 
the  same  system,  which  for  three 
centuries  has  Been  established  with 
the  happiest  effects  in  Scotland. 

The  Committee  have  been  most 
meritorious  in  the  labour  they  have 
bestowed  on  the  accumulation  of 
evidence  on  this  subject;  but  their 
recommendations,  in  many  respects, 
are  tiuged  by  a  degree  of  timidity, 
arising  from  an  unwillingness  to  de- 
viate from  old  institutions,  evidently 
unsuitable  to  the  circumstances  of 
the  country.  The  recommendation 
just  quoted  is  a  signal  proof  of  this 
observation.  For  an  evil  of  acknow- 
ledged magnitude,  of  long  standing, 
and  universal  extent,  they  propose 
only  the  inadequate  remedy  of  the 
assembly  of  an  extraordinary  Court 
of  Quarter  Sessions,  by  proclamation 
from  the  Lord  Lieutenant.  Such 
temporary  and  casual  measures  will 
never  be  attended  with  any  lasting 
good  effect  in  a  country  so  grievous- 
ly distracted  as  Ireland  is,  and  where 
the  people  have  so  long  been  accus- 
tomed to  comparative  impunity  for 
every  species  of  outrage.  To  strike 
terror  into  a  disorganized,  disaffect- 
ed, and  almost  insurgent  peasantry, 
it  is  indispensable  that  the  ordinary 
courts  and  the  common  law  should 
be  able  to  reach  them  at  Ml  times. 
Such  a  system  would  be  an  act  of 
mercy  to  the  deluded  wretches  them- 
selves ;  for  how  often  does  it  happen 
that  a  few  striking  examples  at  first 
are  sufficient  to  put  a  stop  to  a  sys- 
tem, which,  if  allowed  to  rise  to  a 
head,  the  transportation  of  hundreds 
can  hardly  extinguish  ? 

To  grapple  with  this  dreadful  evil, 
which  lies  at  the  root  of  so  many  of 
the  disorders  of  Ireland,  we  would 
propose  that  there  should  be  esta- 
blished in  every  county  permanent 
magistrates,  paid  by  the  Crown,  se- 
lected from  men  of  character  and 
eminence  at  the  bar,  who  should  be 
authorised  at  all  times  to  summon 
juries  for  the  trial  of  offenders  against 
the  public  peace,  and  to  inflict  any 
punishment  short  of  death.  The  in- 
7 


i833.] 


Ireland.     No.  III. 


343 


Huence  of  such  a  local  authority  al- 
ways sitting,  and  which  can  apply 
the  vigorous  arm  of  the  law  to  the 
commencement  of  disorders,  is  incal- 
culable. Its  efficacy  has  been  abun- 
dantly tried  in  Scotland.  Though 
the  Sheriff  in  that  country  is  not 
vested  with  the  power  of  transport- 
ing criminals,  yet  the  steady  and  in- 
cessant application  of  the  punish- 
ment of  imprisonment  has  a  most 
powerful  effect  in  repressing  dis- 
orders ;  and  when  combined  with 
the  severer  sentences  imposed  by 
the  judges  on  the  Circuit,  complete- 
ly keeps  under  the  tendency  to  anar- 
chy in  that  well-regulated  country. 
Larger  powers  would  be  required 
for  the  Irish  Sheriffs,  on  account  of 
the  more  disturbed  state  of  the  coun- 
try ;  but  with  these,  and  a  vigorous 
and  efficient  police,  we  have  not  the 
slightest  doubt  that  by  these  means 
tranquillity  might  ultimately  be  re- 
stored even  to  its  worst  provinces. 

The  Committee  have  reported, 
that  it  is  the  long  interval  between 
the  crimes  and  their  punishment 
which  leads  to  the  enormous  height 
to  which  Whiteboy  outrages  gene- 
rally arise  in  Ireland,  before  they  are 
repressed  by  the  terrible  examples 
iof  the  Special  Commissions  or  the 
Assizes.  What  is  the  appropriate 
remedy  for  this  evil  ?  Evidently  to 
Lave  a  local _,'court  established  in 
every  county,  which  could  try  crimes 
as  soon  as  they  were  committed,  and 
might  transport  the  offenders  as  fast 
as  their  outrages  were  perpetra- 
tod,  months  before  the  tardy  Grand 
Jury  began  to  assemble,  or  the  autho- 
rities in  Dublin  could  be  moved  to 
issue  a  special  commission  or  procla- 
mation. The  expedience  of  such  an 
establishment  might  be  inferred  a 
priori,  from  a  consideration  of  the 
principles  which  govern  the  unruly 
part  of  mankind;  it  is  abundantly 
proved  by  the  example  of  Scotland  j 
and,  without  any  knowledge  of  its 
establishment  in  that  country,  it  has 
buen  strongly  recommended  by  all 
the  witnesses  best  acquainted  with 
tie  real  state  of  Ireland. 

Mr  Barrington,  Crown  Solicitor 
OH  the  Munster  Circuit,  states  this  m 
the  strongest  manner.  Being  asked, 

"  Before  you  have  a  special  commis- 
sion, must  not  there  be  a  considerable 
extent  of  outrage? — I  would  issue  it 


if  there  were  only  half-a-dozen  persons 
to  try  for  such  offences.  I  recollect  Mr 
Sauriri  saying,  in  1815,  that  he  would 
send  down  a  special  commission  if  there 
were  only  two  cases ;  and  he  did  send 
one  down  to  Limerick  when  there  were 
few  cases,  and  it  was  quieted. 

"  But  hefore  a  single  case  could  be  pre- 
pared for  trial,  might  not  such  a  gang  as 
you  have  alluded  to,  by  their  power  of 
intimidation,  bring  the  county  altogether 
into  a  state  of  disturbance? — Certainly 
they  might ;  but  the  more  time  allowed 
the  greater  the  disturbance. 

"  Are  the  means  that  magistrates  pos- 
sess such  as  enable  them  at  all  times  im- 
mediately to  apply  the  law  that  is  calcu- 
lated to  suppress  insurrection  ? — I  think 
there  ought  to  be  in  every  county  in  Ire- 
land a  police  magistrate,  a  stipendiary  po- 
lice magistrate,  whose  duty  it  would  be 
to  watch  every  offence,  and  the  moment 
an  outrage  occurred,  to  enquire  into  every 
particular  relating  to  it,  and  report  it  to 
the  crown  solicitor  or  law  officers.  I 
would  have  the  chief  constables  not  ex- 
actly as  they  are  now,  but  of  a  lower  class, 
such  as  sergeants  in  the  army,  and  the  dif- 
ference of  expense  would  make  up  for  the 
payment  of  the  stipendiary  magistrate.  I 
know  instances  where  chief  constables 
having  been  captains  or  majors  in  the 
army,  gentlemen  at  whose  houses  they 
dined,  did  not  like  to  ask  them  to  go  on 
duty  to  patrol  after  dinner.  This  would 
not  be  the  case  if  they  were  taken  from 
men  in  a  lower  rank.  I  would  have  a 
police  stipendiary  magistrate  for  the  whole 
county,  and  the  difference  of  expense 
would,  in  my  opinion,  be  a  great  saving 
to  the  county. 

"  If  the  present  magistrates  of  a  coun- 
ty were  to  do  their  duty  vigilantly,  would 
these  stipendiary  magistrates  be  neces- 
sary?— I  think  you  require  some  person 
in  each  county,  whose  duty  it  would  be 
to  enquire  into  and  report  on  every  out- 
rage that  occurred ;  for  instance,  a  gen- 
tleman may  be  absent  when  an  outrage 
occurs  in  his  neighbourhood.  There  is 
in  Limerick  and  Kerry  a  district  of  fifty 
miles  without  a  single  magistrate. 

"  You  aay  that  if  the  first  symptom  is 
not  immediately  met  and  the  parties 
checked,  that  it  goes  on  so  rapidly  that 
it  becomes  next  to  impossible  for  magis- 
trates not  being  stipendiary  to  interfere 
with  effect? — Yes  ;  it  goes  on  till  it  ar- 
rives at  what  you  have  seen  in  Clare  and 
in  the  Queen's  County. 

"  Has  not  this  been  the  case,  that 
wherever  an  attempt  has  been  made  by 
any  party  to  introduce  these  insurrec- 
tionary proceedings,  they  have  so  far  sue- 


344 


Ireland.    No.  III. 


[March, 


ceeded  that  it  has  generally  taken  two, 
three,  or  four  years  before  it  has  been  en- 
tirely suppressed? — In  Ciare,  the  whole 
disturbance  was  suppressed  in  a  few 
months,  to  tne  astonishment  ot  every 
body.  Last  year,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  activity  ot  the  police  magistrate  in 
Limerick,  Mr  Vokes,  I  question  whether 
that  county  would  not  have  been  as  bad 
as  ever  Clare  was. 

"  Would  not  similar  results  follow  to 
those  which  you  have  described  in  other 
counties,  notwithstanding  there  migiit  be 
every  disposition  on  the  part  of  the  ma- 
gistrates to  do  their  duty? — Certainly; 
I  think  had  there  been  a  local  magistrate 
in  the  Queen's  County,  whose  duty  it 
was  to  watch  the  incipient  outrage,  that 
he  might  have  checked  it,  and  in  the 
other  counties  also  which  have  been  dis- 
turbed. I  would  therefore  have  a  police 
magistrate,  as  well  in  the  peaceable  as  in 
the  disturbed  counties,  who  should  be  re- 
sponsible; and  on  the  first  outrage  oc- 
curring, let  the  whole  force  of  the  govern- 
ment and  the  law  officers,  investigate  the 
case  till  they  came  to  the  root  of  it." 

Every  one  practically  acquainted 
with  Ireland,  knows  how  much  the 
administration  of  justice  is  disfigured 
or  prevented  by  the  party  spirit 
which  prevails  on  both  sides.  Mr 
Barrington  justly  considers  the  ope- 
ration of  permanent  judges,  free  from 
such  local  influence,  as  one  great  ad- 
vantage to  be  derived  from  the  pro- 
posed permanent  magistrates. 

"  You  have  given  as  one  of  your  rea- 
sons for  the  appointment  of  a  permanent 
stipendiary  magistracy,  that  the  resident 
magistrates  in  Ireland  were  generally  un- 
der the  influence  of  party  spirit? — J  did 
not  say  so ;  I  said  we  could  not  get  a 
local  agent  except  from  one  party  or  the 
other. 

"  That  is  not  the  case  with  respect  to 
the  magistrates  at  all? — Party  is  much 
more  in  some  parts  of  Ireland  than  in 
others. 

*'  Do  you  consider  a  stipendiary  ma- 
gistracy would  be  so  regulated  as  to  fate 
free  from  the  influence  of  all  party  consi- 
derations?—I  do;  I  judge  of  it  from  the 
mode  in  which  I  see  some  police  magis- 
trates act. 

"  Would  you  propose  to  give  to  the 
stipendiary  magistrate  the  civil  jurisdic- 
tion of  all  ordinary  magistrates,  or  confine 
his  jurisdiction  to  criminal  matters? — I 
would  give  him  the  full  power  of  all  ordi- 
nary magistrates,  and  the  commission  for 
every  county  adjacent  to  the  one  in  which 
he  is  residing ;  this  man  being  responsible 


to  Government,  there  is  no  great  danger 
that  any  party  feeling  would  prevent  him 
from  doing  his  duty. 

"  You  originally  said  that  in  Ireland 
there  was  a  tendency  among  the  common 
people  to  create  disturbance,  unless  they 
were  checked? — I  think  the  great  fault 
in  Ireland  is,  that  the  people  are  not  in- 
clined to  appeal  to  the  laws  as  they  do  in 
this  country ;  the  great  object  is  to  make 
Irishmen  attached  to  the  law,  and  that 
can  only  be  done  by  perseveringly  prose- 
cuting every  case,  no  matter  of  what  de- 
scription. 

"  You  would  have  a  stipendiary  ma- 
gistrate in  every  county  ? — Y--s  ;  and  he 
should  take  our.  of  the  hands  of  the  parties 
themselves  the  administration  of  the  law. 
If  a  homicide  occurs  at  a  fair,  instead  of 
the  people  coming  forward  to  prosecute, 
they  wait  till  the  next  fair,  and  then  com- 
mit, in  retaliation,  a  murder  on  the  other 
side.  /  would  take  the  prosecution  out 
of  their  hands  ;  I  would  not  wait  till  they 
gave  the  information  ;  it  should  be  the 
duty  of  the  magistrate  to  force  forward 
the  prosecution,  and  punish  the  persons 
who  had  committed  the  first  homicide." 

The  same  change  is  strongly  re- 
commended by  Colonel  John  Roch- 
fort,  an  active  and  intelligent  magis- 
trate in  Queen's  County  : — 

"  How  do  you  account  for  the  lower 
orders  of  the  people  being  able  to  establish 
such  a  formidable  association,  and  commit 
sunn  outrages  for  so  long  a  period,  with- 
out it  being  checked  in  the  first  instance? 
—It  was  the  want  of  a  sufficiently  nume- 
rous police  in  the  country.  I  think  there 
are  some  legal  arrangements  wanting  that 
may  check  the  commencement  of  these 
outrages. 

*'  Do  you  think  that  the  quickness 
with  which  the  parties  commence  a  sys- 
tem of  outrage  and  establish  intimidation, 
leads  to  the  making  it  so  formidable  at 
once,  as  to  counteract  the  open  efforts 
the  magistrates  are  able  to  make  ? — I 
think  in  the  present  state  of  Ireland 
there  is  a  general  intimidation  over  the 
country ;  the  moment  a  Rorkite  notice  is 
served,  or  a  demand  for  arms  made,  inti- 
midation commences,  though  it  has  been 
in  a  perfect  state  of  quiet  before. 

"  Do  you  conceive  that  the  ordinary 
powers  of  magistrates,  with  the  best  dis- 
position to  suppress  any  thing  of  this  kind 
in  the  first  instance,  are  sufficient  for  that 
purpose,  or  can  be  applied  in  the  instan- 
taneous manner  necessary  to  stop  the  pro- 
gress of  it? — No,  I  think  not;  I  think 
there  is  something  wanting  to  enable  us 
to  check  the  commencement  of  the  out- 


1833.] 

rages,  for  they  commence  by  small  be- 
ginnings; a  single  man  quarrelling  with 
his  own  family  about  the  division  of  some 
property,  is  enough  ro  set  it  agoing;  lie 
gets  in  some  people  fiom  the  neighbour- 
ing county,  they  serve  a  Rockite  notice 
and  commit  some  outrages,  and  intimi- 
dation follows,  nobody  knowing  where 
the  blow  will  fall  next. 

"  Then  with  the  view  of  preventing 
the  recurrence  of  this  system  of  associa- 
tion in  the  Queen's  County,  are  you  of 
opinion  that  some  amendment  is  wanted 
with  regard  to  the  power  possessed  by 
magistrates  generally,  with  respect  t<j, the 
means  of  administering  the  law? — I  think 
the  first  commission  of  crime  might  be 
prevented  by  a  more  ready  administration 
of  the  law;  by  the  Crown  solicitor  having 
a  clerk  or  apartner  residing  in  each  county 
town,  who  should  have  an  office  open 
ready  to  receive  all  applications  and  in- 
formation upon  the  subject,  and  whose 
duty  it  should  be  to  collect  the  evidence, 
and  do  every  thing  in  his  department 
in  the  office  ;  and  I  think  that  the  quarter- 
sessions  should  be,  in  the  case  of  any  dis- 
turbance, not  adjourned  over  for  three 
months  together,  but  no  longer  than  a 
week  or  a  fortnight,  according  to  the 
exigency  of  the  case,  so  that  prompt 
justice  might  be  administered. 

•"  Your  object  would  be,  in  having  this 
deputy-solicitor  of  the  Crown,  to  watch 
the  early  proceedings,  and  assist  the  ma- 
gistrates in  taking  steps  to  put  a  stop  to 
it  ? — Yes,  and  to  assist  individuals  who 
are  attacked,  and  cannot  afford  to  go  to 
a  solicitor  themselves." 

But  it  is  not  sufficient  that  the  re- 
commendations contained  in  these 
depositions,  and  embodied  in  the  Re- 
port of  the  Committee,  are  adopted 
by  Government;  it  is  also  indispen- 
sable that  some  provision  be  made 
for  the  protection  of  witnesses  wbo 
speak  against  the  Whiteboys,  and  of 
the  jurymen  who  are  summoned  to 
;heir  trials.  As  matters  now  stand, 
chey  are  so  completely  intimidated, 
that  conviction  too  often  is  impos- 
sible. The  only  way  to  meet  this 
dreadful  evil,  is  to  authorize  Govern- 
ment, upon  a  report  from  the  Judges 
on  the  Circuit,  that  juries  will  not 
convict  from  intimidation,  to  suspend 
that  mode  of  trial  altogether,  and 
convict  the  criminals  as  in  courts- 
martial,  by  the  Judges  alone.  Provi- 
sion at  the  same  time  must  be  made 
for  the  emigration,  at  the  public  ex- 
pense, of  all  witnesses,  with  their  fa- 
milies, who  are  deemed  worthy  of  it 


Ireland.    Aro.  III. 


345 


by  the  court,  and  consider  their  lives 
or  properties  endangered  if  they  re- 
turn to  their  houses.  These  are 
strong  measures;  but  strong  mea- 
sures alone  will  be  attended  with 
any  effect  in  a  country  so  distracted 
as  Ireland.  It  is  in  vain  to  apply  to 
a  people  on  the  borders  of  the  savage 
state,  the  institutions  or  franchises 
of  a  highly  civilized  society,  or  which 
work  well  under  a  training  of  cen- 
turies of  tranquillity  and  peace.  The 
system  of  intimidation  which  checks 
any  attempt  even  at  justice,  is  thus 
described  by  Colonel  Rochfort : — 

"  Is  it  not  the  fact,  that  the  class  of 
well-disposed  farmers  are  perfectly  cog- 
nizant of  the  nightly  proceedings  of  the 
disaffected  persons  in  the  part  of  Ireland 
where  you  live,  and  are  afraid  to  give  any 
information  ? — Yes. 

*'  But  they  could  do  it  if  they  pleased? 
— Yes;  I  am  not  sure  that  the  evidence 
they  could  give  would  lead  to  a  convic- 
tion before  a  jury,  but  it  would  be  suffi- 
cient to  direct  our  searches. 

"  But  the  system  of  terror  is  now  such, 
that  they  would  be  afraid  to  come  for- 
ward and  tell  what  they  saw? — Yes,  cer- 
tainly ;  and  that  is  very  reasonable,  as 
their  property,  and  their  own  lives,  and 
that  of  their  families,  are  in  the  power  of 
any  ruffian. 

"  Then  a  man  worth  L.  100  or  L.200 
a-year,  is  it  not  natural  he  would  conceal 
any  offences  he  saw,  rather  than  come 
forward  as  a  prosecutor  ? — Certainly." 

It  is  needless  to  comment  on  this 
state  of  things ;  till  it  is  removed, 
there  is  an  end  of  order  or  protec- 
tion to  life  in  Ireland. 

It  is  evident  that  great  part  of  the 
licentiousness  of  Ireland  has  arisen 
from  the  administration  of  justice  by 
the  country  gentlemen ;  in  other 
words,  by  one  of  the  parties  in  the 
state  over  the  other.  All  the  wit- 
nesses examined  before  the  Com- 
mittee concur  in  stating  that  there  is 
a  thorough  distrust  of  law  in  every 
part  of  the  country,  and  a  settled  be- 
lief that  the  courts  are  nothing  but 
the  engine  by  which  the  ruling  party 
wreak  their  vengeance  on  their  ad- 
versaries. The  length  to  which  this 
party  spirit  is  carried,  is  such,  that 
in  the  opinion  of  the  most  competent 
judges,  it  in  a  great  measure  disqua- 
lifies the  better  class  of  the  people 
from  taking  an  active  part  with  any 
good  effect,  in  the  suppression  of 


346 


Ireland.    No.  III. 


[March, 


disorders.    Sir  Hussey  Vivian's  opi- 
nion is  decisive  on  this  point : — 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  any  class  of  so- 
ciety, farmers  for  instance,  so  exempt  from 
the  spirit  of  party,  in  the  agitated  coun- 
ties, that  it  would  be  safe  to  put  arms  in 
their  hands? — Undoubtedly  not.  I  think 
there  is  that  party  spirit,  that  if  you  put 
arms  into  the  hands  of  one  party,  you  in- 
cur the  animosity  of  the  other;  and  we 
know  of  the  arming  of  the  yeomanry  in 
the  north,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  that 
has  led  to  organization,  and  to  a  certain 
extent  arming,  of  the  Ribbonmen  ;  there 
is,  I  conceive,  in  consequence,  more  dan- 
ger of  collision  in  the  north  than  in  any 
part  of  Ireland.  /  have  no  doubt  that 
the  yeomanry  could  put  them  down  if  they 
came  to  blows ;  but  still  there  is  more 
danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the  very 
circumstance  of  both  parties  being  to  a 
greater  extent  better  armed  than  in  any 
other  part  of  Ireland. 

"  That  is,  where  the  arms  are  put  into 
the  hands  of  those  of  a  particular  creed  ? 
— That  may  have  produced  the  effect  I 
have  stated. 

"  The  question  was  this — Supposing  a 
case  where  the  only  distinction  of  indivi- 
duals was  the  interest  which  was  pos- 
sessed in  the  district,  measured  by  the 
amount  of  property  possessed  ? — In  order 
to  do  that,  you  must  re-organize  the  minds 
of  the  people  of  Ireland. 

"  Supposing,  in  the  Queen's  County, 
the  most  respectable  class  of  farmers  were 
armed,  do  you  think  they  are  so  exempt 
from  the  spirit  of  disturbance  in  the  county 
as  to  afford  a  sufficient  guarantee  that  they 
would  use  their  arms  in  support  of  the 
constituted  authorities  ? — I  should  doubt 
very  much  whether,  in  case  of  a  disturb- 
ance, they  would  not  use  them  against 
each  other.  I  know  there  is  a  violent 
party  spirit  that  must  be  overcome  to  pre- 
vent their  so  doing,  and  this  pervades  all 
Ireland." 

The  same  intelligent  officer,  whose 
command  and  opportunities  of  ob- 
servation extend  over  all  Ireland,  has 
given  equally  decisive  evidence  as  to 
the  superior  efficacy  and  impartiality 
of  the  police,  in  the  discharge  of  their 
arduous  duties. 

"  What  is  your  opinion  of  the  conduct 
of  the  police  ? — My  opinion  of  the  con- 
duct of  the  police,  formed  after  the  en- 
quiries I  have  made,  is,  that  it  has  been 
generally  excessively  good;  and  1  believe 
the  police  has  been  most  efficient,  for  no- 
thing can  be  better  than  the  manner  in 
which  they  have  conducted  themselves 
where  the  troops  have  had  to  do  with 
them. 


"  Can  you  state  the  feeling  with  which 
they  are  regarded  by  the  people? — With 
a  very  great  degree  of  animosity  in  most 
parts  of  the  country. 

"  Does  that  animosity  extend  to  the 
regular  troops? — No;  on  the  contrary. 

"  To  what  do  you  attribute  that  ? — We 
act  in  support  of  the  civil  authority ;  they 
are  the  civil  authority ;  theirs  is  a  sort  of 
system  of  espionage,  and  they  have  many 
duties  to  perform  which  occasion  their 
being  disliked  by  the  people. 

"  Can  you  suggest  any  improvement  in 
the  constabulary  establishment  in  Ire- 
land ? — I  think  that  is  not  within  my  pro- 
vince ;  the  police  force  seems  to  me  a 
very  good  one ;  they  generally  conduct 
themselves  admirably  well. 

"  Do  you  consider  that  the  hostility  of 
the  people  to  the  police  is  any  impeach- 
ment upon  the  police  ? — Certainly  not. 

"  You  would  say,  perhaps,  the  mea- 
sure of  hostility  was  the  measure  of  their 
utility? — Certainly,  in  a  great  degree." 

In  the  testimony  of  these  compe- 
tent judges,  we  have  a  clear  plan 
pointed  out  for  the  pacification  of 
the  ordinary  disturbances  of  Ireland 
— a  vigorous  and  efficient  clerk  of 
the  Crown,  or  public  prosecutor  in 
each  county,  with  a  proper  establish- 
ment of  efficient  clerks,  to  investi- 
gate cases,  and  take  evidence  at  all 
times — a  local  magistrate  of  charac- 
ter and  talent,  selected  from  the 
higher  grades  of  the  bar,  to  try  trans- 
portable cases  at  all  times,  and  su- 
perintend the  preparation  of  the  ca- 
pital ones  for  the  Circuit  Judges — an 
extension  of  the  police,  who  now  dis- 
charge their  duty  with  such  praise- 
worthy fidelity  and  forbearance,  and 
their  establishment  in  such  force  as 
to  make  resistance  impossible.  Such 
is  the  system  recommended  by  the 
practical  men  in  Ireland,  after  cen- 
turies of  suffering  and  disquietude, 
under  institutions  framed  on  the  Eng- 
lish model ;  and  it  is  precisely  the 
same  as  was  established  three  cen- 
turies ago  by  the  wisdom  of  the  Scot- 
tish legislature,  and  to  which  the 
long  tranquillity  and  orderly  habits 
of  that  country  are  mainly  to  be 
ascribed. 

But  great  as  would  be  these  im- 
provements upon  the  criminal  prac- 
tice of  Ireland,  and  absolutely  indis- 
pensable as  they  are  to  any  thing  like 
a  tranquillization  of  that  distracted 
country,  it  is  evident  that  something 
more  is  necessary  to  put  down  the 
organized  insurrection  which  now 


1833.] 


Ireland.     Nu.  III. 


347 


prevails  in  so  many  of  its  provinces 
— which  has  so  much  increased  since 
the  labours  of  the  Committee  were 
closed,  and  now  threatens  to  sever 
the  connexion  between  the  two  coun- 
tries. 

In  investigating  the  evidence  on 
this  important  subject,  there  are  four 
conclusions,  to  which  every  impar- 
tial mind  must  arrive,  and  which  are 
amply  supported  by  the  testimony 
of  witnesses,  on  both  sides  of  poli- 
tics, above  all  suspicion. 

1.  That  the  ordinary  disturbances, 
prior  to  the  agitation  on  the  Catholic 
Question,  arose  from  merely  local  or 
agrarian  causes,  and  had  no  connex- 
ion with  political  discontent,  or  the 
government  of  Great  Britain. 

2.  That  during  the  Catholic  Ques- 
tion, this  discontent  was  seized  hold 
of  by  the  Agitators,  and  turned  to  po- 
litical purposes. 

3.  That  the  machinery  erected  for 
agitation  or  emancipation,  is  now  ap- 
plied to  the  ulterior  objects  of  Ca- 
tholic ambition,  Extinction  of  Tithes, 
the  Repeal  of  the  Union,  and  the  Re- 
sumption of  the  Estates  of  the  Pro- 
testants;   and   that  the   country  is 
thereby  in  a  continual  state  of  out- 
rage  and  intimidation,  utterly  de- 
structive to  all  the  purposes  of  good 
government. 

4.  That  the  supine  indifference,  or 
;acit  encouragement  of  Ministers  to 
,his  agitation,  is  the  circumstance 
which  has  brought  it  to  its  present 

ilar m ing  height. 
Mr  Barrington,  the  crown-solicitor 

'or  Munster,  declares — 

"  The  Whiteboy  system  has,  for  the 
!  ast  sixty  years,  continued  under  different 
:iames;  as,  Peep-o'day-boys,  Thrashers, 
Whiteboys,  Righters,  Carders,  Shanavats, 
Oaravats,  Rockites,  Black-hens,  Riskaval- 
las,  Ribbon  men,  the  Lady  Clares,  the  Terry 
Alts;  these  latter  were  the  names  they 
s  ssumed  last  year  in  Clare.  Now  we  have 
1he  Whitefeet  and  Blackfeet.  The  out- 
i  ages  have  been  of  the  same  kind  for  the 
1  ist  sixty  years ;  the  only  variation  is,  that 
the  horrid  torture  called  'carding'  kas 
rot  been  used  at  all  latterly  ;  a  few  years 
1  ack  that  system  (which  was  a  dreadful 
mode  of  torturing  a  person  whom  they 
tiey  wished  to  punish)  was  in  frequent 
j  ractice. 

"  Associations  have  been  formed  for 
regulating  the  prices  of  land,  attacking 
1  ouses,  administering  oaths,  delivering 
t  ireatening  notices,  taking  arms,  taking 
t'.orses  at  night  and  returning  them  again 
i  i  the  morning,  taking  away  girls,  mur- 


ders of  proctors  and  gangers,  preventing 
exportation  of  provisions,  digging  up  land, 
destroying  fences,  houghing  cattle,  resist- 
ing the  payment  of  tithes,  and  other  out- 
rages similar  to  those  which  have  occur- 
red in  Clare  last  year,  and  which  are  now 
the  subject  of  investigation  in  the  Queen's 
County. 

"  A  few  of  these  cases  will,  I  think, 
give  much  more  information  to  the  Com- 
mittee than  any  general  observations  or 
opinions.  I  have  traced  the  origin  of  al- 
most every  case  I  prosecuted,  and  I  find 
that  they  generally  arise  from  the  attach- 
ment to,  the  dispossession  of,  or  the 
change  in  the  possession  of  land  ;  hatred 
of  tithe  proctors  prior  to  the  Composi- 
tion Acf,  and  from  the  passing  of  that 
act,  until  the  last  year,  we  had  not  in 
Munster  a  single  outrage  relating  to  tithe; 
previous  to  the  Composition  Act  we  had 
several  murders  of  proctors.  Then  the 
compelling  the  reduction  of  prices  of  pro- 
visions, the  want  of  employment,  and  in 
Clare  the  want  of  potato  ground  ;  the  in- 
troduction of  strangers  as  workmen.  One 
of  the  outrages  at  Clare,  for  which  four- 
teen men  were  convicted,  was  that  of  a 
Kerry  man  going  to  get  work  in  Clare ; 
his  house  was  attacked  and  prostrated. 
I  have  never  known  a  single  case  of  di- 
rect hostility  to  the  government  as  a  go- 
vernment, although  hostility  to  the  law- 
leads  to  hostility  to  the  government ;  but 
as  to  direct  opposition  to  the  government, 
I  never  knew  an  instance  of  that  being  the 
object." 

Of  the  mode  in  which  these  out- 
rages were  committed,and  the  height 
to  which  they  have  risen,  the  fol- 
lowing account  is  given  by  the  same 
witness : 

"  Can  you  state  what  means  are  taken 
by  these  gangs  to  propagate  these  sys- 
tems, as  you  have  given  the  Committee 
to  understand  that  there  is  a  willingness 
on  the  part  of  the  peasantry  to  commit 
crime  ? — I  do  not  wish  the  Committee  to 
understand  any  such  thing.  I  believe  the 
greater  number  join  through  terror  and 
necessity,  from  the  kind  of  houses  they 
inhabit,  and  the  retired  situation  in  which 
they  are  placed.  The  parties  to  the  mur- 
der of  Mr  Blood  went  to  the  houses  of 
many  poor  farmers  to  compel  them  to  go 
with  them.  Some  of  these  farmers  told 
me  that  they  were  delighted  to  hear  of 
their  execution  ;  they  said  so  secretly, 
knowing  I  would  not  disclose  it ;  they 
frequently  made  them  join  when  they 
went  out  at  night.  Captain  Rock  (the 
man  Dtllane,  who  I  have  alluded  to)  told 
me  that  he  has  been  obliged  to  threaten 
to  fire  at  his  own  men  to  icake  them  at- 
tack a  house. 


848  Ireland. 

"  What  are  the  means  by  which  they 
exercise  these  systems  of  intimidation 
over  the  lower  orders  ?_By  going  to  their 
houses  at  night,  and  swearing  them  to 
join,  and  be  ready  whenever  they  may  be 
called  on  to  take  arms  or  to  attack  houses. 
If  they  refuse,  or  their  wives  and  famr- 
Jies  should  in  any  way  prevent  them,  they 
were  formerly  carded,  but  latterly  wound- 
ed or  flogged,  or  some  other  punishment 
inflicted  on  them, 

"  Is  punishment  nearly  certain  to  fol- 
low the  non-execution  of  what  is  ordered 
to  be  done?—  Most  certainly;  and  the 
consequence  is;  the  whole  peasantry  of  a 
county,  not  having  any  means  of  resist- 
ance, are  obliged  to  join.  When  this  sys- 
tem commences,  the  whole  county  is  soon 
»n  a  flame,  if  it  is  not  discovered  and  in 
stantly  checked. 

"  In  the  first  instance,  the  gang  obtains 
the  support  of  a  great  number  of  indivi- 
auaisr  —  Yes. 

"  Does  this  intimidation  operate  fur- 
ther, so  as  to  check  the  administration 
of  the  law?—  It  does;  they  are  threaten- 
ed if  they  attempt  to  prosecute  or  give 
an,  'information,  and  they  swear  them  not 

H  ?hS°;  In,  182I»  the  county  of  Cork 
and  the  bounds  of  Kerry  were  in  a  most 
dreadful  state,  the  King's  troops  were  at- 
tacked, and  the  people  took  possession  of 

town  ;  there  was  a  regular  battle  be- 
tween the  people  and  the  light  infantry 
and  yeomanry  of  the  county,  at  Deshure. 
The  gentlemen  took  the  rifle  brigade  be! 
hind  them  on  horseback,  and  pursued  the 
insurgents.  A  special  commission^ 

C0unties 


No' UI-  [March, 

in  tranquillizing  the  country  you  ex- 
pected y— I  think,  that  the  agitation 
raided  to  carry  the  Catholic  Relief 
Bill,  has  been  transferred  to  other 
objects" 


Such  was  the  origin  of  the  system 
1  HUtrTuand  imimi<*ation  in  T™ 
iand,  and  the  means  by  which  it  rose 

a*™  e  fo;rafdiable  }leight  which  h  ha° 

assumed  of  late  years.  But  still,  till 
taken  advantage  of  by  the  political 
Agitators,  it  never  assumed  a  genera 

l   "' 


,.  °~  — „ —  a**"**"3  agitation,  on  thp 
f^c5.  of  Catholic  Emanc  padon 

murh    ffih  i8  Dow  aPP"e<i  J!th  so 
Much  efficacy,  to  effect  the  suppres- 

Un?on.  and  the  RePeal  of  &e 

Col    Roehfort  declares  that  he 
i  nrm  friend  to  Catholic  Eman- 

S^iMSiSSS 

that  measure  has  not  had  the  effect 


You  remember  some  publications  in 
the  shape  of  pas-torals  that  emanated  from 
high  authority  ?— -Yes,  certainly. 

'*  Is  it  your  opinion  that  they  preceded 
the  resistance  to  tithe,  or  produced  the 
resistance  to  tithe?— I  think  they  had  a 
considerable  effect  in  organizing  the  re- 
sistance  to  tithe;  but  whether  they  took 
the  opportunity  of  the  general  feeling 
which  they  found  prevailing,  or  led  it,  is 
more  than  I  can  say. 

"  At  any  rate,  the  publications  were 
anterior  in  their  date  to  the  present  dis- 
turbances, and  the  associations  guiding 
those  disturbances  ?— They  were  anterior 
to  the  general  meetings." 

Sir  Hussey  Vivian,  whose  means 
>1  information  are  perhaps  more  ex- 
tensive  than  those  of  any  other  in- 
dividual in  Ireland,  on  account  of  his 
military  command,  confirms  this 
testimony. 

"  From  the  information  you  have  re- 
vived, do  you  conceive  that  the  organi- 
zation against  tithes  is  a  resistance  that 
has  sprung  up  among  the  peasantry,  act- 
ing upon  the  result  of  their  own  feelings 
on  the  injustice  of  it,  or  a  resistance  that 
is  promoted  by  Agitators  ?_It  is  hardly 
poss.ble  to  say  •  I  think   it  was  in  the 
Jirst  instance  a  question  that  arose  out  of 
the  writings  and  principles   set  forth  by 
Agitators-  but  it  has  got  such  a  hold 
among  the  people  of  Ireland,  I  do  not  see 
the  way  out  of  it;  like  other  great  ques- 
tions, it .has  been  taken  up  too  late.   Since 
1  nave  been  in  Ireland,  I  have  been  all 
over  the  country  ;  I  have  been  in  almost 
every  military  station  .  and  I  took  a  great 
deal  of  pa.ns  to  endeavour  to  ascertain 
the  feelings  of  the  people  of  Ireland, and 
S3"  Wtf  jt  is  ««*  excites  them/and 
whether  they  have  any  grievances  to  corn- 
am  of.     I  have   been  in  500  different 
cottages,  and   I  have  seen  and  heard  a 
great  deal  of  the  cottagers  and  farmers, 
and  ascertained  their  opinions.    One  dav 

w1lhnTT,!lun,ting' I  said  to  a  farmer> '  * 

had  a  large  landed  estate  here,  I 

tTthes    S°°f  Settle  this  1uestion  of  the 
cerned  •     5*  as  "^  Pr°Perty  was  con. 

,7?'  r    MHe  said> ' How  WOMld  y°u  d» 

Isa.d,  '  You  should  never  hear  the 
words  tithes  or  church-cess,'  (which,  by 
nh*T^8  a  grater  grievance  with  the 
people  than  the  tithes).  «  I  would  say, 
there  is  my  land,  will  you  give  me  L.l/0 
a-year  for  that  farm,  and  I  will  rattle  all 


1833.]  Ireland. 

the  claims  of  the  church  ?'  He  said,  «  Do 
you  suppose  that  that  would  settle  it  j  do 
you  suppose  that  if  I  paid  you  35s.  an  acre, 
i  hat  1  should  not  know  that  5s.  an  acre 
went  to  a  parson  professing  a  religion  that 
'.(  do  not  profess  :  do  you  think  I  should 
riot  know,  that  if  you  did  not  pay  the 
jarson,  I  should  have  it  for  30s.  instead 
of  35s.  an  acre?1" 

Of  the  length  to  which  this  com- 
bination against  tithes  has  gone,  it 
is  unnecessary  to  multiply  many 
proofs.  That  which  M.  Dupard  says 
of  Queen's  County,  may  serve  as  a 
specimen  for  the  whole  country. 

*'  Have  any  tithes  been  recently  paid 
in  the  Queen's  County? — No. 

"  Are  they  likely  to  be  paid  ? — Never ; 
they  will  never  pay  tithe. 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  resistance  to 
tithes  extends  to  Protestants  as  well  as 
Catholics  ? — The  lower  classes  of  Protes- 
tints  have  been  intimidated  from  paying 
tithe  ;  they  have  been  served  \vith  notices 
rot  to  pay. 

"  Which  do  you  think  will  ultimately 
prevail,  the  system  of  intimidation,  or  the 
terrors  of  the  special  commission  ? — I 
think  they  have  no  respect  for  the  laws  at 
<J 

"  Does  this   association  for  mischief 
I/revail  throughout  the  country  ? — Yes. 
"  There  have  been  murders  arid  rob- 
l  cries  committed  under  it  ? — Yes. 

"  So  that  the  county  is  in  the  posses- 
sion of  that  particular  association  ? — Yes, 
nearly  so. 

*'  What  do  you  conceive  to  be  the  object 
of  this  association  from  your  acquaintance, 
which  is  considerable,  with  what  is  going 
MI  ;  what  do  you  conceive  to  be  the  ob- 
ject ot  the  association  ? — It  is  a  complete 
lesistance  to  the  existing  laws;  some 
of  them  say,  they  u-ill  have  all  the  lands 
i  n  the  country  in  their  hands  again ; 
tome  of  the  Whitefeet  and  Blackfeet  say 
that. 

"  Why  do  they  seek  to  get  arms  in  the 
way  they  do  ? — I  heard  for  some  time  it 
was  for  the  purpose  of  opposing  the  levy- 
ing the  tithes. 

"  Have  they  any  system  of  manage- 
ment, any  committees  ? — Yes,  they  have, 
t  mongst  themselves;  they  meet  in  public- 
houses. 

"  Do  they  investigate  the  cases  and 
cecide  what  house  they  will  attack,  or 
what  individual  they  will  ill-treat  ? — Yes, 
they  decide  it  some  days  previously  to  the 
tittack. 

'*  When  there  is  an  attack  made  upon  a 
nan  to  give  up  his  land,  is  it  the  result  of  an 
investigation  of  the  case,  and  the  decision 
of  the  committee,  and  an  order  that  the 


No.  III. 


349 


person  shall  be  turned  out  of  his  land  ? — 
Yes,  that  is  decided  at  a  meeting  of  the 
committee  previously  concerted  some 
days." 

And  it  is  not  the  less  material  to 
observe,  that  these  outrages  com- 
menced at  a  period,  when  there  were 
an  unusually  small  number  of  real 
grounds  of  complaint  among  the 
people,  and  in  counties  where  there 
was  a  very  great  number  of  resident 
gentlemen,  and  the  laws  were  admi- 
nistered with  unusual  lenity ;  when 
rents  were  low,  wages  high,  and  the 
people  comfortable;  decisive  evi- 
dence, that  it  was  not  the  redress  of 
real  evils,  so  much  as  the  arts  of  Agi- 
tators, and  the  democratic  spirit  ex- 
cited by  the  French  Revolution  and 
the  Reform  Bill,  which  has  thrown 
the  country  into  its  present  distracted 
state.  Col  Rochrort  put  this  in  the 
clearest  point  of  view. 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  describe  short- 
ly to  the  Committee  in  what  state  that 
county  is  with  respect  to  disturbance  ? — 
It  has  been  in  an  exceedingly  disturbed 
state  ;  all  kinds  of  outrages,  what  we  call 
insurrectionary  or  Whiteboy  outrages,  go- 
ingon  ;  serving  nonces  to  give  upland, and 
that  upon  the  penalty  of  having  their  houses 
burned,  or  their  own  persons  being  mur- 
dered. 

"  Is  it  general  through  the  county?— 
Yes,  1  think  it  is ;  some  parts  are  more 
affected  by  it  than  others. 

•'  At  what  time  did  they  first  establish 
themselves? — 1  was  abroad  the  whole  of 
1828  and  1829,  and  great  part  of  1830, 
but  I  understood  it  began  in  1829 ;  it 
was  then  checked,  and  began  again  more 
extensively  in  1831. 

"  To  what  do  you  attribute  it  ? — Re- 
motely, I  should  say,  to  the  general  feel- 
ing of  hostility  between  the  ancient  Irish 
and  English,  which  has  been  transferred 
to  the  two  religions,  and  that  excited  by 
various  causes  ;  the  agitation  for  emanci- 
pation and  tithes,  and  the  various  things 
of  that  kind,  and  the  revolutions  of  Paris 
and  Belgium. 

"  Then  you  mean  there  is  a  kind  of 
indigenous  spirit  and  feeling  on  the  part 
of  the  people,  originally  hostile,  arid  con- 
tinuing as  such,  to  the  law  ? — Yes,  and  to 
a  great  extent. 

"  The  Queen's  County,  till  the  period 
you  refer  to,  was  generally  very  quiet?— 
Yes,  it  was  very  quiet ;  and  a  great  num- 
ber of  respectable  gentry  residing  in  if. 
I  think  one  part  of  the  object  of  the  Agi- 
tators was  to  overturn  as  much  as  possible 
the  influence  of  the  country  gentry. 


Ireland.     Aro.  III. 


[March, 


"  Is  not  the  county  conspicuous  for  ilie 
number  of  resident  gentry? — Yes. 

"  And  the  good  understanding  that  ex- 
isted between  them  and  the  people  ? — 
Yes. 

"  And  free  from  complaints  of  the 
conduct  of  the  magistrates? — Yes;  quite 
free  from  that,  and  very  little  cause  of 
complaint  of  any  other  kind. 

"  And  the  duty  of  the  magistrates  very 
fairly  and  honourably  performed  ? — Yes  ; 
/  do  not  think  they  could  have  been  better 
performed  in  any  part  of  the  world. 

"  Then  with  regard  to  the  rent,  what 
has  been  the  conduct  of  the  gentry  to- 
wards their  tenants? — I  think  the  rents 
charged  by  the  head  landlords  are  in  ge- 
neral moderate ;  and  I  think  the  gentry 
have  in  very  few  cases  acted  against  their 
tenants,  and  in  none  where  there  were 
not  great  arrears  ;  and  where  they  have 
done  so,  in  all  the  cases  that  have  come 
to  my  knowledge  they  have  remunerated 
the  tenants,  and  given  them  the  means 
to  quit  the  land  or  transport  themselves, 
and  left  them  nothing  to  complain  of  rea- 
sonably. 

"  There  were  no  grounds  of  complaint 
then  in  the  county,  of  the  conduct  of  the 
gentry  in  removing  tenants? — No  rea- 
sonable grounds,  in  my  opinion ;  where 
any  were  removed,  consideration  was  had 
for  them. 

"  Against  what  class  are  their  efforts 
directed  ? — Against  all  the  lower  farmers 
who  have  arms ;  a  portion  of  the  White- 
feet  might  have  gone  for  arms,  but  a  great 
many  committed  robberies  and  burglaries, 
which  all  fall  upon  the  poor. 

"  In  other  cases,  the  attacks  were  upon 
farmers  holding  a  few  acres  of  ground  ? — 
Yes ;  and  frequently  in  the  same  family, 
when  there  were  disputes  in  the  family, 
mostly  about  a  small  quantity  of  ground. 

"  Was  there  any  committee  managing 
and  directing  those  proceedings? — I  know 
nothing  of  my  own  knowledge;  but  it  is 
impossible  such  a  system  could  go  on 
without  it. 

"  Da  you  think  that  the  peasantry 
would  have  entered  into  this  conspiracy 
themselves  unless  acted  upon  by  external 
causes  ?— -No. 

"  You  have  stated  that  at  no  other  time 
has  improvement  made  greater  progress? 
—Yes. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  is  a  very  omi- 
nous feature  in  the  character  of  the 
present  disturbance,  as  it  removes  it 
from  any  feeling  of  distress  9 — Yes,  cer- 
tainly. 

"  And  when  every  exertion  has  been 
made  by  the  magistrates  and  gentry  to 
make  themselves  as  serviceable  to  the 
population  as  they  can-? — Yes,  I  think 
they  have. 


"  And  that  therefore  tlie  present  chasm 
that  separates  the  two  extremes  of  socie- 
ty, the  gentry  from  the  peasantry,  has 
produced  this  result ;  that  their  authority 
as  magistrates  is  entirely  dependent  upon 
causes  that  have  nothing  to  do  with  any 
grievance  connected  with  the  conduct  of 
the  gentry? — Certainly. 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  feeling  against 
tithe  just  now  is  greater  in  the  abstract 
than  it  has  been  upon  former  occasions  ? 
— Yes,  I  think  it  is. 

"  Would  you  ascribe  it  to  a  growing 
conviction  of  the  odiousness  of  this  im- 
post, or  to  the  result  of  agitation? — To 
agitation,  and  better  organization.'*. 

The  prejudicial  effect  of  the  agi- 
tation set  on  foot  to  carry  Emanci- 
pation, with  the  bitter  disappoint- 
ment which  has  followed  the  passing 
of  the  measure,  is  admitted  by  its 
warmest  advocates.  Listen  to  Mr 
Dillon,  the  secretary  to  the  Catholic 
Association  in  Queen's  County,  on 
the  subject. 

"  You  have  stated  that  the  people 
were  disappointed  by  the  results  of  the 
Emancipation  ;  state  what  was  included 
in  their  notion  of  what  was  likely  to  re- 
sult from  it. — They  expected  the  aboli- 
tion of  tithes  ;  it  was  not  held  out  to 
them ;  I  do  not  think  it  was  held  out  to 
them  during  the  struggle  for  emancipa- 
tion, but  I  am  sure  they  expected  it,  and 
a  reduction  of  rents,  and  a  revision  of  the 
grand  jury  laws,  and  different  other  ad- 
vantages ;  I  would  be  inclined  to  say  that 
the  peasantry  themselves  had  rather  a 
vague  notion  of  the  benefits  to  result 
from  it  ;  that  some  benefits  would  result 
they  conceived,  but  their  notions  were 
ill  defined. 

"  A  general  indefinite  good? — Yes. 

"  Do  you  not  think  in  that  they  inclu- 
ded a  repeal  of  the  Union  ? — No,  I  do 
not  think  that  they  thought  of  it  at  that 
time. 

*'  That  is  a  subsequent  thing  ? — Yes, 
with  the  peasantry  of  the  country  certain- 
ly ;  not  with  others. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  the  disap- 
pointment of  the  peasantry  at  the  settle- 
ment of  the  question  of  Emancipation  has 
produced  a  feeling  of  exasperation  on 
their  minds  which  has  determined  them 
in  agitating  for  themselves  ? — I  think  it 
is  because  they  found  no  immediate  bene- 
fits to  follow. 

"  And  because  they  find  no  immedi- 
ate benefits  resulting  from  it,  they  are 
now  resolved  to  agitate  for  themselves  ? 
Yes." 

This  is  exactly  what  we  always 
maintained  would  take  place,  and 


li)38.]  Ireland,     ATo.  ///. 

what  historical  information  would 
lead  every  one  to  expect.  Where 
a  iy  concession  is  made  to  popular 
agitation,  disappointment  is  sure  to 
e'.isue  when  the  object  is  gained,  and 
this  only  makes  the  people  more 
discontented,  and  augments  the  ge- 
neral exasperation  which  prevails. 
The  machinery  erected  for  one  ob- 
jc-ct,  is  applied  with  more  angry  in- 
clinations to  another;  and  thus  one 
concession  to  democratic  violence 
leads  to  another,  till  the  whole  insti- 
tutions of  society  are  at  length  melt- 
ed down  in  the  revolutionary  cruci- 
ble. 

Of  the  ultimate  objects  to  which 
the  Association,  now  so  general 
throughout  Ireland,  is  directed,  we 
have  the  following  account  from 
Hovenden  Stapleton,  Esq,  a  barris- 
ter, and  magistrate  of  Queen's 
C  ouuty. 

"  How  do  you  account  for  this  asso- 
ciation for  illegal  purposes  spreading  so 
extensively  ? — It  is  not  surprising  it  should 
spread  so  much  in  the  collieries,  the  po- 
pulation being  very  great;  the  colliers  are 
constantly  in  the  habit  of  combining  for 
a  rise  of  wages  ;  they  drink  excessively, 
atid  they  are  a  people  most  easily  conta- 
irinated,  and  likely  to  be  led  into  such  a 
system. 

"  To  what  objects  have  their  opera- 
tions been  directed? — In  the  first  in- 
stance, the  taking  of  arms  ;  during  1829 
it  was  almost  entirely  confined  to  the 
taking  of  arms ;  after  that  there  was  some 
cessation,  but  in  the  last  year  their  object 
stems  to  have  been  the  settlement  and 
disposition  of  land  and  property  of  almost 
every  kind. 

"  Do  you  consider  that  as  their  ulti- 
mate object? — Their  ultimate  object  I 
a  nceive  to  be  the  disposition  and  settle- 
ment of  land;  to  prevent  any  landlord 
taking  land  from  a  tenant,  or  preventing 
h  m  doing  what  he  pleases  with  his 
land. 

"  Is  the  system  governed  by  commit- 
tees?— I  have  reason  to  think  that  it  is. 
I  think  there  is  what  they  call  a  head 
committee,  composed  of  seven  members, 
who  sit  and  discuss  all  matters;  then 
tl  ere  is  a  sub-committee  under  them, 
who  receive  orders  from  the  head  com- 
mittee. The  body  at  large  are  sworn  to 
c<  mmit  whatever  may  be  ordered." 

Of  the  conduct  of  the  priests  in 
the  excitement  of  this  agitation,  the 
sume  witness  gives  the  following  ac- 
c  ount : — 

"  Did  the  priests  take  no  part  in  the  tithe 


351 


question  in  exciting  the  people  to  oppo- 
sition?— 1  believe  a  very  strong  part; 
but  the  tithe  question  did  not  come  into 
my  part  of  the  county ;  it  was  in  the 
county  of  Carlow  arid  the  county  of  Kil- 
kenny, where  it  seems  to  have  been  put 
an  end  to. 

"  But  the  Roman  Catholic  clergy  did 
take  a  very  active  part  in  exciting  oppo- 
sition to  tithe? — Very  active  indeed. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  that  strength- 
ened the  general  feeling  of  insubordination 
through  the  country  ? — Of  course. 

"  Are  not  the  priests  a  little  alarmed 
at  the  loss  of  influence  they  are  beginning 
to  feel  ? — I  am  sure  they  are. 

"  And  they  are  beginning  to  feel  a  lit- 
tle uneasy  lest  the  people  should  get 
out  of  their  hands  altogether  ? — Probably 
so. 

««  Is  that  the  motive  that  influences 
the  priests  ? — I  cannot  say  that. 

"  Do  you  think,  if  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic priests  had  been  as  active  to  repress 
the  first  outbreaking  as  they  were  to  en- 
courage it,  that  any  disturbance  would 
now  exist  ? — I  think  that  they  could  have 
checked  the  disturbances  in  the  begin- 
ning in  my  parish,  had  they  co-operated 
with  the  magistrates.  We  had  a  very 
large  meeting  of  magistrates  very  close 
to  the  residence  of  the  Catholic  priest. 
Sir  John  Harvey  came  from  Dublin,  and 
Colonel  Evans  from  Kilkenny,  on  the 
part  of  Government,  and  several  magis- 
trates and  gentlemen  attended ;  and 
though  the  meeting  was  opposite  the 
priest's  house  and  he  at  home,  he  did 
not  attend  nor  give  bis  assistance;  we 
memorialized  the  Government  for  troops 
and  additional  police,  which  displeased 
him  very  much. 

«  You  say  that  the  tithes  are  extin- 
guished ;  does  that  extend  to  church  pro- 
perty as  such,  or  the  mode  of  paying  it ; 
do  you  think  there  is  as  much  opposition 
to  the  payment  of  tithe  as  a  rent-charge, 
as  in  the  usual  form  ? — Yes,  I  think  in 
every  shape. 

"  So  that  in  fact  it  is^church  property 
they  consider  to  be  extinguished  ? — They 
have  got  rid  of  the  payment  of  the  tithe, 
which  is  the  only  church  property  in  my 
district." 

The  supineness  of  Government  in 
checking  these  outrages,  and  the 
consequent  head  which  insubordi- 
nation and  disorder  have  acquired, 
has  come  out  in  spite  of  all  their  ef- 
forts to  repress  it,  even  from  the  wit- 
nesses whom  they  themselves  cited. 
Mr  Hovenden  fully  explains  this 
subject. 

"  Do  you  attribute  the  want  of  har- 
mony and  concurrence  between  the  Go- 


352 


Ireland.    No.  IIL 


vernment  and  the  resident  gentry  to  any 
political  feeling? — I  do  think  the  gentle- 
men in  that  part  of  the  country  have  some 
political  feeling  against  the  present  Go- 
vernment; I  have  none. 

"  What  does  that  arise  out  of? — They 
think  there  is  a  want  of  energy  in  the 
Government. 

"  To  what  does  that  extend  ? —  They 
let  the  country  come  into  a  state  almost 
of  open  rebellion  without  adopting  ener- 
getic measures. 

"  Did  not  that  state  exist  in  other 
parts  of  Ireland  under  former  Govern- 
ments?— Not  in  the  Queen's  County. 

"  If  it  existed  in  Clare  arid  other  coun- 
ties, why  should  you  accuse  the  present 
Government,it  former  Governments  have 
been  equally  guilty  ? — The  disturbances 
in  Clare  commenced  in  the  present  Go- 
vernment. I  am  acquainted  with  the 
county  of  Clare,  having  property  there, 
and  I  know  the  feeling  amongst  the  ma- 
gistrates and  gentry  there  is  the  same  as 
in  the  Queen's  County  ;  that  it  was  in 
consequence  of  the  supineness  of  Go- 
vernment that  disturbances  got  to  such  a 
head  there. 

"  May  not  former  Governments  have 
been  equally  culpable  in  this  matter? — 
The  state  of  Ireland  was  not  so  much 
convulsed  under  former  Governments. 

"  You  were  asked  whether  that  want 
of  concurrence  may  not  be  attributable  to 
political  feelings  ? — Yes. 

"  You  have  been  asked  whether  the 
present  disturbed  state  of  the  country  is 
not  owing  to  the  misconduct  of  former 
Governments;  have  former  Governments 
ever  in  so  marked  a  way  held  up  the  gen- 
tlemen of  the  country  and  the  magistrates 
of  the  country,  as  objects  of  reprobation, 
in  the  manner  that  the  present  Govern- 
ment have  done  ? — I  know  that  the 
Queen's  County  has  never  been  in  a  state 
like  the  present  under  former  Govern- 
ments, nor  at  any  former  period  have  I 
known  the  same  want  of  confidence  in 
the  Government  as  the  magistrates  now 
have. 

"  Has  it  been  the  conduct  of  former 
Governments  to  depreciate  the  conduct 
of  the  yeomanry  and  landlords  ? — No  ;  I 
think  that  breach  is  wider  than  it  has 
ever  been  before  ;  there  is  that  want  of 
confidence  and  co-operation  between  the 
Government  and  the  magistrates,  which 
I  do  not  remember  in  former  times. 

"  Do  you  find  that  this  hostility  to 
the  present  Government  exists  among 
those  who  have  been  their  political 
friends,  as  well  as  those  who  are  known 
to  be  their  political  opponents? — I  think 
it  is  very  general." 

Major-General  Crawford,  who  was 


[March, 

present,  both  at  the  rebellion  in  1798, 
and  the  disturbances  in  these  times, 
and  who  is,  consequently,  so  well 
able  to  mark  the  features  of  resem- 
blance between  them,  gives  the  fol- 
lowing interesting  account  of  the 
influence  of  the  priests  over  their 
flocks,  and  the  share  they  had  in 
exciting  several  of  the  worst  dis- 
turbances in  the  county  of  Kilkenny. 

"  You  have  stated  that,  in  1 798,  in  con  - 
sequence  of  the  peculiar  position  in  which 
you  were,  as  presiding  at  several  courts- 
martial,  you  had  an  opportunity  of  judg- 
ing of  the  character  of  the  Cathode  clergy, 
and  from  those  opportunities  you  have 
formed  the  worst  opinion  of  them  ? — 
Undoubtedly,  I  speak  of  that. 

**  Have  you  any  grounds  for  consider- 
ing the  Catholic  clergy  of  the  present 
day  to  be  similar  in  character  to  those 
you  observed,  admitting  that  what  you 
state  is  correct,  in  1798? — I  was  a  mem- 
ber, not  president  of  the  courts-martial. 
I  have  a  strong  impression  on  my  mind 
that  they  are  exactly  similar  in  point  of 
principle  to  those  of  1798 ;  and  I  have 
had  private  information  from  people  in 
whom  I  think  I  could  confide,  that  their 
plans  are  to  overturn  the  Protestant  in- 
terests of  this  country,  and  to  possess 
themselves  of  Protestant  property,  and 
raise  their  church  upon  the  ruin  of  ours  j 
and  that  is  my  firm  impression. 

"  Have  you  any  facts  upon  which  those 
impressions  are  grounded  ? — I  have  men- 
tioned that  I  received  private  information 
upon  the  subject,  which  I  could  not  with 
any  degree  of  honour  or  propriety  divulge. 

".Then  the  whole  of  these  impressions 
are  grounded  upon  private  information  ? 
— No ;  they  are  grounded  on  the  former 
circumstances,  in  addition  to  private  in- 
formation. 

"•  What  are  the  circumstances  of  their 
conduct  to  which  you  refer  in  speaking 
of  the  clergy  of  the  present  day? — From 
their  great  influence  over  their  flocks,  I 
am  persuaded  that  no  improper  conduct 
could  originate  in  their  parish  without 
their  approbation. 

"  You  think  that  every  single  crime 
committed  by  any  Catholics  in  any  parish 
in  Ireland  must  solely  be  attributed  to 
the  influence  that  the  parish  priest  has 
over  them  ? — I  am  sure  he  knows  every 
crime  committed,  from  confession,  and 
I  am  sure  he  could  prevent  it  if  it  was 
his  wish  to  do  so. 

"  Do  you  believe  he  knows  every 
crime  before  a  person  goes  to  confession? 
— How  could  that  be  possible?  I  am 
sure  until  after  confession  he  could  not 
know  it ;  but  from  the  general  informa- 


]333.]  Ireland. 

tion  he  receives,  he  will  know  of  things 
going  on  in  the  parish. 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  present  com- 
b  nation  against  tithe  is  likely  to  extend 
to  other  objects? — Yes,  I  do;  I  think  it 
will  extend  to  rents  very  speedily,  and 
eoery  species  of  property. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  the  present  in- 
terference in  the  letting  of  farms  and  the 
management  of  property  is  the  begin- 
ning of  it? — Already  they  will  not  suffer 
a;iy  persons  to  hold  lands  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Castlecomer,  but  with  the 
approbation  of  the  Whitefeet. 

"  Do  you  think  that  a  transition  to  the 
non-payment  of  rent  is  very  natural  ? — 
Yes;  I  think  when  one  law  is  infringed 
on  with  impunity,  other  laws  will  neces- 
sarily be  infringed. 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  toleration  of 
any  aggression  is  a  toleration  and  a 
bounty  upon  farther  aggression? — Yes; 
I  think  it  excites  to  it. 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  present  combi- 
nation will  proceed,  when  it  has  disposed 
of  one  claim,  to  settle  another? — I  am 
satisfied  of  it. 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  powers  of 
tie  law  which  can  now  be  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  present  combination,  are 
stfficient  to  repress  it? — No,  not  now; 
if  they  had  been  determinately  acted  on 
in  the  first  instance,  they  would  have 
been  sufficient;  but  I  think  that  they 
have  gained  a  head  that  makes  it  impos- 
sible to  do  it  now. 

"  You  have  spoken  of  the  priests  being 
at  the  head  of  the  mobs,  and  that  they 
wore  actually  leading  the  mobs  at  that 
tiint- ;  was  there  any  doubt  at  all  about 
it' — Not  the  least,  in  the  town,  nor 
among  the  Protestants  generally  of  Castle- 
comer,  though  there  is  a  doubt,  it  seems, 
in  the  minds  of  some  of  this  committee. 

"  Was  there  any  doubt  expressed  by 
any  one  at  the  time  ? — Not  the  least  un- 
der the  sun  ;  it  was  clear  as  noon-day. 

"  Did  anybody  at  that  time  doubt  that 
the  priests  could  instantly  have  quashed 
this  disturbance  at  the  outset? — The 
people  would  not  have  assembled  with- 
out their  excitement  ;  and  they  could 
hive  quashed  it  with  as  much  ease  as  I 
la><  down  my  hand;  gentlemen  here  may 
net  believe  what  I  state,  but  1  am  per- 
fectly persuaded  of  it. 

"  Do  you  conceive  there  is  any  simi- 
laiity  between  the  present  combination, 
which  appears  to  have  been  entered  into 
on  the  part  of  the  disturbers,  and  other 
combinations  during  other  disturbed  pe- 
riods in  1796  or  1798  ?— I  think  that  the 
present  combination  is  different  to  1798 
considerably. 


No.  II I. 


353 


"In  what  respect  ?— They  were  then  a 
very  mixed  body;  the  commencement 
was  with  the  Presbyterians ;  it  extended 
to  some  of  the  Established  Church,  but 
very  few,  and  when  it  came  into  the  Ro- 
man Catholic  country  it  was  embraced 
by  them  very  warmly  ;  but  the  present 
combination  is  among  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic*, and  it  seems  to  gain  ascendency 
in  the  country,  and  that  the  object  is  to 
gain  the  property  of  the  Protestant  pos- 
sessors, and  to  make  this  an  independent 
Catholic  country ;  this  is  my  impression. 

"  What  was  the  object  of  the  tumul- 
tuous meeting  at  Castlecomer  in  January 
last? — It  was  to  get  rid  of  the  tithes. 

"  Was  that  the  beginning  of  it? — Not 
altogether  the  commencement;  they  had 
assembled  in  two  or  three  instances  be- 
fore; they  had  assembled  at  Loughlin 
Bridge  and  at  Dr  Butler's,  and  at  two  or 
three  other  places,  I  believe ;  .but  the 
great  assemblage  was  at  the  two  bridges. 

"  Did  the  priests  appear,  from  the  re- 
sult of  that  meeting,  to  have  obtained  a 
considerably  increased  dominion  over  the 
people  ? — There  is  not  the  least  doubt 
of  it,  from  the  proceedings  of  that  day, 
that  their  influence  over  the  country  was 
paramount ;  in  fact  now,  except  in  the 
garrison  towns,  they  are  the  only  legis- 
lators. The  Whitefeet  laws  are  enforced 
either  by  severe  beatings,  or  by  attempts 
at  assassination  or  murder,  so  that  the 
common  law  has  no  effect  whatever. 
Out  of  the  garrison  towns  the  whole  of 
the  country  is  under  the  influence  of  the 
mob ;  no  gentleman  can  go  out  unarmed 
with  safely. 

"  Under  the  influence  of  that  descrip- 
tion of  persons  you  describe  as  having  as- 
sembled at  Castlecomer  ? — It  originated 
from  that  mob.  I  think  a  general  com- 
bination has  taken  place  since  that,  and 
a  more  dangerous  kind  of  conspiracy  has 
originated. 

"  Of  what  sort?— I  think  that  at  that 
period  the  object  was  to  get  rid  of  the 
tithe.  Since  that  their  ulterior  objects 
are  to  compel  the  Protestants  to  quit  the 
country,  and  to  get  rid  of  the  English 
connexion,  I  think  the  object  is  separa- 
tion. I  think  these  are  the  ulterior  ob- 
jects that  they  did  not  think  of  in  the 
first  instance. 

"  Do  you  think  that  their  success  upon 
the  subject  of  tithes  has  encouraged  them  ? 
—Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it;  arid  that  was  my 
impression  at  the  time.  I  should  rather 
have  put  down  their  apparent  succes?, 
and  not  have  allowed  them  to  acquire  a 
new  character." 

This  gentleman  was  an    eyewit- 


354  Ireland. 

ness  to  the  efforts  of  the  Catholic 
clergy  in  exciting  the  efforts  of  un- 
ruly mobs  on  various  occasions.  He 
swears — 

"  Has  not  Captain  Rock's  law  against 
tenants  coming  in  been  directed  against 
every  class  of  his  Majesty's  subjects, 
Roman  Catholics,  Presbyterians,  and 
Protestants  ? — I  do  not  know  that ;  but 
/  know  the  whole  is  influenced  by  the  Ca- 
tholic priests. 

•'  How  do  you  know  that  ? — By  seeing 
them  head  it,  and  seeing  their  influence 
over  them. 

"  How  often  did  you  see  a  priest  at  the 
head  of  a  mob? — Six  or  ^  eight  limes  in 
different  situations. 

"  What  was  it  you  saw  that  convinced 
you  that  the  priests  were  heading  the 
mob  for  mischief? — I  saw  them  heading 
the  mob,  and  I  saw  by  their  signs  and 
signals  they  were  accelerating  their  move- 
ments instead  of  repressing  them. 

"  What  were  their  movements  ? — I 
saw  them  winking  and  nodding  at  them, 
and  apparently  encouraging  them. 

"  You  think  it  perfectly  possible  they 
might  be  winking  at  them  to  disperse 
them  ? — I  do  not  think  that ;  indeed  the 
whole  demeanour  was  more  like  exciting ; 
and  they  could,  if  they  would,  have  dis- 
persed them  at  the  two  bridges. 

"  Is  there  any  other  instance  connect- 
ed with  their  demeanour  ? — Yes ;  I  think 
their  whole  appearance  was  hostile. 

•'  You  have  told  the  committee 'you 
saw  one  of  those  priests  winking;  did 
you  see  any  other  particular  act  done  by 
those  priests  besides  the  winking — any 
particular  act  you  can  state  ? — I  saw  him 
flourish  this  way  with  his  hand  to  the 
people  to  come  (ivaving  his  hand}  ;  I  saw 
him  do  other  things  that  made  me  think 
he  was  rather  exciting^  than  retarding 
them  in  their  operations. 

"  What  was  the  result  of  a  meeting 
when  the  priest  headed  the  mob  in  that 
way  ? — It  ended  in  giving  a  consequence 
to  the  mobility,  that  induced  a  great  num- 
ber of  otbers  that  would  not  to  have 
joined  them,  and  to  give  a  solidity  and 
strength  to  their  party,  and  give  them  a 
character,  which  in  Ireland  is  every  thing. 

"  Did  you  remain  there  the  whole  of 
that  time  ? — Yes,  I  did,  till  they  disper- 
sed." 

Such  has  been  the  terror  excited 
by  these  proceedings  that  the  Pro- 
testants are  generally  quitting  Kil- 
kenny, unless  forcibly  detained  by 
their  landlords.  The  same  witness 
adds — 

«'  Have  the  Piotestants  in  that  neigh- 


No.  III.  [March, 

bourhood  in  any  numbers  emigrated  since 
the  time  of  that  meeting  ? — A  very  great 
number,  and  many  more  are  going,  and 
those  who  cannot  go  are  sorry  they  can- 
not. 

"  Then  you  think  that  the  Protestants 
who  remain  in  the  country  continue  in 
the  country  because  they  cannot  afford 
to  pay  their  passage  ? — Not  that  exactly, 
but  because  they  cannot  dispose  of  their 
property.  Many  of  them  could  pay  their 
passage,  but  they  cannot  dispose  of  their 
property  ;  for  the  landlords  have  said 
they  shall  not  dispose  of  their  farms,  and 
there  they  must  remain. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  convey  to  this  Com- 
mittee that  the  same  persons  who  are 
combinators  against  the  payment  of  tithes 
are  the  persons  who,  under  the  name  of 
Biackteet  and  Whitefeet,  have  been  dis- 
turbing the  Queen's  County  ? — It  is  pos- 
sible there  may  be  a  different  system  ; 
but  I  think  in  general  principle,  and  in 
the  description  of  people,  they  are  the 


With  whom  the  opposition  to  tithe 
originated,  and  by  whom  it  was  orga- 
nized, is  fully  known  ;  and  to  eluci- 
date it,  we  shall  quote  an  authority 
which  the  Catholic  agitators  will 
hardly  controvert,  that  of  Dr  Doyle. 

"  You  have  written  strongly  upon  the 
subject  of  tithe,  and  in  a  manner  very 
much  calculated  to  influence  the  judg- 
ment of  those  who  may  be  influenced, 
either  by  your  writings  or  the  authority  of 
the  writer  ?  1  rejoice  that  any  mem- 
ber of  the  Committee  should  think  so 
favourably  of  my  writings. 

"  Do  you  not  think  they  were  very 
much  calculated  to  move  the  people  ?  I 
should  be  a  very  unfit  person  to  judge  of 
any  production  of  my  own. 

"  Did  it  not  happen  that  within  your 
diocese  this  opposition  to  tithe  first  com- 
menced, and  to  which  it  has  been  nearly 
as  yet  confined  ?  I  think  the  first  opposition 
to  tithe  originated  in  my  diocese. — What  I 
wrote  got  into  the  newspapers,  and 
through  them  into  the  hands  of  the  bulk 
of  the  people,  and  from  that  period,  no 
doubt,  my  writings  may  have  contributed 
very  much  to  the  opposition.  Instead, 
however,  of  endeavouring  to  exculpate 
myself  from  this  as  matter  of  blame,  7 
take  no  small  credit  to  myself  for  having 
commenced  that  opposition,  though  I  regret 
exceedingly  that  it  is  attended  with  disas- 
ters or  breaches  of  the  peace. 

"  In  that  work  did  you  not  express 
yourself  to  this  effect,  that  you  hoped 
the  opposition  of  the  people  to  tithes 
would  be  as  lasting  as  their  love  of  justice  ? 
A  very  happy  form  of  expression  which 


Ireland.     No.  III. 


355 


occurred  to  me,  arid  which  I  like  exceed- 
irgly. 

"  You  published  a  pastoral  letter  after 
tl  is  other  writing,  in  which  you  advise 
tl  e  people,  though  not  to  a  breach  of  the 
peace,  yet  by  every  art  and  ingenuity  in 
their  power  to  prevent  the  payment  of 
til  hes  ?  I  advised  them  to  exercise  their  wit 
arid  ingenuity  in  that  way. — Certainly  in 
waiting  pastorals,  /  never  look  to  the  go- 
vc'-nment  as  a  government.  I  have  always 
a  view  to  the  peace  of  the  country,  and 
the  authority  of  the  law.  I  feel  myself 
toiatty  unconnected  with  government ;  and 
though  bound  as  a  subject  in  duty,  to 
give  them  any  support  in  my  power, 
my  business  in  society  has  no  reference  to 
tht'.m ;  so  that  in  writing  pastorals  /  look 
only  to  the  interests  of  religion,  and  to  the 
gc  od  of  the  people  over  whom  I  am  placed 
B  shop,  through  the  Providence  of  God."* 

Dr  Doyle  adds,  and  adds  truly, 
that  in  these  famous  pastorals,  which 
commenced  the  insurrection  against 
tithes,  he  recommended  to  the  peo- 
ple to  abstain  from  violence  and 
outrage.  With  what  success  such  a 
recommendation  was  likely  to  be  at- 
tended, we  leave  those  to  judge  who 
know  the  fervid  character  of  the 
Irish,  and  can  appreciate  the  justice 
ot  the  following  emphatic  statement 
from  that  very  competent  witness, 
Sir  Hussey  Vivian. 

"  In  offering  an  opinion  on  the  state 
of  Ireland,  there  is  one  thing  I  should 
wish  to  notice,  and  that  is,  the  extraor- 
dij;ary  carelessness  of  human  life  amongst 
tlit  lower  classes.  I  have  endeavoured, 
as  far  as  possible,  to  find  out  whence  it 
arises  that  men  who  appear  so  kind  in 
their  dispositions,  so  grateful  for  any  lit- 
tle kindness  bestowed  upon  them,  as  the 
lower  class  of  Irish  generally  are,  should 
exhibit  such  little  apparent  reluctance  to 
destroy  their  fellow  creature?.  I  have 
asked  the  Catholic  clergy ;  I  have  ex- 
pressed my  astonishment  that  they,  who 
ha/e  such  power  and  influence  over  the 
mi -ids  of  the  lower  classes,  do  not  pre- 
vent it ;  but  neither  they  nor  others  I 
have  spoken  to  on  the  subject  pretend  to 
account  for  it. 

"'  Do  you  not  think  it  may  be  owing  to 
the  abject  state  in  which  they  exist,  which 
miikes  their  lives  of  little  value  ? — Yes, 
I  cm  understand  that  as  applying  to  them- 
sel/es,  but  not  as  applying  to  the  lives  of 
other  persons ;  it  is  a  most  remarkable 
thing.  If  you  go  into  their  houses,  and 
you  are  kind  to  them,  they  appear  grate- 
ful beyond  measure,  and  I  believe  really 


are  so,  and  yet  those  very  persons  would 
hare  no  sort  of  hesitation  in  taking  up  a 
stone  and  committing  murder.  The 
cause  of  this  readiness  to  sacrifice  life  is 
one  of  those  things  that  ought  to  be  in- 
quired into,  and  if  possible,  the  feelings, 
by  which  they  are  influenced,  eradicated 
from  the  minds  of  the  people." 

And  it  is  to  this  ardent,  reckless, 
and  impassioned  people,  so  perfectly 
careless  of  life,  and  reckless  of  blood, 
that  Dr  Doyle  addresses  the  "  pasto- 
ral letter,"  exhorting  them  to  "  ex- 
ercise their  wit  and  ingenuity  in 
resisting  the  payment  of  tithe," 
and  hoping  that  "  their  opposition  to 
it  would  be  as  lasting  as  their  love 
of  justice."  It  is  not  surprising  that 
after  such  injunctions,  carried  into 
effect,  as  they  are  proved  to  have 
been,  by  the  priests  heading  the 
mobs,  the  state  of  Ireland  should  have 
become  so  desperate,  that, as  express- 
ed in  the  King's  Speech,"  the  execu- 
tion of  the  law  has  become  impracti- 
cable," and  universal  anarchy  pre- 
vails. 

We  might  extend  these  interesting 
quotations  to  any  length ;  but  we 
must  forbear,  how  strongly  soever 
we  may  be  impressed  with  the  con- 
viction that  the  salvation  of  Ireland, 
possibly  the  fate  of  the  empire,  de- 
pends on  a  general  appreciation  of 
the  truths  they  contain. 

The  value  of  this  testimony  will 
not  be  duly  appreciated,  unless  it 
is  recollected  that  it  was  brought  for- 
ward by  a  Whig  Committee,  and 
came  out  in  answer  to  questions  put 
by  Whigs,  and  from  witnesses  select- 
ed by  them.  The  Committee  was 
almost  entirely  composed  of  Whigs 
and  Agitators.  It  embraced  Mr  Stan- 
ley, Sir  Henry  Parnell,  Lord  Ebring- 
ton,  Mr  O'Connell,  Lord  Killeen, 
Lord  Duncannon,  the  Earl  of  Os- 
sory,  Mr  James  Grattan,  and  all  the 
leading  gentlemen  of  the  Ministe- 
rial party  from  Ireland.  They  took 
the  direction  in  summoning  the  wit- 
nesses, and  the  labouring  oar  in  con- 
ducting the  examinations,  as  must  be 
evident  to  every  one  from  the  ques- 
tions put,  which  were  generally  cal- 
culated, and  obviously  intended,  to 
bring  out  an  answer  favourable  to 
the  proceedings  of  government.  Yet 
from  their  witnesses  and  their  ques- 
tions has  come  out  the  evidence 
which  has  now  in  part  been  detailed. 


*  Second  Report  on  Tithes,  p.  325. 


356 


Ireland.    No.  III. 


[March, 


Whoever  considers  these  valuable 
extracts  with  attention,  cannot  fail 
of  being  impressed  with  the  follow- 
ing truths,  which  contain  the  princi- 
ples on  which  alone  the  pacification 
of  Ireland  can  be  effected. 

1.  That  prior  to  the  political  agi- 
tation which  the  Whigs  and  Agitators 
have  raised  up  of  late  years  for  party 
purposes,  and  especially  to  force  Ca- 
tholic Emancipation  upon  a  reluctant 
legislature,  the  disturbances  of  Ire- 
land, how  great  and  distressing  so- 
ever, had  never  acquired  a  political 
character,  or  become  formidable  to 
the  stability  of  the  empire  ;  but  arose 
only  from  local  causes,  and  discon- 
tents owing  to  the  administration  of 
landed  property. 

2.  That  when  Catholic  Emancipa- 
tion was  urged  as  the  great  means  of 
overthrowing   the  Tory  administra- 
tion, the  Whigs  and  Agitators  took 
advantage  of  the  fiery  spirit  which 
these  local  grievances  had  occasion- 
ed, and  turned  it  into  the  new  chan- 
nel of  political  discontent ;  and  crea- 
ted a  complete  organization  through- 
out  the    Catholic  party  to  the  last 
degree  formidable  to    any   regular 
government 

3.  That  when  it  was  found  that 
Emancipation  was  a  mere  delusion, 
and  no  practicable  benefit  had  ac- 
crued from  it  to  the  people,  their 
discontents  and  exasperation  rapidly 
increased,  and  under  the  guidance  of 
the  Agitators,  were  directed  to  fresh 
demands,  the    extinction  of  tithes, 
and  the  repeal  of  the  Union. 

4.  That  in  exciting  this  new  insur- 
rection the  people  were  stimulated 
by  the  direct  advice  and  exhortations 
of  their  dignified  clergy  ;  and  pro- 
ceeded on  a  system  directed,  orga- 
nized, and  completed  by  the  Agita- 
tors ;  and  that  in  arraying  these  un- 
happy   persons  in    this  manner  in 
direct  hostility  to  the   government, 
they  are  morally  responsible  for  the 
terrible   consequences    which  have 
ensued  from  what  they  knew  of  the 
impetuous   passions  of  the  people 
with  whom   they  had  to  deal,  and 
their  total  disregard  of  human  life. 

5.  That  the  weakness  of  Govern- 
ment, in  rewarding  and  patronising 
the  Agitators,  and  doing  nothing  to 
suppress  the  insurrection  in  its  com- 
mencement, have  brought  it  to  its 
present   unexampled  height,  when, 
by  their  own  admission,  sanguinary 


measures  must  be  resorted  to,  and 
the  most  violent  steps  adopted,  to 
stifle  a  state  of  anarchy  which  threat- 
ens the  empire  with  dissolution. 

6.  That  the  ultimate  object  of  all 
this  disorder  and  organization  is  to 
establish   the   Catholic  religion,  di- 
vide the  church  lands,  resume  the 
forfeited  estates,  and  massacre  the 
Protestants,  or  drive  them  out  of  the 
country,    and    establish   a   separate 
government  in  close  alliance  with 
France. 

7.  That  the  only  chance  of  pre- 
serving the  empire  from  dismember- 
ment, is  instantly  to  put  down  this 
atrocious   system  of  agitation,  and 
deprive  the  Irish  for  a  time  of  those 
political    rights,    which    they   have 
shewn  themselves  unfit  to  enjoy,  and 
employed  only  to  their  own  and  their 
neighbours'  ruin. 

8.  That  such  a  system  requires  a 
firm  and  resolute  executive,  and  can 
never  be  carried  into  effect  with  any 
chance  of  success,  unless  it  is  based 
on  the  cordial   co-operation  of  the 
Protestants  and  yeomanry;  a  body 
against   whom    no    disorders    have 
been  proved ;    whose  interests  and 
affections  are  identified  with  those 
of  Great  Britain ;   and   whose  con- 
duct, under  the  most  trying  circum- 
stances, when  deserted  by  the  Go- 
vernment, and  assailed  by  the  Ca- 
tholics, has  been  at  once  dignified, 
humane,  and  heroic. 

9.  That  the  Catholic  priests  have 
shewn  themselves  unworthy  mem- 
bers of  a  Christian  Church ;  reckless 
and  audacious  agitators,  who  have 
not  scrupled  to  set  a  nation  on  fire 
to  gratify  their  spiritual  and  tempo- 
ral ambition,  and  are  answerable  to 
God  and  man  for  the  unnumbered 
crimes  which  have  been  committed, 
in  the  frantic  career  into  which  they 
have  impelled  their  flocks,  and  all 
the  blood  which  may  require  to  be 
shed  before  the  restoration  of  order 
is  effected. 

10.  That  having  done  this  to  re- 
press the  disorders  of  Ireland,  Go- 
vernment must  instantly  proceed 
with  some  really  healing  and  benefi- 
cial measures  ;  and  that  of  these  the 
very  first  is  to  remodel  the  admini- 
stration of  the  criminal  law ;  take  its 
execution,  in  a  great  measure,  out  of 
the  hands  of  the  local  magistrates, 
and  establish  a  system  of  vigorous 
prosecution  by  public  authorities, 
6 


1833.J 


Ireland.     No.  III. 


357 


whose  operations  never  are  suspend- 
ed, similar  to  that  which  has  so 
long  been  in  operation,  with  such 
admirable  effects,  in  the  northern 
part  of  Great  Britain. 

The  state  of  things  is  growing  so 
rapidly  worse  in  Ireland  under  the 
anarchy  which,  under  the  agitation 
of  their  demagogues,  and  the  weak- 
ness of  their  government,  has  grown 
up  to  so  extraordinary  a  height,  that 
the  preceding  picture,  highly  colour- 
ed as  it  is,  now  falls  greatly  short  of 
the  truth.  To  demonstrate  this,  we 
shall  transcribe  the  catalogue  of 
crimes  reported  to  Sir  Hussey  Vi- 
vian in  1830,  and  contrast  them  with 
the  list,  furnished  by  Mr  Stanley, 
from  the  two  counties  of  Queen's 
and  Kilkenny  alone,  within  the  last 
twelve  months.* 

We  are  by  no  means  insensible  to 
the  many  real  evils  of  Ireland,  and 
shall,  in  succeeding  Numbers,  exa- 
mine the  causes  of  the  prevailing 
distress,  and  the  means  by  which  it 
may  be  alleviated.  Of  these,  the 
establishment  of  poor's  laws,  and  of 
a  vigorous  system  of  government, 
works  calculated  to  give  bread  to 
those  who  are  dispossessed  of  their 
farms,  and  relieve  them  from  the 
grievous  distress  to  which  they  are 
now  subjected  on  such  an  event, 
form  the  most  conspicuous.  But 
these  are  too  important  subjects  to 
be  attempted  in  this  paper. 

In  the  terrible  state  to  which  Whig 


agitation,  Catholic  ambition,  and  Mi- 
nisterial weakness,  have  reduced  this 
unhappy  country,  there  is  no  open- 
ing for  hope,  which  we  can  see,  but 
in  the  vigour,  patriotism,  and  cou- 
rage of  the  Protestant  party,  and  the 
admirable  organization  which  they 
have  attained  under  the  direction  of 
the  Conservative  Society.  The  names 
of  the  founders  and  leaders  of  that 
noble  establishment  deserve  to  be 
enrolled  in  the  records  of  their  coun- 
try's fame.  The  able  and  patriotic 
Mr  George  A.  Hamilton  was  the  first 
country  gentleman  who  joined  it, 
and  as  such  richly  deserves  the  elo- 
quent eulogium  pronounced  on  him 
by  Mr  Boyton ;  and  his  example  has 
been  followed  now  by  almost  all  the 
patriotic  or  noble  of  the  land.  In 
their  patriotism  and  energy,  is  to  be 
found  the  last  sheet-anchor  of  their 
distracted  country  in  the  tempest  of 
revolution ;  and  we  rejoice  to  find, 
from  the  altered  tone  and  intentions 
of  Government  on  Irish  affairs,  that 
they  are  at  length  awakened,  in 
words  at  least,  to  a  sense  of  the  only 
means  which  remain  for  the  salva- 
tion of  the  country ;  and  if  they  once 
embrace  the  right  feelings,  they  can- 
not fail  soon  to  enter  into  a  cordial 
union  with  the  intrepid  party  who 
have  so  long,  and  with  so  little  ex- 
ternal aid,  stemmed  the  progress  of 
disaster  in  their  country. 
Edinburgh,  Feb.  8, 1833. 


*   From  July  1831,  to  August  1832. 
In  Leinster  province,  including  Kilkenny,  ' 
Wexford,      Carlow,      Kildare,      Queen's 
County,  Wicklow,  Meath,  and  Lowth, 


24  Murders. 
106  Persons  shot  at. 
35  Houses  robbed  of  Arms, 

26  Acts  of  Incendiarism. 

27  Cattle  maimed. 
116  Houses  attacked. 


To  English  readers,  this  appears  a  pretty  formidable  catalogue  for  a  single  pro- 
vince in  one  year  ;  but  it  sinks  into  nothing,  compared  with  that  which  Mr  Stanley 
has  reported  of  Queen's  County  and  Kilkenny  alone  for  the  last  twelve  months. 


Kilkenny,  1832. 

Murders,      .         .  .32 

Houses  Burnt,      .  .  34 

Burglaries,  .  .519 

Houghing  Cattle,  .  36 

Serious  Assaults,  .          178 


Queen's  County,  1832. 

Murders,     ....  60 

Burnings  and  Burglaries,      .  626 

Malicious  Injuries,         .         .  115 

Serious  Assaults,            .         .  209 


The  Hon.  Member  added,  "  That  this  list,  frightful  as  it  is,  contained  only  a 
small  portion  of  the  offences  which  had  been  committed  against  the  law,  and  were 
reported  to  the  police  and  the  other  authorities.  He  would  ask  the  House,  whether 
r,he  law  was  obeyed,  when  those  who  were  the  victims  of  the  outrages  suffered  in 
iilence,  and  refused  to  become  prosecutors,  from  the  fear  of  being  denounced  enemies 
to  their  couutry?" — Debate  on  Address,  Feb,  5,  1833. 

VOL.  XXXIJI,  NO.  CCV.  2  A 


858 


A  Last  Appeal  to  King,  Lords,  and  Commons. 


[March, 


A  LAST  APPEAL  TO  KING,  LORDS,  AND  COMMONS,  FROM  ONE  OF 
THE  OLD  CONSTITUTION. 


WHEN  our  dearest  interests  are 
risked  upon  the  issue  of  a  "perilous 
experiment ;"  when  fear  and  a  thrill- 
ing sense  of  insecurity  drive  cheer- 
fulness from  our  hearths,  and  sleep 
from  our  beds;  and  the  hope  of  safety 
rests  upon  sacrifice,  and  therefore  un- 
willingly admitted,  and  upon  break- 
ing asunder  the  sacred  bonds  that 
have  linked  us  to  kindred,  friends, 
and  country, — and  we  look  abroad 
into  the  wilderness  of  the  world  for 
an  uncertain,  and  at  best  an  unen- 
deared  shelter,  it  is  no  wonder  if 
powerless   indignation  against    the 
authors  of  the  calamity  is  succeeded 
by  entreaty,  and  in  our  despondency 
of  other   means,  we  appeal  to  the 
very  persons  who  seem  engaged  to 
effect  our  ruin.    The  victim  in  his 
last  agony  entreats  mercy  even  at 
the  hands  of  the  merciless  assassin. 
We  reason  with  the  unreasonable, 
and  would  sway  the  insane  by  giving 
them  credit  for  judgment.     Nor  is 
this  a  time  to  tax  an  individual  effort 
with  vanity.  I  feel  that  it  is  my  home 
that  may  be  invaded,  my  property 
that  may  be  legally  plundered ;  that 
it  is  myself  may  be  persecuted,  under 
the  popular  ban,  for  my  political  opi- 
nions ;  that  in  a  revolution  that  I  see 
more  than  probable,  my  own  flesh 
and  blood,  my  children,  helpless  fe- 
males, may  be  worse  than  destitute-- 
though of  the  class  of  the  people— a 
proscribed  race  to  be  hunted  to  tor- 
ture and  death  by  a  fiendish  rabble. 
These  fears  will   obtain  pity  from 
some,  (whose  incredulity  is  a  noble 
eulogy  upon  our  old  constitution,) 
and  ridicule  or  affected   contempt 
from  the  many.    But  I  cannot  shut 
my  eyes  to  the  horrors  of  the  first 
French  Revolution,  nor  can  I  possi- 
bly exaggerate  the  miseries  suffered 
by   thpu^ands   of  my  own  and  my 
children's  condition.     I  know  from 
fhe  history  of  the  world,  and  parti- 
cularlyof  that  Revolution,  that  cruelty 
is  progressive ;  and  that  mankind  are 
not  aware  to  what  point  of  savage- 
ness  and  atrocity  their  own  natures 
are  capable  of  being  directed.    I  am 
not  deceived,  because  the  surface  of 
the  earth  does  not  still  shew  unbu- 
ried  the  bones  of  the  thousands  mas- 
sacred in  those  bloody  days,  nor  be- 


cause their  cities  and  towns  still  have 
the   common    stir  of   life  in  their 
streets,  and  the  green  of  tree  and  her- 
bage is  still  smiling  on  their  land. 
External  nature  does  not  exhibit  the 
past  agonies  of  the  dead.     But  still 
the  record  is  written ;    history  re- 
mains the  monument  of  the  buried, 
and   our  admonition ;  and  if  it  do 
not  shew  us  such  horrid  spectacle 
as  the  Roman  Legions  beheld  when, 
six  years  after  the  defeat  of  Varus, 
they  broke  in  upon  the  scene  of  mas- 
sacre of  their  countrymen,  it  will 
still  paint  enough  to  make  us  shud- 
der, and  reflect  upon  the  principles 
by  the  practical  force  of  which  hu- 
manity has  been  rendered  thus  fero- 
cious. I  know  what  France — butafew 
years  before,  happy  France,  the  land  of 
amenity  and   cheerfulness  —  acted, 
witnessed,  and  suffered ;  and  I  see 
no  charm  in  the  character  of  England 
that  will  protect  us  if  we  follow  the 
same  principles.    I  believe  the  po- 
pulace of  this  country  may  be  ren- 
dered as  cruel,  as  bloody-minded  as 
the  same  class  were  in  France.     I 
believe  no  country  has  any  real  pro- 
tection from  the  natural  violence  of 
man,  capable  of  frightful  exaggera- 
tion, but  its  government,  its  consti- 
tution ;  and  it  is  to  the  altered  charac- 
ter of  our  own,  that  I  confess  I  look 
with  indescribable  fears.     I  am  not 
duped  by  the  late  comparative  calm 
after  our  tempestuous  struggle.  We 
wait  but  as  spectators,  seated  in  ex- 
pectation of  the  drawing  up  of  the 
curtain ;  our  deeper    interest,    the 
agitation  of  our  passions,  will  be  bet- 
ter exhibited  when  the  action  of  the 
important  drama,  be  it  tragedy  or 
otherwise,    shall    commence.      My 
worst  apprehensions  are  still  alive 
within  me.  Yet  would  I  make  an  ap- 
pt:al,  a  last  appeal, — I  say  a  last,  be- 
cause I  am  convinced  that  the  fate  of 
England  is  in  the  hands  of  the  pre- 
sent Parliament,  and  I  am  convinced 
from  all  history,  that  a  further  indul- 
gence in  democratic  principles  must 
overthrow  every  valued  institution, 
and  the  very  name  of  our  limited 
monarchy.     I  appeal  to  all  conjunc- 
tively, and  to  each  separate  estate  of 
the  realm.     May  they  well  consider 
their  real  position,  why  they  are  so 


A  Last  Appeal  to  Kinyy  Loida,  and  Commons. 


jlaced— not  for  themselves  alone, 
mt  for  their  country,  and  through 
heir  country  for  themselves.  They 
ire  responsible  to  God  and  their 
•ountry  for  their  high  trust,  and  may 
hey  exercise  it  as  men  who  must  give 
in  account  of  their  stewardship.  I 
nake  my  appeal  to  King,  Lords,  and 
Commons,  for  they  still  exist  in  form, 
and  I  will  commence  with  the  last, 
;is  that  estate  from  which  aggression 
s  universally  threatened  and  expect- 
ed. 

In  addressing  this  body,  I  must 
preface  thus.  If  I  could  help  my- 
self, I  would  not  acknowledge  your 
authority  to  legislate.  For  I  must 
remind  you  of  facts.  Your  title  is 
derived  from  a  suicidal  Parliament, 
icknowledging  its  own  legislatorial 
incompetence — and  even  that  Par- 
liament was  collected  by  means  I 
must  ever  think  unconstitutional,  by 
the  basest  intimidation,  by  before 
unheard-of  exercise  of  ministerial 
influence ;  while  the  sober  voice,  and 
power  of  election  in  great  bodies  of 
the  people  were  kept  down  by  arm- 
ad  infuriated  mobs.  But  let  that  pass. 
The  same  base  arts  have  been  prac- 
tised in  your  election,  and  too  many 
of  you  are  not  representatives  to 
consult  for  the  good  of  the  whole 
community,  but  delegates  of  Politi- 
cal Unions,  declared  to  be  illegal,  yet 
left  by  the  Whig  Ministry,  for  their 
3wn  party  ends,  in  the  full  exercise 
)f  their  usurped  power.  Yet  even 
chen,  as  a  Reform  Parliament,  you 
lave  not  been  established  without  'a 
violation  of  another  estate  of  the 
•ealm,  who,  unforced,  would  never 
have  sanctioned  the  law  by  which 
YOU  stand  congregated;  many,  there- 
ore,  think  that  you  want  that  consti- 
"utionally  legal  sanction  that  ought  to 
'ender  you  a  Parliament.  Thus 
igain  they  think  your  title  defective. 
But  there  you  are  in  Parliament 
issembled,  though  many  think  esta- 
blished by  a  tyranny,  to  legislate  for 
as,  and  we  must  submit. 

Thus  constituted,  I  know  a  large 
part  of  you  to  be  pledged  to  obey 
the  dictation  of  societies,  the  leaders 
of  which,  in  times  of  wholesome 
Government,  would  have  been  tried, 
perhaps  hanged,  for  treason.  From 
mch  of  you  it  would  be  madness  to 
expect  any  thing  good ;  a  waste  of 
vords  to  remonstrate.  You  are,  how- 
(  ver,  miserably  deceived,  if  you  think 


359 

your  own  safety  one  jot  more  secure 
than  that  of  those  you  may  be  willing 
to  doom  to  destruction.  You  your- 
selves form  too  many  competitions, 
and  out  of  your  class  these  are  more 
numerous,  ad  infinitum,  to  supplant 
you  in  the  career  of  democratic 
ambition.  The  ready  way  of  sup- 
planting is  by  setting  aside,  nor  will 
your  rivals  be  nice  in  the  manner; 
and  when  you  fall,  you  will  meet 
with  no  sympathy,  but  the  execra- 
tions of  the  people  as  the  perpetrators 
of  evil. 

'  There  is  among  you  a  Conservative 
body ;  to  them  I  need  not  appeal ; 
they  will  do  their  duty,  and  I  trust 
and  believe  there  will  be  now  no 
trimming,  no  wavering  among  them. 
The  rest  of  you  are  new,  or  Ministe- 
rial Whigs.  With  you  party  is  all. 
For  how  can  I  think  you  moved  by 
any  other  spirit,  when  your  acts  are 
diametrically  opposed  to  the  former 
published  sentiments  of  the  most 
talented  of  you,  and  organs  of  your 
party,  and  to  your  opinions  even  now 
owned  in  private?  It  is  from  this 
dream  of  party  security  I  would  have 
you  to  awake,  ere  by  your  acquies- 
cence in  revolutionary  schemes,  you 
involve  yourselves  and  every  interest 
in  the  country  in  one  common  ruin. 
You  hate  the  Tories,  and  your  hatred 
wars  against  your  interest.  It  is  un- 
questionably your  interest,  and  your 
honour  is  deeply  concerned  in  it,  to 
attach  yourselves  as  much  as  possible 
to  the  Conservatives,  that  you  may 
make  available  their  sure  aid  against 
the  enemies  of  the  monarchy.  Those 
enemies,  whom  you  have  hitherto  ta- 
ken as  your  masters,  as  you  have  been 
coarsely  reminded  by  their  paper 
The  Times.  You  have  allowed  them 
to  put  the  saddle  on  your  backs,  and 
their  hard  bit  in  your  mouths,  and 
you  have  not  power  of  yourselves  to 
shake  them  ofl^  and  they  can  use  both 
whip  and  spur,  and  boast  that  they 
gall  your  sides.  But  if  you  are  dis- 
posed to  take  your  stand,  and  in  sin- 
cerity accept,  adopt  the  good  sense 
and  good  intentions  of  the  Conserva- 
tives, who  have  really  no  present 
ambition  to  supplant  you  in  office, 
you  may  obtain  a  power,  which, 
though  I  think  you  ill  deserve,  I  for 
one  shall  rejoice  to  see  in  your 
hands. 

You  are  fully  forewarned  as  to  the 
dangerous  points  to  which  you  will 


360 


A  Last  Appeal  to  King,  Lords,  and  Commons. 


[March, 


be  urged.  Against  all  of  these  you 
must  make  a  resolute  stand.  They 
are  the  downfall  of  the  Church,  the 
abrogation  of  the  CornLaws,  sacrifice 
of  the  Colonies,  destruction  of  Cor- 
porations, and  the  Ballot. 

With  the  downfall  of  the  Church, 
you  must  know,  there  will  be  an  end 
to  the  Monarchy,  and  it  is  for  that  very 
end  that  it  is  urged  upon  you  by  the 
destructive  Republicans.  With  the 
degradation  of  the  Church,  will  be 
the  degradation  of  the  Monarchy, 
and  of  the  Peerage ;  and  England,  for 
a  time,  however  unfit  for  the  change, 
will  be  a  republic,  and  perhaps,  as 
such,  wholly  and  entirely  such,  for 
a  short  period,  more  strong  and 
sound  than  a  justly  limited  monar- 
chy mutilated;  and  this  will  recon- 
cile many  friends  of  the  Monarchy 
to  that  change.  But  this,  as  is  the 
fate  of  all  republics,  that  are  really 
such,  not  in  name  but  in  fact,  will 
be  succeeded  by  the  vilest  demo- 
cracy, ever  outrageous  in  its  bloody 
tyranny,  in  its  time  to  be  succeeded 
by  a  military  despotism.  I  believe  this 
to  be  the  natural  succession,  after  the 
first  destruction  has  been  effected. 

The  Church  is  so  interwoven  with 
the  general  ties  that  bind  and  secure 
all  property,  that  in  effecting  its 
downfall,  or  its  degradation,  you  must 
infringe  upon  the  great  law  of  pro- 
perty, and  thereby  admit  a  principle 
that  must,  if  pursued,  lead  to  con- 
fiscation ;  and  it  is  important  for  you 
to  consider,  that  you  will  never  per- 
suade the  people  to  a  belief  that  this 
conduct  towards  the  Church  is  not 
intended  as  a  punishment,  a.  proscrip- 
tion, for  the  political  opinions  of  the 
clergy.  Are  you  prepared  to  estab- 
lish such  precedent,  such  law  of  pro- 
scription, of  punishment;  and  will 
your  own  estates,  some  of  them  per- 
haps former  Church  plunder,  and 
held  on  Church  tenures,  which  you 
may  condemn  as  invalid,  be  safe 
from  the  principle  which  you  are 
called  upon  to  apply  to  the  acting, 
the  working  Church  ? 

I  say  nothing  of  such  a  contem- 
plated interference  being  an  irreli- 
gious act,  and  in  the  highest  degree 
demoralizing  in  its  effect.  You  have 
so  long  borne  enmity  to  the  Estab- 
lishment, courted  into  hostility  with 
it,  and  taken  part  with  the  Dis- 
senters, that  you  will  ever  remain 
either  blind,  or  seeing,  indifferent,  to 


these  consequences.  I  say,  simply, 
look  to  the  titles  of  your  estates.  I 
know  it  is  a  doctrine  you  have  long 
encouraged,  that  the  property  of  the 
Church  is  public  property,  and  may 
therefore  be  resumed.  You  may  use 
this  doctrine,  in  your  enmity,  to  raise 
a  cry  against,  and  intimidate  the 
clergy,  who  have  always  conscienti- 
ously opposed  you,  but  you  do  not, 
and  cannot  believe,  that  it  has  any 
foundation  of  truth  or  justice. 

You  know  that  tithes  and  other 
Church  property  were  never  a  grant 
from  Parliament,  and,  therefore,  can- 
not be  resumed.  Force  may  usurp, 
seize,  but  not  resume  what  it  never 
gave.  Such  property  were  grants 
to  the  clergy  by  the  original  proprie- 
tors of  the  lands ;  have  been  acknow- 
ledged, sanctioned,  and  protected  by 
the  laws  of  Parliaments.  But  Par- 
liaments gave  them  not,  nor  had  the 
right  to  give,  nor  can  have  the  right 
to  take  away.  Nay,  you  have  no 
more  right  even  to  change  this  pro- 
perty, or  any  part  of  it,  for  another, 
than  you  have  to  compel  Mr  Coke 
to  give  his  property  to  Mr  Hunt,  or 
Mr  Cobbett,  or  Mr  Hume,  because 
it  is  convenient  for  them  to  have  it; 
and  to  take  in  lieu  thereof  any  other 
property,  or  perhaps  an  annuity  from 
the  Funds. 

But  there  is  a  very  large  body 
most  deeply  interested  in  the  preser- 
vation of  the  Church  in  all  rights 
and  privileges,  whom,  as  the  tide 
runs,  it  may  be  dangerous  to  injure, 
— the  poor.  How  will  the  cry, "  Let 
those  pay  the  Church  who  want  its 
offices"  suit  them  ?  They  now  have 
all  the  advantages,  and  they  are 
many,  without  paying  one  farthing. 
They  have  resident  clergy  spending 
their  incomes  amongst  them,  ready 
with  their  means,  their  example,  and 
their  personal  attendance,  who  are  at 
the  sick  man's  bedside,  and  then  the 
eye  of  the  poor  man  blesses  the  cler- 
gyman. You  will  perhaps  say  that  you 
mean  not  to  effect  a  downfall  of  the 
Church ;  but  look  well,  that  your 
confidence  that  such  downfall  will 
not  be  effected  by  your  measures,  be 
not  founded  in  mere  conceit.  Where 
is  the  necessity  for  the  "  perilous 
experiment  ?"  Who  are  they  who 
demand  it?  Not  the  tithe-payers, 
but  the  city  demagogues  and  union- 
ists, who  pay  nothing,  and  desire  the 
mischief,  because  they  have  no  re» 


J833.J 


A  Last  Appeal  to  King,  Lords,  and  Commons. 


ligion,  hate  it  with  a  deadly  hatred, 
nnd  cry  "  down  with  it !  down  with 
it,  even  to  the  ground !"  detest  the 
pure  unoffending  clergy,  as  the  un- 
just citizen  who  condemned  to  death 
Aristides,  because  he  was  allowed 
1o  be  just.  They  know  that  the  up- 
rooting religion  will  prepare  the 
way  more  surely  for  the  democracy 
they  do  mean  to  establish.  Will  not 
the  poor  consider  themselves  rob- 
bed with  the  clergy,  robbed  of  their 
dearest  property,  their  rights,  a  word 
of  so  large  acceptation,  and  so  wild- 
ly misapplied  by  the  demagogues  ? 
for  the  diabolical  attempts  of  the 
press  have  not  yet  rooted  religion 
from  the  hearts  and  affections  of  the 
j.gricultural  population.  You  say 
you  have  no  such  intentions;  but 
rre  you  sure  you  are  not  under 
masters  who  have,  and  will  do  their 
utmost  to  drive  you  to  this  accom- 
plishment ? 

I  repeat  that  the  agricultural  po- 
pulation wish  no  alteration,  their 
names  are  used  by  an  evil  press, 
town  demagogues,  some  designing 
dissenters  and  unionists;  but  collect 
the  wishes  of  farmers  and  agricul- 
tural labourers  fairly,  and  I  am  con- 
iident  you  will  find  they  demand  no 
change, — that  they  dread  and  fear  it ; 
and  well  they  may,  for  they  will  be 
the  greatest  sufferers.  The  labourer 
hays,  "  I  pay  nothing  for  my  church, 
and  have  it  to  go  to ;  and  the  clergy- 
man is  my  benefactor,  my  friend;" 
the  farmer  says,  "  With  whom  can  I 
make  a  better  bargain  than  with  the 
parson  ?  I  know  how  much  more  I 
pay  my  landlord  for  lands  that  are 
tithe-free,  and  I  do  not  want  Govern- 
ment collectors  who  will  take  the 
;'ull  value." 

The  real  attack  is  upon  religion ; 
and  I  assume  that  the  first  change 
you  effect,  will  ultimately  lead  to  the 
confiscation  of  Church  property, — 
and  from  that  inevitably  to  other 
confiscation.  When  your  masters, 
"  the  people,"  falsely  called,  have 
obtained  a  Parliamentary  sanction 
'O  their  dogma  that  Church  property 
is  public  property,  and  you  shall 
lave,  under  their  direction  acting 
ijpon  it,  made  the  distribution  ac- 
cording to  your  discretion,  will  they 
3 lot  find  that  the  property  of  the 
Peerage,  and  it  may  be  one  reason 
ibr  declaring  the  Peerage  useless, 
stands  in  the  same  relation ;  and  that 


361 

the  law  which  justifies  a  more  equa- 
ble distribution  of  the  one,  will  jus- 
tify and  demand  a  more  equal  dis- 
tribution of  the  other  ?  Will  they  not 
then  soon  discover  that  aristocratic 
wealth  is  injurious  to  the  people, 
and  find  a  precedent  at  hand  for  con- 
venient mulcts  ?  For  remember  that 
the  whole  income  of  the  26  Bishop- 
rics put  together  is  under  L.I 65,000, 
(it  is  easy  to  find  many  a  two  do- 
zen of  commoners  whose  incomes 
amount  to  more,  and  offer  an  equal- 
ly tangible  temptation,)  and  that  few 
of  these,  except  twelve  of  the  best, 
from  the  necessary  expenses  atten- 
dant on  the  office  and  station,  pay 
their  own  expenses.  But  your  eco- 
nomists attempt  a  nice  distinction, 
for  which  they  have  their  secret  ob- 
ject. Church  property  is  an  unfixed 
property,  they  say;  not  like  an  estate 
devolving  from  father  to  children, 
but  distributable  among  uncertain 
persons,  therefore  the  public,  there- 
fore disposable  for  the  public.  Now 
this  principle,  if  admitted,  will  sweep 
all  corporation  funds,  all  charitable 
funds  for  uncertain  persons,  into 
those  rapacious  hands.  The  estates 
bequeathed  for  alms-houses  for  the 
poor  must  then  be  confiscated,  and 
University  foundations. 

But  Church  property  is  magnified 
into  a  mine  of  wealth  wherewith  to 
pay  the  national  debt ;  or  if  that  ho- 
nesty can  be  avoided,  to  furnish  all 
expenses  of  government.  Now  the 
amount  is  not  worth  mentioning.  By 
calculations  made  from  returns  laid 
before  Parliament,  it  is  certain  that 
in  1812,  when  wheat  was  L.I 2  per 
quarter,  the  whole  income  of  paro- 
chial clergy  from  tithes,  and  land  in 
lieu  of  tithes,  wasL.2,046,457,  Os.5£d. 
And  in  1803,  wheat  at  L  3,  19s.  2d. 
per  quarter,  the  whole  income  was 
L.1,694,991,  6s.  7|d.,  and  cannot  be 
so  much  now.  This  sum  divided 
among  the  parishes  would  give  to 
each  clergyman  about  L.I 50  per  an- 
num. There  are  11,342  livings  in 
England  and  Wales,  not  four  livings 
worth  L.4000,  not  thirty  in  all  Eng- 
land worth  L.2000  a-year,  4361  un- 
der L.I 50  each. 

The  total  amount  of  Cathedral 
property  is  under  L.300,000,  which, 
divided  among  Deans  arid  Preben- 
daries, would  not  produce  L.500  a- 
year  to  each.  Many  prebendal  stalls 
are  not  worth  any  thing  whatever, 


A  Last  Appeal  to  King,  Lords,  and  Commons.  [March, 


conferring  merely  honorary  titles. 
Sum  up  all  these  together,  bishop- 
rics, tithes,  and  cathedral  property, 
it  amounts  to  little  more  than 
L.2,000,00[) ;  and  if  this  sum  was  di- 
vided, unjustly  abolishing  Deans,  and 
Chapters,  and  Bishops,  among  all  the 
parishes,  each  clergyman  would 
barely  receive  L.200  a-year. 

Then,  calculate  the  expenses  ne- 
cessarily attendant  on  clerical  edu- 
cation ;  that  preparation  without 
which  not  even  a  poor  curacy  can  be 
obtained,  much  less  a  living,  which, 
to  many  never  falls,  and  to  few  be- 
fore thirty  years  of  age ;  the  expen- 
ses of  aa  education  that  ensures  to 
the  poor  competent  teachers,  and 
diffuses  its  kindly  and  polishing  in- 
fluence among  those  classes  that 
have  little  communication  with  the 
higher ;  and  you  will  find  that  the 
clergyman,  perhaps  generally  speak- 
ing, might  have  purchased  a  better 
annuity  for  his  money.  Then  again, 
in  fair  honesty  tell  the  people,  that  if 
there  be,  as  you  say,  prizes,  good 
things  in  the  Church,  that  they  are 
not  hereditary,  but  are  generally,  or 
may  in  a  great  measure  be  made  to 
be,  the  rewards  of  the  learning  and 
piety  of  the  middle  and  lower  among 
themselves.  They  are  not  prizes  in 
a  chance  lottery,  and  if  they  were,  the 
chances  would  be  to  the  people; 
but  they  are  generally  rewards,  and 
the  necessary  preparation  and  quali- 
fication for  order  provides,  as  well 
as  human  means  can  devise — and  if 
not,  let  the  wisdom  of  the  legislature 
be  directed  to  that  point — that  those 
on  whom  the  prizes  fall  shall  be  fit 
to  receive  them,  and  the  public  be- 
nefit by  the  acceptance. 

But  the  «  Church  of  England"  is 
likewise  the  Church  in  Ireland,  and 
let  not  the  predicament  of  the  Church 
there  induce  you,  while  you  pro- 
fess to  maintain  the  integrity  of  the 
Union,  to  give  such  a  precedent  to 
the  Repealers  for  annulling  it  as  you 
must  do,  if  you  sanction  the  abroga- 
tion of  the  fundamental  law  of  that 
Union,  the  recognition  of  one  and  the 
same  Church  in  all  its  rights  and  pri- 
vileges. If  you  are  repealers  for  the 
Church,youcannotcomplain  if  others 
are  repealers  for  the  State.  It  is  said 
to  be  the  intention  of  Earl  Grey  to 
bring  in  a  bill,  making  it  high  trea- 
son to  propose  the  repeal  of  the 
Union;  with  what  face  can  he  do 


this,  and  preface  the  act  by  the  an- 
nulment of  its  fundamental  article  y 
But  it  will  become  you  honestly  and 
boldly  to  tell  the  people  what  you 
know  to  be  the  origin  of  this  state  of 
things  in  Ireland  ?  Why  the  Church 
is  there  so  audaciously  and  systema- 
tically attacked,  and  how  the  weak- 
ness or  mistaken  policy  of  Govern- 
ment has  emboldened,  and  brought 
into  fearful  power,  the  priesthood 
and  Catholic  population  ?  Would  it 
not  be  honest  to  tell  the  people  from 
your  seats  in  Parliament,  that  such 
has  been  the  zeal  and  pious  toil  of 
the  Protestant  clergy  in  Ireland,  as- 
sisted by  Protestant  Education  and 
Bible  Societies,  and  the  building  of 
churches,  that  the  superstitions  of 
Catholicism  were  yielding  to  the 
gospel  light  and  spirit  of  truth ;  that 
the  priests  became  alarmed,  as  with 
the  superstitions  must  fall  their 
power  and  advantage  ?  Like  the 
priests  of  old,  "  the  pulers,  eld- 
ers, and  scribes,"  "  the  high  priest, 
and  as  many  as  were  of  the  kind- 
red of  the  High  Priest,  were  gathered 
together,"  and  "  beholding  the  man 
healed,  and  standing  among  them, 
they  could  say  nothing  against  it;" 
and  "conferred  among  themselves, 
saying,  what  shall  we  do  to  these 
men  ?  for  that  indeed  a  notable  mira- 
cle has  been  done  by  them  is  mani- 
fest to  all,  and  we  cannot  deny  it  ;" 
"  but  that  it  spread  no  further  among 
the  people,  let  us  straitly  threaten 
them,  that  they  speak  henceforth  no 
more  in  this  name ;  and  they  com- 
manded them  not  to  speak  at  all  nor 
teach  in  the  name  of  Jesus."  The 
man  healed  was  the  sight  they  could 
not  bear,  of  old  as  now.  They  feared 
their  Dagon  would  fall  on  his  face, 
before  the  presence  of  the  ark,  with 
the  loss  of  head  and  hands.  They 
knew  how  easily  their  congregations 
were  to  be  inflamed ;  they  turned  them 
from  religion  to  politics,  they  preach- 
ed not  even  their  traditions,  but  se- 
dition, and  bloodthirsty  systematic 
villainy  from  the  very  altars ;  held  out 
to  the  poor,  whom  they  had  render- 
ed poorer  and  more  wretched  by 
their  agitation,  prospects  of  the  pos- 
session of  estates,  enjoyment  of  pro- 
perty, and  directed  their  first  attack, 
as  a  necessary  preliminary  step,  on 
tithes,  the  surest  defeat  of  their  op- 
ponents; and  upon  the  Protestant 
clergy,  whose  property  was  to  be 


1833.]  A  Last  Appeal  to 

plunder,  "lawful"  plunder.  Left 
free  from  agitation,  the  mass  of  the 
people  would  be  converted  to  the 
Protestant  faith ;  no  matter,  then,  if 
agitation  produce  robbery,  murder, 
and  cruelties  that  would  disgrace  the 
veriest  savages.  They  must  be  irri- 
tated by  constant  agitation,  kept  up 
to  their  execrable  works  by  the  most 
infamous  promises.  The  price  of 
blood  was  proclaimed.  And  in  this 
mischief,  the  Catholic  priesthood 
met  with  more  than  government 
protection  ;  they  felt  encouragement. 
The  Protestants  alone  were  dis- 
couraged, Bible  education  almost 
prohibited,  the  Protestant  magistracy 
insulted  and  degraded,  law  and  the 
fear  of  it  setaside,universal  terrorism 
established;  lawless  perjured  inso- 
lence and  wickedness  predominant. 
And  it  is  to  these  scoundrels,  with  a 
vain  hope  that  you  can  reconcile 
the  fiends  by  the  sacrifice,  that  you 
would  yield  up  the  rights  and  privi- 
leges of  the  Church,. made  one,  by  the 
bond  of  the  Union,  with  the  Church 
of  England  ?  And  you  think  that  agi- 
tation will  then  cease,  and  that  you 
can  conquer  an  insatiable  spirit,  by 
yielding  in  part  to  its  demands  ?  that 
you  can  extinguish  flame  by  feeding 
it  with  fuel  ? 

The  demon  well  knows  his  king- 
dom to  be  insecure,  until  there  is  a 
total  separation  from,  or  extinction 
of  Protestantism. 

General  plunder,  perhaps  general 
massacre,  for  so  it  has  been,  may  be 
now  in  the  schemes  of  the  rebels. 

Infidels,  anarchists,  and  republi- 
cans, in  England,  will  be  glad  to 
adopt  what  part  of  the  precedent  in 
Ireland  suits  their  views,  and  in  their 
time  by  similar  agitation,  and  per- 
haps similar  results,  give  the  last 
blow  to  our  mutilated  empire.  The 
Fiend  of  the  Fisherman,  escapingfrom 
his  glass  case,  will  sweep  across  the 
Channel  in  his  expanded  volume  of 
smoke,  assume  on  this  land  some 
new  gigantic  form ;  and  then  what 
power  will  charm  him  back  into  his 
prison,  and  sink  him  again  in  the 
deep? 

You  have  now  to  grapple  manfully 
with  rebellion,  to  yield  nothing ;  and 
you  will  be  responsible  for  all  the 
dreadful  consequences,  if  you  shew 
further  impotence,  and  put  not  forth 
your  insulted  strength.  You  must 
secure  the  Catholic  population  from 
the  Catholic  priesthood ;  you  must 


Lords,  and  Commons. 


363 


suppress  agitation;  and  the  Protestant 
seed,  which  has  been,  and  will  be 
again  widely  scattered,  will  spring  up 
and  give  increase.  This  you  must  en- 
courage, and  the  blessing  of  God  will 
reward  your  labours ; — a  contrary 
conduct  will  be  your  crime,  and  your 
punishment.  Be  not  deceived— the 
Churches  of  England  and  Ireland  are 
one.  The  blow  that  levels  the  one 
will  level  the  other.  I  know  that, 
ultimately,  the  "  gates  of  hell  shall 
not  prevail  against  her."  Her  tem- 
porary removal  or  degradation  may 
be  permitted  in  punishment  of  a 
guilty  nation. 

Your  tyrant  masters  of  the  Unions 
will  likewise  demand  of  you  the  ab- 
rogation of  the  Corn  Laws — and  to 
this  they  will  mainly  be  instigated 
by  two  motives.  They  hate  the  aristo- 
cracy, all  aristocratic  distinction,  and 
will  go  great  lengths  to  injure  the 
great  landholders  in  their  property  ; 
they  will  do  what  they  can  to  bur- 
then it  with  taxation,  and  reduce  its 
value ;  and  in  their  selfish  and  short- 
sighted policy,  they  will  demand 
cheap  bread,  simply  because  they  do 
not  grow  it.  They  have  been  en- 
couraged in  their  selfishness,  and  have 
been  taught  that  they  might  enrich 
themselves  by  the  villainous  game 
of  "beggar  my  neighbour."  Knowing 
this  system  must  lead  to  the  desired 
confusion,  the  republicans  and  an- 
archists have  by  all  means  promoted 
it,  and  dignified  their  impudent  dog- 
mas with  the  title  of  philosophy. 
But  I  said,  it  is  a  selfi  shand  short- 
sighted policy.  The  manufacturer's 
best  customer  is  his  home  customer; 
he  is  the  safest.  Effect  the  ruin,  or 
curtail  the  means  of  the  agriculturist, 
the  great  home  customer,  and  where 
in  the  end  will  shopkeeper  and  ma- 
nufacturer be?  The  manufacturer 
will  look  in  vain  tomarkets  whose  real 
interests,  or  compulsion  of  Govern- 
ments, or  high  duties,  may  keep  him 
out  of,  and  he  will  have  either  lost  or 
injured  his  best  and  readiest.  But 
this  is  not  all.  Even  those  classes, 
the  agriculturists,  will  not,  with  the 
patience  expected  of  them,  suffer 
long.  The  operatives  and  manufac- 
turers have  now  the  greatest  facility 
in  combining  against  the  farmer,  land- 
holder, and  agricultural  labourer  ; 
but  necessity,  distrust,  and  engen- 
dered hostility,  may  teach  the  art  of 
combining,  and  create  facilities  for 
the  purpose  among  the  latter  also. 


£64  A  Last  Appeal  to  Kinyy 

They  may  be  taught  by  their  ene- 
mies, and  shame  it  is  they  should  be 
their  own  countrymen  !  The  farmers 
and  their  labourers  begin  to  be  alive 
to  their  interests,  and  to  form  them- 
selves into  societies  and  clubs  of 
protection.  They  have  hitherto  seen 
their  ricks  and  barns  burnt  by  re- 
volutionists, with  a  patience  it  has 
required  all  the  art  of  the  Reformers 
to  keep  in  good  trim.  But  they  now 
suspect  there  was  more  in  the  plots 
than  they  were  made  acquainted 
with ;  a  few  more  barns  and  houses 
burnt  over  their  heads,  under  the  cry 
of  "  cheap  bread,"  may  drive  them 
to  meetings,  and  retaliation  where 
they  find  the  cry  raised ;  and  Eng- 
land may  have,  after  the  example  of 
Ireland,  her  "  Volunteers"  and  ma- 
nufactories may  blaze.  The  town 
operative  mobs  may  again  rush  forth 
with  their  revolutionary  banners  to 
set  fire  to  the  castles,  mansions,  and 
farms  of  the  aristocratic  landowner ; 
and  the  farmer  and  labourer  see 
no  security  for  themselves  in  that. 
The  work  of  demolition  is  a  fearful 
thing,  and  the  cry  of  "  cheap  bread" 
may  be  driven  back  to  the  manufac- 
tory in  irresistible  flames;  and  the 
injured,  insulted  country  population 
carry  their  firebrands  into  the  towns, 
and  to  the  very  ships  that  shall  con- 
vey the  foreign  corn  to  our  shores. 
I  know  this  cannot  be  of  long  con- 
tinuance while  there  is  law,  (and 
Sray  that  it  may  never  be,  for  it  is 
readful  to  contemplate,  the  very 
possibility  should  be  a  warning,) 
but  democratic  license  may  attain  a 
violence  that  may  defy  law.  If  in- 
terest is  perpetually  set  against  in- 
terest, class  against  class,  (under  a 
good  government  they  are  but  one 
interest,)  the  nation  must  become 
bands  opposing  each  other,  and  too 
many  will  be  robbers,  plunderers, 
and  incendiaries,  to  be  suppressed 
by  nothing  but  the  strong  hand  of 
military  law  and  despotism,  a  dicta- 
torship to  be  hailed  as  a  mercy,  and 
forced  upon  the  people,  made  willing 
by  the  necessity. 

These  are  views  of  wretchedness, 
but  they  are  the  exact  consequence 
of  measures  that  have  been  so  opera- 
tive in  France,  and  which  we  appear 
too  much  inclined  to  pursue.  Such 
is  the  natural  course  of  selfish,  sus- 
picious, mean  democracy. 

I  deny  not  that  there  are  many 
well-meaning  persons,  but  bewil- 


Lords,  and  Commons. 


[March, 


dered,  self-called  philosophers,  who 
very  sapiently  and  graciously  enter- 
tain the  abrogation  of  the  Corn  Laws ; 
but  I  have  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand how  their  minds  can  be  duped 
by  their  reasoning.  They  appear  to 
have  lain  in  bed  the  greater  part  of 
their  lives,  and  dreamed  of  human 
society.  They  know  not  what  it  is. 
They  take  the  oddest  whims  and 
fancies  for  wisdom.  Sir  H.  Parnell 
asserts  that  the  country  will  save 
L.  12,000,000  a-year  by  abolishing  the 
Corn  Laws  !  What !  at  no  loss  to 
any  ?  Yes,  he  admits  the  landowners 
will  be  to  some  extent  sufferers; 
that  many  lands  will  be  out  of  cul- 
tivation ;  but  never  mind,  proprietors 
will  be  the  only  sufferers,  and  some 
must  be  sacrifice'd,  (and  will  they 
not  lose  exactly  this  L.I 2,000,000  ?) 
But  what  does  he  say  of  the  farm- 
ers and  the  labourers  thrown  out, 
and  the  capital  no  longer  so  em- 
ployed ?  "  O  rem  incredibilem" — 
so  much  the  better,  they  are  all  to 
go  to  the  manufactory.  The  manu- 
facturer, wonderful  word,  is  con- 
verted  by  instantaneous  metamor- 
phosis from  the  rough  hide,  with  an 
exultation  as  if  he  were  the  Great 
Mogul  of  the  Cotton  Empire,— the 
real  "  Monarch  of  all  he  surveys  !" 
Here  is  a  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture, particularly  of  the  habits  of  the 
agriculturist!  The  robust  farmer, 
with  his  sturdy  and  colossal  stride 
across  his  furrows,  and  with  lusty 
lungs  that  emulate  the  bellowing  of 
his  own  bulls,  to  be  chained  down  to 
a  loom  and  wheels  and  spinning- 
jennies,  to  be  kicked,  perhaps,  by  the 
asinine  hoofs  of  the  puniest,  and  cuf- 
fed for  his  inexperience  by  the  slip- 
per of  some  dwindled  abortion  of 
the  Political  Union,  that  will  threaten 
him  into  submission  by  the  mention 
of  committee  or  inquisition !  Over- 
production is  of  course  an  impossi- 
bility. "  The  castles  in  the  air" 
have  their  inmates  to  be  supplied, 
and,  living  on  air,  want  not  to  be  fed, 
and  will  take  off  the  stock  wonder- 
fully, find  steam  may  reach  the  moon, 
and  sublunar  markets  scarcely  be 
thought  of.  'Tisthe  most  egregious 
and  consummate  folly  that  ever  dis- 
graced the  human  brain.  It  invests 
with  comparative  wisdom  the  school 
of  Laputa,  and  projectors  of  Lagado, 
who,  while  their  projects  were  ri- 
pening to  perfection,  had  nothing  else 
on  earth  ripening,  but  let  their  whole 


1 833.]  A  Last  Appeal  to  King,  Lords,  and  Commons. 

country   lie   miserably  waste,   and 


365 


tl  e  more  they  tailed  were  the  more 
violently  bent  on  prosecuting  their 
absurdities.  These  our  philosophers 
are  worthy  of  precedence  in  the 
court  of  Queen  Whims,  and  to  be 
ft-d  gratuitously  on  categories  and 
abstractions  all  the  rest  of  their  lives. 

I  do  trust,  that,  as  you  must  see 
tlie  folly  of  those  schemes,  you 
\\ill  advance  one  step  further,  and 
soe  that  it  is  wickedness  that  will 
urge  you  to  gratify  these  incurable 
philosophers;  and  that  it  will  be  un- 
pirdonable  in  you  to  yield  to  the 
silfish  clamour  of  your  present 
masters — and  a  wretched  policy  too 
— for  they  will  bring  the  punishment 
01  you,  when  they  find  that  you 
hive  injured  them,  by  attending  to 
their  demands.  But  if  they  now 
prevail  on  you  to  accede  to  their 
Views  in  this  respect,  they  see  that 
si  tipping  will  be  wanted  to  convey 
aU  this  foreign  corn,  to  feed  Eng- 
land with,  to  our  shores ;  certain,  of 
course,  that  foreign  nations  will  let 
us  have  at  all  times,  peace  or  war, 
this  corn,  and  allow  our  vessels  to 
bring  it.  The  Colonies  now  employ 
shipping;  therefore,  that  shipping 
may  be  to  spare,  you  must  sacrifice 
the  Colonies,  and  yield  to  the  fana- 
tic's wicked  cry  for  emancipation  of 
slaves,  though  it  lead  to  the  certain 
ruin  of  the  planters,  massacre  of  the 
whites,  and  destruction  of  the  ne- 
groes by  the  hands  of  each  other. 
And  then,  though  seven  millions  of 
exported  manufactures  and  import 
duties  be  the  loss,  the  shipping,  they 
fondly  think,  may  be  employed  in 
their  new  corn  trade.  But  no  such 
vessels  will  ever  be  so  employed, 
nor  will  foreign  Powers  then  allow 
it,  to  save  all  the  Whig  Philosophers 
and  Political  Economists  in  the  em- 
pire from  starvation.  The  Colonies 
will  be  gone,  manufacturers  ruin- 
ed, innumerable  and  therefore  the 
n<ore  starving,  as  they  are  become 
by  the  addition  of  the  loom-driving 
fc;rmers.  The  agriculturist,  in  this 
c  ise,  has  been  ruined,  our  suprema- 
cy at  sea  annihilated, — and  cooped 
up  in  our  island,  the  "nation  of 
shopkeepers"  will  have  neither  cus* 
tomers  nor  bread. 

I  talk  not  to  you  now  of  the  injus- 
tice to  the  Colonies;  that  horrid  word 
h  is  been  hid  out  of  sight,  covered 
by  the  mantle  of  fanaticism;  and 
there  are  state  reasons  of  the  new 


philosophy,  why  it  should  be  called 
sanctity  and  righteousness.  You 
may  so  call  it,  but  you  will  mean  ex- 
pediency. But  I  tell  you,  that  when 
your  Colonies  are  lost — the  large 
empire  dismembered — the  people  in 
agitation,  bankruptcy,  beggary,  and 
all  kinds  of  distress — and  the  whole 
power  of  the  state  consequently 
crippled,  a  new  attempt  may  be 
made  by  France,  shaking  off  her 
present  despicable  government,  and 
again,  under  the  influence  of  their 
genius  and  military  despotism,  to 
establish  a  universal  dominion;  and 
Great  Britain,  the  glory  of  nations, 
if  it  succeed,  may  come  under  her 
bondage,  her  long  sought,  and  most 
hated  of  her  Provinces.  You  are  to 
enquire  of  yourselves  how  you  are 
provided  with  defence. 

You  will  likewise,  possibly,  be  im- 
mediately called  upon  to  infringe 
upon  the  integrity  of  your  "final 
measure,"  by  yielding  the  Ballot,  the 
mischief  of  which  is  confessed  by 
Lord  John  Russell — who  is  neverthe- 
less prepared  to  entertain  it — to  be 
incalculable,  beyond  the  conception 
of  the  people,  and  his  power  of 
shewing.  And  in  the  spirit  of  the 
Ballot,  all  corporations  are  to  be  re- 
modelled, that  the  management  of 
their  property  may  fall  into  needy 
hands,  and  that  brawling  and  bank- 
rupt demagogues  may  be  perpe- 
tually disturbing  the  peace  of  towns 
and  cities,  with  corporation  funds 
at  their  disposal,  maintain  a  danger- 
ous, overawing,  magisterial  author- 
ity, bowing  only  to  the  supremacy 
of  a  Directory  or  Political  Union. 
I  do  not  ask  you  if  the  charity  funds 
will  fall  into  safer  hands,  be  bet- 
ter distributed,  of  more  even-handed 
justice  dealt,  especially  when  the 
new  dogma  shall  be  established,  that 
corporation  property  is  public  pro- 
perty, and  may  be  confiscated  for 
public  purposes,  of  which  the  dis- 
tributors may  take  upon  themselves 
to  be  judges.  You  know  quite  other- 
wise, and  that  these  funds,  and  this 
power,  are  sought  both  for  their  own 
value,  and  for  the  purpose  of  ma- 
king and  keeping  in  pay  political  con- 
verts. 

I  hope  you  will  put  all  these  se- 
veral schemes  together,  and  see  that 
they  are  of  connexion  with  each 
other ;  that  they  are  all  of  the  Move- 
ment, of  the  Old  Corresponding  So- 
ciety, United  Irishmen,  and  other 


A  Last  Appeal  to  King,  Lords,  and  Commons. 


[March, 


Unions,  and  that  they  are  intended, 
under  the  promise  of  your  engineer- 
ing ability,  to  be  brought  to  bear 
against  the  Monarchy  ;  and  that  may 
be  as  powerless  as  the  old  fortress  of 
Antwerp,  which  the  Whig  Ministry, 
by  the  assistance  of  an  immense 
French  army — ever  to  be  at  command 
— have  so  successfully  assaulted. 

In  all  these  schemes  I  have  simply 
considered  your  assent  or  dissent. 
I  have  not  asked  of  you  what  will 
your  conduct  be,  if,  assented  to  by 
you,  they  should  be  opposed  by  both 
or  either  of  the  other  estates  of  the 
realm,  the  House  of  Lords  and  the 
King.  The  question  must  be  put, 
Are  you  prepared  to  insist  upon 
your  own  supremacy,  to  resist,  and 
to  recommend  resistance  to  the  pay- 
ment of  taxes  ?  Are  you  prepared 
again  to  demand  the  suppression  of 
the  legitimate  voice  of  the  Peers ;  or 
to  demand  of  the  King  the  virtual 
abdication  of  his  power,  or  delega- 
tion of  it  into  your  hands,  and  an 
unconstitutional  use  of  his  preroga- 
tive, tyrannically  stretched  to  meet 
your  oppression  ?  If  you  are  so  far 
prepared,  you  will  do  well  to  con- 
sider before  you  act,  if  usurpation, 
if  tyranny,  be  only  words  applicable 
to  princes,  when  their  subjects  may 
wish  to  dethrone  them ;  or,  if  you 
think  them  the  realities  proclaimed 
against  in  all  the  declarations  of  Whig 
principles,  very  constitutional  trea- 
son, and  rendering  the  perpetators 
of  them  amenable  to  the  sternest 
justice. 

I  confess,  it  fills  me  with  fear,  it 
creates  a  sickness,  a  loathing  of  the 
profession  of  political  principles,  to 
hear  the  daily  discussions  on  "  What 
will  the  Reformed  House  of  Com- 
mons do  ?"  However  insane  the 
schemes  conjectured  are,  and  even 
admitted  so  to  be,  no  one  seems  to 
dream  of  the  existence  of  any  legis- 
latorial  check,  in  either  the  House 
of  Lords  or  the  King.  This  is  fear- 
ful, as  it  is  an  indication  of  two 
things,  an  admitted  irresistible  power 
of  the  Movement  party,  and  the  apa- 
thy, or  cowardice  rather,  of  the  com- 
munity that  can  tamely  bear  it.  But 
so  it  is,  and  yet  the  House  of  Peers 
have  their  duties  to  perform.  Will 
they  perform  them  ?  What  does  ex- 
perience tell  me  ?  Cover  it  as  you 
will,  the  proudest  have  submitted. 
They  have  been  too  careful  of  their 
"  Order,"  they  have  preserved  it 


from  some  present  pollution,  but  I 
cannot  disguise  it,  that  they  have 
taken  a  stain  upon  themselves,  and 
yet  have  scarcely  preserved  their 
Order  from  pollution,  certainly  not 
from  insult,  which,  suffered,  is  akin  to 
it.  I,  as  bearing  allegiance  to  the 
Constitution,  have  nothing  to  do 
with  their  Order,,  but  as  a  constitu- 
tional body  of  protecting  power. 
The  moment  they  consider  their 
Order  their  caste,  it  becomes  nothing 
to  me.  If  it  have  no  power  to  pro- 
tect me  from  popular  fury,  or  the 
encroachment  of  sovereign  power, 
it  is  simply  an  exclusive  class,  and 
my  pride  rises  against  it.  If  they 
submit  to  a  republican  power,  will  not 
the  honour  of  their  mere  Order  be 
justly  contemned?  I  admire  the  spirit 
of  the  Earl  of  Caernarvon,  entreat- 
ing to  be  restored  to  the  civil  power 
of  a  commoner,  being  stript  of  that 
of  a  peer.  The  one  has,  at  least,  the 
dignity  of  an  aspiring  and  active  am- 
bition; the  other,  thus  stript,  the  hu- 
miliation and  impotence  of  degrada- 
tion. 

The  House  of  Peers  is  again  called 
to  the  defence  of  what  remains  of 
our  Constitutional  Fortress.  In  alarm 
and  almost  expectation  of  a  total  de- 
molition, with  the  fall  of  which,  the 
safety  of  myself,  as  one  of  the  people, 
and  all  I  hold  dear  depends,  I  would 
thus  make  my  earnest  appeal  to 
them: 

I  would  wish  to  address  you  thus: 
— My  Lords  Spiritual  and  Temporal, 
—but  I  regret  that  I  am  compelled  to 
address  you  separately,  for  it  is  one 
of  the  favourite  schemes  of  the  day, 
that  the  Lords  Spiritual  should  be 
ejected.  Then,  my  Lords  Temporal, 
as  this  scheme  may,  I  know  not  how 
soon,  be  brought  before  you,  allow 
me  to  suggest  a  doubt,  if  one  party 
have  a  right  to  eject  the  other.  If 
it  be  the  right  of  King,  Commons, 
and  Lords  Temporal,  to  eject  the 
Lords  Spiritual,  would  you  ac- 
knowledge a  right  in  the  King,  Com- 
mons, and  Lords  Spiritual,  to  eject 
you?  You  would  not.  Have  you 
not  then  only  equal  right  to  your 
seats  ?  Neither  you  nor  the  people, 
in  their  senses,  can  acknowledge  any 
power  of  ejection.  If  done,  you  will 
admit  it  to  be  in  violation  of  all  law. 
But  suppose  you  do  sanction  such 
violence,  will  you  not  thereby  sanc- 
tion the  other  House,  should  they 
declare  your  ejectment,  should  they 


J  833.] 


A  Last  Appeal  to  King>  Lords,  and  Commons. 


declare  Parliament  supreme  without 
your  So, likewise,  should  you  sanc- 
tion the  new  distribution  of  thei  re- 
venues of  the  Lords  Spiritual,  ac- 
cording to  fancies  of  your  own,  or 
jf  the  other  House,  may  not  this 
right  be  stretched  to  reach  your  own  ? 

It  is  very  probable  that  you  will 
>e  at  issue  with  the  Reformed  Com- 
nons'  House  of  Parliament.  It  is 
very  probable,  there  will  be  again  a 
cry  to  suppress  your  voice.  What 
will  you  do?  If  you  are  to  be  de- 
graded, if  your  order  is  to  be  pollu- 
ted, let  it  not  be  with  your  own  con- 
sent. For  there  is  more  real  degra- 
dation in  yielding  to  intimidation, 
ihan  in  the  actual  contamination  of 
your  order  by  a  disgraceful  influx. 
Let  the  act  be  the  act  of  those  who 
dare  do  it.  If  you  would  retain  the 
respect  of  the  people,  as  .well  as 
your  proper  usefulness,  for  which 
you  were  created,  yield  not  one  step. 
Whatever  be  the  consequences,  be 
irm  in  honourable  duty,  and  in  due 
iime  you  will  brand  the  Ministers, 
vvho  dare  advise  such  an  act,  with 
nfamy,  and  you  may  in  the  end 
rescue  your  country. 

In  the  permanent  security  of  your 
titles,  privileges,  and  estates,  I  see 
the  safety  of  my  own  little  means 
and  rights  ;  and  be  assured  the  peo- 
ple will  in  the  end  support  you,  if 
you  will  stand  firm  in  your  post, 
where  you  are  placed  for  their  good. 
":'.  cannot  but  think  the  resolution  of 
t  submission  and  retirement,  some  of 
you  took,  most  unfortunate.  You 
tihould  have  made  no  compromise. 
The  consequence  now  is,  that  you 
are  too  much  passed  by  in  public 
calculation  and  political  estimation, 
four  voice  is  not  thought  of.  "  What 
•  vill  the  Lords  do  ?"  is  not  now  ask- 
ed. May  you  recover  your  true  dig- 
nity and  power,  for  to  you  must  we 
mainly  look.  If  you  again  retire  from 
jiny  one  contest,  and  surrender  what 
yet  remains  of  the  Constitution,  will 
lot  the  people  justly  think  your  Or- 
ler  unnecessary,  and  offending  their 
jride  ? 

It  is  not  necessary  to  entreat  your 
forbearance  with  respect  to  those 
jther  schemes,  the  subject  of  my 
appeal  to  the  other  House.  I  am 
i  atisjied  that  none  of  them  will  ori- 
:  jinate  with  you,  or  obtain  your  sanc- 
aon.  I  can  only  entreat  you  to  main- 
lain  the  integrity  of  your  constitu- 
ional  power,  and  to  give  your  dis- 


367 

sent,  so  that  if  a  despot  Minister  be 
determined  to  carry  such  measures, 
let  the  acts  be  done  by  his  menials 
and  wretches,  marched  in  files  into 
your  House,  with  honours  that  dis- 
grace in  the  giving,  as  taking,  and 
not  by  yourselves.  Stand  aloof  from 
the  iniquity,  and  the  time  may  come 
when  a  better  sense  of  public  justice 
may  separate  the  assassins  from  your 
Order. 

My  Lords  Spiritual — There  was  a 
time  when  seven  Bishops  remonstra- 
ted with  their  Sovereign,  suffered 
imprisonment  in  the  Tower,  and 
trial,  and  would  have  endured  mar- 
tyrdom, rather  than  assist  in  the  de- 
gradation of  the  Church.  England 
is  now  grateful  to  the  pious  memo- 
ries of  those  men.  Had  they  con- 
ceded, they  would  have  been  spurn- 
ed by  the  people,  who  almost  adored 
them  ;  and  they  saved  the  Church, 
they  saved  the  nation  from  tyranny. 
There  are  none  whom  it  more  be- 
comes, by  your  firmness  under  per- 
secution, to  shew  the  zeal  and  effect 
of  your  religion,  than  yourselves, 
whether  persecution  be  in  evil  re- 
port, or  personal  danger,  or  both. 
These  are  times  when  it  becomes 
you  to  manifest  boldness,  not  only 
in  the  resolution  of  your  minds,  but 
in  your  speech.  Need  may  be,  that 
you  "  cry  aloud  and  spare  not."  I 
know  another  practice  is  enjoined 
you  :  You  are  reminded  daily,  hour- 
ly, of  Christian  meekness,  and  insults 
are  heaped  upon  you  to  try  your  ac- 
quirement of  the  lesson.  The  ferule 
of  the  "schoolmaster"  is  raised  above 
the  crosier  ;  and  you  have  been  told 
in  your  places  in  Parliament  to  "  put 
your  houses  in  order,"  "  for  you  shall 
die,  and  not  live  !"  Some  of  you  want 
not  due  energy,  courage,  and  com- 
manding eloquence,  to  make  the 
proud  insulter  quail ;  and,  therefore, 
you  will  even  from  high  quarters  be 
again  recommended  all  Christian 
meekness  and  forbearance,  and  to 
lay  your  cheek  to  the  smiter's  hand, 
and  to  use  most  gentle  terms  in  re- 
ply. You  may  tell  them  this  is  no 
Christian  duty,  perhaps  a  relinquish- 
ment  of  duty ;  that  you  are  to  "  be 
angry,  and  sin  not."  When  St  Paul, 
by  command  of  the  High  Priest,  was 
smitten  on  the  mouth,  he  called  the 
smiter  "  a  whited  wall."  Yet  you 
dare  not  imitate  the  Apostle,  but 
must  use  soft  words.  What  was  oc- 
casionally the  language,  and  bearing, 


A  Last  Appeal  to  King,  Lords,  and  Commons. 


368 

too,  of  your  Blessed  Lord  and  Mas- 
ter : — "  Woe  unto  you,  Scribes  and 
Pharisees,  ye  hypocrites,  for  ye  are 
like  unto  whited  sepulchres,  which 
indeed  appear  beautiful  outward,  but 
are  within  full  of  dead  men's  bones, 
and  all  uncleanness ;"  and  did  not 
He  whip  the  offenders  out  of  the 
Temple  ?  It  may  be  thought  conve- 
nient to  smite  you  also  on  the  month, 
that  your  mouth  may  be  silent ;  but 
boldness,  unsparing  boldness  even 
of  speech,  may  be  a  Christian  duty, 
when  meekness  would  be  no  virtue. 
Generally,  your  timidity  or  apathy 
has  been  quite  appalling  to  the 
Christian  community.  Had  you  made 
some  appeal  to  the  Christian  public 
conjointly,  warning  all  men  against 
infidel  attacks,  and  the  consequences 
of  degrading  the  Church,  and  shew- 
ing forth  the  truth,  you  would  have 
raised  a  spirit  that  might  have  defied 
the  malice  that  is  now  so  powerful 
against  you.  Your  mistaken  forbear- 
ance and  timidity,  with  an  exception 
on  the  part  of  the  Bishop  of  Exeter, 
gives  despair  to  the  whole  Church. 
I  would  not  see  his  Grace  of  Canter- 
bury a  Becket,  but  a  trifle  of  the 
courageous  bearing  of  a  Becket 
would  be  no  great  evil.  We  should 
not  have  witnessed  the  wavering, 
the  conceding — the  bringing  forward 
measures,  and  postponing  them  and 
withdrawing  them,  and  being  foiled 
by  the  wiles  of  craftier  politicians. 
Nor  would  the  general  clergy  have 
been  so  utterly  kept  in  the  dark  with 
regard  to  proposed  measures ;  and 
they  might  with  advantage  have  been 
consulted. 

At  your  hands,  my  Lords,  under 
Providence,  the  Church  looks  for 
defence  for  the  preservation  of  all 
her  rights  and  privileges ;  demands 
of  you  that  you  make  no  compro- 
mise, no  barter.  If  you  succeed  not, 
you  are  to  suffer  all  that  persecution 
and  malice  may  inflict,  that  your 
Church  may  triumph  after  you,  and 
in  you. 

Give  not  the  people  the  least  rea- 
son to  suspect  that  you  value  a  life- 
interest  above  the  permanent  inte- 
rest of  the  Church.  Stand  upon  the 
titles  of  the  estates  of  the  clergy; 
deny  any  power  of  interference.  "Al- 
low not  the  forbearance  of  the  clergy 
in  not  claiming  the  full  amount  due 
to  them,  if  it  be  a  merit,  to  be  taken 
from  them,  and  be  made  the  basis  of 
a  commutation.  Strip  them  not  of 


[March, 


this  grace  of  their  forbearance.  Even 
if  a  secure  commutation  can  be  made, 
it  must  be  upon  the  equity- value  of 
the  clergy's  rights,  not  according  to 
the  measure  of  their  contentment, 
that  bears  with  it  the  grace  of  giving. 
Yet  is  this  forbearance  made  a  plea 
for  a  low  valuation,  but  it  is  iniqui- 
tous. If  a  kind  landlord  have  taken 
low  rents,  or  have  thrown  back  a 
portion,  is  there  any  equity  in  for- 
cing him  for  ever  to  accept  a  some- 
thing in  lieu,  estimated  from  his  le- 
nity ?  This  would  be  robbery  esta- 
blished by  law.  You  can  never  ac- 
quiesce in  any  such  measures  that 
would  prove  you  bad  stewards  of 
the  Church.  I  can  make  no  distinc- 
tion between  the  Church  in  England 
and  in  Ireland.  You  cannot  sever 
them,  and  you  must  see  that  preser- 
vative justice  is  meted  equally  to 
both.  They  are  one — indissoluble. 

I  do  not  believe  so  ill  of  you  as  to 
suspect  that  any  selfish  consideration 
will  induce  any  one  of  you  to  parti- 
cipate in  the  revenues  or  emoluments 
violently  taken  from  another. 

With  sentiments  of  respect  and 
loyalty,  I  now  make  my  appeal  to  His 
Majesty.  Sire — The  deep  interest  I 
take  in  my  country's  welfare,  now 
at  fearful  hazard,  and  the  conviction 
that  all  I  hold  most  dear  is  at  peril, 
with  the  boldness  of  one  who  would 
entreat  to  have  the  danger  averted,  I 
address  myself  to  the  Constitutional 
Father  of  his  People.  It  is  a  maxim 
of  our  Constitution,  that  the  King  of 
England  can  do  no  wrong. — His  Mi- 
nisters are  responsible.  Your  Ma- 
jesty's Whig  Ministers  have  reversed 
this  law,  and  by  a  public  and  dis- 
gusting use  of  your  name,  thrown 
"  the  wrong,"  or  the  responsibility, 
upon  your  Majesty. 

You  are  invested  with  privileges 
or  a  prerogative  important  and  ex- 
tensive, for  the  maintenance  of  the 
integrity  of  the  Three  Estates  of  the 
realm.  The  object  defines  and  limits 
the  use.  It  was  never  thought  ne- 
cessary to  provide  against  an  abuse, 
manifest  by  being  destructive  of  the 
object ;  yet  your  WThig  Ministers 
have  put  a  violent  construction  on 
your  prerogative,  and,  by  persuasion, 
have  obtained  your  acquiescence  in 
a  despotic  abuse  of  it,  by  which, 
against  your  Majesty's  most  ardent 
wishes,  they  have  suppressed,  or 
forced,  the  constitutional  voice  of 
the  House  of  Peers.  All  their  acts 


1833.] 


A  Last  Appeal  to  King,  Lords,  and  Commons. 


have  been  paraded  with  your  Ma- 
jesty's name ;  and  what  has  been  the 
consequence  ? — Disgusting    flattery 
and  mock  loyalty  to  cover  most  evil 
and  disloyal  intentions  from  the  mass 
of  wretches,  whose    known  senti- 
ments are,  and  ever  have  been,  re- 
publican; and  by  the  unpunished 
working   of   seditious   poison,   real 
substantial  loyalty  sickened,  and  de- 
caying,  in   danger   of   annihilation. 
The  change  that  has  taken  place  in 
the  sentiments  of  the  people,  since 
your  Majesty  has  taken  your  present 
Ministers  to  your  councils,  is  almost 
.^credible.     I  was  present,  a  short 
r,ime  since,  at  a  large  and  crowded 
theatre,  where,  when  the   national 
anthem,  "  God  save  the  King,"  was 
played,  there  were  not  three  heads 
uncovered.     I  well   remember   the 
time  when  this  could  not  have  hap- 
pened.   During  the  reigns  of  your 
honoured  father  and  brother,  I  have 
heard  the  very  wretches,  who  have, 
with  evil  design  in  their  hearts,  call- 
ed you  their  beloved  King,  turned 
cut  of  theatres  for  their  marked  dis- 
respect to  loyalty.     The  democratic 
spirit  is  fawning  and  servile  to  ob- 
tdn  a  purpose;  but  it  is  an  adept, 
tjo,  in  mockery,  and  can,  like  the 
deadly  imp, — 

"  Keep  court  within  the  hollow  crown, 
That   rounds  the   mortal   temples  of  a 
King. 

,  And  there  the  antic  sits, 

S  -offing  his  state,  and  grinning  at   his 

pomp, 

Allowing  him  a  breath,  a  little  scene 
To  monarchize,  be  fear'd,  and  kill  with 

looks, 

Infusing  him  with  self  and  vain  conceit, 
A  s  if  this  flesh  which  walls  about  our 

life 
"Were  brass  impregnable  j  and  humour'd 

thus, 

Comes  at  the  last,  and,  with  a  little  pin, 
Bores  through  his  castle  wall, — and— 
farewell  King." 

Your  Majesty  has  experienced 
much  relaxation  of  this  strained  po- 
pularity. Your  title  to  be  a  "  second 
Alfred"  vanished  in  a  day.  Majesty 
si  ould  hold  the  check,  a  little  re- 
st i-ain  all  parties,  and  not  be  too  po- 
pular. A  sudden  and  forced  loyalty 
seldom  lasts,  and  brings  discredit  by 
ite  decline  on  royal  state  and  digni- 
ty. It  is  often  but  a  short  step  from 
honour  to  contempt.  The  unsteady 
people  fly  to  rapid  changes.  It  is 
from  the  Palm  branches  to  the  Cross 


369 

—from  "  Hosannah,"  to  "  Crucify 
him  !  Crucify  him  !"  A  mortal  mo- 
narch may  scarcely  expect  to  fare 
better  than  his  Redeemer. 

I  who  was  born  of  most  loyal  pa- 
rents, and  from  my  cradle  to  man- 
hood taught  maxims  of  loyalty,  and 
to  reverence  the  name  and  sacred 
person  of  a  King,  cannot,  dare  not, 
charge  upon  your  Majesty  the  wrong, 
that  has  produced  this  change  in  the 
people — this  fearful  state  of  things. 
But  I  dare  to  remind  your  Majesty, 
that  your  throne  has  been  beset  with 
enemies,    false    friends,  dangerous 
advisers ;  and  that  they  have  partly 
engendered,    and     partly    fostered 
without,  a  strong  feeling  in  favour  of 
Revolution;     that  daring  schemes 
to  subvert  all  the  good  institutions 
in  the  country  have  been  set  afloat, 
and  slanderously  sent  forth  with  the 
sanction   of  your   Majesty's   name. 
Evil  intentions  have  been  put  forth  as 
your  intentions.     In  the  list  stands 
the  downfall  of  the  Church.  Slander 
spared   not  your  Majesty's  name; 
for,  ere  your  royal  brother  was  well 
cold,  it  was  the  boast  of  the  infidel, 
and  often  did  I  hear  it,  and  indig- 
nantly deny  it,  that  your  Majesty 
had  asserted   of  the   Bishops,  that 
you  would  "  unfrock  the  lawn-sleeve 
gentry."     This  was  a  base  and  a  mis- 
chievous  slander,   and  perhaps  in- 
stigated those  wretches  at  Bristol, 
who  would  have  burnt  the  churches, 
and  declared  that  in  six  weeks  "  there 
should  not  be  one  standing  in  the 
land,"   and  who   did  burn  to   the 
ground  a  Bishop's  palace.    It  was  a 
base  slander.     I  only  remark  it,  to 
shew  the  objects  to  which  you  were 
to  be  urged,  and  the  danger  of  the 
use  of  your  Majesty's  name. 

That  your  Ministers  should  in  any 
way  have  used  it,  is  surprising,  be- 
cause they  are  in  your  confidence ; 
and  it  argues  a  betrayal  of  that  con- 
fidence, or  something  worse  than 
even  that.  A  system  of  agitation, 
under  the  authoritative  command, 
"  Agitate,  agitate,  agitate !"  was  set 
on  foot,  that  has  raised  another 
power  unknown  to  the  Constitution. 
The  deliberations  of  your  Majesty's 
Council  and  Parliaments  have  been 
threatened  by  another  and  more  nu- 
merous and  mob  parliament  else- 
where. It  was  in  vain  that  your 
Maj  esty  issued  your  prohibitory  pro-  , 
clamation.  The  illegal  Unions  were 
courted  by  your  Ministers. 


A  Last  Appeal  to  King,  Lords,  and  Commons. 


370 

New  in  your  reign,  you  must  have 
been  disgusted  to  hear  and  read  your 
royal  brother's  and  father's  names 
reviled,  and  to  have  been  advised  to 
bestow  your  royal  favour  on  those 
who  had  most  reviled  them.  Could 
either  honoured  spirit  return,  with 
power  of  utterance,  he  might  say 
from  Shakspeare's  Henry  IV., 

"  Only  compound   me   with  forgotten 
dust. 

Pluck  down  my  officers,  break  my  de- 
crees; 

For  now  a  time  is  come  to  mock  at 

form. 
*         *         *         Up,  Vanity ! 

Down,  royal  state — all  you  sage  coun- 
sellors, hence." 
*         *         *         »         * 

"  O  my  poor  kingdom,  sick  with  civil 

blows ! 
When  that  my  care  could  not  withhold 

thy  riots, 

What  wilt  thou  do  when  riot  is  thy  care  ? 
O,  thou  wilt  be  a  wilderness  again, 
Peopled  with  wolves,  thy  old  inhabit- 
ants!" 

Under  a  system  of  agitation  raised 
by  the  Ministry,  your  Majesty's  best 
and  greatest  subjects  have  been  as- 
saulted; their  houses  barricaded 
against  the  fury  of  mobs ;  castles  and 
mansions  of  your  nobility  have  been 
attacked  and  burnt ;  and  the  second 
city  of  the  British  Empire  in  part 
sacked,  and  in  dreadful  conflagra- 
tion. All  this,  too,  in  the  name  of 
your  Majesty  and  Reform.  This 
must  be  charged  upon  your  Minis- 
ters. 

Your  Christian  people  fear  that 
the  same  Ministry,  with  their  in- 
tended Church  Reform,  will  actually 
effect  the  Church's  downfall.  The 
wisest  and  the  greatest  persons  in 
your  dominions,  have  declared  in 
both  Houses  of  Parliament,  that  the 
Monarchy  itself  is  in  extreme  peril. 
The  first  outcry,  during  the  sitting 
of  this  Reformed  Parliament,  may 
demand  the  Church.  Does  your 
Majesty  think  that  the  infernal  Cer- 
berus, with  his  many  sleepless  heads, 
will  be  satisfied  with  one  sop  ?  The 
truly  loyal  fear  that  the  sacrifice  of 
your  crown  will  be  ultimately  de- 
manded. It  is  already  demanded. 
Perhaps  the  daily  published  sedU 
tious  do  not  reach  your  Majesty. 
The  Papers,  the  Pamphlets,  the 
Almanacs,  the  Prophetic  Messen- 
gers, where  may  be  seen  coloured, 


[March, 


conflagrations,  massacre  of  troops, 
and  Death  sitting  triumphantly  un- 
der a  Republican  banner,  upon  the 
Crown,  the  Sceptre,  and  the  Bible. 
Such  things  are,  and  too  numerous 
to  mention.    They  have  their  object. 
They    are    unnoticed  —  have    tree 
scope ;  and  the  minds  of  your  Ma- 
jesty's  subjects  are  poisoned,  and,  of 
the  weak,  prepared  for  violent  revo- 
lution, as  the  fiat  of  destiny.     The 
loyal/  who  would  dare  support  the 
monarchy  with  life  and  property, 
fear  the  establishment  of  Republi- 
canism.    And,  it  must  be  confessed, 
there  are  many  admirers  of  the  old 
limited  Monarchy,  with  its  whole- 
some power  and  restraint,  who  be- 
gin to  doubt  if  an  imperfect  and  mu- 
tilated one  may  not  advantageously 
yield  to  another  form.     They  never 
entertained     these    doubts    before. 
That  they  should  now  be  entertain- 
ed, and  with  fair  publicity,  is  an  evil 
symptom. 

But  now  all  things  go  wrong — 
principles  seem  at  fault.     The  pub- 
lic  mind,  raw  with   vexation,   and 
constant  irritation — is  allowed    no 
rest;    and    class    is   made  to   war 
against  class.  Perpetual  tempestuous 
agitation  has  driven  peace  from  the 
land ;  every  thing  seems  insecure. 
We  dread  a  dismembered  empire,  a 
ruined,    or,    at    best,    a    degraded 
Church,  a  despised  and  falling  mo- 
narchy, and  the  despotism  of  mobs. 
I  am  satisfied  of  your  Majesty's 
kind  and  fatherly  intentions  towards 
your  people,  but  you  have  unfortu- 
nate wretched  advisers.    Much  mis- 
chief has  been  done  that  cannot  be 
undone ;  but  still  there  are  lengths 
to  which,  in  good  conscience,  your 
Majesty  cannot  go.    If  exhorted  to 
sacrifice  any  the  smallest  interest  of 
the  Established  Church,  or  in  any 
part  of  your  dominions  encourage 
Popery,  may  not  your  Majesty  pro- 
test, (and  your   Christian  subjects 
will  hail  it  with  joy,)  that  you  have 
sworn  "  to  the  utmost  of  your  power 
to  maintain  the  laws  of  God,  the 
true  profession  of  the  Gospel,  and 
the  Protestant  Reformed   Religion 
established  by  the  law ;  and  to  pre- 
serve unto  the  Bishops  and  Clergy 
of  this  realm,  and  to  the  churches 
committed  to  their  charge,  all  such 
rights  and  privileges  as  by  law  do 
or  shall  appertain  unto  them  or  any 
of  them  ?" 
*****  Feb.  9,  1833. 


1333,] 


Gozzi's  Turandot. 


371 


TURANDOT.   A  DRAMATIC  FABLE. 


BY  COUNT  CARLO  GOZZI. 


IT  is  a  curious  circumstance,  that 
tl  e  dramatic  literature  of  Italy  should 
be  absolutely  the  poorest  in  Europe, 
we  mean  not  in  the  number,  but  in 
tte  quality  of  its  productions.  In 
numbers,  indeed,  we  question  whe- 
tter  any  country  in  Europe  can  com- 
pare with  it.  Riccobini  has  append- 
ed to  his  History  of  the  Italian  Thea- 
tre,  a  list  of  about  5000  dramas, 
printed  from  1500  to  1736,  and  Apos- 
tolp  Zeno  had  himself  collected  a 
Dramatic  Library  of  4000  Italian 
'Pays,  which  are  now,  strangely 
enough,  in  the  hands  of  the  Domini- 
ca ns  at  Venice.  But  of  the  authors 
of  these  how  many  are  known  to  the 
world  ?  How  many  even  to  the  Ita- 
lif us  themselves  ?  Ten  names,  per- 
hc  ps,  out  of  as  many  hundreds.  The 
drama  of  Italy,  of  the  very  land  which 
01  e  would  at  first  be  disposed  to  se- 
lect as  the  peculiar  seat  and  "  pro- 
creant  cradle"  of  the  dramatic  art, 
is  of  all  others  the  coldest,  dullest, 
acd  most  contemptible. 

Look  at  the  Italian  in  real  life,  with 
w  lat  vehemence  he  seems  to  feel, 
w  th  what  energy  he  expresses  him- 
self, as  if  trying  by  how  many  senses 
at  once  he  can  give  vent  to  his  emo- 
tions !  Observe  the  morra  players 
in  the  streets  of  Rome,  glaring  on 
ea  ch  other  as  fiercely  as  it  they  had 
set  their  lives  upon  a  cast,  when  the 
sole  question  is,  whether  they  are  to 
th:ust  out  two  fingers  or  three.  See 
tin  Lazzaroni  listening,  as  if  spell- 
be  und,  to  the  narrative  of  the  itine- 
ra  it  story-teller,  in  the  streets  of  Na- 
pl  is  ;  the  women  of  Malamocco  and 
Pilestrina,  sitting  on  the  vsea-shore, 
and  hailing  their  returning  husbands 
acd  lovers  with  songs,  as  twilight 
darkens  over  the  Adriatic.  Look  at 
th  it  group  of  peasants  from  Albano, 
lis  tening  with  the  rapt  soul  sitting  in 
tli3  eyes  to  some  strain  from  the 
sv  eet  south,  breathed  before  the 
ro  idside  altar  ;  or  yonder  procession 
of  banditti  just  caught,  and  moving 
ut  with  their  gay  embroidered  sashe*s, 
ea  '-rings,  and  rosa*ries,  to  their  pri- 
so  i  in  St  Angelo — carrying  the  wild 
sc  mes  of  the  middle  ages,  as  it  were, 
in  o  the  midst  of  the  civilisation  ojf 


the  nineteenth  century.  Then,  add 
to  this  the  recollections  of  antique 
grandeur,  by  which  they  are  inces- 
santly surrounded ;  the  more  mo- 
dern remembrances  of  glory  and 
crime ;  the  infinite  contrast  of  man- 
ners, habits,  and  feelings,  produced 
by  the  separation  of  Italy  into  so 
many  different  states;  the  distinct 
division  of  ranks,  which  from  the 
earliest  moment  has  pervaded  society 
in  Italy;  a  language  musical  as  is 
Apollo's  lute,  and  a  power  of  ex- 
pression and  action  suited  to  the 
warmth  and  vivacity  of  the  emotions 
it  has  to  express ;  and  how  shall  we 
account  for  the  barrenness  and  cold- 
ness of  the  Italian  drama?  Where 
life  itself  seems  acting,  how  comes 
the  representation  of  that  life  to  be 
so  wan,  so  woebegone,  so  spiritless  ? 
Down  to  the  time  of  Alfieri,  their 
tragedies  are  flat  and  dreary  as  their 
own  Campagna,  of  which  the  only 
ornament  is  here  and  there  some 
mouldering  fragment  of  antiquity. 
Not  a  trace  of  modern  feelings,  man- 
ners, or  passions,  do  they  present ; 
over  the  minds  of  their  authors, 
the  Middle  Ages,  with  their  new 
creeds,  religious,  moral,  or  philo- 
sophical, seem  to  have  passed  in 
vain ;  so  that,  in  reading  the  classic 
dramas  of  Trissino,  Ruccellai,  or 
Sperone  Speroni,  one  might  almost 
believe  he  was  perusing  some  newly 
discovered  tragedies  of  Seneca,  ex- 
cavated from  Pompeii  or  Hercula- 
neum.  Nothing  but  the  difference 
of  language  makes  us  aware  that 
they  are  the  production  of  the  16th 
century.  Their  comedies,  lifeless, imi- 
tations of  Plautus  and  Terence,  no 
more  reflect  the  manners  or  feelings 
of  the  time,  than  the  annual  Latin 
play  does  the  sayings  and  doings  of 
the  Etonians.  If  the  heap  of  rub- 
bish which  Apostolo  Zeno  bequeath- 
ed to  the  monks,  were  to  be  subject- 
ed, like  Don  Quixote's  library,  to  a 
purification  by  fire,  we  really  think 
the  only  work  we  should  interfere 
to  preserve  would  be  the  Mandra- 
gola  of  the  accomplished  politician, 
historian,  novelist,  and  dramatist— 
Macchiavelli. 


372 


Gozzfs  Turandot. 


[Marcli, 


Things  had  come  to  the  very  worst 
about  the  middle  of  the  18th  cen- 
tury. Poor  Apostolo  Zeno  had  by 
this  time  gone  to  swell  with  his  ten 
octavos  the  heap  he  had  bequeathed 
to  his  monkish  executors;  he  had 
been  gathered  to  his  fathers,  and  the 
Abate  Pietro  Chiari  reigned  in  his 
stead.  The  Abate  was  court  poet  at 
Modena,  and  being  of  opinion  that 
the  trade  of  a  court  poet  was  verse- 
making,  he  set  to  work  conscienti- 
ously to  do  as  much  for  his  salary  as 
it  was  in  the  power  of  any  hard- 
working verseman  to  perform.  Be- 
ing well  read  in  mythological  mat- 
ters, and  having  on  the  whole  a  turn 
for  rhyme,  he  continued  to  pour  out, 
or  rather  to  hammer  out,  one  tragedy 
and  comedy  after  another,  all  utterly 
destitute  of  a  single  spark  of  genius 
or  poetic  fire,  but  regular  as  a  regi- 
ment in  line,  moral  to  the  last  de- 
gree, and  stately  as  a  Lord  Mayor's 
procession.  His  favourite  verse  was 
the  Alexandrine;  he  apprehended, 
and  with  some  justice,  that  any  other 
would  break  down  under  the  weight 
of  his  diction.  It  was  the  style  of 
Marino  and  the  Seccentesti  applied 
to  the  most  trivial  and  vulgar,  as 
well  as  the  most  important  or  touch- 
ing concerns  of  the  stage,  and  em- 
bodied in  versification  the  most  un- 
musical and  monotonous.  Yet,  not- 
withstanding all  this,  the  Abate,  from 
the  mere  absence  of  competition, 
maintained  for  several  years  the  un- 
disputed possession  of  the  Italian 
stage. 

It  was  scarcely  wonderful  then, 
that,  at  such  a  moment,  the  appear- 
ance of  Goldoni,  though  certainly 
no  star  of  the  first  magnitude,  should 
have  been  hailed  with  an  admiration 
bordering  on  enthusiasm.  Looking 
back  at  the  present  moment  to  his 
plays — in  which  we  perceive  little 
except  a  series  of  agreeable  conver- 
sation pieces,  and  early  pictures  of 
national  manners,  with  a  pervading 
gaiety,  rather  than  humour  or  wit, 
which  runs  through  them ;  but  with 
an  utter  absence  of  any  thing  like 
elevation  or  depth  of  feeling;  plots 
which,  where  they  rise  above  the 
commonplace  incidents  of  the  day, 
run  into  all  the  complexities  of  the 
Spanish  theatre ;  and  incidents  and 
language  often  the  most  trivial  or 
vulgar, — one  who  has  not  paid  a 
little  attention  to  what  had  preceded 


him,  almost  feels  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  that  extreme  popularity  which 
conferred  on  the  author  the  title  of 
II  gran  Goldoni.  But  the  truth  was, 
the  public  were  so  tired  of  the  arti- 
ficial and  affected,  that  nature  in  any 
shape,  however  prosaic,  was  felt  to 
be  a  relief,  and  Goldoni  undeniably 
possessed  the  art  of  seizing  and  de- 
picting national  manners  with  singu- 
lar truth,  and  liveliness  of  imitation. 
While,  accordingly,  his  more  senti- 
mental attempts  are  now  entirely  and 
deservedly  forgotten,  his  sketches 
of  Italian  character  in  such  pieces  as 
Le  Baruffe  Chiozzotte,  (The  Squab- 
bles of  Chiozza,)  still  excite,  on  the 
Italian  stage,  nearly  the  same  lively 
interest  as  that  with  which  they  were 
originally  greeted. 

Still  this  was  far  enough  from 
very  elevated  or  distinguished  aim, 
and  amusing  as  Goldoni's  comedies 
at  first  appeared  to  those  accustomed 
to  the  emphatic  nothingness  of  the 
Abate  Chiari,  the  want  of  a  higher 
object,  and  of  more  poetical  elements 
in  the  drama,  began  by  degrees  to 
make  itself  felt.  Had  Goldoni  been 
very  attentive  to  the  signs  of  the 
times,  he  might  have  perceived  the 
growth  of  this  feeling ;  but  confident 
in  his  own  inexhaustible  fertility, 
and  in  the  success  of  the  last  fifteen 
years,  the  blow  which  overturned 
for  ever  his  literary  supremacy,  came 
upon  him  almost  as  suddenly  as  a 
thunderclap  in  a  sunny  sky. 

Had  a  stranger  about  this  time 
been  present  at  any  of  the  sittings  of 
the  Academia  de  Granelleschi  at  Ve- 
nice, his  attention  would  soon  have 
been  arrested  by  the  appearance  of 
one  of  its  members.  From  his  meagre 
figure,  his  melancholy  features,  and 
a  certain  care-worn  look  which  he 
wore,  he  would  have  set  him  down 
for  some  plodding  antiquarian,  whose 
body,  adapting  itself  to  the  constitu- 
tion of  his  mind,  seemed  to  be  fast 
approaching  the  condition  of  a  mum- 
my. He  would  have  anticipated  from 
him  some  adust  essay  ona  Roman  pa- 
tera, or  the  genuineness  of  a  copper 
Otho.  What  would  havebeen  his  asto- 
nishment, to  find  that  the  very  spirit 
of  Momus  himself  lurked  beneath 
this  sepulchral  exterior,  and  instead 
of  being  wearied  with  an  antiquarian 
dissertation,  to  listen  with  tears  (of 
laughter)  in  his  eyes,  to  the  "  Tar- 
tana  degli  Influssi  per  rAnno  1757," 


33.] 


Gozzi's  Turandot. 


373 


or  some  other  piece  of  ludicrous  and 
cutting  satire,  directed  against  the 
unhappy  Abate  Chiari,  Goldoni,  and 
the  other  apostles  of  bad  taste  arid 
unnational  feeling.  The  oftener  he 
had  repeated  his  visits,  the  more 
would  his  admiration  have  increased 
for  this  singular  being,  who,  with  a 
boundless  and  careless  prodigality, 
Deemed  to  throw  off,  day  after  day,  and 
almost  without  an  effort,  the  most 
ingenious,  and  frequently  the  most 
profound  views  in  criticism,  or  the 
most  cutting  and  effective  satire 
i  gainst  those  admirers  of  French 
taste  and  French  philosophy,  who 
were  attempting  at  once  to  introduce 
a  dramatic  and  a  moral  revolution 
in  Italy.  This  was  Count  Carlo 

GrOZZi. 

It  was  scarcely  possible  to  con- 
ceive a  more  complete  contrast  to 
Goldoni.  Gozzi  saw  every  thing  on 
its  poetical,  as  Goldoni  did  on  its 
p  -osaic  side.  The  latter  lived,  moved, 
and  breathed  in  the  present,  adopt- 
ed its  prejudices  and  its  new  opi- 
nions, flattered  its  prevailing  tastes, 
ai  d  seemed  to  think  he  was  confer- 
ring an  inestimable  benefit  on  the 
literature  of  his  country  by  subject- 
ing it  to  the  principles  of  French  cri- 
tic ism.  The  former,  of  exactly  the 
opposite  turn  of  mind,  saw  with 
regret  and  anxiety  the  visibly  im- 
pending changes  in  society  which 
th(i  influence  of  the  French  philoso- 
phers was  already  beginning  to  bring 
into  operation,  and  disliking  the  pre- 
sent, and  desponding  as  to  the  fu- 
ture, threw  himself  the  more  enthu- 
siastically into  the  arms  of  the  past. 
It  neemed  as  if  the  spirit  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  the  chivalrous  fire  of  the 
Tassos  and  Ariostos,  extinct  in  the 
breasts  of  the  Italians  of  the  18th 
certury,  still  lingered  in  that  of 
Go'xzi.  But  perceiving  with  that 
del  cate  tact  which  was  a  peculiar 
characteristic  of  his  mind,  that  the 
representation  of  such  subjects  suit- 
ed better  with  the  epic  and  narra- 
tive than  the  dramatic  form,  he  turn- 
ed to  the  brilliant  fables  of  the  East, 
as  t  >  a  newer  and  more  untrodden 
field,  for  the  materials  which  he  was 
to  invest  with  the  genial  and  roman- 
tic ( olouring  of  his  own  mind.  On 
these  Oriental  subjects  he  has  pour- 
ed t  ic  elevating  and  softening  light 
of  t  Lose  feelings  which  Christianity 
has  inspired,  the  motives,  the  vir- 

VPL.  xxxui.  NO,  ccv. 


tues,  the  hopes  and  fears,  which  it 
has  introduced ;  a  tinge  of  the  spi- 
rituality and  religious  enthusiasm  of 
Calderon,  combines,  in  his  hands, 
with  the  more  sensual  character  of 
Oriental  poetry,  and  gives  to  the 
Calafs  and  Jennaros  of  Oriental  fic- 
tion, something  of  the  solemnity  and 
self-devotion  of  a  "  Constant  Prince," 
or  Hie  grandeur  of  the"Magico  Pro- 
digioso." 

The  source  to  which  Count  Gozzi 
resorted  in  order  to  realize   these 
conceptions,    was    the    old,  much- 
abused,  and  now  almost  expiring  na- 
tional comedy  of  Italy, — the  Comme- 
dia  deW  Artey  in  which,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  certain  number  of  obbli- 
gato  characters,  and  the  general  ar- 
rangement of  the  incidents  by  an 
outline,    called   a  scenario,  all,  or 
nearly  all,  the  dialogue,  was  left  to 
be  filled  up  at  the  moment,  accord- 
ing to  the  wit,  ingenuity,  or  eloquence 
of  the  actors.     Nowhere,  perhaps, 
except  in  Italy,  where  a  natural  elo- 
quence and  comic  humour,  with  a 
singular  quickness  and  power  of  ex- 
pression, are  characteristic  even  of 
the  lowest  ranks,  could  exhibitions 
such  as  these  have  attained  or  main- 
tained that  ascendency  over  the  pub- 
lic, which,  for  two  centuries  prior  to 
Goldoni, the  Corn-media deirArtehad 
done  over  the  popular  mind  in  Italy. 
To  the  causes  of  their  success  too 
must  be  added  the  satirical  interest 
they  possessed,  from    the   circum- 
stance that  the  characters  were  ge- 
nerally the  representations  of  the 
proverbial  vices  or  absurdities  of  the 
different  States  into  which  Italy  was 
divided.     The  Neapolitan  came  to 
enjoy  the  caricature  of  the  Venetian 
merchant,  the  Pantalone  of  the  Ita- 
lian comedy ;  the  Venetian  had  his 
revenge  in  the  exposure  of  the  Nea- 
politan Bobadil  Spaviento ;  the  Ber-     * 
gamask  came  to  sneer  at  the  Fer- 
rarese  pimp,  Brighella,  or  the  Apu- 
lian  toper,  Pulicmello ;  while  these 
again  were  enabled  to  clear  accounts 
by  laughing  at  the  knaveries  of  Sea- 
pin,  or  the  blunders  of  Arlecchino, 
the  roguish  or  silly  representatives 
of  Bergamo.    These,  however,  were 
but  a  small  part  of  the  national  ca- 
ricatures in  which   the    Commf.dia 
deir  Arte  dealt.   Rome  sent  a  repre- 
sentation in  Gelsomino,  Bologna  in 
its  Doctor,  Calabria  in  its  Ginngur- 
gole,  Spain  (which,  during  th«  palmy 
2  B 


374 


GozzVs  Turandot. 


[March, 


state  of  the  Italian  national  comedy, 
enjoyed  an  extensive  intercourse 
with  Italy,  from  its  Neapolitan  con- 
nexion,) in  its  Captain  Fuego  y 
Sangre ;  in  short,  as  any  new  feature 
of  national  character  became  promi- 
nent in  any  of  the  Italian  provinces, 
it  immediately  found  a  representa- 
tive in  some  of  those  comic  masks 
which  composed  the  personages  of 
the  national  drama;  and  thus,  al- 
though the  movements  of  each  cha- 
racter, in  its  leading  features,  were, 
like  those  of  pieces  at  chess,  chalked 
out  beforehand  and  invariable,  yet, 
from  their  power  of  combination  and 
contrast,  and  from  the  variety  and 
point  which  might  be  given  to  the 
dialogue,  by  actors  of  ability  and 
imagination,  such  as  the  Colalti, 
Zanoni,  Fiorelli,  Sacchi,  and  others, 
this  unique  and  carnivalesque  dra- 
ma never  failed,  before  the  time  of 
Goldoni,  to  fill  the  theatres,  and 
to  form  the  delight  of  an  Italian  au- 
dience. 

Goldoni  himself,  had,  at  the  out- 
set of  his  career,  been  well  aware  of 
the  capabilities  of  the  Italian  masks, 
and  had  frequently  written  dramas 
in  which  they  were  introduced  ; 
though,  in  general,  by  tracing  out 
minutely  for  them  beforehand  the 
whole  turn  of  the  dialogue,  he  de- 
prived the  national  comedy  of  what 
was  at  once  its  most  remarkable 
feature,  and  its  peculiar  attraction, 
— the  improvisation  which  made 
every  actor  at  once  a  poet  as  well  as 
a  player.  Latterly,  however,  as  the 
imitation  of  French  models  became 
more  and  more  visible  in  his  man- 
ner, the  hapless  masks  were  gradual- 
ly laid  aside;  the  crowds  which  had 
once  flocked  to  witness,  with  shouts 
of  laughter,  the  betises  of  Arlequin, 
or  the  jokes  of  Truffaldino,  now  sat, 
as  Wordsworth  mildly  says,  "  all  si- 
lent and  all  damned,"  during  the  re- 
presentation of  the  Donna  di  Garbo  ; 
and  the  Sacchi  Company  at  Venice, 
at  that  time  the  most  celebrated  per- 
formers of  the  masked  drama,  found, 
with  infinite  annoyance  both  to  tl|eir 
purse  and  feelings,  their  occupation 
gone. 

Charity,  good  taste,  and  personal 
feeling,  therefore,  combined  to  en- 
list Count  Gozzi  in  their  behalf.  He 
wished  to  humble  a  little  the  pride 
of  the  present  dictators  of  the  Ve- 
netian stage,— Chiari  and  Goldoni, 
•—who  triumphantly  pointed  to  their 


crowded  theatres,  as  proof  of  their 
superior  talent, — to  revive  the  taste 
for  a  species  of  scenic  representa- 
tion, which  he  justly  considered  as 
the  most  original  and  characteristic 
which  Italy  possessed,  to  pave  the 
way  for  the  introduction  of  those 
more  poetical  views  which  he  him- 
self entertained  of  the  objects  of 
the  Drama,  by  exposing  the  trivial, 
vulgar,  and  prosaic  nature  of  that 
which  they  had  been  taught  to  be- 
lieve so  classical  and  BO  ingenious; 
and,  at  the  same  time,  to  rescue  from 
poverty  and  distress  a  deserving  body 
of  men,  who  had  embarked  their  all  in 
that  very  national  comedy  which  had 
been  thus  suddenly  discountenanced 
and  superseded.  He  accordingly  pre- 
sented them  with  a  dramatic  sketch 
under  the  title  of  the  Loves  of  the 
Three  Oranges — in  which  he  had  at- 
tempted to  unite,  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, their  different  views. 

When  Gozzi's  new  piece  was  first 
advertised  by  the  Sacchi  Company, 
his  well-known  reputation  for  ta- 
lent and  satirical  humour,  secured  a 
brilliant  and  numerous  attendance  at 
the  theatre  of  St  Samuel,  then  the 
residence  of  the  company.  Many 
were  probably  aware  that  some  sa- 
tirical explosion  lurked  under  this 
whimsical  title.  Some  came  to  wit- 
ness a  bona  jfide  nursery  tale,  others 
to  see  what  a  man  of  talent  could 
possibly  make  of  a  theme  so  extra- 
vagant and  incomprehensible.  The 
curtain  rose  to  soft  music;  a  pro- 
logue directed  against  the  weak 
points  of  his  opponents,  put  the 
audience  upon  the  proper  scent,  and 
this  strange  capriccio,  which  had 
formed  the  subject  of  conversation 
in  Venice  for  weeks  before,  com- 
menced. The  King  of  Diamonds, 
dressed  like  his  prototype  upon  a 
pack  of  cards,  was  discovered  in 
deep  conversation  with  his  prime  mi* 
nister  Pantalon,  (the  time-honoured 
Pantaloon  of  the  Masked  Comedy,) 
on  the  critical  condition  of  his  son 
Tarlaglia,  who  Jiad  fallen  into  a  state 
of  incurable  melancholy.  A  thour 
sand  specifics  are  suggested  by  Pan- 
talon,  each  embodying  some  piece 
of  satire  against  some  noted  Venetian 
quack,— but  all  in  vain.  He  even 
ventures  to  insinuate  some  hints  as 
to  the  possibility  of  the  Prince's 
malady  being  owing  to  the  youth- 
ful indiscretions  of  the  monarch 
himself,  though  his  majesty  iinme- 


1833.] 

diately  "reprobates  the 
some  spirited  sentences,  in  which 
he  vindicates  his  conjugal  fidelity, 
and  general  correctness  of  deport- 
ment. He  assures  Pantalon,  that  his 
•ion's  malady  is  mental,  not  corpore- 
al, and  that  his  only  chance  of  reco- 
very consists  in  his  being  induced, 
>y  some  device  or  other,  to  enjoy  a 
hearty  laugh — a  consummation  of 
which  he  began  to  despair.  Panta- 
lon endeavours  to  console  him,  ad- 
vises him  to  have  recourse  to  Truf- 
i'aldino,  an  experienced  practitioner 
in  the  artof  laughter,  and  recommends 
a  course  of  festivals,  tournaments, 
plays,  and  other  expedients,  as  the 
only  means  of  combating  the  fatal 
melancholy  of  the  heir-apparent. 

Meantime,  a  counterplot,  in  which 
the  leading  actors  are  Clarice,  the 
r  iece  of  the  King  of  Diamonds,  and 
]  zander, the  Knave  of  Diamonds,  and 
prime  minister,  is  maturing,  the  ob- 
ject of  which  is  to  poison  the  unfor- 
tunate prince  with  a  course  of  Alex- 
andrine verses,  to  make  way  for 
Leander,  to  whom  Clarice  is  attach- 
ed. In  this  detestable  scheme  they 
are  abetted  by  the  Fairy  Morgana, 
who  hates  the  King  of  Diamonds  on 
account  of  the  monies  she  has  lost 
upon  his  painted  Image,  but  favours 
the  Knave,  because  by  means  of 
him  she  had  partly  recovered  her 
losses.  The  news  of  the  arrival  of 
Truffaldino  (the  representative  of  the 
]\ [asked  Comedy)  strikes  the  con- 
spirators with  dismay ;  but  learning 
that  he  has  been  supposed  to  be  sent 
by  the  Magician  Celio,  (the  repre- 
sentative of  Goldoni,)  they  console 
themselves  by  thinking,  that  by  form- 
ing a  coalition  with  him,  they  may 
put  an  end  entirely  to  the  formidably 
comic  powers  of  Truffaldino. 

The  scene  changes  to  the  chamber  of 
the  invalid.  The  unfortunate  Prince 
o  i'  Diamonds  was  discovered  seated  in 
an  arm-chair,  attired  in  the  most  extra- 
ordinary  raiment,  and  with  an  array 
of  phials,  ointments,  pills,  boluses, 
draughts  and  spit-boxes  spread  be- 
f<  »re  him  in  most  admired  disorder.  He 
lamented,  in  mock-pathetic  strains, 
filled  with  the  most  ludicrous  techni- 
calities, his  wretched  situation,  when 
Truffaldino  was  introduced  for  the 
purpose  of  making  the  first  experi- 
ment on  his  risible  muscles.  A  scene, 
entirely  air  improvista,  which,  if  it 
d  d  not  produce  the  proper  effect 


Gozzi's  Ttirmxiot.  375 

idea"    in     upon  the  Prince,  at  least  convulsed 


the  audience  with  laughter,  follow- 
ed. Truffaldino,  by  smelling  to  the 
Prince's  breath,  at  once  discovers 
the  odour  of  the  undigested  Alexan- 
drines, which  he  hadbeen  feloniously 
induced  to  swallow.  The  Prince  is 
seized  with  a  cough — a  copious  ex- 
pectoration follows.  Truffaldino  ex- 
amines the  contents  of  the  vessel-^- 
and  detects,  beyond  all  doubt,  a  quan- 
tity of  semiputrescent  Alexandrines 
in  a  most  offensive  state.  The  main 
cause  of  the  Prince's  disorder  is  now 
evident;  ointments, boxes,  and  phials, 
are  forthwith  thrown  out  of  the  win- 
dows, and  Truffaldino  laying  hands 
on  the  indolent  and  unresisting 
Prince,  drags  him  away,  almost  by 
force,  to  witness  the  scene  of  gaiety 
which  the  King  has  arranged  as  a 
specific  for  his  cure. 

The  Prince  is  placed  on  a  balcony 
to  witness  the  various  spectacles  in 
the  court  below;  masks  of  all  sorts, 
some  ludicrous,  some  melancholy, 
are  seen  moving  about,  performing 
the  most  extraordinary  antics,  under 
the  direction  of  Truffaldino.  Among 
others,  the  fairy  Morgana  has  found 
admittance  under  the  disguise  of  a 
hideous  old  woman,  with  a  view  to 
destroy  the  Prince  on  the  spot  by 
some  new  attack  of  melancholy.  The 
gambols  of  Truffaldino's  troop  are  in 
vain ;  the  Prince  weeps,  and  desires 
to  be  put  to  bed.  At  last  a  mimic 
scuffle  takes  place  among  the  popu- 
lace, round  the  two  fountains  in  the 
court,  one  of  which  discharges  oil, 
and  the  other  wine ;  and  in  the  course 
of  this  contest,  Morgana,  in  the  cha- 
racter of  the  old  woman,  is  suddenly 
overturned  in  a  position  so  ludicrous, 
that  the  Prince,  to  the  delight  of  the 
court,  bursts  out  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 
Morgana  rises,  and  copying  exactly 
the  style  of  Chiari,  discharges  on  the 
head  of  the  Prince  some  bombastic 
stanzas,  of  which  the  import  is,  that 
the  Prince  is  condemned  to  fall  in 
love  with  three  oranges,  and  his  life 
to  be  spent  in  their  acquisition. 

The  remainder  of  the  piece,  in  al- 
most every  scene  of  which  some  of 
the  weak  points  of  Chiari  or  Goldoni 
were  exposed, followed,  in  its  general 
outline,  the  fairy  tale  from  which 
Gozzi  had  taken  the  hint  of  the  piece. 
It  would  be  useless  to  analyze  a  series 
of  prodigies,  mingled  with  the  most 
whimsical  caricatures  and  allusions 
- 


876 


Gozzi's  Turandot. 


[March, 


to  passing  events ;  it  is  sufficient  to 
observe,  that  the  deep  attention  and 
delight  with  which  the  audience  lis- 
tened to  the  fairy  wonders  of  the 
tale,  satisfied  Gozzi  that  he  had  not 
overrated  their  natural  sensibility  to 
a  style  of  poetry,  in  which  imagina- 
tion, rather  than  prosaic  pictures  of 
actual  manners,  should  be  the  lead- 
ing feature. 

Venice  in  the  meantime  was  in  an 
uproar.  The  partisans  of  Chiari  and 
of  Goldoni  united  in  abusive  attacks 
on  the  Count  through  the  newspa- 
pers. Goldoni  himself,  unable  to  bear 
"  the  deep  damnation  of  his  taking 
off,"  began  to  think  of  taking  himself 
off,  on  pretence  of  reforming  the 
Italian  opera  at  Paris—a  project 
which  the  continued  and  increasing 
success  of  Gozzi's  pieces,  soon  after 
induced  him  to  carry  into  effect.  The 
nexjt  of  Gozzi's  Dramatic  Fables 
(Fiabe  Teatrali),  shewed  that  he  did 
not  require  the  art  of  satirical  allu- 
sions, to  excite  a  deep  and  general 
interest.  It  was  called  II  Corvo,  (The 
Raven,)  the  hint  being  taken  from  a 
tale  in  the  well-known  Neapolitan 
Collection,  the  Pentamerone.  The 
Loves  of  the  Oranges  had  been  a  mere 
outline,  no  part  of  it  being  written 
except  the  burlesque  verses  and  pa- 
rodies occasionally  uttered  by  the 
representatives  of  the  Abate  or  the 
Advocate ;  but  on  this  occasion,  the 
whole  of  the  tragic  scenes,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  comic,  were  com- 
posed and  written  out  with  care. 
Fraternal  love  is  the  mainspring  of 
the  piece  j  one  brother,  to  avert  a 
fatal  prediction  from  the  other,  sub- 
mits to  be  suspected  by  him,  impri- 
soned, and  at  last  turned  into  a  living 
statue.  Out  of  this  subject  Gozzi  has 
produced  a  piece  of  the  most  vivid 
interest,  transporting  the  reader,with 
the  magic  of  genius,  into  those  im- 
aginary regions  of  Frattombrosa 
where  the  scene  is  laid,  and  making 
the  most  improbable  marvels  springs 
of  emotion,  curiosity,  and  pity.  He 
now  shewed  that  the  mind  so  acutely 
alive  to  the  ludicrous,  was  not  less 
master  of  the  pathetic  and  impas- 
sioned ;  and  that,  while  he  could  dis- 
play,with  all  the  comic  talent  of  Ruz- 
ante,  the  capabilities  of  the  masks,  he 
could,  with  equal  ease,  eclipse  the 
Maffeis  and  Ruccellais  in  the  more 
regular  and  serious  drama. 

But  Gozzi  was  annoyed  to  hear 


it  constantly  reiterated  by  the  gen- 
tlemen  of  the  press  that  the  secret 
of  his  success  lay  in  his  fairy  pa- 
geantry ;  in  his  speaking  ravens,  his 
men  transformed  into  statues,  his 
statues  into  men ;  and  that,  without 
the  aid  of  the  supernatural  machin- 
ery, he  would  find  himself  unable  to 
sustain  the  interest  of  a  dramatic 
piece.  This  led  him  to  select  from 
the  Persian  Tales  the  story  of  the 
Princess  of  China,  who  imposes  on 
her  suitors  the  necessity  of  solving 
three  riddles  as  the  condition  of  ob- 
taining her  hand — the  disagreeable 
alternative,  in  case  of  failure,  being 
that  the  unsuccessful  candidate  was 
to  atone  for  his  presumption  with 
his  head.  The  Count,  however,  in 
his  preface,  is  rather  too  anxious  to 
magnify  the  difficulties  of  his  task, 
by  representing  the  fable  as  one  af- 
fording in  itself  little  materials  for 
tragic  interest.  "  Three  riddles  and 
two  names,"  says  he,  "  are  but  a 
slender  basis  for  a  theatrical  work, 
which  was  to  engage  for  three  hours 
the  serious  attention  of  a  cultivated 
audience."  A  squabble  about  a 
pound  of  flesh,  and  a  lottery- draw- 
ing scene  at  Belmont,  it  might  as 
well  be  said,  are  but  slender  mate- 
rials for  a  tragedy.  Gozzi  should 
have  remembered  that  life  and  love 
depend  on  the  solution  of  those  rid- 
dles, as  they  do  on  the  bargain  for 
the  pound  of  flesh,  or  the  choice  of 
the  caskets.  The  truth  is,  the  story, 
as  every  one  must  recollect,  is  high- 
ly dramatic,  stimulates  curiosity  in 
the  highest  degree,  and  by  its  grace- 
ful close  satisfies  every  condition  of 
a  well-constructed  plot.  We  have 
accordingly  selected  this  as  the  fable 
most  likely  to  interest  our  readers, 
and  give  an  idea  of  Gozzi's  dramatic 
talent.  As  such  it  appeared  to  Schil- 
ler, who  has  translated  it  for  the 
German  stage,  occasionally  shorten- 
ing and  improving  the  dialogue, 
which,  from  the  rapidity  of  the 
Count's  composition,  and  a  certain 
diffuseness  into  which  the  fatal  fa- 
cility of  the  Italian  iambics  is  apt  to 
lead,  is  frequently  marked  by  a  great 
degree  of  carelessness  and  want  of 
condensation. 

The  piece  opens  before  the  gate 
of  Pekin,  above  which  are  seen 
grimly  frowning  the  heads  of  the 
unfortunate  suitors  of  Turandot, 
who  have  already  unsuccessfully  at- 


1833.J  Gozzi's  Turandot.  377 

tempted  to  solve  the  riddles.  Calaf,  dot;  and  at  last  his  own  arrival  at 
the  son  of  the  king  of  Astracan,  en-  Pekin,  after  having  procured  an  asy- 
ters,  and  is  recognised  by  Barak,  the  lum  for  his  parents  at  the  court  of 
former  prime  minister  of  his  father,  the  king  of  Barlas.  He  comes  de- 
He  relates  to  Barak  his  misfortunes  termined  to  win  fortune  and  rank  in 
since  the  sudden  invasion  of  Astra-  the  service  of  the  Emperor,  or  to 
can  had  compelled  him  to  fly  with  die.  He  has  heard  of  the  beauty  and 
his  father,  Timur,  and  his  mother,  cruelty  of  Turandot,  but  at  first  dis- 
Elmaze  ;  his  temporary  residence  in  believes  the  tale.  His  doubts,  how- 
a  menial  capacity  at  the  court  of  ever,  are  suddenly  put  an  end  to  by 
Cheicobad,  king  of  the  Saracens,  in  the  appearance  of  Ismacl,  the  gover- 
order  to  procure  a  miserable  sub-  nor  of  the  young  Prince  of  Samar- 
sistence  for  his  parents;  the  attach-  cand,  who  enters,  weeping,  to  an- 
ment  formed  for  him  by  Adelma,  the  nounce  that  his  young  master,  like 
daughter  of  Cheicobad ;  the  defeat  his  predecessors,  had  this  instant 
of  Cheicobad,  and  supposed  death  of  suffered  the  penalty  of  his  iropru- 
Adelma,  by  order  of  Altoum,  Em-  dence. 
peror  of  China,  and  father  of  Turan- 

SCENE  II. 
ISMAEL.— CALAF. — BARAK. 

Ismael  (stretches  out  his  hand  to  Barak,  weeping  bitterly.) 
"Tis  done— the  stroke  of  death  hath  fallen.    Oh !  why 
Fell  it  not  rather  on  this  useless  head  ! 

Barak.  Merciful  Heaven ! — But  why  permit  the  Prince 
To  tempt  his  doom  in  that  unblest  divan  ? 

Ismael.  Think'st  thou  my  misery  needs  this  new  reproach  ? 
Had  I  not  warned,  implored,  and  struggled  with  him 
As  duty  dictated,  as  love  inspired  ? 
In  vain — my  friendly  voice  no  more  was  heeded, 
His  evil  destiny  impelled  him  on. 

Barak.  O  calm  thyself ! 

Ismael.  Calm!  sayestthou?    Never!  never! 
Barak,  I've  seen  him  die.    I  stood  beside  him, 
I  caught  the  glance  of  his  last  living  look, 
I  heard  his  latest  parting  words,  that  pierced 
Like  pointed  daggers  deep  into  my  heart. 
"  Weep  not,"  said  he,  "  death  hath  no  terrors  for  me, 
Since  life  denies  me  her  I  loved  so  well. 
My  father  will  forgive  me  that  I  left  him 
Without  the  comfort  of  a  last  embrace. 
It  could  not  be.    He  never  would  have  granted 
His  sanction  to  my  deadly  pilgrimage. 
But  shew  him  this." 

[He  draws  a  small  miniature  by  a  riband  from  his  breast. 

"  When  he  beholds  its  beauty, 
His  heart  will  pity  and  forgive  his  son." 
With  burning  kisses  and  with  sobs  deep  drawn, 
He  pressed  the  hateful  picture  to  his  lips, 
As  if  he  could  not  quit  it  even  in  death ; 
Then  down  he  knelt,— and  at  a  blow— the  thought 
Curdles  the  very  lifeblood  in  my  bones — 
I  saw  the  blood  spout  forth,  the  trunk  fall  down, 
The  dear  head  quiver  in  the  headsman's  hand ; — 
In  horror  and  despair  I  rushed  away. 

[Dashes  the  picture  with  indignation  on  the  ground. 
Thou  baleful  image,  curses  rest  upon  thee  ! 
Lie  there,  and  be  thou  trodden  into  dust. 
O  could  I  trample  on  the  original, 
The  tiger-hearted,  as  I  do  on  thee  ! 
Why  did  I  ever  bring  thee  to  my  king  I 


378  Gozzts  Turandot.  [March, 

No ! — Samarcaud  shall  see  my  face  no  more. 

I'll  hie  me  to  the  wilderness,  and  there, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  human  ear  or  eye, 

Bewail  my  much-loved  prince's  early  doom.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. 
CALAF  and  BARAK. 

Barak  (after  a  pause.} 
Well,  Prince,  thou  hast  heard  the  tale. 

Calaf.  I  stand  at  once 

Struck  dumb  with  wonder,  horror,  and  confusion. 
How  can  this  senseless  image,  the  creation 
Of  human  hands,  work  with  such  magic  spell  ? 

[  Goes  to  lift  up  the  miniature. 

Barak  (hurraing  to  prevent  him.) 
Great  Gods  !  what  wouldst  thou  do  ? 

Calaf  (smiling.}  Nothing,  but  lift 
A  picture  from  the  ground.    I  would  but  look 
On  this  same  murderous  beauty. 

[Stretches  towards  the  miniature,  and  lifts  it  up. 

Barak  (holding  him  lack.}  Hold  thy  hand ! 
Better  to  gaze  into  Medusa's  face, 
Than  look  upon  this  deadly  countenance. 
Away  !  away  with  it !  It  shall  not  be. 

Calaf.  Art  in  thy  senses  ?  If  thou  feel'st  so  weak, 
Not  such  am  I.     No  woman's  charms  have  e'er 
Had  power  to  touch  mine  eye,  far  less  my  heart. 
Well  then — if  living  beauty  failed  to  move  me, 
What  from  a  lifeless  painting  should  I  fear  ? 
Barak,  thy  fears  are  folly,  sadder  things 
Lie  nearer  Calaf 's  heart  than  thoughts  of  love. 

[Is  about  to  look  at  the  miniature. 

Barak.  O  yet,  my  prince,  I  warn  thee,  do  it  not. 

Calaf  (impatiently.} 
Hold  off,  I  say,  old  man,  thou  troublest  me. 

[Draws  him  backt  gazes  at  the  miniaturet  and  stands 
-  „.  fixed  in  astonishment.   After  a  pause. 

What  do  I  see  ? 

Barak  (wringing  his  hands  in  despair.} 
Woe's  me— O  wretched  chance  ! 

Calaf  (seizing  him  hastily  by  the  hand.}    Barak  f 

Barak  Bear  witness, 
Ye  gods,  for  me—I,  lam  not  to  blame. 
Bear  witness  that  I  could  not  hinder  this. 

Calaf.  O  Barak  !  in  these  gentle  dovelike  eyes, 
In  this  sweet  form,  these  softly  speaking  features, 
The  savage  heart  thou  speak'st  of  cannot  dwell. 

Barak.  Unhappy  prince,  what  say'st  thou?  fairer  far 
A  thousand  times  than  aught  this  picture  shews, 
Is  Turandot  herself,-  her  beauty's  bloom 
Could  never  mortal  colours  counterfeit; 
Even  so,  her  pride  and  cruelty  of  heart, 
No  mortal  tongue  or  language  can  proclaim. 

0  cast  it  from  thee,  this  accursed  picture, 
Away  with  it— let  not  thine  eye  drink  in 
The  deadly  poison  of  its  murderous  look. 

Calaf.  Hold  oft !  thou  seek'st  to  startle  me  in  vain. 
Celestial  grace— O  warm  and  glowing  lips  ! 
Eyes  bright  as  love's  own  goddess  wears!  What  heaven 

1  o  call  this  paragon  of  charms  my  own  I 

[He  stands  for  a  moment  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  mil.  >ature, 
then  turns  suddenly  to  Barak,  and  yrasps  Ms  hand. 


1833.]  Gozzfs  Turandot.  379 

Betray  me  not,  O  Barak !  Now  or  never, 
This  is  the  crisis  that  decides  my  fate. 
Why  should  I  spare  a  life  I  loathe  already '? 
Earth's  brightest  prize  let  me  at  once  possess, 
And  empire  with  her,  or  this  irksome  life 
At  once  abandon.    Loveliest  work  of  nature, 
Pledge  of  my  bliss,  sweet  object  of  my  hope, 
Another  sacrifice  stands  ready  for  thee,  , 

And  presses  with  impatience  to  the  altar. 
Deal  not  too  harshly  with  him.    Barak,  tell  me, 
Shall  I,  before  I  die,  in  the  Divan, 
Behold  in  truth  the  bright  original  ? 
[  The  figure  of  the  Executioner  masked  is  seen  appearing  above 

the  city-gate.     He  places  a  bloody  head  beside  the  others. 

Sound  of  muffled  drums. 

Barak.  O  horrible !  look  there,  dear  prince,  and  shudder ! 
There  stands  the  head  of  the  unhappy  youth. 
Look  how  it  glares  on  us :  and  those  same  hands 
That  placed  it  yonder  only  wait  for  thine. 

0  yet,  return — return — no  human  wit 
Can  solve  the  riddles  of  this  lioness  j 

1  see  in  fancy  thy  beloved  head, 
Another  warning  to  adventurous  youths, 
In  that  sad  circle  blackening  in  the  sun. 

Calaf  (after  gazing  on  the  head  with  emotion.) 

0  hapless  youth !  What  darksome  power  impels  me, 
Mysterious,  irresistible,  into 

The  fatal  fellowship  of  them  and  thee ! 

[He  remains  musing  a  momenty  then  turns  to  Barak. 
Why  weep'st  thou,  Barak  ?  Hast  thou  not  already 
Wept  for  me  as  for  one  long  dead  ?  Come,  come, 
Disclose  my  name  to  none.    Perchance  the  gods, 
Weary  of  persecution,  may  reward 
My  daring  with  success, — with  happiness. 
If  not,  what  has  a  desperate  man  to  lose  ? 
If  I  survive  to  read  those  riddles,  Barak, 

1  will  be  grateful  for  thy  love.    Farewell. 

[Exit. 

The  second  Act  opens  in  the  Divan.  The  adventurous  Calaf  has  claimed 
the  trial.  The  Emperor,  moved  by  his  noble  aspect  and  deportment,  endea- 
vours to  dissuade  him  from  the  risk,\but  in  vain.  The  only  favour  Calaf 
•equests  is,  that  he  may  be  allowed  in  the  meantime  to  conceal  his  name, 
nerely  assuring  the  Emperor  that  he  is  a  prince  and  a  monarch's  son,  and 
he  Emperor,  trusting  to  his  assurance,  grants  the  request. 

SCENE  IV. 

A  march.  TRUFFALDIN  (the  Chief  of  the  Eunuchs')  advances,  his  scimitar  on 
his  shoulder,  followed  by  Blacks,  and  by  several  Female  Slaves  beating 
drums.  After  them  ADELMA  and  ZELIMA,  the  former  in  Tartar  costume, 
both  veiled.  ZELIMA  bears  a  tray  with  various  sealed  papers.  TRUFFAL- 
DIN and  the  Eunuchs  prostrate  themselves  before  the  EMPEROR  as  they  pass, 
and  then  rise  up  ;  the  Female  Slaves  kneel  with  their  hands  on  their  fore- 
heads. At  length  appears  TURANDOT,  veiled,  in  rich  Chinese  costume,  with 
a  haughty  and  majestic  air.  The  Counsellors  and  Doctors  throw  themselves 
down  before  her,  with  their  faces  to  the  earth.  ALTOUM  rises  ;  the  Prin- 
cess makes  an  obeisance  to  him  with  her  hand  on  her  brow,  and  then  seats 
herself  upon  her  throne.  ZELIMA  and  ADELMA  take  their  places  on  each 
side  of  her,  the  latter  nearest  to  the  spectators.  TRUFFALDIN  takes  the 
tray  from  ZELIMA,  and  distributes  with  comic  ceremony  the  billets  among 
the  Doctors,  then  retires  with  the  same  obeisances  as  before,  and  the  march 
ceases. 


380  Gozzis  Turandot.  [March, 

Turandot  (after  a  long  pause.) 
Where  is  this  new  adventurer,  who  thus, 
Despite  the  sad  experience  of  the  past, 
Would  vainly  strive  to  solve  my  deep  enigmas, 
And  comes  to  swell  the  catalogue  of  death. 

Altoum  (pointing  to  CALAF,  who  stands  as  if  struck  with  asto- 
nishment, in  the  centre  of  the  Divan.) 
There,  daughter — there  he  stands,  and  worthy  too 
To  be  the  husband  of  thy  choice,  without 
This  frightful  test,  which  clouds  the  land  with  mourning, 
And  fills  with  sharpest  pangs  thy  father's  breast. 

Turandot  (after  gazing  at  him  for  some  time— aside  to  Zelima.) 

0  heaven,  what  feeling's  this,  my  Zelima  I 
Zelima.  What  is  the  matter,  Princess  ? 
Turandot.  Never  yet 

Did  mortal  enter  this  Divan,  whose  presence 
Could  move  my  soul  to  pity,  until  now. 

Zelima.  Three  simple  riddles  then,  and  pride  farewell ! 

Turandot.  Presumptuous  girl,  dost  thou  forget  my  honqur  ? 

Adelma  (who  has  in  the  meantime  been  regarding  the  Prince 

with  astonishment — aside.) 
Is  this  a  dream.    Great  god,  what  do  I  see  ? 
'Tis  he,  the  youth  whom  at  my  father's  court 

1  knew  but  as  a  slave.    He  was  a  prince, 
A  monarch's  son.    My  heart  foreboded  it, 
Love's  deep  presentiments  are  ever  sure. 

Turandot.  Still  there  is  time,  O  Prince  j  abandon  yet 
This  wild  attempt — turn  from  this  hall  for  ever. 
Heaven  knows  those  tongues  belie  me  that  accuse 
My  heart  of  harshness  or  of  cruelty. 
I  am  not  cruel,  I  would  only  live 
In  freedom, — would  not  be  another's  slave ; 
That  right,  which  even  the  meanest  of  mankind 
Inherits  from  his  mother's  womb,  would  I, 
The  daughter  of  an  Emperor,  maintain. 
I  see,  throughout  the  East,  unhappy  woman 
Degraded,  bent  beneath  a  slavish  yoke ; 
I  will  avenge  my  sex's  injuries 
On  haughty  man,  whose  sole  advantage  o'er  us 
Lies,  like  the  brutes,  in  strength.    Yes,  nature's  self 
Hath  armed  me  with  the  weapons  of  invention 
And  subtilty,  and  skill  to  guard  my  freedom. 
Of  man  I'll  hear  no  more.    I  hate  him — hate 
His  pride  and  his  presumption.    Every  treasure 
He  grasps  with  greedy  hand ;  whate'er,  forsooth, 
His  fancy  longs  for,  he  must  straight  possess. 
O  !  why  did  Heaven  endow  me  with  these  graces, 
These  gifts  of  mind,  if  noblest  natures  still 
Are  doomed  on  earth  to  be  the  mark  at  which 
Each  savage  hunter  aims,  while  meaner  things 
Lie  tranquil  in  their  insignificance  ! 
Shall  beauty  be  the  prize  of  one  ?    No,  rather 
Free  as  the  universal  Sun  in  heaven, 
Which  lightens  all,  which  gladdens  every  eye, 
But  is  the  slave  and  property  of  none. 

Calaf.  Such  lofty  thought,  such  nobleness  of  soul, 
Enshrined  in  such  a  godlike  form  !  O,  who 
Shall  censure  the  fond  youth  who  gladly  sets 
His  life  upon  a  cast  for  such  a  prize  ? 
The  merchant  for  a  little  gain  will  venture 
His  ships  and  crews  upon  the  stormy  sea ; 
The  hero  hunts  the  shadow  of  renown 
Across  the  gory  field  of  death  ;  and  shall 


1833.]  Gozzfs  Turandot.  381 

Beauty  alone  be  without  peril  WOD, 

Beauty,  the  best,  the  brightest  good  of  all  ? 

Princess,  I  charge  thee  not  with  cruelty, 

But  blame  not  thou  in  turn  the  youth's  presumption — 

O  hate  him  not,  that  with  enamoured  soul 

He  strives  for  that  which  is  invaluable. 

Thyself  hast  fix'd  the  treasure's  price ;  the  lists 

Are  open  to  the  worthiest.     I  am 

A  prince, — I  have  a  life  to  hazard  for  thee, 

No  happy  one,  but  'tis  my  all, — and  had  I 

A  thousand  lives  I'd  sacrifice  them  all. 

Zelima  (aside  to  Turandot.) 
O  Princess,  dost  thou  hear  ?  For  heaven's  sake, 
Three  simple  riddles — he  deserves  it  of  thee. 

Adelma  (aside.)  What  nobleness,  what  loving  dignity ! 

0  that  he  might  be  mine, — that  I  had  known  him 
To  be  a  prince,  when  at  my  father's  court 

1  dwelt  of  yore  in  freedom  and  in  joy ! 
How  love  flames  up  at  once  within  my  heart, 
Now  that  I  know  his  lineage  equals  mine ! 

Courage,  my  heart!  I  must  possess  him  still.  [To  Turandot, 

Princess,  thou  art  confused — thou'rt  silent.     Think, 
Think  of  thy  glory,  honour  is  at  stake. 

Turandot  (aside.) 

And  none  till  now  had  moved  me  to  compassion- 
Hush,  Turandot — thou  must  suppress  thy  feelings. 
Presumptuous  youth,  so  be  it  then,  prepare ! 
Altoum.  Prince,  is  thy  purpose  fix'd  ? 
Calaf.  Fix'd  as  the  pole. 

Or  death,  or  Turandot. 

Altoum.  Then  read  aloud 

The  fatal  edict;  hear  it,  Prince,  and  tremble. 

[TARTAGLIA  takes  the  Book  of  the  Law  out  of  his  bosom,  lays 
it  on  his  breast,  then  on  his  forehead,  and  delivers  it  to 
PANTALON. 
Pantalon  (receives  the  Book,  prostrates  himself,  then  rises,  and 

reads  aloud.) 

The  hand  of  Turandot  to  all  is  free, 
But  first  three  riddles  must  the  suitor  read, 
Who  solves  them  not  must  on  the  scaffold  bleed, 
And  his  head  planted  o'er  the  gate  shall  be. 
Solves  he  the  riddles,  then  the  bride  is  won, 
So  runs  the  law, — we  swear  it  by  the  sun. 

Altoum  (raising  his  right  hand,  and  laying  it  upon  the  Book.) 
O,  bloody  law,  sad  source  of  grief  to  me, 
I  swear  by  Fo  that  thou  fulfilled  shall  be. 

[TARTAGLIA  puts  the  Book  again  in  his  bosom—a  long  pause. 
Turandot  (rising,  and  in  a  declamatory  tone.) 
The  tree  within  whose  shadow 

Men  blossom  and  decay, 
Coeval  with  creation, 

Yet  still  in  green  array ; — 
One  side  for  ever  turneth 
Its  branches  to  the  sun, 
But  coal  black  is  the  other, 

And  seeks  the  light  to  shun. 
New  circles  still  surround  it, 

So  often  as  it  blows ; 
The  age  of  all  around  it, 
It  tells  us  as  it  grows ; 
And  names  are  lightly  graven 
Upon  its  verdant  riud, 


382  Gozzi's  Turandot.  [Mai'cli, 

Which,  when  its  bark  grows  shrivelPd, 

Man  seeks  in  vain  to  find. 

Then  tell  me,  Prince— this  tree, 

What  may  its  likeness  be  ? 

[Sits  down. 
Calaf  (after  considering  for  a  time,  with  his  eyes  raised,  makes 

his  obeisance  to  the  Princess.) 
Too  happy,  Princess,  would  thy  slave  be,  if 
No  riddles  more  obscure  than  this  await  him. 
The  ancient  tree  that  still  renews  its  verdure, 
On  which  men  blossom  and  decay,  whose  leaves 
On  one  side  seek,  on  the  other  flee  the  sun, 
On  whose  green  rind  so  many  names  are  graven, 
Which  only  last  so  long  as  it  is  green, 
That  tree  is  TIME,  with  all  its  nights  and  days. 
Pantalon  (joyfully.)  Tartaglia,  he  has  hit  it. 
Tartaglia.  To  a  hair ! 

Doctors  (breaking  open  the  sealed  packet.') 
Optime,  optime,  optime,  Time,  Time,  Time, 
It  is  Time.  [Music. 

Altoum  (joyfully.')  The  favour  of  the  Gods  go  with  thee,  SOD, 
And  help  thee  also  through  the  other  riddles. 
Zelima.  Oh  Heaven  assist  him ! 
*  Adelma  (aside.)  Heaven  assist  him  not. 
Let  it  not  b«,  that  she,  the  cruel  one, 
Should  gain  him,  and  the  loving-hearted  lose. 

Turandot  (in  anger.)    And  shall  he  conquer,  shall  my  pride  be 

humbled  ? 

No,  by  the  Gods ! — Thou  self-contented  fool,    (  To  Calaf.) 
Joy  not  so  early.    Listen  and  interpret. 

(Rises  again,  and  declaims  as  before.) 
Know'st  thou  the  picture  softly  rounded 
That  lights  itself  with  inward  gleam, 
Whose  hues  are  every  moment  changing, 
Yet  ever  fair  and  perfect  seem ; 
Within  the  narrowest  pannel  painted, 
Set  in  the  narrowest  frame  alone ; 
Yet  all  the  glorious  scenes  around  us 
Are  only  through  that  picture  shewn  ? 

Or  know'st  thou  that  serenest  crystal, 

Whose  brightness  shames  the  diamond's  blaze, 

That  shines  so  clear,  yet  never  scorches, 

That  draws  a  world  within  its  rays ; 

The  blue  of  heaven,  its  bright  reflection, 

Within  its  magic  mirror,  leaves, 

And  yet  the  light  that  sparkles  from  it 

Seems  lovelier  oft  than  it  receives  ? 

Calaf (bending  low  to  the  Princess,  after  a  short  consideration.) 
Chide  not,  exalted  beauty,  that  thy  servant 
Thus  dares  again  to  hazard  a  solution. 
This  tender  picture,  which,  with  smallest  frame 
Encompassed,  mirrors  even  immensity ; 
The  crystal  in  which  heaven  and  earth  are  painted 
Yet  renders  back  things  lovelier  even  than  they ; 
It  is  the  eye,  the  world's  receptacle— 
Thine  eye,  when  it  looks  lovingly  on  me. 

Pantalon  (springing  up  joy f  idly.) 
Tartaglia,  by  my  soul  he  hath  hit  the  mark, 
Even  i'  the  centre. 

Tartaglia.  As  I  Jive  'tis  true. 


U33.}  GozzVs  Turandot.  393 

Doctors  (opening  the  packet.') 
Optime,  optime,  optime,— the  Eye,  the  Eye,  it  is  the  Eye. 

[Music. 

Altoum.  What  unexpected  fortune  I  Gracious  gods, 
Let  him  but  reach  the  mark  once  more  ! 
Zelima.  O  that  it  were  the  last  I 
Adelma.  Woe's  me,  he  conquers !  he  is  lost  to  me ! 

[•To  Turandot. 

Princess,  thy  glory  is  departed.  Canst  thou 
Submit  to  this ;  shall  all  thy  former  triumphs 
Be  tarnished  in  a  moment  ? 

Turandot  (rising  in  the  highest  indignation.) 

Sooner  shall 

Earth  crumble  into  ruin.     No.     I  tell  thee, 
Presumptuous  youth,  I  do  but  hate  thee  more, 
The  more  thou  hop'st  to  conquer — to  possess  me. 
Wait  not  my  last  enigma.     Fly  at  once, 
Leave  this  Divan  for  ever.    Save  thyself. 

Calaf.  It  is  thy  hate  alone,  adored  Princess, 
That  could  appal  or  agitate  my  heart ; 
Let  my  unhappy  head  sink  i'  the  dust, 
If  it  unworthy  be  to  touch  thy  bosom. 

Altoum.  O  yield,  beloved  son,  and  tempt  no  farther 
The  gods,  who  twice  have  favoured  thee.    Now  safe, 
Nay  crowned  with  honour,  thou  canst  leave  the  field. 
Two  conquests  nought  avail  thee,  if  the  third, 
The  all-decisive,  be  not  won.    The  nearer 
The  summit,  still  the  heavier  is  the  fall. 
And  thou — O,  be  content  with  this,  my  daughter ; 
Desist,  and  try  him  with  no  more  enigmas. 
He  hath  done  what  never  prince  before  him  did-»~ 
Give  him  thy  hand  then,  he  is  worthy  of  it, 
And  end  the  trial. 

[Zelima  makes  imploring,  and  Adelma  menacing 

gestures  to  Turandot. 
Turandot.  End  the  trial,  say'st  thou  ? 
Give  him  my  hand  ?  No,  never.     Three  enigmas 
The  law  hath  said.    The  law  shall  take  its  course. 

Calaf.  Let  the  law  take  its  course.     My  life  is  placed 
In  the  gods'  hands.    Death  then  or  Turandot. 

Turandot.  Death  be  it  then-^Death.    Dost  thou  hear  me, 

Prince  ?          [Rising,  and  proceeding  to  declaim  as  before. 
What  is  that  weapon,  prized  by  few, 
Which  in  a  monarch's  hand  we  view, 
Whose  nature,  like  the  murderous  blade, 
To  trample  and  to  wound  seems  made  ; 
Yet  bloodless  are  the  wounds  it  makes, 
To  all  it  gives,  from  none  it  takes  ; 
It  makes  the  stubborn  earth  our  own, 
It  gives  to  life  its  tranquil  tone. 
Though  mightiest  empires  it  hath  grounded, 
Though  oldest  cities  it  hath  founded, 
The  flame  of  war  it  never  lit, 
And  happy  they  who  hold  by  it  ? 
Say,  Prince,  what  may  that  weapon  be, 
Or  else  farewell  to  life  and  me  ? 

[  With  these  last  words  she  tears  off  her  veil. 
Look  here,  and  if  thou  canst,  preserve  thy  senses, 
Die,  or  unfold  the  Riddle  ! 

Calaf  (confused,  and  holding  his  hand  before  his  eyes.) 
O  dazzling  light  of  heaven,  O  blinding  beauty! 

Altoum.  O  God,  he  grows  confused— his  senses  wander; 
Compose  thyself,  my  son,  collect  thy  thoughts. 


84  Gozzi's  Turandot.  [March, 

Zelima.  How  my  heart  beats ! 
Adelma  (aside.)  Mine  art  thou  yet,  beloved, 
I'll  save  thee  yet.    Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Pantalon  (to  Calaf. )  O,  for  the  love  of  heaveu,  let  not  his 


Take  leave  of  him  !  Courage,  look  up,  my  Prince— 

0  woe  is  me,  I  fear  me  all  is  over ! 
Tartaglia  (with  mock  gravity  to  himself.) 

Would  dignity  permit,  we'd  fly  in  person 
To  fetch  him  vinegar. 

Turandot  (looking  with  a  steady  countenance  on  the  Prince, 

who  still  stands  immovable.)    Unfortunate  1 
Thou  wouldst  provoke  thy  ruin,  take  it  then. 

Calaf  (who  has  recovered  his  composure,  turns  with  a  calm 

smile  and  obeisance  to  Turandot.) 
It  was  thy  beauty  only,  heavenly  Princess, 
That  with  its  blinding  and  o'erpowering  beam 
Burst  on  me  so,  and  for  a  moment  took 
My  senses  prisoners.    I  am  not  vanquished. 
That  iron  weapon  prized  of  few,  yet  gracing 
The  hand  of  China's  emperor  itself, 
On  the  first  day  of  each  returning  year ; 
That  weapon,  which,  more  harmless  than  the  sword, 
To  industry  the  stubborn  earth  subjected ; — 
Who,  from  the  wildest  wastes  of  Tartary, 
Where  only  hunters  roam,  and  shepherds  pasture, 
Could  enter  here,  and  view  this  blooming  land, 
The  green  and  golden  fields  that  wave  around  us, 
Its  many  hundred  many-peopled  towns, 
Blest  in  the  calm  protection  of  the  law ; 
Nor  reverence  that  goodliest  instrument, 
That  gave  these  blessings  birth,  the  gentle  PLOUGH. 

Pantalon.  O  God  be  praised  at  last !    Let  me  embrace  thee ; 

1  scarcely  can  contain  myself  for  joy. 

Tartaglia.  God  bless  his  majesty  the  Emperor !     All 
Is  over  j  sorrow  has  an  end  at  last. 

Doctors  (breaking  open  the  packet.)    The  Plough,  the  Plough,  it 
is  the  Plough ! 

[All  the  instruments  join  in  a  loud  crash.     Turandot 

sinks  upon  her  throne  in  a  swoon. 
Zelima  (employed  about  Turandot.)  Look  up,  my  Princess.    O 

compose  thyself. 
The  prize  is  his,  the  lovely  Prince  has  conquered. 

Adelma.  (aside,)  The  prize  is  his,  and  he  is  lost  to  me. 
Lost,  said  I  ?    No.    Yet  there  is  room  for  hope. 

[Altoum,  overpowered  with  joy,  descends  from  his  throne,  assisted 
by  Pantalon  and  Tartaglia.  The  Doctors  rise  from  their  seats, 
and  retire  towards  the  background.  All  the  doors  are  opened, 
and  the  people  are  seen  without.  The  music  continues.] 
Altoum  (to  Turandot.)  No  more,  thank  heaven,  shalt  thou  re- 
main my  torment, 

Unnatural  child.    The  fearful  penalty 
Of  the  law  is  paid.     Misfortune  hath  an  end. 
Come  to  my  heart,  beloved  prince.    With  joy 
I  hail  thee  as  my  son-in-law. 

Turandot   (who  has  recovered  her  senses,  rushes  in  desperation 
from  her  throne,  and  throws  herself  between  them.) 

Stay,  stay. 

Let  him  not  dare  to  hope  to  be  my  husband  ! 
The  trial  was  too  easy.    He  must  solve 
Three  riddles  here  in  the  divan  anew. 
They  took  me  by  surprise,  vouchsafed  me  not 
Time  to  prepare  as  I  had  wished  to  do. 


1833.]  Gozzfs  Turandot.  S85 

Altoum.    No,  cruel  daughter— thou  art  caught,  and  hope  not 
By  artful  doubles  to  escape  the  toil. 
The  law's  condition  is  fulfilled,  and  so 
The  assembled  council  shall  pronounce  their  sentence. 

Pantalon.    Nay,  by  your  leave,  most  Stony-hearted  Princess, 
No  need  to  coin  new  riddles,  nor  to  cut 
New  heads  off.    There— there  stands  your  man  !    In  brief, 
The  law  hath  had  its  course.     The  banquet  waits 
To  have  its  course.    What  says  my  learned  colleague  ? 

Tartaglia.     The  law  has  had  its  course.     No  more  beheading. 
Joy  follows  grief.    Let  marriage  follow  both. 

Altoum.    Let  the  procession  towards  the  temple  move ; 
The  stranger  tell  his  name,  and  on  the  spot 
The  nuptials  be  performed. 

Turandot  (throwing  herself  in  his  way.)  Delay,  O  father, 
A  brief  delay ! 

Altoum.  Not  for  an  hour.    I  am 

Resolved.    Ungrateful  girl !    Too  long  already, 
To  mine  own  grief  and  torment,  have  I  yielded 
A  forced  obedience  to  thy  cruel  will. 
Thy  sentence  is  pronounced,  it  stands  recorded; 
Writ  in  the  blood  of  those  ten  sacrifices, 
Whom  thy  remorseless  pride  hath  doomed  to  death. 
I  have  kept  my  word,  do  thou  keep  thine,  or  by 
The  sacred  head  of  Fo,  I  swear— — 

Turandot  (throws  herself  at  his  feet.)    O  father! 
Allow  me  but  a  day. 

Altoum.  No,  not  an  hour ! 

I'll  hear  no  further ;  to  the  temple — on. 

Turandot  (despairingly).  Then  shall  the  temple  be  to  me  a  grave ! 
I  cannot,  and  I  will  not,  be  his  bride. 
I'd  sooner  die  a  thousand  deaths  than  bend 
In  sad  submission  to  this  haughty  man. 
The  very  name,  the  very  thought  of  being 
His  slave,  seems  in  itself  annihilation. 

Calaf.  Thou  pitiless,  inexorable  being, 
Rise  up — what  mortal  could  withstand  thy  tears  ? 
(  To  Altoum.)  Sire,  be  entreated.     I  myself  implore 
This  favour.    Grant  her  the  delay  she  asks. 
How  could  I  e'er  be  happy  while  she  hates  me  ? 
I  love  her  far  too  tenderly  to  bear 
Her  grief,  her  agony.     O  thou  insensible, 
If  the  true  love  of  a  true  heart  avail  not 
To  touch  thy  heart,  thine  let  the  triumph  be ; 
Mine  thou  shalt  never  be  against  thy  will. 
But  couldst  thou  look  into  this  bleeding  heart, 
I  know  thou  wouldst  feel  pity.    Dost  thou  still 
Thirst  for  my  blood  ?  So  be  it.     Let  the  trial, 
Sire,  recommence.    Welcome  to  me  is  death, 
For  now  I  am  aweary  of  existence. 

Altoum.  No,  no,  it  is  resolved.    Forth — to  the  temple ; 
Tempt  me  no  more  with  prayers,  imprudent  youth. 

Turandot.  To  the  temple,  then,  but  at  the  altar  will 
Thy  daughter  know  the  way  to  die. 

Calaf.  Die!  heavens! 

No!  Ere  it  come  to  that— hear  me,  O  Emperor. 
This  only  favour  let  thy  kindness  yield. 
Let  we  in  turn,  in  this  august  divan, 
Prescribe  for  her  a  riddle  to  interpret. 
'Tis  this  :  What  is  the  name  and  race  of  him, 
The  Prince,  who,  to  preserve  a  weary  life, 
.  Was  doom'd  a  while  to  drudge  a  lowly  slave, 
And  now,  upon  the  pinnacle  of  hope, 


86  Goxxi's  Turandot.  [March, 

Is  yet  more  hapless  than  he  was  before  ? 
To-morrow,  cruel  one,  in  this  divan 
Declare  this  Prince's  and  his  father's  name. 
If  thou  canst  not,  here  let  my  sufferings  end. 
Let  this  dear  hand  be  mine  ;  but  if  thou  canst, 
Then  with  my  life  I  pay  the  penalty. 

Turandot.    I  am  contented,  Prince.     On  this  condition 
I  am  yours. 

Zelima.      I  begin  again  to  tremble. 
Adelma.    And  I  to  hope  anew. 
Altoum.  But  I  am  not 

Contented.    I  permit  it  not.    The  law 
Shall  have  its  due  fulfilment. 

Calaf  (falls  at  his  feet.)     Mighty  Emperor  ! 
If  prayers  may  move  thee — if  thy  daughter's  life 
And  mine  be  dear  to  thee,  oh,  grant  the  prayer ! 
May  Heaven  forbid  that  I  in  aught  oppose 
Her  pleasure  :  If  she  wills  it,  let  me  die. 
To-morrow,  if  she  can,  in  the  divan 
Let  her  resolve  my  riddle. 

Turandot.  Heavens  I  he  dares 

To  mock  me,  dares  to  set  me  at  defiance ! 

Altoum.  Unthinking  youth,  thou  know'st  riot  what  thou  ask'st ; 
Know'st  not  her  depth  and  subtilty  of  soul. 
But  be  it  so.    Let  this  new  trial  be  ! 
I  free  her  of  her  pledge,  if  that  to-morrow 
In  the  divan  she  can  declare  those  names. 
But  come  what  may,  at  least  no  more  of  murder. 
Let  her  succeed  or  fail,  thou  shalt  depart 
In  peace ;  too  much  of  blood  has  flowed  already. 
Follow  me,  thoughtless  Prince— what  hast  thou  done  ? 

[  The  march  recommences.  ALTOUM  goes  out  majestically  by  one 
door,  with  the  PRINCE,  PANTALON,  TARTAGLIA,  the  DOCTORS, 
and  the  GUARD  ;  TURANDOT,  ADELMA,  ZELIMA,  and  the  female 
slaves  on  the  other. 

The  ingenuity  of  Turandot  at  once  ble,  to  discover  the  secret,  and,  even 

perceives  that  the  enigma  of  Calaf  at  the  cost  of  her  own  happiness,  to 

relates  to  himself,  but,  ignorant  of  humble  the  successful  CEdipus,  who 

any  clue  to  his  birth,  she  almost  de-  had  solved   her  riddles.     She  en- 

spairs  of  detecting  the  secret;  but,  deavours,  by  threats,  to  extort  from 

by   the    incautious    disclosures    of  Timur  the  secret  of  Calaf's  name 

Skirina,  the  wife  of  Barak  and  mother  and  birth;  in  the  violence  of  his 

of  Zelima, the  Princeas  ascertains  the  emotion  he  betrays  himself  so  far  as 

residence  of  the  unknown  with  Ba-  to  shew  that  Calaf  is  his  son,  but  no 

rak,  and,  instigated  by  Adelma,  who,  menaces  can  extort  from  him  any 

for  purposes  of  her  own,  promotes  thing    farther.      Adelma,  however, 

in  the  meantime  the  views  of  the  now  steps  forward,  and  undertakes, 

Princess,  Barak  is  arrested  at   the  by  some  device  or  other,  to  ascertain 

very  moment  that  he  is  in  conversa-  ere  the  next  morning  the  name  and 

tion  with  his  former  master  Timur,  family  of  the  unknown.    Her  secret 

who  has  just  reached  Pekin  in  search  purpose  is  to  disclose  her  love,  and 

of  his  son.    The  conduct,  the  Ian-  either  to  persuade  the  Prince  to  fly 

guage  of  Timur,  excite    suspicion,  with  her  immediately,  or  if  she  find 

and  both  the  exiled  monarch  and  the  him  inexorable,  by  betraying  to  Tu- 

ex-minister  are  brought  together  in-  raudot  the  important  secret,  to  en- 

to  the  presence  of  the  Princess.  The  sure  his  rejection  by  her;  as  she  all 

whole  deportment  of  Turandot  shews  along  indulges  the  hope,  that  if  the 

that  Calaf  has  made  an  impression  Prince  were  once  freed  from  his  pas- 

on  her  heart ;  but  wounded  vanity  sion  for  Turandot,  her  own  attach- 

contends  with  love,  and,   aided  by  ment    would    meet  with  a  return, 

the  jealous  and  interested  counsels  The  Princess,  inspired  by  her  confi- 

of  Adelma,  determines  her,  if  possi-  dence,  recovers  her  hopes,  and  di- 


1833,]  Goxxtfs  Turandof. 

rects  her  to  use  every  effort  to  get 
possession  of  the  secret.  She  even 
resists  the  entreaties  of  her  father, 
to  whom,  in  the  meantime,  the  infor- 
mation of  Calaf's  name  and  rank  has 
been  accidentally  communicated, 
and  who  offers  to  impart  to  her  the 
secret,  so  as  to  ensure  her  triumph 
in  the  divan,  if  she  will  only  pledge 
herself  to  give  her  hand  to  Calaf  at 
last.  Pride  still  prevails  over  affec- 
tion, she  rejects  her  father's  offer, 
and  throws  herself  upon  the  inven- 
tion and  enterprise  of  Adelma. 

With  this  view  every  scheme  is 
put  in  requisition.  For  security's 
sake,  Calaf  has  been  by  the  Empe- 
ror's directions  removed  to  the  pa- 
lace, and  strict  orders  given  that  no 
one  should  be  admitted  to  his  apart* 
ments.  He  has  laid  himself  weary 
and  anxious  on  his  couch,  in  hopes 
of.  being  able,  by  rest,  to  compose 
himself  for  the  agitating  scene  of  the 
morrow.  His  rest,  however,  is  soon 
broken,  for  the  guards  have  been 
corrupted  by  the  agency  of  Adelma. 
First  Skirina  endeavours  to  extract 
the  secret  from  him  by  a  feigned 
tale  of  his  father's  danger,  and  his 
anxiety  to  receive  from  him  a  note 
written  with  his  own  hand.  This 
shallow  device,  however,  Calaf  im- 
mediately penetrates,  and  Skirina  is 
soon  dismissed.  Her  daughter  Ze- 
lima,  who  succeeds  her,  fares  no 
better.  The  poor  tormented  Prince 
ms  again  thrown  himself  on  his 
couch,  when  his  slumbers  are  in- 
terrupted a  third  time  by  the  en- 
trance of  a  more  formidable  tempter, 
Adelma.  She  discloses  her  name, 
her  rank,  her  passion,  and  urges 
every  possible  motive  to  induce 
Calaf  to  abandon  his  hopeless  pas- 
sion ;  but  in  vain.  Calaf  feels  gra- 
litude  to  her,  but  to  love  his  heart  is 
inaccessible.  She  even  at  last  ac- 


387 

cuses  Turandot  of  a  plot  to  murder 
him  next  morning  on  his  way  to  the 
divan.  Even  this  cannot  cure  the 
passion  of  the  unfortunate  Prince ; 
he  continues  to  love,  even  while  he 
shudders  at  the  supposed  barbarity 
of  his  beautiful  idol.  But,  in  the 
vehemence  of  his  agonized  feelings, 
the  names  of  his  father  and  himself 
— the  hapless  Timur,  and  yet  more 
hapless  Calaf — escape  Jrim.  Adelma 
is  now  in  possession  of  his  secret. 
Finding  every  argument  vain,  she 
leaves  him  to  communicate  it  to  her 
mistress.  And  now,  as  Calaf  fondly 
hopes  that  his  interruptions  are  at 
an  end,  and  that  tired  nature's  sweet 
restorer  is  to  be  his  for  an  hour  or 
two,  the  officers  of  the  seraglio  enter, 
to  say  that  daybreak  is  at  hand,  and 
that  he  must  prepare  for  the  divan. 
A  rapid  and  almost  breathless  in- 
terest pervades  this  act,  from  which 
we  should  have  most  willingly  quo- 
ted, if  we  had  not  already  indulged 
at  such  length,  and  if  the  catastrophe 
of  the  story— the  scene  in  the  divan 
—did  not  yet  remain. 

The  fifth  act  opens  in  the  divan. 
Calaf  expresses  his  surprise  that  he 
has  reached  it  without  the  threatened 
attempt  being  made  upon  his  life; 
but  -a  deep  feeling  of  anxiety  and 
despondency  rests  on  his  mind, 
which  all  his  efforts,  and  the  encou- 
ragement of  the  Emperor,  cannot 
enable  him  to  shake  off.  Sbme  pre- 
sentiment within  seems  to  forewarn 
him  that  Turandot  has  discovered 
his  secret.  At  this  moment  a  me- 
lancholy march  is  heard,  and  the 
Princes*,  with  her  attendants,  all  in 
the  deepest  mourning,  enter  the  hall. 
Turandot  ascends  her  throne,  amidst 
profound  silence  and  deep  anxiety 
among  the  audience,  then  turns  to 
Calaf,  and  speaks. 


These  mourning  garments,  UNKNOWN  PRINCE — the  grief 

That  clouds  the  countenances  of  my  train, 

To  thee  may  seem  a  welcome  spectacle. 

I  see  the  altar  all  bedeck'd,  the  priest 

Stand  ready  for  the  bridal.    I  can  read 

Scorn  in  each  look,  and  I  could  weep  for  bitterness. 

What  art  ajid  deepest  science  could  effect, 

To  win  the  conquest  from  thee,— to  avert 

This  hour  which  shames  my  glory,  I  have  tried 

In  vain,— -and  now  I  bend  me  to  my  fate. 

Calaf.  Could  Turandot  but  read  my  heart,  and  see 
How  much  her  sorrow  overcasts  my  joy, 
Her  wrath  would  be  disarmed.    Was  it  a  crime 
To  strive  for  such  a  prize  ?   Would  it  not  be 
A  greater  still  to  yield  it  like  a  coward '? 


388  Goxxi's  Turandot.  [March, 

Altoum.    She  is  unworthy  of  thy  condescension, 

0  Prince.    'Tis  now  her  turn  to  yield;  and  whether 
She  yield  with  graceful  dignity,  or  struggle 

With  all  her  sex's  waywardness — the  nuptials 
Shall  straight  proceed.    What,  ho!  Let  joyful  music 
Proclaim  to  all 

Turandot.        Patience,  not  quite  so  fast. 

[Rising  and  turning  to  Calaf. 
My  triumph  is  complete.    I  did  but  raise 
Thy  heart  unto  the  pinnacle  of  hope, 
That  I  might  plunge  it  deeper  in  despair. 

[Slowly,  and  with  an  elevated  voice. 
Hear,  CALAF,  TIMUR'S  SON  : — Quit  this  divan. 
Both  names  my  deep  invention  hath  discovered. 
Go  seek  another  bride,  and  woe  to  thee 
And  all  that  dare  contend  with  Turandot. 

Calaf.     O  miserable  me ! 

Altoum.  Gods!  is  it  possible? 

Pantalon.    O  holy  Catharine  ! 

Tartaglia.  By  the  ihead  of  Fo, 

My  wits  are  at  a  stand. 

Calaf.    All  lost — all  hope  for  ever  gone ! — Ah !  where, 
Where  shall  I  turn  for  comfort  ?   None  can  help  me. 

1  am  myself  the  suicide ;  I  lose 

My  love  because  I  loved  her  all  too  well. 
Why  did  I  not,  of  purpose,  fail  to  solve 
The  enigmas  ?     Then  my  head  to-day  had  found 
A  quiet  pillow  on  the  lap  of  death, 
This  suffocating  heart  a  breathing  room. 
Why,  gracious  Emperor,  wouldst  thou  mitigate 
For  me  the  bloody  ordinance  of  the  law, 
That  with  my  head  I  might  have  paid  the  forfeit, 
If  she  had  solved  the  enigma.     Then  at  last 
She  had  been  satisfied,  and  I  at  rest. 

[A  murmur  of  disapprobation  among  the  people  in  the  background. 
Altoum.  Calaf,  my  tottering  age  can  bear  no  more ; 
This  unexpected  thunderstroke  has  crushed  me. 

Turandot  (aside  to  Zelima.)  His  silent  anguish  moves  me,  Zelima, 
No  longer  can  I  steel  my  heart  against  him. 
Zelima  (aside  to  Turandot.)    O  yield  thee,  then,  at  once.     See 

there — the  people 
Already  grow  impatient. 

Adelma  (in  extreme  agitation.)    Life  and  death 
Depend  upon  this  moment. 

Calaf.  But  what  needs 

The  sword  of  the  law  to  end  a  life  already 
Intolerable  ? 

[He  advances  to  the  throne  of  Turandot. 
Yes,  relentless  Princess ! 

Here  stands  that  Calaf  whom  thou  knowest,— that  Calaf 
Whom  as  a  nameless  stranger  thou  didst  hate. 
And  now,  no  longer  nameless,  hatest  still. 
Now,  cruel  Princess,  thou  shalt  have  thy  will. 
I  will  no  longer  with  my  presence  darken 
The  sun  to  thee.    Here— at  thy  feet— 

[Draws  a  dagger  and  is  about  to  stab  himself.     At  the  same  mo- 
ment ADELMA  makes  a  motion  to  prevent  him,  and  TURANDOT 
rushes  from  her  throne. 
Turandot  (falling  upon  his  arm  with  a  look  of  terror  and  love.) 

ph!  Calaf! 

[Both  continue  for  some  time  immovable,  and  gazing  on  each  other. 
Altoum.  What  do  I  see  ? 


1883.]  Gozsi's  Turandot.  389 

Calaf  (after  a  pause.) 

Thou  !   Thou  wouldst  prevent  my  death ! 
Is  this  thy  pity  ?  Wouldst  thou  have  me  live 
A  loveless,  lifeless,  comfortless  existence  ? 
Think'st  thou  thy  charms  even  can  control  despair  ? 
Here  ends  thy  power.     Kill  me  thou  mayst— thou  canst  not 
Compel  me  to  live  on.     Off — let  me  die ; 
And  if  a  spark»of  pity  still  survive, 
Reserve  it  for  my  father — he  is  here 
In  Pekin — he  hath  need  of  comfort,  since 
The  staff  of  his  old  age  is  gone,  since  fate 
Bereaves  him  of  his  dear  and  only  son. 

[Again  attempts  to  stab  himself. 

Turandot  (throwing  herself  into  his  arms.)  Live,  Calaf. 

Thou  ehalt  live,  and  live  for  me. 
I  am  conquer' d.     I  disguise  my  love  no  longer. 
Fly,  Zelima,  to  those  unfortunates ; 
Carry  them  news  of  comfort,  freedom,  joy. 

Zelima.  Ah,  me!  how  gladly. 

Adelma.  It  is  time  to  die, 

Stfnce  hope  is  at  an  end. 

Calaf.  Gods,  do  I  dream  ? 

Turandot.  I  will  not  shine  in  borrow'd  glories,  Prince, 
To  which  I  have  no  claim.    Know,  then — and  let 
The  whole  world  know  it — to  no  skill  of  mine, 
To  chance  alone  and  thy  surprise  I  owe 
The  secret  of  thy.  name  and  race.    Thyself, 
Last  night,  declared  them  to  my  slave  Adelma. 
Both  names  unwittingly  escaped  thy  lips. 
Through  her  I  have  obtained  them.     Thou  art  therefore 
The  victor.    Thine  alone  the  praise  should  be. 
But  not  alone  that  justice  asks  it, — not 
In  forced  obedience  to  the  law. — No,  Prince, 
But  mine  own  heart's  unfetter'd  impulses, 
I  give  myself  to  thee.     That  heart  was  thine, 
Even  from  the  earliest  moment  that  I  saw  thee. 

Adelma.  O  martyrdom  beyond  compare  ! 

Calaf  (who  has  stood  during  all  this  time  as  if  in  a  dream,  now 
appears  for  the  first  time  to  come  to  himselfy  and  clasps  the 
Princess  with  ecstasy  in  his  arms.)  Thou — mine  ! 
Let  me  not  die  with  this  excess  of  bliss. 

Altoum.  The  blessing  of  the  gods  be  with  thee,  daughter, 
Since  thou  at  last  bringst  comfort  to  my  age. 
Let  all  our  former  sufferings  be  forgotten. 
This  moment  heals  all  wounds. 

Pantalon.  A  marriage,  then  I 

A  marriage,  ho  !  Make  room,  ye  learned  doctors. 

Tartaglia.  Room— room,  there ;  let  their  faith  forthwith 
be  plighted. 

Adelma.  Live,  then,  hard-hearted  man;  live  happy  with  her, 
Whom  from  my  inmost  soul  I  hate.  [To  Turandot. 

Yes,  know 

I  never  loved  thee,  that  I  hate  thee,  and, 
Through  hatred,  only  counterfeited  love. 
I  did  disclose  those  names  but  in  the  hope 
To  tear  thy  love  from  thee,  and  with  the  man 
Whom  I  had  known  and  loved,  ere  thou  hadst  seen  him 
To  fly  to  happier  lands.     This  very  night, 
While  in  thy  service  I  appeared  so  active, 
I  tried  all  arts,  even  calumny  itself, 
To  make  him  fly  with  me.    It  would  not  be. 
Those  names  which  in  his  agony  escapecl  him 
VOL,  xxxin.  NO.  ccv.  2  c 


390  Gozzi's  Tiirandot.  [March, 

I  did  betray,  in  hope  that,  banish'd  from  thee, 

He'd  throw  himself  into  Adelma' s  arms. 

Vain  hope  !  he  loved  too  tenderly,  and  chose 

Rather  to  die  for  thee,  than  live  for  me. 

My  efforts  were  in  vain.     One  thing  alone 

Remains  within  my  power.     I,  like  thyself, 

Am  come  of  royal  lineage,  and  must  blush 

That  I  have  groan' d  in  slavish  bonds  so  long. 

Of  father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters,  all 

That  to  my  heart  were  dear,  thou  hast  deprived  me  j 

And  now  thou  dost  bereave  me  of  my  love. 

Take  then  the  wretched  remnant  of  our  race, 

Myself,  to  join  the  rest.    I'll  live  no  longer. 

[She  lifts  the  dagger,  which  TURANDOT  had  wrested  from 

CALAF,  from  the  ground. 
Despair  it  was  that  drew  this  dagger ;  now 
It  finds  at  last  the  heart  for  which  'twas  destined. 

Calaf  (clasping  her  by  the  arm.)  Adelma,  O  be  calm  ! 

Adelma.  Leave  me,  ungrateful  one ; 
What,  see  thee  happy  in  her  arms  ? — No,  never  I 

Calaf.  Thou  shalt  not  die.    'Tis  to  thy  fortunate 
Deceit  I  owe  it,  that  this  noble  heart, 
Foe  to  constraint,  hath  voluntarily  yielded 
To  make  me  happy.    Gracious  Emperor, 
If  my  warm  prayers  have  any  weight  with  thee, 
Bestow  on  her  once  more  the  gift  of  freedom ; 
Let  the  first  pledge  of  happiness  for  us 
Be,  to  make  others  happy. 

Turandot.  I,  too,  father, 
Unite  my  prayers  with  his.     I  must  appear 
Too  hateful  to  her.    Me  she  could  not  pardon, 
Nor  would  she  think  my  pardon  was  sincere. 
Let  her  go  free,  and  if  a  higher  favour 
Be  yet  in  store  for  her,  let  it  be  granted. 
Too  many  tears  were  made  to  flow  before, 
And  now  must  haste  the  more  to  scatter  joy. 

And  now,  we  ask  our  readers,  of  in  degree,  but  the  same  in  kind  with 

whom  we  suppose  one  in  every  two  that  of  our  own  English  dramatists 

hundred  may  perhaps  have  heard  of  of  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  we  have  al- 

Gozzi's  name,  whether  the  Venetian  ways  thought  that  in  these  almost 

be  not  a  man  of  imagination  and  ta-  forgotten  dramas,  instinct  as  they  are 

lent ;  whether  the  drama  from  which  with  poetical  fire,  abounding  in  na- 

we  have  quoted  so  liberally,  and  tural  and  forcible  dialogue,  adorned 

others  not  inferior  to  it, be  not  anima-  with  the  richest  and  most  varied  co- 

ted  by  a  dramatic  interest,  and  a  poe-  louring  of  imagination,  passing  so 

tical  spirit, more  analogous  to  the  free-  gracefully  from   the  tragic  to   the 

dom  and  force  of  our  own  dramatists,  comic,  and,  above  all,  carrying  along 

than  to  the  colder  character  of  the  with  them  the  sympathy  and  interest 

continental  stage  ?  Has  he  not  con-  of  the  readers,  amidst  all  their  wan- 

trived  to  impart  to  the  fantastic  cha-  derings  beyond  the  visible  diurnal 

racter  of  Oriental  fable,  the  earnest-  sphere,  the  Italians  might  have  found 

ness,  the  (jeep  feeling,  the  reality  of  perhaps  a  better  model  of  dramatic 

the  poetry  of  the  West,  art,  than  in  the  monotonous  beauty 

'<  And  wonders  wild  of  Arabesque  com-  of  Metastasio's  .operas,  with  his  all- 

bined  pervading  principle  of  pastoral  love, 

With  Gothic  imagery  of  darker  shade  ?"  with  Msmachinery  of  suspended  dag- 
gers and  indispensable  confidantes, 

For  our  own  part,  we  cannot  hesi-  who  knew  every  thing  before ;  or  in 

tate  to  say,  that  though  we  do  not  the  sententious  pomp  and  meagre 

look  upon  his  works  as  characteristic  abstractions  of  that  man  of  one  idea, 

of  the  Italian  mind,  but  rather  as  and  that  too,  that  least  susceptible 

indicating  a  genius, inferior,  no  doubt,  of  dramatic  variety,— Victor  Alfieri. 


1833.] 


Characteristics  of  Women,    No,  III. 


391 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN.* 

No.  III. 

CHARACTERS  OF  PASSION  AND  IMAGINATION. 
SHAKSPEARE. 


WHAT  is  Passion  ?  The  art  and  act 
of  suffering.  What  is  Imagination  ? 
The  art  and  act  of  creating.  The  two 
together  ?  Poetry,  dealing  with  mor- 
tal pleasure  and  pain,  and  thereby  su- 
bliming even  while  it  saddens,  beau- 
tifying even  while  it  troubles  life 
a  ad  death.  Dwell  they  in  more  im- 
perial power  in  man's  or  woman's 
heart?  We  who  are  every  inch  a 
n  an,  say  in  woman's — you  who  are 
e?ery  inch  a  woman,  say  in  man's. 
Brightly  burn  they  both  in  both,  when 
fur  bosom  meets  bold,  and  saints  or 
s  nners  feel 

"  That  Love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is 
Love." 

Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagi- 
nation! Where  dwell  they  now-a- 
days  in  this  world?  In  madhouses. 
The  people  without  keepers,  in  this 
intellectual  age,  acknowledge  not 
their  dominion.  They  are  all  good 
and  loyal  subjects  of  Common  Sense. 
He  is  "  monarch  of  all  he  surveys." 
Blood-heat  is  now  reduced  to  the 
t(  mperature  of  milk  and  water  in  a 
d  ury  at  peep  of  dawn ;  and  not  a 
pnlse  in  male  or  female  wrist  beats 
ir  ore  than  sixty  to  the  minute.  That 
strange  sensation  which  is  even  yet 
sometimes  felt,  called  fluttering  at 
the  heart,  is  so  called  by  an  elegant 
misnomer.  'Tis  but  flatulence  or 
acridity  in  the  stomach.  Indurated 
is  the  white  and  eke  the  brown  mat- 
ter of  the  brain ;  and  dulness  dwells 
iu  the  deception  of  a  grand  develope- 
irent.  "  They  that  look  out  at  the 
windows  are  darkened."  Dim  is  the 
P  ilace  of  the  Soul.  Pia  mater  has 
lost  all  sense  of  religion.  Sin  herself 
h;is  grown  stupid,  though  she  sprung 
fi  om  the  head  of  Satan  ;  and  Virtue 
k  oks  as  if  she  were  her  twin-sister, 
si  e  who  of  yore  was  a  seraph,  and 
d)  ew  her  descent  from  heaven. 

The  world  is  in  a  bad  way.  Youth 
u;^d  to  be  clothed,  as  with  a  gar- 
ment, with  genius  and  innocence,  and 
walked  the  earth  in  joy,  unconscious 
oi  its  own  glory,  as  stars  walk  the 


sky.  But  now  nobody  is  young  ex- 
cept the  old.  "  There  are  young  wo- 
men in  these  days,"  says  the  Lady  to 
whose  delightful  book  about  Shak- 
speare  we  return,  "  but  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  youth — the  bloom  of 
existence  is  sacrificed  to  a  fashion- 
able education,  and  where  we  should 
find  the  rose-buds  of  the  spring,  we 
see  only  •  the  full-blown,  flaunting, 
precocious  roses  of  the  hot-bed." 

If  we  ever  marry,  it  shall  be  an 
old  woman — a  woman  who,  whether 
fat  and  fair  or  not,  shall  at  least  be 
forty.  Not  a  "  full-blown,  flaunt- 
ing, precocious  rose  of  the  hot-bed," 
but  an  ever-blooming,  modest  Christ- 
mas rose,  that  meets  you  at  the  door 
with  a  snowy  shower  of  blossoms. 
Canker'worse  than  the  smut  in  wheat 
soon  eats  away  the  one,  if  frost  not 
blights  it  till  it  wither ;  the  heart  of 
the  other  is  sound  as  its  leaves  are 
smiling,  even  like  the  tree  that 
flowers  but  in  heaven,  immortal 
amaranth. 

Yet  one  sometimes  picks  up  on 
the  streets  Sybilline  leaves,  scribbled 
with  warnings  for  the  youth  of  this 
enlightened  age,  against  the  dangers 
of  romance.  They  may  as  well  be 
bid  go  armed  against  the  Griffin  and 
the  Arimaspin.  The  days  of  chivalry 
are  not  gone,  for  when  hay  is  at 
eightpence  a-stone,  every  Cockney 
keeps  his  'oss ;  but  the  age  of  ro- 
mance is  gone,  we  understand,  even 
among  milliners,  who  have  betaken 
themselves  to  useful  and  entertain- 
ing knowledge.  "  Where  are  they," 
Mrs  Jameson  asks,  "  these  disci- 
ples of  poetry  and  romance — these 
victims  of  disinterested  devotion 
and  believing  truth — all  conscience 
and  tenderness — whom  it  is  so  ne- 
cessary to  guard  against  too  much 
confidence  in  others,  and  too  little  in 
themselves — where  are  they  ?"  And 
the  celebrated  echo,  Paddy  Blake, 
answers,  "  Nowhere !" 

Romance  of  old  had,  what  Cole- 
ridge so  finely  calls  her  "  Cloudland 
gorgeous  land"  hovering  at  sun- 


*  Characteristics  of  Women,  Moral,  Poetical,  and  Historical ;  with  fifty  vignette 

Ati  llinrro  "R«,    TVIW,    T T«    j._., -I T  ~nA~n   .      fionn/laKe    OTir! 


392 

rise  or  sunset— nay,  all  day  long — 
over  Clod-land  till  the  grass  grew 
greener  in  the  emerald  light,  or  the 
violet  more  "  deeply,  darkly,  beauti- 
fully blue"  in  the  cerulean  smile 
that  tinged  earth  with  heaven. 

Dissolved  is  all  that  sweet  or  so- 
lemn pageantry— and  the  lovely  fe- 
minine adorers  of  poetry  and  ro- 
mance, are  only  to  be  found  now 
"  wandering  in  the  Elysian  fields, 
with  the  romantic  young  gentlemen, 
who  are  too  generous,  too  zealous 
in  defence  of  innocence,  too  enthu- 
siastic in  the  admiration  of  virtue, 
too  violent  in  the  hatred  of  vice,  too 
sincere  in  friendship,  too  faithful  in 
love,  too  active  and  disinterested  in 
the  cause  of  truth  !" 

The  favourite  philosophy  of  the 
day  is — utility — alias  expediency — 
alias  selfishness  —  alias  what-you- 
may.  And  all  the  evils  of  that  heart- 
less creed  are  encouraged  and  in- 
creased by  the  forcing  system  of 
Education — a  system  which,  our  fair 
friend  (if  she  will  permit  us  to  call 
her  so)  indignantly  says,  "inundates 
us  with  hard,  clever,  sophisticated 
girls,  trained  by  knowing  mothers 
and  all-accomplished  governesses, 
with  whom  vanity  and  expediency 
take  place  of  conscience  and  affec- 
tion, (in  other  words,  of  romance,) 
'  fruttb  senile  in  sul  giovenil  fiore  ;' 
with  feelings  and  passions  suppress- 
ed or  contracted,  not  governed  by 
higher  faculties  and  purer  principles; 
with  whom  opinion — the  same  false 
honour  which  sends  men  out  to  fight 
duels — stands  instead  of  strength 
and  the  light  of  virtue  within  their 
own  souls.  Hence  the  strange  ano- 
malies of  artificial  society — girls  of 
sixteen,  who  are  models  of  manner, 
miracles  of  prudence,  marvels  of 
learning,  who  sneer  at  sentiment, 
and  laugh  at  the  Juliets  and  Imogens ; 
and  matrons  of  forty,  who,  when  the 
passions  should  be  tame  and  wait 
upon  the  judgment,  amaze  the  world, 
and  put  us  to  confusion  with  their 
doings." 

Laugh  at  the  Juliets  and  Imogens ! 
They  will  laugh  next  at  Mary  Mag- 
dalene. 

Yet  think  not  that,  after  all,  we 
disbelieve  in  the  existence  of  many 
maids  and  matrons,  as  fair  and  good 
even  as  the  ladies  Shakspeare  saw  in 
his  dramatic  dreams.  "  Millions  of 
spiritual  creatures  walk,"  not  "  un- 
seen" in  shade  and  sunshine,  or  sit 


Characteristics  of  Worten.    No.  III. 


[March, 


like  Ophelias  "  sewing  in  their  clo- 
sets." Most  of  them  are  readers  of 
Maga;  and  we  never  write  such  an 
article  as  this  without  the  happiness 
of  knowing,  that  in  many  a  secret 
place  the  pages  will  be  illumined  by 

"  Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  hea- 
ven," 

as  Romeo  calls  the  eyes  of  his  Juliet. 

Come,  then, — we  exclaim  in  the 
beautiful  language  of  the  work  be- 
fore us.—"  O  Love  !  thou  Teacher — 
O  Grief!  thou  tamer— O  Time !  thou 
healer  of  human  hearts!  bring  hither 
all  your  deep  and  serious  revelations. 
And  ye,  too,  rich  fancies  of  unbrui- 
sed,  unbowed  youth — ye  visions  of 
long-perished  hopes — shadows  of  un- 
born joys — gay  colourings  of  the 
dawn  of  existence — whatever  me- 
mory hath  treasured  up  of  bright  and 
beautiful  in  nature  or  in  art — all  soft 
and  delicate  images — all  lovely  forms 
— divinest  voices,  and  entrancing  me- 
lodies— gleams  of  sunnier  skies  and 
fairer  climes — Italian  moonlights,  and 
airs  that '  breathe  of  the  sweet  south' 
— now,  if  it  be  possible,  revive  to  my 
imagination — live  once  more  to  my 
heart.  Come,  thronging  around  me, 
all  inspirations  that  wait  on  passion, 
on  power,  on  beauty;  give  me  to 
tread,  not  bold,  and  yet  unblamed, 
within  the  inmost  sanctuary  of  Shak- 
speare's  genius,  in  Juliet's  Moonlight 
Bower,  and  Miranda's  Enchanted 
Isle." 

We  see  Juliet  but  for  a  very  short 
time  before  her  first  meeting  with 
Romeo  at  the  masquerade,  and  she 
speaks  but  a  very  few  words;  of 
Romeo  we  see  and  hear  much,  and 
we  have  begun  to  regard  him  with 
kindness  and  admiration,  HE  is  IN 
LOVE! 

He  knows  not  yet  of  Juliet's  ex- 
istence, or  if  he  does,  he  has  either 
never  beheld  the  fair  child,  or  her 
beauty  has  glided  by,  over  the  sur- 
face of  his  eyes,  without  having  sunk 
into  his  heart.  Does  not  that  often 
happen  ?  Affection  gazes  on  its  ob- 
ject in  the  hour  of  fate,  and  thence- 
forth breathes  and  burns  but  for  it 
alone  in  a  changed  world.  As  yet 
Juliet  has  no  lover  but  the  County 
Paris.  And  he,  though  a  fond  lover, 
andaproperman,isnothingtoherun- 
awakened  bosom.  He  looks  joyfully 
forward  to  the  masquerade,  for  sake 
of  Juliet,  Romeo  for  sake  of  Rosaline. 
Capulet  wishes  Paris  to  wed  Ju- 


1 833.] 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


393 


Jiet;  but  reminds  him  that  "  she  is 
yet  a  stranger  to  the  world,"  and 
'•  hath  not  seen  the  change  of  four- 
teen years." 

'•  Let  two  more  summers  wither  in  their 

pride, 

Kre  we  may  think  her  ripe  to  be  a  bride. 
Paris.  Younger    than  she  are  happy 
mothers  made." 

Meanwhile  Romeo  has  been  con- 
A  ersing  with  Benvolio  about  his  own 
love  for  Rosaline,  and  we  already  see 
i  i  him,  though  his  speech  be  "  high 
fantastical,"  the  noble,  gallant,  brave, 
znd  witty. 

The  Maskers  are  not  yet  assem- 
bled ;  and  we  get  a  glimpse  of  her 
whom  her  father  calls  "  the  hopeful 
lady  of  my  earth."  The  fair  child, 
called  by  her  nurse,  answers  to  the 
name  of  "  Lamb  !  Lady-bird  !"  and, 
1  ke  a  child,  asks, 
"  How  now,  who  calls  ? 

Nurse.  Your  mother. 

Juliet.  Madam,  I  am  here. 
V/hat  is  your  will  ?" 

Then  ensues  that  famous  harangue 
of  the  old  nurse,  of  which  the  coarse- 
ness would  be  insufferably  disgust- 
ing, were  it  not  so  curiously  charac- 
teristic ;  and  did  it  not  serve  to  shew, 
by  contrast,  the  purity  of  the  crea- 
ture, of  whose  infancy  the  not  un- 
aOfectionate  hag  keeps  so  tediously 
prosing  away  about  a  most  sense- 
less and  nurselike  anecdote. 
"  Wilt  thou  not,  Jule  ?  It  stinted,  and 
said — Ay. 

Juliet.  And  stint  thou,  too,  I  pray  thee, 

nurse,  say  I." 

We  imagine  Juliet,  since  her  mother 
siffers  it,  suffering  it  too;  and  yet 
neither  heeding  nor  hearing  the 
r> leaning  of  the  no  doubt  often  re- 
peated narrative — or  if  she  do  hear 
and  understand,  "  to  the  pure  all 
tilings  are  pure  ;"  and  she  stops  the 
mouth  of  the  beldame  with  perfect 
good-humour,  letting  us  feel  at  once 
tiiat  no  harm  had  been  done  to  the 
delicacy  and  innocence  of  her  na- 
ture by  all  that  had  ever  fallen  from 
t'le  coarse  lips  of  a  vulgar  domestic. 
And  to  her  lady-mother's  question 
}  ow  simple  the  repty ! 

"  La.  Cap.  Tell  me,   daughter  Juliet, 
How  stands  your  disposition  to  be  mar- 
ried ? 

Jul.  It  is  an  honour  that  I  dream  not 

of." 

Lady  Capulet  then  draws  a  flatter- 
ing picture  of  Paris,  and  Juliet  art- 
lessly says,— 


"  I'll  look  to  like,  if  looking  liking  move  ; 
But  no  more  deep  will  I  endartmine  eye, 
Than  your  consent  gives  strength  to  make 
it  fly." 

Mrs  Jameson  alludes,  in  a  few  well 
chosen  words,  to  the  unobtrusive 
simplicity  of  Juliet's  first  appearance, 
the  quiet  manner  in  which  she  steals 
upon  us,  as  the  serene  graceful  girl, 
her  feelings  as  yet  unawaken'd,  and 
her  energies  all  unknown  to  herself, 
and  unsuspected  by  others — and  to 
the  delightful  charm  of  her  silence 
and  filial  deference  to  her  mother. 
Alas !  in  a  few  hours,  rather  than  that 
Romeo  were  banished,  the  same 
creature  almost  impiously  wishes 
that  both  her  parents  were  dead  1 

But  the  scene  shifts — and  Juliet 
doubtless  lovelily  arrayed,  and  not  at- 
tended too  closely  now  by  nurse  and 
mother,  is  shining  starlike  at  her  first 
masquerade.  She  has  not  yet  come 
out — but  her  beauty  glorifies  the  halls 
of  her  father's  house,  and  Romeo  is 
struck  through  the  heart  by  an  eye- 
shot wound. 

Love  at  first  sight !  And  the  more 
natural — think  you — on  the  part  of  Ju- 
liet or  of  Romeo  ?  Why,  Romeo  was 
in  love  with  Rosaline.  But  Rosaline 
was  cold  as  moonlight  on  snow — • 
Juliet  is  warm  as  sunlight  on  roses. 

"  She  whom  I  love  now, 
Doth  grace  for  grace,  and  love  for  love 

allow  ; 
The  other  did  not  so." 

Most  natural,  therefore,  was  it  for 
Romeo  to  forget  the  Dian  who  would 
"  not  be  hit  with  Cupid's  arrow," 
and  bury  his  whole  being  for  ever  in 
thebosom  of  that  "snowy  dove."  And 
though  in  his  first  fit  of  empassion- 
ed  wonder,  he  calls  her  "  beauty  too 
rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear,"  and 
soon  afterwards  fears  "  to  profane 
with  my  unworthiest  hand  this  holy 
shrine/'  yet  while  "  kissing  her,"  he 
feels  that  her  lips  are  not  "  too  rich 
for  use,"  and  that  they  have  sent  a 
stream  of  unextinguishable  fire  into 
his  life. 

As  for  Juliet,  an  hour  gone,  when 
asked  "  how  stands  your  disposition 
to  be  married,"  she  answered,  with 
perfect  truth,  "  it  is  an  honour  that  I 
dream  not  of;"  but  now  she  sees  her 
husband  in  Romeo,  and  so  changed  is 
her  whole  being  in  a  moment,  that 

"  If  he  be  married, 

My  grave  is  like  to  be  my  wedding-bed !" 
And  intenser  is  her  love  in  its  "  pro- 
digious birth,"  "  that  she  must  love. 


394 

a  loathed  enemy."  Like  two  beau- 
tiful birds  are  they  on  St  Valentine's 
day,  that  come  fluttering  from  oppo- 
site sides  into  the  heart  of  a  grove, 
and  from  that  first  mutual  touch  of 
their  shivering  plumage,  are  mated 
for  ever  after  in  calm  or  storm,  gloom 
or  sunshine.  A  mysterious  sympa- 
thy of  nature  links  them  together— 
—an  irresistible  attraction — an  in- 
stinct holier  in  its  innocence  than 
Reason's  self — and  such  in  the  hearts 
of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo  is — Love. 

Then  how  elegant  and  graceful 
the  demeanour  of  the  Pair !  Romeo 
is  privileged  by  the  law  and  custom 
of  such  a  festival,  to  make  love  after 
a  somewhat  warmer  and  bolder  fa- 
shion than  perchance  he  would  have 
ventured  on  anywhere  else  than  at 
a  masquerade.  He  plays  the  Pil- 
grim— the  Palmer — and  she  the  Saint. 
Fancy  hallows  the  passion  which  it 
emboldens,  till  it  looks  like — what  it 
is — religion.  Our  fair  critic  says 
beautifully,  "  They  are  all  love  sur- 
rounded with  all  hate ;  all  harmony 
surrounded  with  all  discord ;  all 
pure  nature  in  the  midst  of  polished 
and  artificial  life.  Juliet,  liko  Por- 
tia, is  the  foster-child  of  opulence 
and  splendour ;  she  dwells  in  a  fair 
city — she  has  been  nurtured  in  a  pa- 
lace— she  clasps  her  robe  with  jewels 
— she  braids  her  hair  with  rainbow- 
tinted  pearls ; — but  in  herself  she  has 
no  more  connexion  with  the  trap- 
pings around  her,  than  the  lovely  ex- 
otic, transplanted  from  some  Eden- 
like  climate,  has  with  the  carved  and 
gilded  conservatory  which  has  rear- 
ed and  sheltered  its  luxuriant  beau- 
ty." 

"  The  use  of  the  Chorus  here,"  says 
Dr  Johnson,  "  is  not  easily  discover- 
ed; it  conduces  nothing  to  the  pro- 
gress of  the  play,  but  relates  what  is 
already  known,  or  what  the  next 
scene  will  shew,  and  relates  it  with- 
out adding  the  improvement  of  any 
moral  sentiment."  All  very  true — 
and  yet  we  like  the  Chorus.  It 
comes  in  well,  with  a  sort  of  sweet 
solemnity,  at  the  close  of  the  night's 
festivities,  like  a  preternatural  voice 
heard  in  the  hush. 

Sudden  as  is  the  change  in  Juliet 
from  child  to  woman — for  under  the 
power  of  passion  the  change  is  no 
less — it  is  not  startling ;  we  remem- 
ber that  she  was  marriageable,  though 
she  had  never  dreamt  of  that  honour ; 
her  mother  had  told  her  to 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  III. 


[March, 


"  Read  o'er  the  volume  of  young  Paris' 

face, 
And  find  delight  writ  there  withbeauty's 

pen; 

Examine  every  married  lineament, 
And  see  how  one  another  lends  content ; 
And  what  obscured  in  this  fair  volume 

lies, 
Find  written  in  the  margin  of  his  eyes ;" 

and  Juliet  has  "  fallen  to  such  peru- 
sal" of  the  face  of  Romeo;  an  apt 
scholar,  at  a  few  glances  she  has  got 
the  whole  volume  by  heart ! 

The  Second  Act  is  so  full  of  the 
Passion  of  Love,  that  the  very  night- 
air  seems  sultry — yet  as  pure  as  it 
is  voluptuous !  We  knew  that  there 
could  be  no  rest  that  night  for  Ro- 
meo and  Juliet. 

"JBenvolio.  Romeo !  my  Cousin  Romeo ! 

Mercutio.  He  is  wise, 

And,  on  my  life,  hath  stolen  away  to  bed." 
But  Mercutio  is  much  mistaken,  with 
all  his  wit,  when  he  says— 

"  I  conjure  thee,  by  Rosalie's  bright  eyes, 
By  her  high  forehead,  and  her  scarlet  lip, 
By  her  fine  foot,  straight  leg,"  &c. 

and  Romeo  has  the  best  of  the  joke 
when  from  Capulet's  garden  he  be- 
holds his  "  snowy  dove"  at  a  win- 
dow— 

'*  But  soft,   what  light   through  yonder 

window  breaks  ! 
IT  is  THE  EAST,  AND  JULIET  is  THE  SUN." 

He  is  a  poet — and  speaks  like 
Apollo.  So  is  Juliet.  How  truly 
and  finely  does  our  lady  critic  say, 
"  that  every  circumstance,  and  every 
personage,  and  every  shade  of  cha- 
racter in  each,  tends  to  the  develope- 
ment  of  the  sentiment  which  is  the 
subject  of  the  drama.  The  poetry, 
the  richest  that  can  possibly  be  con- 
ceived, is  interfused  through  all  the 
characters ;  the  most  splendid  ima- 
gery is  lavished  upon  all  with  the 
careless  prodigality  of  genius ;  and 
all  is  lighted  up  into  such  a  sunny 
brilliance  of  effect,  as  though  Shak- 
speare  had  really  transported  him- 
self into  Italy,  and  had  drunk  to  in- 
toxication of  her  genial  atmosphere." 
The  picture  in  "  Twelfth  Night"  of 
the  wan  girl  dying  of  love,  "  who 
pined  in  thought,  and  with  a  green 
and  yellow  melancholy,"  never  oc- 
curs to  us,  she  adds,  "  \vhen  think- 
ing on  the  enamoured  and  impas- 
sioned Juliet,  in  whose  bosom  love 
keeps  a  fiery  vigil,  kindling  ten- 
derness into  enthusiasm,  enthusiasm 


1333.] 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


into  passion,  passion  into  heroism. 
No !  The  whole  sentiment  of  the 
j.lay  is  of  a  far  different  order.  It 
is  flushed  with  the  genial  spirit  of 
the  South ;  it  tastes  of  youth,  and  of 
the  essence  of  youth ;  of  life,  and  of 
the  very  sap  of  life.  In  the  delinea- 
tion of  that  sentiment  which  forms 
the  groundwork  of  the  drama,  no- 
thing in  fact  can  equal  the  power  of 
the  picture,  but  its  inexpressible 
*  weetness,  and  its  perfect  grace ;  the 
passion  which  has  taken  possession 
of  Juliet's  whole  soul,  has  the  force, 
the  rapidity,  the  resistless  violence 
of  the  torrent;  but  she  is  herself, 
1  as  moving  delicate/  as  fair,  as  soft, 
as  pliable  as  the  willow  that  bends 
over  it,  whose  light  leaves  tremble 
oven  with  the  motion  of  the  current 
which  hurries  beneath  them." 

No  lady  surely  did  ever  in  this 
"vorld,  before  or  since,  so  blessedly 
make,  unasked  by  words,  and  but  by 
nyes,  a  promise,  or  rather  proposal  of 
marriage. 

"  Jul.   Three  words,  dear  Romeo,  and 

good  night  indeed  ! 
if  that  thy  bent  of  love  be  honourable, 
Thy  purpose  marriage,  send  me  word  to- 
morrow, 

By  one  that  I'll  procure  to  come  to  thee, 
Where,  and  what  time,  thou  wilt  perform 

the  rite ; 

And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I'll  lay, 
And  follow  thee,  my  Lord,  throughout 
the  world." 

And  where  in  all  human  language 
are  there  two  lines  so  brimful  of  ten- 
derness, affection,  and  passion,  as 
Romeo's  farewell— 

''  Sleep  dwell  upon  thine  eyes,  peace  on 

thy  breast ! 
Would  I  were  sleep  and  peace !  so  sweet  to 

reslT 

The  truth  is,  that  Romeo  was  not 
only  as  passionate,  but  as  pure  as 
Juliet.  So  she  says — and  it  was  true 
— in  one  line  of  her  soliloquy,  when 
expecting  him  in  the  bridal  chamber. 
There  is  not  one  word  breathed  from 
his  burning  lips,  that  is  not  as  reve- 
rential as  enamoured;  a  delicious 
glow  warms  and  colours  all  his 
speech ;  and  Juliet  innocently  speaks 
of  blushes  at  her  own  words — not  at 
his— 

"  Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on 

my  face, 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my 

cheek, 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak 

to  night." 


395 

And  they  speak,butof  themselves  only 
— "  they  see  only  themselves  in  the 
universe — all  things  else  are  as  idle 
matter.  Not  a  word  they  utter,  though 
every  word  is  poetry — not  a  senti- 
ment or  description,  though  dressed 
in  the  most  luxuriant  imagery,  but  has 
a  direct  relation  to  themselves,  or  to 
the  situation  in  which  they  are  placed, 
and  the  feelings  that  engross  them." 
In  the  second  scene,  in  Capulet's 
house,  when  Juliet  is  waiting  for  the 
Nurse,  who  had  gone  to  Romeo  to 
fix  the  marriage  hour,  what  purity, 
innocence,  and  artlessness  in  her  im- 
patience !  How  beautifully  does  her 
passion  express  itself  in  poetry ! 

"  Oh  !  she  is  lame !  love's  heralds  should 

be  thoughts, 
Which  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  sun* 

beams, 

Driving  back  shadows  over  lowering  hills; 
Therefore  do  nimble-pinioned  doves  draw 

love, 
And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid 

wings. 

Now  is  the  sun  upon  the  highmost  hill 
Of  this  day's  journey,"  &c. 

Friar  Lawrence  himself,  as  he  sees 
her  entering  his  cell,  forgets  the  phi- 
losophy he  had  been  preaching  to 
Romeo — his  advice  to  "  love  mode- 
rately." 

"  There  comes  the  lady ;  O,  so  light  a 

foot 

Will  ne'er  wear  out  the  everlasting  flint; 
A  lover  may  bestride  the  gossamers 
That  idle  in  the  wanton  summer  air, 
And  yet  not  fall — so  light  is  vanity." 

Vanity  !  nay — not  vanity,  good  Fa- 
ther Lawrence — nor  yet  vexation  of 
spirit.  Love  deserves  a  better  name 
—and  so  thou  thinkest  in  thy  heart- 
though  old,  not  dead  to  holiest  hu- 
manities— as  thou  sayest  compassion- 
ately— 
"  Come,  come  with  me,  and  we  will  make 

short  work, 

For,  by  your  leave,  you  shall  not  stay  alone, 
Till  holy  church  incorporate  in  one." 

Juliet  is  now  a  bride — longing  for 
the  approach  of  her  bridegroom ;  and 
Shakspeare  does  not  fear  to  let  us 
hear  her  breathing  forth  her  virgin 
longings  in  a  soliloquy.  Let  a  wife 
speak  of  that  soliloquy— an  English 
wife — who  knows  and  feels  what  is 
modesty,  and  what  is  virtue.  And 
let  maidens  read  what  matrons  pro- 
nounce blameless— let  them  read  it 
as  it  was  spoken — alone — in  company 
only  with  their  own  pure  thoughts, 


390 


and  watched  over  by  their  guardian 
angel.  They  will  not  find  it,  we 
fear,  in  the  Family  Shakspeare— but 
in  any  good  edition.  Then  let  them 
read  this  comentary. 

"  The  famous  soliloquy,  '  Gallop  apace, 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  III.  [March, 

And  light  thee  on  thy  way  to  Mantua  : 
Therefore  stay  yet,  thou  need'st  not  to 

be  gone. 
Rom.  Let  me  be  ta'en,  let  me  be  put 

to  death ; 
I  am  content,  so  thou  wilt  have  it  so. 


ye  fiery-footed  steeds,'  teems  with  luxu- 
riant imagery.  The  fond  adjuration, '  Come 
night!  Come  Romeo!  Come  thou  day  in 
night  /'  expresses  that  fulness  of  enthusiastic 
admiration  for  her  lover,  which  possesses 
her  whole  soul ;  but  expresses  it  as  only 
Juliet  could  or  would  have  expressed  it, 
— in  a  bold  and  beautiful  metaphor.  Let 
it  be  remembered,  that  in  this  speech, 
Juliet  is  not  supposed  to  be  addressing 
an  audience,  nor  even  a  confidante.  She 
is  thinking  aloud ;  it  is  the  young  heart 
*  triumphing  to  itself  in  words.'  I  confess 
I  have  been  shocked  at  the  utter  want  of 
taste  and  refinement  in  those  who,  with 
coarse  derision,  or  in  a  spirit  of  prudery, 
yet  more  gross  and  perverse,  have  dared 
to  comment  on  this  beautiful  '  Hymn  to 
the  Night,'  breathed  out  by  Juliet,  in  the 
silence  and  solitude  of  her  chamber.  It 
is  at  the  very  moment  too  that  her  whole 
heart  and  fancy  are  abandoned  to  blissful 
anticipation,  that  the  Nurse  enters  with 
the  news  of  Romeo's  banishment ;  and 
the  immediate  transition  from  rapture  to 
despair  has  a  most  powerful  effect." 

Hitherto  all  has  been  Passion.  But 
Romeo  and  Juliet  have  now  been  in 
bliss ;  and  Shakspeare,  the  High  Priest 
of  Nature,  has  drawn  a  veil  over  her 
holiest  mysteries.  How  eacred,  as 
he  paints  it,  is  their  wedded  love ! 
Sadness  and  Sorrow  are  now  seen 
waiting  on  Joy ;  and  may  we  not  ven- 
ture to  quote  the  Parting  Hour  ? 

"  Enter  ROMEO  and  JULIET. 
Jul.  Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?  it  is  not  yet 

near  day : 

It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
That  pierced  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine 

ear; 

Nightly  she  sings  on  yen  pomegranate- 
tree  : 

Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 
Rom.  It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of 

the  morn, 
No  nightingale  ;  look,  love,  what  envious 

streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder 

east: 
Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund 

day 
Stands  tiptoe   on   the   misty  mountain 

tops; 

I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and  die. 
Jul.  Yon  light  is  not  daylight,  I  know 

it,  I : 

It  is  some  meteor  that  the  sun  exhales, 
To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch,  bearer, 


I'll  say,  yon  grey  is  not  the  morning's  eye, 
'Tis  but  the  pale  reflex  of  Cynthia's  brow ; 
Nor  that  is  not  the  lark,  whose  notes  do 

beat 
The  vaulty  heaven  so  high  above  our 

heads : 
I  have  more  care  to  stay,  than  will  to 

go;— 
Come,  death,  and  welcome  !  Juliet  wills 

it  so. — 
How  is't,  my  soul  ?  let's  talk,  it  is  not 

day. 
Jul.  It  is,  it  is,  hie  hence,  be  gone, 

away ; 

It  is  the  lark  that  sings  so  out  of  tune, 
Straining  harsh  discords,  and  unpleasing 

sharps. 

Some  say,  the  lark  makes  sweet  division  ; 
This  doth  not  so,  for  she  divideth  us : 
Some   say,   the   lark  and  loathed  toad 

change  eyes ; 
O,  now  I  would  they  had  changed  voices 

too! 
Since  arm  from  arm  that  voice  doth  us 

affray, 
Hunting  thee  hence  withhunts-up  to  the 

day. 
O,  now  be  gone ;  more  light  and  light  it 

grows. 

Rom.  More  light   and  light?— more 
dark  and  dark  our  woes. 

Enter  NURSE. 
Nurse.  Madam ! 
Jul.  Nurse? 
Nurse.  Your  lady  mother's  commg  to 

your  chamber : 
The  day  is  broke ;  be  wary,  look  about. 

[Exit  NURSE* 
Jul.  Then,  window,  let  day  in,  and  let 

life  out. 

Rom.  Farewell,   farewell !    one    kiss, 
and  I'll  descend. 

[ROMEO  descends. 
Jul,  Art  thou  gone  so  !  my  love !  my 

lord  !  my  friend  ! 
I  must  hear  from  thee  every  day  i'  the 

hour, 

For  in  a  minute  there  are  many  days  ; 
O !   by  this  count  I  shall  be  much  in 

years, 
Ere  I  again  behold  my  Romeo. 

Rom.  Farewell !  I  will  omit  no  oppor- 
tunity 
That  may  convey  my  greetings,  love,  to 

thee. 
Jul.  O,  think'st  thou,  we  shall  ever 

meet  again  ? 
Rom.  I  doubt  it  not;  and  all  these 

woes  shall  serve 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 


1833.] 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


Jul.  O   God !   I  have  an  ill-divining 

soul  : 

Methinks,  I  see  thee,  now  thou  art  below, 
As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb : 
Either  my  eyesight  fails,  or  thou  look'st 

pale. 
Rom.  And  trust  me,  love,  in  my  eye 

so  do  you : 
Dry  sorrow  drinks  our  blood.     Adieu ! 

adieu !  [Exit  ROMEO. 

Jul.  O  fortune,  fortune  !  all  men  call 

thee  fickle  : 
If  thou  art  fickle,  what  dost  thou  with 

him 
That  is  renown'd  for  faith  ?     Be  fickle, 

fortune; 
For  then,  I  hope,  thou  wilt  not  keep  him 

long. 
But  send  him  back." 

How  well  now  do  we  know  the 
character  of  Juliet !  and  no  one  has 
helped  us  to  see  into  it  so  well  as 
the  Lady  whose  work  we  have  been 
studying — not  criticising — for  that 
were  idle.  In  the  dialogue  between 
Juliet  and  her  parents,  she  observes, 
and  in  the  scenes  with  the  nurse,  we 
seem  to  have  before  us  the  whole  of 
her  previous  education  and  habits ; 
we  see  her,  on  the  one  hand,  kept  in 
severe  subjection  by  her  austere  pa- 
rents ;  and  on  the  other,  fondled  and 
spoiled  by  a  foolish  old  nurse — a  si- 
tuation perfectly  accordant  with  the 
manners  of  the  times.  The  Lady  Ca- 
pulet  comes  sweeping  by,  with  her 
train  of  velvet,  her  black  hood,  fan, 
and  rosary,  the  very  beau-ideal  of  a 
proud  Italian  matron  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  whose  offer  to  poison  Romeo, 
in  revenge  for  the  death  of  Tybalt, 
stamps  her  with  one  very  characte- 
ristic trait  of  the  age  and  country. 
Yet  she  loves  her  daughter ;  and 
there  is  a  touch  of  remorseful  ten- 
derness in  her  lamentation  over  her, 
which  adds  to  our  impression  of  the 
timid  softness  of  Juliet.  Capulet 
is  the  jovial,  testy,  old  man,  the  self- 
willed,  violent,  tyrannical  father,  to 
whom  his  daughter  is  but  a  proper- 
ty, the  appanage  of  his  house,  and 
the  object  of  his  pride.  And  the 
aurse  !  She,  says  this  critic,  acute 
here  as  at  other  times  delicate, — in 
he  prosaic  homeliness  of  the  outline, 
md  the  magical  illusion  of  the  co- 
louring, reminds  us  of  some  of  the 
marvellous  Dutch  paintings,  from 
which,  with  all  their  coarseness,  we 
start  back  as  from  a  reality.  Her 
low  humour,  her  shallow  garrulity, 
;nixed  with  the  dotage  and  petulance 
yf  age,  her  subserviency,  her  secre- 


897 

cy,  and  her  total  want  of  elevated 
principle,  or  even  common  honesty, 
are  brought  before  us  like  a  living 
and  palpable  truth. 

"  Among  these  harsh  and  inferior  spi- 
rits is  Juliet  placed  ;  her  haughty  parents, 
and  her  plebeian  nurse,  not  only  throw 
into  beautiful  relief  her  own  native  soft- 
ness and  elegance,  but  are  at  once  the 
cause  and  the  excuse  of  her  subsequent 
conduct.  She  trembles  before  her  stern 
mother  and  her  violent  father  ;  but  like  a 
petted  child,  alternately  cajoles  and  com- 
mands her  nurse.  It  is  her  old  foster- 
mother  who  is  the  confidante  of  her  love. 
It  is  the  woman  who  cherished  her  in- 
fancy, who  aids  and  abets  her  in  her 
clandestine  marriage.  Do  we  not  per- 
ceive how  immediately  our  impression  of 
Juliet's  character  would  have  been  low- 
ered, if  Shakspeare  had  placed  her  in 
connexion  with  any  common-place  dra- 
matic waiting- woman  ? — even  with  Por- 
tia's adroit  Nerissa,  or  Desdemona's 
Emilia?  By  giving  her  the  Nurse  for  her 
confidante,  the  sweetness  and  dignity  of 
Juliet's  character  are  preserved  inviolate 
to  the  fancy,  even  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
romance  and  wilfulness  of  passion. 

"  The  natural  result  of  these  extremes 
of  subjection  and  independence,  is  exhi- 
bited in  the  character  of  Juliet,  as  it  gra- 
dually opens  upon  us.  We  behold  it  in 
the  mixture  of  self-will  and  timidity,  of 
strength  and  weakness,  of  confidence  and 
reserve,  which  are  developed  as  the  ac- 
tion of  the  play  proceeds.  We  see  it  in 
the  fend  eagerness  of  the  indulged  girl, 
for  whose  impatience  the  *  nimblest  of 
the  lightning-winged  loves'  had  been 
too  slow  a  messenger  ;  in  her  petulance 
with  her  nurse  ;  in  those  bursts  of  vehe- 
ment feeling,  which  prepare  us  for  the 
climax  of  passion  at  the  catastrophe ;  in 
her  invectives  against  Romeo,  when  she 
hears  of  the  death  of  Tybalt ;  in  her  in- 
dignation when  the  Nurse  echoes  those 
reproaches,  and  the  rising  of  her  temper 
against  unwonted  contradiction  : 

'  Xursc.  Shame  come  to  Romeo  ! 
Juliet.  Blister'd  be  thy  tongue 

For  such  a  wish — he  was  not  born  to  shame !' 

"  Then  comes  that  revulsion  of  strong 
feeling,  that  burst  of  magnificent  exulta- 
tion in  the  virtue  and  honour  of  her  lo- 


'  Upon  his  brow  Shame  is  asham'd  to  sit, 

For  'tis  a  throne  where  Honour  may  be  crown 'd 

Sole  monarch  of  the  universal  earth  !' 

"  And  this,  by  one  of  those  quick 
transitions  of  feeling  which  belong  to  the 
character,  is  immediately  succeeded  by  a 
gush  of  tenderness  and  self-reproach — 

'  Ah,  poor  my  lord,  what  tongue  shall  smooth  thy 

name, 
When  I,  thy  three  hours'  wife,  have  mangled  it  • 


398 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  III. 


[March, 


"  With  the  same  admirable  truth  of 
nature,  Juliet  is  represented  as  at  first 
bewildered  by  the  fearful  destiny  that 
closes  round  her;  reverse  is  new  and  ter- 
rible to  one  nursed  in  the  lap  of  luxury, 
and  whose  energies  are  yet  untried. 

'  Alack,  alack,  that  heaven  should  practise  stra- 
tagems 
Upon  so  soft  a  subject  as  myself !' 

"  While  a  stay  remains  to  her  amid  the 
evils  that  encompass  her,  she  clings  to  it. 
She  appeals  to  her  father — to  her  mo- 
ther— 

'  Good  father,  I  beseech  you  on  my  knees, 
Hear  me  with  patience  but  to  speak  one  word  I 

*  «  *  * 

Ah,  sweet  my  mother,  cast  me  not  away ! 
Delay  this  marriage  for  a  month,— a  week  !' 

"And,  rejected  by  both,  she  throws 
herself  upon  her  nurse  in  all  the  helpless- 
ness of  anguish,  of  confiding  affection,  of 
habitual  dependence — 

•  O  God  !  O  nurse  !  how  shall  this  be  prevented  ? 
Some  comfort,  nurse  !' 

"  The  old  woman,  true  to  her  vocation, 
and  fearful  lest  her  share  in  these  events 
should  be  discovered,  counsels  her  to  for- 
get  Romeo  and  marry  Paris;  and  the 
moment  which  unveils  to  Juliet  the 
weakness  and  the  baseness  of  her  confi- 
dante, is  the  moment  which  reveals  her 
to  herself.  She  does  not  break  into  up- 
braidings ;  it  is  no  moment  for  anger  ;  it 
is  incredulous  amazement  succeeded  by 
the  extremity  of  scorn  and  abhorrence 
which  take  possession  of  her  mind.  She 
assumes  at  once  and  asserts  all  her  own 
superiority,  and  rises  to  majesty  in  the 
strength  of  her  despair. 

•  Juliet.  Speakest  thou  from  thy  heart  ? 
Nurse.  Aye,  and  from  my  soul  too ;— or  else 
Beshrew  them  both ! 
Juliet.  AMEN  !' 

"  This  final  severing  of  all  the  old  fa- 
miliar ties  of  her  childhood — 

'  Go,  counsellor ! 
Thou  and  my  bosom  henceforth  shall  be  twain ! ' 

and  the  calm,  concentrated  force  of  her 
resolve, 
'  If  all  else  fail,— myself  have  power  to  die !' 

have  a  sublime  pathos.  It  appears  to  me 
also  an  admirable  touch  of  nature,  con- 
sidering the  master  passion  which,  at  this 
moment,  rules  in  Juliet's  soul,  that  she 
is  as  much  shocked  by  the  Nurse's  dis- 
praise of  her  lover,  as  by  her  wicked, 
time-serving  advice. 

"This  scene  is  the  crisis  in  the  charac- 
ter; and  henceforth  we  see  Juliet  assume 
a  new  aspect.  The  fond,  impatient,  ti- 
mid girl,  puts  on  the  wife  and  the  wo- 
man ;  she  has  learned  heroism  from  suf- 
fering, and  subtlety  from  oppression.  It 
is  idle  to  criticise  her  dissembling  submis- 
sion to  her  father  and  mother  ;  a  higher 
duty  has  taken  place  of  that  which  she 


owed  to  them ;  a  more  sacred  tie  has 
severed  all  others.  Her  parents  are  pic- 
tured as  they  are,  that  no  feeling  for 
them  may  interfere  in  the  slightest  degree 
with  our  sympathy  for  the  lovers.  In  the 
mind  of  Juliet  there  is  no  struggle  be- 
tween her  filial  and  her  conjugal  duties, 
and  there  ought  to  be  none.  The  Friar, 
her  spiritual  director,  dismisses  her  with 
these  instructions : 

'  Go  home, — be  merry, — give  consent 
To  marry  Paris ; ' 

and  she  obeys  him.  Death  and  suffering 
in  every  horrid  form  she  is  ready  to  brave, 
without  fear  or  doubt,  '  to  live  an  un- 
stained wife;'  and  the  artifice  to  which 
she  has  recourse,  which  she  is  even  in- 
structed to  use,  in  no  respect  impairs  the 
beauty  of  the  character :  we  regard  it 
with  pain  and  pity,  but  excuse  it,  as  the 
natural  and  inevitable  consequence  of  the 
situation  in  which  she  is  placed.  Nor 
should  we  forget,  that  the  dissimulation, 
as  well  as  the  courage  of  Juliet,  though 
they  spring  from  passion,  are  justified  by 
principle : — 

'  My  husband  is  on  earth,  my  faith  in  heaven ; 
How  shall  my  faith  return  again  to  earth, 
Unless  that  husband  send  it  me  from  heaven  !* 

In  her  successive  appeals  to  her  father, 
her  mother,  her  nurse,  and  the  Friar,  she 
seeks  those  remedies  which  would  first 
suggest  themselves  to  a  gentle  and  vir- 
tuous nature,  and  grasps  her  dagger  only 
as  the  last  resource  against  dishonour  and 
violated  faith— 

'  God  join'd  my  heart  with  Romeo's,— thou  our 

hands. 

And  ere  this  hand,  by  thee  to  Romeo  seal'd, 
Shall  be  the  label  to  another  deed, 
Or  my  true  heart,  with  trearhercus  revolt, 
Turn  to  another,— ffo's  shall  slay  them  both  !» 

"  Thus,  in  the  very  tempest  and  whirl- 
wind of  passion  and  terror,  preserving,  to 
a  certain  degree,  that  moral  and  feminine 
dignity  which  harmonizes  with  our  best 
feelings,  and  commands  our  unreproved 
sympathy." 

We  could  add  nothing  to  this  noble 
passage,  nor  could  we  to  what  is 
said  of  the  catastrophe. 

"  Soft  you  now  ! 
THE  FAIR  OPHELIA!" 

In  her  all  intellectual  energy,  saith 
our  fair  critic  well,  and  all  moral 
energy  too,  are  in  a  manner  latent, 
if  existing ;  in  her  love  is'an  uncon- 
scious impulse,and  imaginationlends 
the  external  charm  and  hue,  not  the 
internal  power  ;  in  her  the  feminine 
character  appears  resolved  into  its 
very  elementary  principles — modes- 
ty, grace,  and  tenderness.  Shak- 
speare  has  shewn  us  that  these  ele- 
mental feminine  qualities,  when  ex- 
panded under  genial  influences,  suf- 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


1833.] 

fice  to  constitute  a  perfect  and  hap- 
py human  creature,  Miranda ;  when 
thrown  alone  amid  harsh  and  adverse 
destinies,  and  amid  the  trammels  and 
corruptions  of  society,  without  ener- 
gy to  resist,  or  will  to  act,  or  strength 
to  endure,  the  end  must  needs  be 
desolation,  as  with  Ophelia.  Nothing 
can  be  more  beautiful  in  its  truth 
than  the  following  eloquent  strain. 

"  Ophelia — poor  Ophelia  !  O  far  too 
soft,  too  good,  too  fair,  to  be  cast  among 
the  breirs  of  this  working-day  world,  and 
fall  and  bleed  upon  the  thorns  of  life ! 
What  shall  be  said  of  her  ?  for  eloquence 
is  mute  before  her  !  Like  a  strain  of  sad 
sweet  music  which  comes  floating  by  us 
on  the  wings  of  night  and  silence,  and 
which  we  rather  feel  than  hear — like  the 
exhalation  of  the  violet  dying  even  upon 
the  sense  it  charms — like  the  snow-flake 
dissolved  in  air  before  it  has  caught  a 
stain  of  earth — like  the  light  surf  severed 
from  the  billow,  which  a  breath  disperses 
. — such  is  the  character  of  Ophelia:  so 
exquisitely  delicate,  it  seems  as  if  a  touch 
would  profane  it ;  so  sanctified  in  our 
thoughts  by  the  last  and  worst  of  human 
woes,  that  we  scarcely  dare  to  consider  it 
too  deeply.  The  love  of  Ophelia,  which 
she  never  once  confesses,  is  like  a  secret 
which  we  have  stolen  from  her,  and  which 
ought  to  die  upon  our  hearts  as  upon  her 
own.  Her  sorrow  aslcs  not  words  but 
tears  ;  and  her  madness  has  precisely  the 
same  effect  that  would  be  produced  by  the 
spectacle  of  real  insanity,  if  brought  be- 
fore us  ;  we  feel  inclined  to  turn  away  and 
veil  our  eyes  in  reverential  pity,  and  too 
painful  sympathy." 

Ophelia,  like  Cordelia,  is  not  often 
or  long  before  our  bodily  eye ;  but 
she  has  her  abidingf- 
ful  heart.    From 

she  is  herself  in  her  perfect"  inno- 
cence, we  encircle  her  with  an  air 
of  sadness;  and  are  haunted  with 
forebodings  of  a  dismal  fate.  Some- 
thing sorrowful  hangs  over  her  sim- 
plicity ;  and  we  fear  for  the  Bird  of 
Calm  amid  gloom  darkening  into 
tempest.  When  she  is  brought  to 
the  Court,  "  she  seems,"  says  Mrs 
Jameson,  with  exquisite  feeling  of 
her  character  and  condition,  "  like  a 
seraph  that  had  wandered  out  of 
bounds,  and  yet  breathed  on  earth 
the  air  of  paradise."  When  she  is 
divided  from  her  perfect  mind,  in- 
supportable almost  is  the  sight  of 
her  innocence  singing  in  insanity; 
there  is  a  woful  beauty  in  her 
death;  and  pathos  that  "  lies  too 
deeo  for  tears."  about  heir  hnrial. 


Can  such  a  simple  creature  indeed 
love  and  be  beloved  by  Hamlet  ? 
Her  brother,  Laertes,  warns  her  not 
to  believe  in  the  permanency  of  the 
Prince's  passion,  calling  it 

"  a  toy  in  blood, 

A  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature, 
The  perfume  and  suppliance  of  a  minute  ; 
No  more." 

And  she  merely  answers, 

"  No  more  but  so  ?" 

Not  that  she  yields  up  her  faith ;  but 
her  gentle  nature  knows  no  stronger 
denial;  and  in  her  humility  she  is 
not  unwilling  to  admit  that  it  may 
be  even  so — "  sweet,  but  not  lasting." 
How  beautifully  are  we  told  of  her 
extreme  youth  in  these  lines ! 

"  The  canker  galls  the  infants  of  thespring, 
Too  oft  before  their  buttons  be  disclos'd  ; 
And  in  the  morn  and  liquid  dew  of  youth 
Contagious  blastments  are  most  immi- 
nent." 

Yet  even  the  gentle  Ophelia  speaks 
to  her  admonishing  brother  with  the 
sweet  freedom  of  a  sister. 

"  But,  good  my  brother, 
Do  not,  as  some  ungracious  pastors  do, 
Shew  me  the  steep  and  thorny  way  to 

heaven ; 

Whilst,  like  a  gruff  and  reckless  libertine, 
Himself  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance 

treads, 
'  And  recks  not  his  own  read." 

To  her  father  how  full  of  reverence 
is  the  child ! 

"  Polonius.  What  is*t,  Ophelia,  he  hath 
said  to  you  ? 

Ophelia.    So   please    you,   something 
ig-place  in  our  piti-  touching  the  lord  Hamlet." 

the  first,  happy  as    And  then,  without  any  disguise,  she 
her  perfect  inno-    tells  her  father  all. 

''•  He  hath,  my  lord,  of  late,  made  many 

tenders 

Of  his  affection  to  me. 
Polonius.  Do  you  believe  his  tenders, 

as  you  call  them  ? 

Ophelia.  I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  what 
I  should  think. 

*  •  *  * 

My  lord,  he  hath  importun'd  me  with  love, 
In  honourable  fashion. 

*  *  #  * 

And  hath  given  countenance  to  his  speech, 

my  lord, 
With  almost  all  the  holy  vows  of  heaven. 

*  *  *  * 

I  shall  obey,  my  lord." 

These  are  all  the  words  she  utters 

during  the  time  we  first  see  her,  and 

Vfit.  takpn    in    rnnnp.Yinn   with    what 


Characteristics  of  Women.    ATo.  ///. 


400 

her  brother  and  her  father  say  to 
her,  how  they  reveal  her  sweet,  soft, 
gentle,  innocent  and  pious  nature ! 

"  It  is  the  helplessness  of  Ophelia,  ari- 
sing merely  from  her  innocence,  and  pic- 
tured without  any  indication  of  weakness, 
which  melts  us  with  such  profound  pity. 
Ophelia  is  so  young,  that  neither  her  mind 
nor  her  person  have  attained  maturity  ; 
she  is  not  aware  of  the  nature  of  her  own 
feelings ;  they  are  prematurely  developed 
in  their  full  force  before  she  has  strength 
to  bear  them,  and  love  and  grief  together 
rend  and  shatter  the  frail  texture  of  her 
existence,  like  the  burning  fluid  poured 
into  a  crystal  vase.  She  says  very  little, 
and  what  she  does  say  seems  rather  in- 
tended to  hide  than  to  reveal  the  emo- 
tions of  her  heart ;  yet  in  those  few  words 
we  are  made  as  perfectly  acquainted  with 
her  character,  and  with  what  is  passing  in 
her  mind,  as  if  she  had  thrown  forth  her 
soul  with  all  the  glowing  eloquence  of 
Juliet.  Passion  with  Juliet  seems  innate, 
a  part  of  her  being,  *  as  dwells  the  gather- 
ed lightning  in  the  cloud ;'  and  we  never 
fancy  her  but  with  the  dark  splendid  eyes 
and  Titian-like  complexion  of  the  south. 
While  in  Ophelia  we  recognize  as  dis- 
tinctly the  pensive,  fair-haired,  blue-eyed 
daughter  of  the  north,  whose  heart  seems 
to  vibrate  to  the  passion  she  has  inspired, 
more  conscious  of  being  loved  than  of 
loving ;  and  yet,  alas  !  loving  in  the  silent 
depths  of  her  young  heart,  far  more  than 

she  is  loved." 

i 

It  is  finely  remarked  by  Mrs  Jame- 
son, that  neither  to  her  brother  nor 
to  her  father  does  Ophelia  say  a 
word  of  her  love  for  Hamlet ;  she 
but  acknowledges  the  confession  of 
Hamlet's  love  for  her;  the  whole 
scene  is  managed  with  inexpressible 
delicacy;  it  is  one  of  those  instances 
common  in  Shakspeare,  in  which 
we  are  allowed  to  perceive  what  is 
passing  in  the  mind  of  a  person  with- 
out any  consciousness  on  their  part ; 
only  Ophelia  herself  is  unaware,  that 
while  she  is  admitting  the  extent  of 
Hamlet's  courtship,  she  is  also  be- 
traying how  deep  is  the  impression 
it  has  made, 'how  entire  the  love  with 
which  it  is  returned  I 

Next  time  we  see  Ophelia,  it  ia 
when  she  has  been  alarmed  by  the 
distracted  appearance  of  Hamlet. 

"  Ophelia.  O,  my  lord !  my  lord  !  I  have 
been  so  affrighted ! 

Polonius.  With  what,  in  the  name  of 
heaven  ? 

Ophelia.  My  lord  !    as  I  was  sewing 
jn  my  closet, 


[March, 


Lord  Hamlet  with  his  doublet  all  un- 
braced, 

No   hat   upon   his   head,   his  stockings 
foul'd, 

Ungarter'd  and  down-gyved  to  his  ankles, 

Pale  as  his  shirt,  his  knees  knocking  each 
other, 

And  with  a  look  so  piteous  in  purport, 

As  if  he  had  been  loosed  out  of  hell, 

To  speak  of  horrors,  he  comes  before  me. 
Polonius.   Mad  for  thy  love  ? 
Ophelia.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know  ; 

But  truly  I  do  fear  it. 
Polonius.  I  am  sorry ; 

What?  Have   yon   given  him  any  hard 

words  of  late  ? 

Ophelia.  No,  my  good  lord !  but  as  you 
did  command, 

I  did  repel  his  letters,  and  denied 

His  access  to  me." 

Ophelia  would  not,  of  her  own  ac- 
cord, have  attributed  Hamlet's  appa- 
rent madness  to  love  of  her,  had  her 
father  not  asked  the  question;  but 
questioned,  she  speaks  the  truth,  he- 
sitatingly and  humbly — as  if  it  were 
presumption  even  to  fear  that  one  so 
high  could  be  "  sore-distraught"  for 
sake  of  one  so  lowly !  "  Hard  words" 
indeed !  Hard  words  from  Ophelia 
to  Hamlet!  O,  Polonius,  "  shrewd, 
wary,  subtle,  pompous,  garrulous 
old  courtier"  as  thou  wast,  little  didst 
thou  know,  dear  as  she  was  unto  thee, 
of  thy  daughter's  heart ! 

Of  all  Shakspeare's  Female  Cha- 
racters, not  one,  says  Mrs  Jameson, 
ingeniously,  could  have  loved  Ham- 
let but  Ophelia. 

"  Let  us  for  a  moment  imagine  any  one 
of  Shakspeare's  most  beautiful  and  stri- 
king female  characters  in  immediate  con- 
nexion with  Hamlet ;  the  gentle  Desde- 
mona  would  never  have  despatched  her 
household  cares  in  haste,  to  listen  to  his 
philosophical  speculations,  his  dark  con- 
flicts with  his  own  spirit.  Such  a  woman 
as  Portia  would  have  studied  him  ;  Juliet 
would  have  pitied  him ;  Rosalind  would 
have  turned  him  over  with  a  smile  to  the 
melancholy  Jacques ;  Beatrice  would  have 
laughed  at  him  outright ;  Isabel  would  have 
reasoned  with  him  ;  Miranda  could  but 
have  wondered  at  him  ;  but  Ophelia  loves 
him.  Ophelia,  the  young,  fair,  inexpe- 
rienced girl,  facile  to  every  impression, 
fond  in  her  simplicity,  and  credulous  in 
her  innocence,  loves  Hamlet;  not  for  what 
he  is  in  himself,  but  for  that  which  ap- 
pears to  her — the  gentle,  accomplished 
prince,  upon  whom  she  has  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  all  eyes  fixed  in  hope  and 
admiration,  '  the  expectancy  and  rose  of 
the  fair  state,'  the  star  of  the  court  in 


1833.]  Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination.  401 

which  she  moves,  the  first  who  has  ever  Articles  on  Shakspeare,  gently  takes 
whispered  soft  vows  in  her  ear ;  and  what  us  to  task  for  that  opinion,  and  we  re- 
can  be  more  natural  ?"  linquish  it  for  her  sake.  "  I  do  think," 
We  once  said — long  ago* — that  she  says, "  that  the  love  of  Hamlet  for 
"  there  is  nothing  in  Ophelia  which  Ophelia  is  deep,  is  real,  and  is  pre- 
could  make  her  the  object  of  an  en-  cisely  the  kind  of  love  which  such  a 
grossing  passion  to  so  majestic  a  spi-  man  as  Hamlet  would  feel  for  such  a 
lit  as  Hamlet."  The  lady,  to  whose  woman  as  Ophelia.  Our  blessed  reli- 
work  we  are  indebted  for  almost  all  gion,  which  has  revealed  deeper  mys- 
that  may  give  pleasure  in  these  our  teries  in  the  human  soul  than  ever 

*  "  It  has  often  struck  me  that  the  behaviour  of  Hamlet  to  Ophelia  has  appeared 
more  incomprehensible  than  it  really  is,  from  an  erroneous  opinion  generally  enter- 
tained, that  his  love  for  her  was  profound.  Though  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  all 
parts  of  his  conduct  towards  her  with  each  other,  on  almost  any  theory,  yet  some 
great  difficulties  are  got  over,  by  supposing  that  Shakspeare  merely  intended  to  de- 
scribe a  youthful,  an  accidental,  and  transient  affection  on  the  part  of  Hamlet.  There 
was  nothing  in  Ophelia  that  could  make  her  the  engrossing  object  of  Passion  to  so 
majestic  a  spirit.  It  would  appear,  that  what  captivated  him  in  her,  was,  that  he- 
ing  a  creature  of  pure,  innocent,  virgin  nature,  but  still  of  mere  nature  only, — she 
yet  exhibited,  in  great  beauty,  the  spiritual  tendencies  of  nature.  There  is  in  her 
frame  the  ecstasy  of  animal  life, — of  breathing,  light-seeing  life  betraying  itself,  even 
in  her  disordered  mind,  in  snatches  of  old  songs  (not  in  her  own  words),  of  which 
the  associations  belong  to  a  kind  of  innocent  voluptuousness.  There  is,  I  think,  in 
all  we  ever  see  of  her,  a  fancy  and  character  of  her  affections  suitable  to  this ;  that 
is,  to  the  purity  and  beauty  of  almost  material  nature.  To  a  mind  like  Hamlet's, 
which  is  almost  perfectly  spiritual,  but  of  a  spirit  loving  nature  and  life,  there  must 
have  been  something  touching,  and  delightful,  and  captivating  in  Ophelia,  as  almost 
an  ideal  image  of  nature  and  of  life.  The  acts  and  indications  of  his  love  seem  to 
be  merely  suitable  to  such  a  feeling.  I  see  no  one  mark  of  that  love  which  goes 
even  into  the  blood,  arid  possesses  all  the  regions  of  the  soul.  Now,  the  moment 
that  his  soul  has  sickened  even  unto  the  death, — that  love  must  cease,  and  there 
can  remain  only  tenderness,  sorrow,  and  pity.  We  should  also  remember,  that  the 
.sickness  of  his  soul  arose  in  a  great  measure  from  the  momentary  sight  he  has  had 
into  the  depths  of  the  invisible  world  of  female  hollowness  and  iniquity.  That  other 
profounder  love,  which  in  my  opinion  he  had  not,  would  not  have  been  so  affected. 
It  would  either  have  resisted  and  purged  off  the  baser  fire  victoriously,  or  it  would 
have  driven  him  raving  mad.  But  he  seems  to  me  to  part  with  his  love  without 
much  pain.  It  certainly  has  almost  ceased. 

"  His  whole  conduct  (at  least  previous  to  Ophelia's  madness  and  death),  is  consis- 
tent with  such  feelings.  He  felt  that  it  became  him  to  crush  in  Ophelia's  heart  all 
hopes  of  his  love.  Events  had  occurred,  almost  to  obliterate  that  love  from  his  soul. 
He  sought  her,  therefore,  in  his  assumed  madness,  to  shew  her  the  fatal  truth,  and 
that  in  a  way  not  to  humble  her  spirit  by  the  consciousness  of  being  forsaken,  and 
no  more  beloved;  but  to  prove  that  nature  herself  had  set  an  insuperable  bar  between 
them,  and  that  when  reason  was  gone,  there  must  be  no  thought  of  love.  Accord- 
ingly, his  first  wild  interview,  as  described  by  her,  is  of  that  character, — and  after- 
wards, in  that  scene  when  he  tells  her  to  go  to  a  nunnery,  and  in  which  his  language 
is  the  assumed  language  of  a  mind  struggling  between  pretended  indifference  arid  real 
tenderness,  Ophelia  feels  nothing  towards  him  but  pity  and  grief,  a  deep  melancholy 
over  the  prostration  of  his  elevated  spirit. 

'  O  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'erthrown  !' 

"  Here  the  genius  of  Kemble  seemed  to  desert  him,  and  he  threw  an  air  of  fierce- 
i  ess  and  anger  over  the  mien  and  gestures  of  Hamlet,  which  must  have  been  far  in- 
(ieed  from  the  imagination  of  Shakspeare.  It  was  reserved  for  Kean  to  restore  na- 
ture from  her  profanation.  In  his  gesticulations  there  is  nothing  insulting  towards 
such  an  object.  There  is  a  kind  of  wild  bitterness,  playing  towards  her  in  the  words 
nerely, — that  she  might  know  all  was  lost, — but,  in  the  manner  of  delivering  those 
speeches,  he  follows  the  manifest  intention  of  the  divine  Bard,  and  gives  to  them  that 
mournful  earnestness  with  which  a  high  intellectual  mind,  conscious  of  its  superior- 
ly, and  severed  by  pain  from  that  world  of  life  to  which  Ophelia  belonged,  would,  in 
a  situation  of  extreme  distress,  speak  authoritative  counsel  to  an  inferior  soul.  And 
v  hen,  afraid  lest  the  gentle  creature  whom  he  deeply  pities, — and  whom,  at  that 
raoment,  it  may  well  be  said,  he  loves,— might  in  her  heart  upbraid  him  for  his  cruel- 


402  Characteristics  of  Women,    No.  III.  [March, 

were  dreamt  of  by  Philosophy,  till  which,  in  darker  times,  was  paid  to 

she  went  hand  in  hand  with  Faith,  the  manifestations   of  power  j  and 

has  taught  us  to  pay  that  worship  to  therefore  do  I  think,  that  the  mighty 

the  symbols  of  purity  and  innocence  intellect,  the  capacious,  soaring,  pe- 


ty,  in  spite  even  of  the  excuse  of  his  apparent  madness, — Kean  returns  to  Ophe- 
lia, and  kisses  her  hand ;  we  then  indeed  feel  as  if  a  burst  of  light  broke  in  upon 
the  darkness, — and  truth,  and  nature,  and  Sbakspeare,  were  at  once  revealed. 

"  To  you  who  are  so  familiar  with  this  divine  drama,  I  need  not  quote  passages,  nor 
use  many  arguments  to  prove  my  position,  that  Shakspeare  never  could  have  intend- 
ed to  represent  Hamlet's  love  to  Ophelia  as  very  profound.  If  he  did,  how  can  we 
ever  account  for  Hamlet's  first  exclamation,  when  in  the  churchyard  he  learns  that 
he  is  standing  by  her  grave,  and  beholds  her  coffin  ? 

«  What,  the  fair  Ophelia  !' 

"  Was  this  all  that  Hamlet  would  have  uttered,  when  struck  into  sudden  conviction 
by  the  ghastliest  terrors  of  death,  that  all  he  loved  in  human  life  had  perished  ?  We 
can  with  difficulty  reconcile  such  a  tame  ejaculation,  even  with  extreme  tenderness 
and  sorrow.  But  had  it  been  in  the  soul  of  Shakspeare,  to  shew  Hamlet  in  the  agony 
of  hopeless  despair, — and  in  hopeless  despair  he  must  at  that  moment  have  been,  had 
Ophelia  been  all  in  all  to  him, — is  there  in  all  his  writings  so  utter  a  failure  in  the  at- 
tempt to  give  vent  to  overwhelming  passion  ?  When,  afterwards,  Hamlet  leaps  into 
the  grave,  do  we  see  in  that  any  power  of  love  ?  I  am  sorry  to  confess,  that  the  whole 
of  that  scene  is  to  me  merely  painful.  It  is  anger  with  Laertes,  not  love  for  Ophe- 
lia, that  makes  Hamlet  leap  into  the  grave.  Laertes'  conduct,  he  afterwards  tells  us, 
*  put  him  into  a  towering  passion,' — a  state  of  mind  which  is  not  very  easy  to  recon- 
cile with  almost  any  kind  of  sorrow  for  the  dead  Ophelia.  Perhaps,  in  this,  Shak- 
speare may  have  departed  from  nature.  But  had  he  been  attempting  to  describe  the 
behaviour  of  an  impassioned  lover,  at  the  grave  of  his  beloved,  I  should  be  compelled 
to  feel,  that  he  had  not  merely  departed  from  nature,  but  that  he  had  offered  her  the 
most  profane  violation  and  insult. 

"  Hamlet  is  afterwards  made  acquainted  with  the  sad  history  of  Ophelia, — he  knows, 
that  to  the  death  of  Polonius,  and  his  own  imagined  madness,  is  to  be  attributed  her 
miserable  catastrophe.  Yet,  after  the  burial  scene,  he  seems  utterly  to  have  forgot- 
ten that  Ophelia  ever  existed  ;  nor  is  there,  as  far  as  I  recollect,  a  single  allusion  to 
her  throughout  the  rest  of  the  drama.  The  only  way  of  accounting  for  this  seems 
to  be,  that  Shakspeare  had  himself  forgotten  her, — that  with  her  last  rites  she  va- 
nished from  the  world  of  his  memory.  But  this  of  itself  shews,  that  it  was  not  his 
intention  to  represent  Ophelia  as  the  dearest  of  all  earthly  things  or  thoughts  to 
Hamlet,  or  surely  there  would  have  been  some  melancholy,  some  miserable  haunt- 
ings  of  her  image.  But  even  as  it  is,  it  seems  not  a  little  unaccountable,  that  Hamlet 
should  have  been  so  slightly  affected  by  her  death. 

"  Of  the  character  of  Ophelia,  and  the  situation  she  holds  in  the  action  of  the  play, 
I  need  say  little.  Every  thing  about  her  is  young,  beautiful,  artless,  innocent,  and 
touching.  She  comes  before  us  in  striking  contrast  to  the  Queen,  who,  fallen  as  she 
is,  feels  the  influence  of  her  simple  and  happy  virgin  purity.  Amid  the  frivolity,  flat- 
tery, fawning,  and  artifice  of  a  corrupted  court,  she  moves  in  all  the  unpolluted  love- 
liness of  nature.  She  is  like  an  artless,  gladsome,  and  spotless  shepherdess,  with  the 
gracefulness  of  society  hanging  like  a  transparent  veil  over  her  natural  beauty.  But 
we  feel  from  the  first,  that  her  lot  is  to  be  mournful.  The  world  in  which  she  lives 
is  not  worthy  of  her.  And  soon  as  we  connect  her  destiny  with  Hamlet,  we  know 
that  darkness  is  to  overshadow  her,  and  that  sadness  and  sorrow  will  step  in  between 
her  and  the  ghost-haunted  avenger  of  his  father's  murder.  Soon  as  our  pity  is  ex- 
cited  for  her,  it  continues  gradually  to  deepen ;  and  when  she  appears  in  her  mad- 
ness, we  are  not  more  prepared  to  weep  over  all  its  most  pathetic  movements,  than 
we  afterwards  are  to  hear  of  her  death.  Perhaps  the  description  of  that  catastrophe 
by  the  Queen  is  poetical  rather  than  dramatic;  but  its  exquisite  beauty  prevails,  and 
Ophelia,  dying  and  dead,  is  still  the  same  Ophelia  that  first  won  our  love.  Perhaps 
the  very  forgetfulness  of  her,  throughout  the  remainder  of  the  play,  leaves  the  soul 
at  full  liberty  to  dream  of  the  departed.  She  has  passed  away  from  the  earth  like  a 
beautiful  air — a  delightful  dream.  There  would  have  been  no  place  for  her  in  the 
agitation  and  tempest  of  the  final  catastrophe.  We  are  satisfied  that  she  is  in  her 
grave.  And  in  place  of  beholding  her  involved  in  the  shocking  troubles  of  the  clo- 
sing scene,  we  remember  that  her  heart  lies  at  rest,  and  the  remembrance  is  like  the 
returning  voice  of  melancholy  music,"— tfo.  XI.,  for  February  1818. 


1833.] 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


netrating  genius  of  Hamlet  may  be 
represented,  without  detracting  from 
its  grandeur,  as  reposing  upon  the 
tender  virgin  innocence  of  Ophelia, 
with  all  that  deep  delight  with  which 
a  superior  nature  contemplates  the 
goodness  which  is  at  once  perfect  in 
itself,  and  of  itself  unconscious.  That 
Hamlet  regards  Ophelia  with  this 
kind  of  tenderness — that  he  loves 
her  with  a  love  as  intense  as  can  be- 
'  long  to  a  nature  in  which  there  is  (I 
think)  much  more  of  contemplation 
and  sensibility  than  action  and  pas- 
sion— is  the  feeling  and  conviction 
with  which  I  have  always  read  the 
play  of  Hamlet."  It  shall  henceforth 
be  the  feeling  with  which  we  too 
read  it ;  and  we  shall  believe  Hamlet 
when  he  writes,  "  To  the  celestial  and 
my  soul's  idol,  the  most  beautified 
Ophelia"  Nor  shall  we  say  with  Po- 
lonius,  "  that's  an  ill  phrase,  a  vile 
phrase — beautified  is  a  vile  phrase." 
tie  loved  her  when  he  wrote  "  in 
'ier  excellent  white  bosom,  these— 

"  Doubt  thou,  the  stars  are  fire ; 
*      Doubt,  that  the  sun  doth  move  / 
Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar; 
But  never  doubt  I  love. 

"  O,  dear  Ophelia  !  I  am  ill  at  these 
numbers;  I  have  not  art  to  reckon  my 
•jroans  ;  but  that  I  love  thee  best,  O 
\nost  best,  believe  it.  Adieu  !  Thine 
evermore,  most  dear  Lady,  whilst  this 
machine  is  to  him,  HAMLET."  And  we 
believe  him  when,  with  the  wildest 
vehemence,  he  exclaims,  on  coming 
out  of  her  grave,  into  which  he  had 
leapt — 

<:  J  loved  Ophelia — forty  thousand  bro- 
thers 

Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love, 
Make  up  my  sum  !" 

Alas !  what  then  must  have  been  the 
misery  of  Ophelia,  on  being  used  as 
follows  by  him  who  loved  her  better 
1  han  forty  thousand  brothers ! 

"  Soft  you,  now  ! 

'^he  fair  Ophelia  : — Nymph,  in  thy  ori- 
sons 
/3e  all  my  sins  remember'd. 

Oph.  Good  my  lord, 

How  does  your  honour  for  this  many  a 

day? 

Ham.   I  humbly  thank  you;  well. 
Oph.   My  lord,  I  have  remembrances 

of  yours, 

That  I  have  longed  long  to  re-deliver  ; 
I  pray  you,  now  receive  them. 


403 

Ham.  No,  not  I ; 

I  never  gave  you  aught. 

Oph.   My  honour'd  lord,   you  know 

right  well,  you  did  ; 
And,.with  them,  words  of  so  sweet  breath 

compos'd, 
As  made  the  things  more  rich  :    their 

perfume  lost, 

Take  these  again  ;  for  to  the  noble  mind, 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor,  when  givers  prove 

unkind. 
There,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Ha,  ha  !  are  you  honest  ? 

Oph.  My  lord? 

Ham.  Are  you  fair  ? 

Oph.  "What  means  your  lordship? 

Ham.  That  if  you  be  honest,  and  fair, 
you  should  admit  no  discourse  to  your 
beauty. 

Oph.  Could  beauty,  my  lord,  have 
better  commerce  than  with  honesty  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  truly;  for  the  power  of 
beauty  will  sooner  transform  honesty 
from  what  it  is  to  a  bawd,  than  the  force 
of  honesty  can  translate  beauty  into  his 
likeness ;  this  was  some  time  a  paradox, 
but  now  the  time  gives  it  proof.  I  did 
love  you  once. 

Oph.  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me 
believe  so. 

Ham.  You  should  not  have  believed 
me :  for  virtue  cannot  so  inoculate  our 
old  stock,  but  we  shall  relish  of  it :  I 
loved  you  not. 

Oph.  I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Ham.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery  :  Why 
would'st  thou  be  a  breeder  of  sinners  ?  I 
am  myself  indifferent  honest ;  but  yet  I 
could  accuse  me  of  such  things,  that  it 
were  better,  my  mother  had  not  borne 
me  :  I  am  very  proud,  revengeful,  ambi- 
tious ;  with  more  offences  at  my  beck, 
than  I  have  thoughts  to  put  them  in, 
imagination  to  give  them  shape,  or  time 
to  act  them  in :  What  should  such  feU 
lows  as  I  do  crawling  between  earth  and 
heaven  !  We  are  arrant  knaves,  all ;  be- 
lieve none  of  us  :  Go  thy  ways  to  a  nun- 
nery. Where's  your  father  ? 

Oph.  At  home,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Let  the  doors  be  shut  upon  him  j 
that  he  may  play  the  fool  nowhere  but 
in's  own  house.  Farewell. 

Oph.  O,  help  him,  you  sweet  heavens! 

Ham.  If  thou  dost  marry,  I'll  give 
thee  this  plague  for  thy  dowry :  Be  thou 
as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow,  thou 
shalt  not  escape  calumny :  Get  thee  to  a 
nunnery ;  farewell.  Or,  if  thou  wilt 
needs  marry,  marry  a  fool ;  for  wise  men 
know  well  enough, -what  monsters  you 
make  of  them.  To  a  nunnery,  go  ;  and 
quickly  too.  Farewell. 

Oph,  Heavenly  powers,  restore  him  ! 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  III.  [March, 


404 

Ham.  I  have  heard  of  your  paintings 
too,  well  enough  ;  God  hath  given  you 
one  fiice,  and  you  make  yourselves  an- 
other;  you  jig,  you  amble,  and  you  lisp, 
and  nick-name  God's  creatures,  and  make 
your  wantonness  your  ignorance  :  Go  to, 
I'll  no  more  of  't ;  it  hath  made  me  mad. 
I  say,  we  will  have  no  more  marriages  : 
those  that  are  married  already,  all  hut 
one,  shall  live ;  the  rest  shall  keep  as  they 
arc.  To  a  nunnery,  go. 

[Exit  HAMLET. 

Opk.   O,  what  a  noble  mind  is  here 

o'er  thrown ! 
The   courtier's,   soldier's,  scholar's,  eye, 

tongue,  sword : 

The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state, 
The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mould  of 

form, 
The  observ'd  of  all  observers :  quite,  quite 

down  ! 

And  I,  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched, 
That  suck'd  the  honey  of  his  music  vows, 
Now  see  that  noble  and  most  sovereign 

reason, 
Like  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and 

harsh ; 
That   unmatch'd    form   and   feature    of 

blown  youth, 

Blasted  with  ecstasy  :  O,  woe  is  me ! 
To  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  see  what 

I  see  !" 

Shakspeare  and  Mrs  Jameson  were 
right.  Ophelia  herself  knew  that 
Hamlet  loved  her;  — and  Hamlet 
knew  that  Ophelia  knew  that  he 
loved  her,  and  therefore  he  used  her 
thus;  for  no  behaviour  of  his,  he  was 
well  assured,  could  ever  make  his 
"soul's  idol"  "  doubt  he  loved."  That 
doubt  would  have  broken  her  heart. 
But  Hamlet  wished  not  to  break 
Ophelia's  heart,  whatever  else  he 
may  have  wished;  and  what  he 
wished  is  "  hard  to  be  scanned." 
Ophelia  by  all  this  seeming  harsh 
usage,  (Oh,  most  harsh !)  feels  not 
herself  ill-used;  no  word  of  upbraid- 
ing escapes  her  lips ;  all  she  feels  is 
— pity  !  She  is  "  of  ladies  most  de- 
ject and  wretched;"  but  not  because 
no  more  she  "  sucks  the  honey  of 
his  music  vows;"  but  to  see  "  Oh ! 
what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'er- 
thrown !"  And  never  was  wreck  of 
mind  so  sublimely  painted  in  words 
as  by  her,  the  simple  of  heart ! 
when  at  last  she  exclaims,  "  O,  woe 
is  me  !"  The  woe  is  — "  to  have 
seen  what  I  have  seen  !  see  what  I 
see !"  O  sinless  being  !  uplifted  by 
thy  self-forgetting  innocence  to  a 
loftier  height  of  humanity  even  than 


that  from  which  in  the  meekness  of 
thy  lamenting  sorrow  thou  behold'st 
"that  noble  and  most  sovereign  rea- 
son" fall  like  a  star  from  its  sphere  ! 
But  hear  another  speak,  who  always 
speaks  well  :— 

"  We  do  not  see  him  as  a  lover,  nor  as 
Ophelia  first  beheld  him  ;  for  the  days 
when  he  importuned  her  with  love  were 
before  the  opening  of  the  drama — before 
his  father's  spirit  revisited  the  earth  ;  but 
we  behold  him  at  once  in  a  sea  of  trou- 
bles, of  perplexities,  of  agonies,  of  terrors. 
A  loathing  of  the  crime  he  is  called  on  .to 
revenge,  which  revenge  is  again  abhorrent 
to  his  nature,  have  set  him  at  strife  with 
himself;  the  supernatural  visitation  has 
perturbed  his  soul  to  its  inmost  depths  ; 
all  things  else,  all  interests,  all  hopes,  all 
affections,  appear  as  futile,  when  the  ma- 
jestic shadow  comes  lamenting  from  its 
place  of  torment  *  to  shake  him  with 
thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  his  soul  !' 
His  love  for  Ophelia  is  then  ranked  by 
himself  among  those  trivial,  fond  records 
which  he  has  deeply  sworn  to  erase  from 
his  heart  and  brain.  He  has  no  thought 
to  link  his  terrible  destiny  with  hers ;  he 
cannot  marry  her ;  he  cannot  reveal  tg 
her,  young,  gentle,  innocent  as  she  is, 
the  terrific  influences  which  have  chan- 
ged the  whole  current  of  his  life  and  pur- 
poses. In  his  distraction,  he  overacts  the 
painful  part  to  which  he  had  tasked  him- 
self; he  is  like  that  judge  of  the  Areopa- 
gus, who,  being  occupied  with  graver  mat- 
ters, flung  from  him  the  little  bird  which 
had  sought  refuge  in  his  bosom,  and  that 
with  such  angry  violence,  that  unwitting- 
ly he  killed  it. 

"  In  the  scene  with  Hamlet,  in  which  he 
madly  outrages  her  and  upbraids  himself, 
Ophelia  says  very  little ;  there  are  two 
short  sentences  in  which  she  replies  to  his 
wild,  abrupt  discourse— 

'  Ham.  I  did  love  you  once. 

Oph.  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  so. 

Ham.  You  should  not  have  believed  me  :  for 
virtue  cannot  so  inoculate  our  old  stock,  but  we 
shall  relish  of  it.  I  loved  you  not. 

Oph.  I  was  the  more  deceived. ' 

"  Those  who  ever  heard  Mrs  Siddons 
read  the  play  of  Hamlet,  cannot  forget  the 
world  of  meaning,  of  love,  of  sorrow,  of 
despair,   conveyed   in  these  two  simple 
phrases.     Here,  and  in  the  soliloquy  af- 
terwards, where  she  says — 
'  And  I  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched, 
That  sucked  the  honey  of  his  music  vows,' 

are  the  only  allusions  to  herself  and  her 
own  feelings  in  the  course  of  the  play ; 
and  these,  uttered  almost  without  con- 
sciousness on  her  own  part,  contain  the 
revelation  of  a  life  of  love,  and  disclose  the 
secret  burden  of  a  heart  bursting  with  its 
own  unuttered  grief.  She  believes  Ham- 


1833.] 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


405 


let  crazed  :  she  is  repulsed,  she  is  forsa- 
ken, she  is  outraged,  where  she  had  be- 
stowed her  young  heart,  with  all  its  hopes 
and  wishes  ;  her  father  is  slain  by  the 
h  ind  of  her  lover,  as  it  is  supposed,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  insanity  ;  she  is  entangled 
it  extricably  in  a  web  of  horrors  which 
she  cannot  even  comprehend,  and  the  re- 
sult seems  inevitable." 

Ophelia  would  have  forgiven  Ham- 
let every  thing,  but  it  seems  she  had 
nothing  to  forgive.  Therefore  at  the 
Play  we  can  imagine  her  again  hap- 
py, since  Hamlet  seems  to  his  sweet 
senses  restored. 

"Hamlet.  Lady!  Shall  I  lie  in  your  lap? 
(Lying  doivn  at  OrnELiA.'sfeet. ) 

Ophelia.   No,  my  lord. 

Hamlet.   I  mean  my  head  upon  your 
lap. 

Ophelia.  Aye,  my  lord." 
We  must  not  find  fault  with  Ham- 
let's wit  throughout  this  scene,  for 
though  Ophelia  could  not  choose  but 
w  >ader,  yet  she  was  not  critical  on 
what  she  did  not  more  than  half-un- 
d(  rstand ;  and  though  her  Hamlet 
might  seem  to  her  to  speak  strangely, 
hr  was  not  the  Hamlet  who  frighten- 
ed her  when  "  sewing  in  her  closet," 
the  Hamlet  for  whom  she  cried,  "  O 
woe  is  me !"  in  the  room  in  the  castle. 
Hilf-glad  and  half-sad  was  she  now 
to  be  able  to  say,  "  You  are  merry, 
my  lord." 

After  that  night  we  see  Ophelia 
in  her  right  wits  never  again.  It 
was  well  for  Hamlet  that  the  slayer 
of  her  father  saw  her  not  in  the  state 
to  which  that  slaughter,  and  other 
ca-ises  connected  with  him,  had  re- 
duced her;  for  surely  he  had  then 
been  more  dismally  deranged  by 
su  "h  image,  than  even  by  his  father's 
ghost.  That,  revisiting  the  glimpses 
of  the  moon,  made  night  hideous ; 
this  would  indeed  have  darkened  the 
sunlight,  or  rather  made  the  ceru- 
lean vault  of  Heaven  lurid  as  the  dun 
cope  of  Hell.  Would  he  then,  to 
use  the  palliating  language  of  Mrs 
Jameson,  "  have  ranked  his  love  for 
Oj  helia  among  those  trivial  fond  re- 
cords which  he'  has  deeply  sworn  to 
en  se  from  his  heart  and  brain  ?" 
Al.is  !  methinks  to  drive  one's  young 
true  love  mad  by  wild  words  and 
ras-h  deeds,  though  not  so  wicked, 
was  more  lamentable  than  to  pour 
the  juice  of  cursed  hellebore  from 
a  i  hial  into  the  ear  of  an  old  sleep- 
ing king !  But  we  are  relapsing  into 

VOL,  XXXIII.   NO.  CCV. 


our  heresy  of  1818;  and  have  sworn 
by  the  book  to  be  orthodox. 

We  have  looked  on  Ophelia  as 
God  made  her,  let  us  see  her  as  she 
was  made  by  Hamlet— 

"  Divided  from  herself  and   her   fair 

judgment." 

She  had  seemed  formerly  in  the 
court,  "  in  her  loveliness  and  puri- 
ty, like  a  seraph  that  had  wandered 
out  of  bounds,  and  yet  breathed  on 
earth  the  air  of  paradise."  Behold 
her  now ! 

"  Queen. 1  will  not  speak  with  her. 

Hor.   She  is  importunate  j  indeed,  dis- 
tract ; 
Her  mood  will  needs  be  pitied. 

Queen.  What  would  she  have  ? 

Hor.   She  speaks  much  of  her  father ; 

says,  she  hears, 
There's  tricks  i'the  world  ;  and  hems,  and 

beats  her  heart ; 
Spurns  enviously  at  straws  ;  speaks  things 

in  doubt, 
That  carry  but  half  sense  :  her  speech  is 

nothing, 

Yet  the  unshaped  use  of  it  doth  move 
The  hearers  to  collection  ;  they  aim  at  it, 
And  botch  the  words  up  fit  to  their  own 

thoughts  ; 

Which,  as  her  winks,  and  nods,  and  ges- 
tures, yield  them, 
Indeed  would  make  one  think,  there  might 

be  thought, 

Though  nothing  sure,  yet  much  unhap- 
pily. 
Queen.  'Twere  good  she  were  spoken 

with  ;  for  she  may  strew 
Dangerous    conjectures    in    ill-breeding 

minds  : 

Let  her  come  in.  [Exit  HORATIO. 

To  my  sick  soul,  as  sin's  true  nature  is, 
Each  toy  seems  prologue  to  some  great 

amiss  : 

So  full  of  artless  jealousy  is  guilt, 
It  spills  itself  in  fearing  to  be  spilt. 

Re-enter  HORATIO  with  OFHELIA. 
Oph.   Where  is  the  beauteous  majesty 

of  Denmark  ? 

Queen.   How  now,  Ophelia  ? 
Oph.  How  should  I  your  true  love 
know 

From  another  one  ? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff. 

And  his  sandal  shoon.      [Singing. 
Queen.   Alas,  sweet  lady,  what  imports 

this  song  ? 

Oph.   Say  you?  nay,  pray  you,  mark. 
He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady,     [Sings. 

He  is  dead  and  gone  ; 
At  his  head  a  grass  green  turf, 

At  his  heels  a  stone. 
O,  ho! 

2  D 


406 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  III. 


[March, 


Quem.   Nay,  but  Ophelia, 

Oph.  Pray  you  mark. 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow. 

[Sings. 

Enter  KING. 
Queen.   Alas,  look  here,  my  lord. 

Oph.       Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers ; 
Which  bewept  to  the  grave  did  go, 
With  true-love  showers. 

King.   How  do  you,  pretty  lady  ? 

Oph.  Well,  God  'ield  you  !  They  say, 
the  owl  was  a  baker's  daughter.  Lord, 
we  know  what  we  are,  but  know  not 
what  we  may  be.  God  be  at  your  table  ! 

King.   Conceit  upon  her  father. 

Oph.  Pray,  let  us  have  no  words  of 
this  j  but  when  they  ask  you,  what  it 
means,  say  you  this  : 

Good  morrow,  'tis  St  Valentine's  day, 
All  in  the  morning  betime, 

And  I  a  maid  at  your  window, 
To  be  your  Valentine  : 

Then  up  he  rose,  and  don'd  his  clothes, 
And  dupp'd  the  chamber  door  ; 

Let  in  the  maid,  that  out  a  maid 
Never  departed  more. 

King.   Pretty  Ophelia ! 
Oph.   Indeed,    without   an   oath,    I'll 
make  an  end  on't : 

By  Gis,  and  by  Saint  Charity, 
Alack,  and  fye  for  shame  ! 

Young  men  will  do't,  if  they  come  to't; 
By  cock,  they  are  to  blame. 

Quoth  she,  Before  you  tumbled  me, 
You  promised  me  to  wed : 

He  answers, 

So  would  I  ha'  done,  by  yonder  sun, 
An  thou  had&t  not  come  to  my  bed, 

King.   How  long  hath  she  been  thus  ? 

Oph.  I  hope  all  will  be  "well.  We 
must  be  patient :  but  I  cannot  choose  but 
weep,  to  think  they  should  lay  him  i'the 
cold  ground:  My  brother  shall  know  of 
it,  and  so  I  thank  you  for  your  good  coun- 
sel. Come,  my  coach !  Good  night, 
ladies;  good  night,  sweet  ladies,  good 
night,  good  night.  [Exit." 

*  *  *  * 

"  Laer.  How  now  !  what  noise  is  that? 
Enter  OPHELIA,  fantastically  dressed  with 

straws  and  flowers. 
O  heat,   dry  up  my  brains !  tears  seven 

times  salt, 
Burn  out  the  sense  and  virtue  of  mine 

eye  !— 
By  heaven,  thy  madness  shall  be  paid 

with  weight, 
Till  our  scale  turn  the  beam.     O  rose  of 

May! 
Dew  m.aid,  fcind  sister,  sweet  Ophelia ! 


O  heavens !  is't  possible,  a  young  maid's 

wits 

Should  be  as  mortal  as  an  old  man's  life  ? 
Nature  is  fine  in  love :    and,  where  'tis 

fine, 

It  sends  some  precious  instance  of  itself 
After  the  thing  it  loves. 

Ophelia. 

They  bore  him  barefac'd  on  the  bier  ; 
Hey  no  nonny,  nonny  hey  noriny  : 
And  in  his  grave  rain'd  many  a  tear  j 
Fare  you  well,  my  dove ! 

Laer.   Hadst  thou  thy  wits,  and  didst 

persuade  revenge, 
It  could  not  move  thus. 

Oph.  You  must  sing,  Down-a-down, 
an  you  call  him  a-down-a.  O,  how  the 
wheel  becomes  it !  It  is  the  false  steward, 
that  stole  his  master's  daughter. 

Laer.  This  nothing's  more  than  mat- 
ter. 

Oph.   There's  rosemary,  that's  for  re- 
membrance ;  pray  you,  love,  remember ; 
and  there  is  pansies,  that's  for  thoughts. 
Laer.  A  document  in  madness;  thoughts 
and  remembrance  fitted. 

Oph.  There's  fennel  for  you,  and  co- 
lumbines : — there's  rue  for  you  ;  and 
here's  some  for  me : — we  may  call  it,  herb 
of  grace  o'  Sundays  : — you  may  wear  your 
rue  with  a  difference. — There's  a  daisy: 
— I  would  give  you  some  violets ;  but 
they  withered  all,  when  my  father  died  : 

— They  say,  he  made  a  good  end, 

For  bonny  sweet  Robin  is  all  my  joy,— 

[Sings, 
Laer.   Thought  and  affliction,  passion, 

hell  itself. 
She  turns  to  favour,  and  to  prettiness. 

Sings. 

Oph.   And  will  he  not  come  again  ? 
And  will  he  not  come  again  ? 
No,  no,  he  is  dead, 
Go  to  thy  death-bed, 
He  never  will  come  again. 

His  beard  was  as  white  as  snow, 
All  flaxen  was  his  poll : 
He  is  gone,  he  is  gone, 
And  we  cast  away  moan  j 
God  'a  mercy  on  his  soul  ! 
And  of  all  Christian  souls !   I  pray  God. 
God  be  wi'  you  !  [Exit  OPHELIA. 

Laer.  Do  you  see  this,  O  God  ?" 
No  hint  had  been  given  of  what 
had  happened  to  Ophelia.  Perhaps 
there  were  none  to  take  notice  of  the 
change  that  came  gradually  upon  her 
—perhaps  in  one  hour  or  less,  she 
became  insane.  Her  father  had  been 
killed  by  Hamlet ;  and  Hamlet  was 
moralizing  far  off  on  the  "  imminent 
death  of  twenty  thousand  men," 


1 833.] 

t:  Her  brother  had  in  -secret  come 
from  France,"  but  "  kept  himself  in 
clouds,"  and  knew  nothing  of  his 
f  ister  till  he  cried  "  How  now  !  what 
noise  is  that  ?"  The  weak  and  wicked 
queen,  though  she  may  have  looked 
*  with  a  kind  of  melancholy  com- 
placency on  the  lovely  being  she  had 
(iestined  for  the  bride  of  her  son," 
A /as  but  heedless  of  her  weal  or  woe, 
and  at  the  beginning  of  this  sad  scene 
says  "I  will  not  speak  with  her;" 
and  then — "  'twere  good  she  were 
spoken  with ;  for  she  may  sow  dan- 
gerous conjectures  in  ill-breeding 
i  rinds."  that  "  cut-purse  of  the 
empire,"  who  fears  the  babbling  of 
her  insanity,  had  not  heart  even  to 
hke  Ophelia,  when  "  sewing  in  her 
closet."  Neglected  had  she  been  by 
one  and  all — all  but  Horatio,  that 
noble  soul  of  unpretending  worth, 
aid  he  knew  not  what  ailed  her  till 
she  was  past  all  cure.  He  it  is  who 
ft  elingly,  and  poetically,  and  truly 
describes  the  maniac  ;  he  it  is  who 
b  -ings  her  in ;  he  it  is  who  follows 
h  ?r  away — dumb  all  the  while !  And 
who  with  right  souls  but  must  have 
boen  speechless  amidst  these  gentle 
rr  vings  ?  The  adulterous  and  inces- 
ti  ous  only  it  is  that  speak.  "  How 
now,  Ophelia?"  "Nay!  but  Ophelia," 
ec  minceth  the  queen.  "  How  do  you, 
pretty  lady?"  "Pretty  Ophelia!"  So 
6t  jttereth  the  king.  Faugh !  the  noi- 
some and  loathsome  hypocrites  !  So 
tint  her  poor  lips  were  but  mute, 
bcth  would  have  fain  seen  them 
seiled  up  with  the  blue  mould  of 
th  3  grave !  But  Laertes — he  with  all 
hit;  faults  and  sins  has  a  noble  heart 
— his  words  are  pathetic  or  pas- 
sit  nate— 

"  Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  hell  it- 
self, 
Sh3  turns  to  favour,  and  to  prettiness." 

"  Do  you  see  this,  O  God  ?" 

Horatio  says,  "  her  speech  is  no- 
thing." It  is  nearly  nothing.  But 
tin;  snatches  of  old  songs,  they  are 
so)  nething — as  they  come  flowing  in 
mi  sic  from  their  once  hushed  rest- 
ing-places  far  within  her  memory, 
which  they  had  entered  in  her  days 
of  careless  childhood,  and  they  have 
a  meaning  now  that  gives  them  dole- 
ful utterance.  It  is  Hamlet  who  is 
the  Maniac's  Valentine.  "  You  are 
merry,  my  lord,"  is  all  she  said  to 
him  as  he  lay  with  his  head  on  her 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 

lap  at  the  play.  She  would  have 
died,  rather  than  sing  to  Hamlet  that 
night  the  songs  she  sings  now  —  yet 
she  had  not  sung  them  now,  had  she 
not  been  crazed  with  love  !  "  Where 
is  the  beauteous  Majesty  of  Den- 
mark ?"  She  must  mean  Hamlet. 


"  He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady, 

He  is  dead  and  gone  ; 
At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf, 

A.i  his  heels  a  stone." 

Means  she  her  father  ?  Perhaps  —  but 
most  likely  not.    Hamlet  ?  It  is  pro- 
bable.  Mayhap  but  the  dead  man  of 
the  song.  Enough  that  it  is  of  death, 
and  burial.  Or  to  that  verse,  as  haply 
to  others  too,  she  may  attach  no 
meaning  at  all.    A  sad  key  once 
struck,  the  melancholy  dirge  may 
flow  on  of  itself,  Memory  and  Con- 
sciousness   accompanying  not   one 
another  in  her  insanity  !  "  They  say, 
the    owl  was   a  baker's   daughter. 
Lord,  we  know  what  we  are,  but 
know  not  what  we  may  be.    God  be 
at   your    table."     The  King   says, 
"  conceit  upon  her  father."     Adul- 
terous beast!  it  was  no  conceit  on 
her  father.     The  words  refer  to  an 
old  Tstory  often  related  to  children 
to  deter  them  from  illiberal  beha- 
viour to  poor  people.    Our  Saviour 
went  into  a  baker's  shop,  and  asked 
for  bread  to  eat  —  the  baker's  daugh- 
ter cried,  "  heugh  !  heugh  !  heugh  !" 
which  owl-like  noise  made  our  Sa- 
viour, for  her  wickedness,  transform 
her  into  that  bird.      Ophelia    had 
learnt  the  story  in  the  nursery,  and 
she  who  was  always  charitable  thinks 
of  it  now  —  God  only  knows  why— 
and  Shakspeare,  who  had  heard  such 
dim  humanities  from  the  living  lips  of 
the  deranged  —  as  many  have  done 
who  are  no  Shakspeares  —  gave  them 
utterance  from  the  lips  of  the  sweet- 
est phantom  that  ever  wailed  her 
woes  in  hearing  of  a  poet's  brain. 
"  The  mildewed  ear  who  blasted  his 
wholesome  brother,"  shews  his  vul- 

"  How  long  hath  she  been  thus  ?" 
But  Ophelia's  soul  is  deaf  to  all 
outward  sounds  —  all  but  her  own 
sweet  voice  !  And  now  she  does  in- 
deed think  for  a  moment,  and  but  a 
moment,  of  her  father,  and  nobody 
else.  "  I  cannot  choose  but  weep  to 
think  they  should  lay  him  i'  the  cold 
ground.  My  brother  shall  know  of 
it."  She  has  forgot  that  Hamlet 
killed  him—  for  had  she  thought  of 


408  Characteristics  of 

that,  she  would  not  have  told  Laer- 
tes. The  darker  clouds  vanish — and 
Ophelia,  who,  when  in  her  senses, 
cared  nought  about  coaches,  is  plea- 
sed, when  out  of  them,  with  this 
world's  poor  vanities  !  and  gaily  bids 
good  night  to  a  bevy  of  court  ladies  ! 
Horatio  was  a  wise  keeper  of  the 
insane.  He  did  not  seek  to  restrain 
her  in  her  harmless  fancies.  So 
Ophelia  re -appears,  fantastically 
dressed  with  straws  and  flowers. 

"  O  rose  of  May  ! 

Dear  maid  !  kind  sister !   sweet  Ophe- 
lia!" 

She  is  somewhat  more  composed 
»— perhaps  by  that  act  of  wild  adorn- 
ment. She  is  conscious  of  presences; 
and  it  may  be  that  there  is  something 
fitting  in  her  floral  gifts — her  floral 
emblems.  "  There's  rue  for  you,  [the 
Queen,]  and  here's  some  for  me.  We 
may  call  it  herb  of  grace  o'  Sun- 
days," contains  a  world  of  woe! 
"  You,  madam,"  says  Ophelia  to  the 
Queen,  "  may  call  your  rue  by  its 
Sunday  name,  *  herb  of  grace?  and 
BO  wear  it  with  a  difference,  to  dis- 
tinguish it  from  mine,  which  can 
never  be  any  thing  but  merely  rue — 
that  is— sorrow."  Well  said,  STEE- 
VENS.  "  I  would  give  you  some  vio- 
lets, but  they  wither'd  all  when  my 
father  died."  She  is  sorry  for  the 
violets.  They  are  riot  worth  giving 
away — but  they  are  worth  keeping — 
and  she  will  keep  them,  though  she 
soon  forgets  for  what  they  withered, 
for  now  "  Bonny  sweet  Robin  is  all 
my  joy."  Hamlet  once  more — but  for 
a  moment;  and  she  who  was  so 
strong  in  filial  piety,  again  chants 
about  her  father,  and  sees  the  "com- 
mon conclusion  of  monumental  in- 
scriptions— "  And  of  all  Christian 
souls,  I  pray  God! — God  be  wi' 
you!" 

"  Of  her  subsequent  madness  what 
can  be  said?  What  an  astonishing— 
what  an  affecting  picture  of  a  mind  ut- 
terly, hopelessly  wrecked ! — past  hope — 
wast  cure !  There  is  the  frenzy  of  ex- 
cited passion — there  is  the  madness 
caused  by  intense  and  continued  thought 
— there  i*  the  delirium  of  fevered  nerves ; 
nut  Ophelia's  madness  is  distinct  from 
these :  it  is  not  the  suspension,  but  the 
utter  destruction  of  the  reasoning  powers : 
it  is  the  total  imbecility  which,  as  medi- 
cal people  well  know,  too  frequently 
follows  some  terrible  shock  to  the  spirits. 
Constance  is  frantic  ;  Lear  is  mad ; 


Women.    No.  III.  [March, 

Ophelia  is  insane.  Her  sweet  mind  lies 
in  fragments  before  us — a  pitiful  specta- 
cle! Her  wild,  rambling  fancies;  her 
aimless,  broken  speeches;  her  quick 
transitions  from  gaiety  to  sadness — each 
equally  purposeless  and  causeless;  her 
snatches  of  old  ballads,  such  as  perhaps 
her  nurse  sang  her  to  sleep  with  in  her 
infancy — are  all  so  true  to  the  life,  that 
we  forget  to  wonder,  and  can  only  weep. 
It  belonged  to  Shakspeare  alone  so  to 
temper  such  a  picture  that  we  can  en- 
dure to  dwell  upon  it — 

'  Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  hell  itself, 
She  turns  to  favour  and  to  prettiness.' 

"  That  in  her  madness  she  should  ex- 
change  her  bashful  silence  for  empty 
babbling,  her  sweet  maidenly  demeanour 
for  the  impatient  restlessness  that  spurns 
at  straws,  and  say  and  sing  precisely 
what  she  never  would  or  could  have 
uttered  had  she  been  in  possession  of  her 
reason,  is  so  far  from  being  an  impro- 
priety, that  it  is  an  additional  stroke  of 
nature." 

Who  but  Shakspeare  could  have 
found  a  fitting  death  for  Ophelia? 
She  knew  not  what  death  to  herself 
did  mean;  dim  and  strange  were 
her  thoughts  of  death  even  to  them 
who  had  disappeared.  She  knew 
not  that  fire  would  burn,  that  water 
would  drown.  For  she  was  what 
"  we  grave  livers  do  in  Scotland" 
call  "  an  Innocent."  The  Queen  was 
affected,  after  a  fashion,  by  the  pic- 
turesque mode  of  her  death,  and 
takes  more  pleasure  in  describing  it 
than  any  one  would  who  really  had 
a  heart.  Gertrude  was  a  gossip — 
and  she  is  gross  even  in  her  grief. 

"  Queen.  Your  sister's  drown'd  Laertes. 
Laer.  Drown'd  !   O,  where  ? 
Queen.  There  is  a  willow  grows  as- 
caunt  the  brook, 

That  shows  his  hoar  leaves  in  the  glassy 
stream ; 

Therewith    fantastic    garlands    did    she 
make 

Of  crow-flowers,   nettles,    daisies,    and 
long  purples, 

That  liberal   shepherds  give  a    grosser 
name, 

But  our  cold  maids  do  dead  men's  fingers 
call  them : 

There  on  the  pendant  boughs  her  coro- 
net weeds 

Clambering  to  hang,  an  envious  sliver 
broke ; 

When  down  her  weedy  trophies,  and  her- 
self, 

Fell  in  the  weeping  brook.     Her  clothes 
spread  wide ; 


1833.] 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


And,  mermaid-like,  awhile  they  bore  her 

up  -. 
Which  time,  she  chanted  snatches  of  old 

tunes; 

As  one  incapable  of  her  own  distress, 
Or  like  a  creature  native  and  endu'd 
Unto  that  element :  but  long  it  could  not 

be, 
Till  that  her  garments,  heavy  with  their 

drink, 

Pull'd  the  poor  wretch  from  her  melo- 
dious lay 
To  muddy  death. 

Laer.          Alas  then,  she  is  drown'd  ? 

Queen.  Drown'd,  drown'd. 

Laer.  Too  much  of  water  hast  thou, 

poor  Ophelia, 
And  therefore  I  forbid  my  tears :     But 

yet 

It  is  our  trick ;  nature  her  custom  holds, 
Let  shame  say  what  it  will ;  when  these 

are  gone, 
The  woman  will  be  out." 

And  lo !  her  funeral ! 

"  Enter  PRIESTS,  Sfc.  in  Procession ;  the 
Corpse    of   OPHELIA,    LAERTES    and 
Mourners   following  ;    KING,   Q.UEEN, 
their  trains,  Sfc. 
Ham.  The  queen,  the  courtiers :  Who 

is  this  they  follow  ? 
And   with  such   maimed  rites  !      This 

doth  betoken, 

The  corse,  they  follow,  did  with  despe- 
rate hand 

Fordo  its  own  life,     'Twas  of  some  es- 
tate; 
Couch  we  a  while,  and  mark. 

[Retiring  with  HORATIO. 
Laer.  What  ceremony  else  ? 
Ham.  That  is  Laertes, 

A  very  noble  youth :   Mark. 
Laer.  What  ceremony  else? 
1  Priest.  Her  obsequies  have  been  as 

far  enlarg'd 
As  we  have  warranty :    Her  death  was 

doubtful ; 
And,  but  that  great  command  o'ersways 

the  order, 
She  should  in  ground  unsanctified  have 

lodg'd 
Till   the   last    trumpet;    for    charitable 

prayers, 
Shards,   flints,   and  pebbles,   should  be 

thrown  on  her: 

Yet  here  she  is  allowed  her  virgin  crants, 
Her  maiden  strewments,  and  the  bringing 

home 

Of  bell  and  burial. 

Laer.  Must  there  no  more  be  done  ? 
1  Priest.  No  more  be  done  ! 

We  should  profane  the  service  of  the 

dead, 

To  sing  a  requiem,  and  such  to  rest  her 
As  to  peace-parted  souls. 


409 

Laer.  Lay  her  i*  the  earth ; — 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh, 
May  violets  spring !— I  tell  thee,  churlish 

priest, 

A  minist'ring  angel  shall  my  sister  be, 
When  thou  liest  howling. 

Ham.  What,  the  fair  Ophelia ! 

Queen.  Sweets  to  the  sweet:     Fare- 
well! 

[Scattering  Flowers. 
I  hop'd  thou   should'st  have  been   my 

Hamlet's  wife ; 
I  thought,  thy  bride-bed  to  have  deck'd, 

sweet  maid, 
And  not  have  strew'd  thy  grave. 

Laer.  O,  treble  woe 

Fall  ten  times  treble  on  that  cursed  head, 
Whose  wicked  deed  thy  most  ingenious 

sense 
Depriv'd  thee  of!— Hold  off  the  earth  a 

while,  . 

Till  I  have  caught  her  once  more  in  mine 

arms ;  [Leaps  into  the  grave. 

Now  pile  your  dust  upon  the  quick  and 

dead; 
Till  of  this  flat  a  mountain    you   have 

made 

To  o'er-top  old  Pelion,  or  the  skyish  head 
Of  blue  Olympus. 

Ham.  (Advancing.)  What  is  he,  whose 

grief 
Bears  such  an  emphasis?  whose  phrase 

of  sorrow 
Conjures  the  wand'ring  stars,  and  makes 

them  stand 

Like  wonder- wounded  hearers  ?  this  is  I, 
Hamlet  the  Dane." 

And  so  vanishes  for  ever  from  our 
eyes,  she  whom  Samuel  Johnson 
tenderly  calls  "  Ophelia,  the  young, 
the  beautiful,  the  harmless,  and  the 
pious." 

Away!  Away!  with  us,  far,  far 
from  the  courts  of  Sin  and  Suffering, 
to  that  Enchanted  Isle,  where  MIRAN- 
DA is  walking  on  flowers  or  shells, and 
ARIEL  winnows  the  pure  air  around 
her  head  with  wings  lovely  as  the 
rainbow.  The  Bermuda  Isles,  in 
which  Shakspeare  has  placed  the 
scene  of  the  Tempest,  were  described 
by  Sir  George  Somers,  who  was 
wrecked  there,  as  "  a  land  of  devils," 
"  a  most  prodigious  and  enchanted 
place,"  subject  to  continual  tempests 
and  supernatural  visitings ;  and  such 
was  the  idea  entertained  of  the  "still- 
vexed  Bermoothes"  in  Shakspeare's 
age.  But  later  travellers,  says  Mrs 
Jameson,  describe  them  "  as  perfect 
regions  of  enchantment  in  a  far  dif- 
ferent sense ;  as  so  many  fairy  Edens, 
clustered  like  a  knot  of  gems  upon 
the  bosom  of  the  Atlantic,  decked 


410 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  ITT. 


[March, 


out  in  all  the  lavish  luxuriance  of 
nature,  with  shades  of  myrtle  and 
cedar,  fringed  round  with  groves  of 
coral;  in  short,  each  island  a  living 
paradise,  rich  with  perpetual  blos- 
soms, in  which  Ariel  might  have  slum- 
bered, and  ever-verdant  bowers,  in 
which  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  might 
have  strayed.  So  that  Shakspeare, 
in  blending  the  wild  relations  of  the 
shipwrecked  mariners  with  his  own 
inspired  fancies,  has  produced  no- 
thing, however  lovely  in  nature,  and 
sublime  in  magical  power,  which 
does  not  harmonize  with  the  beauti- 
ful and  wondrous  reality." 

There  has  been  shipwreck— the 
hurly-burly's  done — and  in  the  calm 
before  their  Cell,  lo !  Prospero,  the 
Mighty  Magician,  and  his  daughter, 
THE  WONDERFUL. 

"  O !  I  have  suffered 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer  !  a  brave  ves- 
sel, 
Who  had  no  doubt  some  noble  creatures 

in  her, 
Dashed  all  to  pieces!   Oh,  the  cry  did 

knock 
Against  my  very  heart !  Poor  souls  !  they 

perished ! 

Had  I  been  any  God  of  Power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or 

e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  hare  swallow'd, 

and 

The  freighting  souls  within  her !" 
Already  we  love  Miranda.  "  Con- 
trasted with  the  impression  of  her 
refined  and  dignified  beauty,  and  its 
effect  on  all  beholders,  is  Miranda's 
own  soft  simplicity,  her  virgin  inno- 
cence, her  total  ignorance  of  the  con- 
ventional forms  and  language  of  so- 
ciety. It  is  most  natural,  that  in  a 
being  thus  constituted,  the  first  tears 
should  spring  from  compassion,  suf- 
fering with  those  that  she  saw  suffer." 
With  what  intent  interest  do  we  lis- 
ten, all  the  while  gazing  on  her  mira- 
culous beauty,  to  her  father's  narra- 
tive, then  first  told  to  her,  of  their 
«  strange  eventful  history !"  The  Isle 
is  felt  to  be  indeed  enchanted,  ere 
we  have  a  glimpse  of  Ariel,  who,  to 
answer  his  master's  pleasure,  is  ready 

"  to  fly, 

To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curl'd  clouds." 

Each  touching  sentence  of  the  tale 
brings  put  some  delightful  trait  of 
nature  in  Miranda ;  and  in  the  soli- 
tary place,  as  "  up  grew  that  living 


flower  beneath  his  eye,"  we  feel  how 
happy  Prospero  must  have  been  in 
watching  the  unfolding  of  her  wo- 
man's heart.  Ignorant  of  how  she 
came  there,  and  often  wondering,  no 
doubt,  at  her  own  wondrous  life,  yet 
had  she  never  once  asked  her  father 
to  explain  the  mystery. 

"  Prospero.  My  dear  one !  thee,  my 

daughter !  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought 

knowing 
Of  whence  I  am;  nor  that  I  am  more 

better 

Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell, 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Miranda.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle  with  my  thoughts." 

But  as  more — as  all  is  told  her — how 
her  thoughts — her  feelings  rise  ac- 
cordant to  all  those  of  her  beloved 
father  !  How  beautifully  she  speaks 
of  her  dreamlike  remembrances  of 
some  other  evanished  life,  when  else- 
where she  was  a  child!  How  pity 
and  grief  and  indignation  alternate  in 
her  simple  heart,  as  her  father  un- 
folds the  story  of  his  wrongs,  his 
perils,  his  escape,  and  his  banish- 
ment ! 

"  Prospero.          There  they  hoist  us, 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roar'd  to  us ;  to 

sigh 
To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back 

again, 
Did  us  but  loving  wrong ! 

Miranda.  Alack  !  what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you  ! 

Prospero.  O,  a  cherubim 

Thou  wast,  that  did  preserve  me  !  Thou 

didst  smile, 
Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven ! 

Miranda.  How  came  we  ashore  ? 

Prospero.  By  Providence  divine. 
Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water, 

that 

A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo, 
Out  of  his  charity  (who  being  appointed 
Master  of  this  design)  did  give  us  ;  with 
Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs,  and  neces- 
saries, 
Which  since  have  steaded  much ;  so  of 

his  gentleness, 
Knowing  I  loved  my  books,  he  furnish'd 

me, 

From  my  own  library,  with  volumes  that 
I  prize  above  my  dukedom. 

Miranda.  Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  Man  ! 

Prospero.  Here  in  this  island  we  ar- 
rived, and  here 

Have  I,  thy  schoolmaster,   made  thee 
more  profit 


1833.] 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


411 


Than  other  princes  can,  that  have  more 

time 

For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  care- 
ful. 
Miranda.  Heaven  thank  thee  /orY." 

Yes  !  she  has  had  a  noble  education. 
And  she  is  grateful  to  Heaven  for  her 
father's  love.  She  is  now — as  we 
gather  from  the  narrative  —  in  her 
fifteenth  year — one  year  older  than 
Juliet,  "  alike,  but  oh !  how  differ- 
ent" from  that  other  "  snowy  dove !" 
Never  had  she  seen  a  man  but  her 
father.  But  she  had  read  of  her  far- 
off  kind,  and  when  the  ship  went  to 
pieces,  she  said,  "  who  had  no  doubt 
some  noble  creatures  in  her."  Much 
had  she  pored,  no  doubt,  over  her 
father's  books,  and  the  Lady  of  the 
Enchanted  Isle  had  bright  ideas  of 
her  own,  sweet  imaginings  of  all  that 
breathed  and  moved  in  the  great 
cities  of  the  remote  world  beyond 
].ier  own  waves.  Phantoms  all  ! 
yet  dear  as  she  looked  on  the  silent 
letters  to  her  human  heart.  But  let 
one  of  her  own  sex  draw  her  charac- 
ter. Had  Shakspeare,  she  says, 
jiever  created  a  Miranda,  we  should 
:aever  have  been  made  to  feel  how 
completely  the  purely  natural  and 
;he  purely  ideal  can  blend  into  each 
other. 

"  The  character  of  Miranda  resolves 
itself  into  the  very  elements  of  woman- 
hood. She  is  beautiful,  modest,  and  ten- 
ilerrand  she  is  these  only  ;  they  comprise 
her  whole  being,  external  and  internal, 
rshe  is  so  perfectly  unsophisticated,  so 
delicately  refined,  that  she  is  all  but  ethe- 
j  eal.  Let  us  imagine  any  other  woman 
placed  beside  Miranda — even  one  of 
.Shakspeare's  own  loveliest  and  sweetest 
<  reations — there  is  not  one  of  them  that 
rould  sustain  the  comparison  for  a  mo- 
jnent,  not  one  that  would  not  appear 
omewhat  coarse  or  artificial  when 
brought  into  immediate  contact  with  this 
pure  child  of  nature,  this  '  Eve  of  an  en- 
(  hanted  Paradise.' 

"  What,  then,  has  Shakspeare  done  ? 
'  O  wondrous  skill  and  sweet  wit  of  the 
man  !' — he  has  removed  Miranda  far 
1  -om  all  comparison  with  her  own  sex  ; 
1  e  has  placed  her  between  the  demi-de- 
i  ion  of  earth  and  the  delicate  spirit  of 
{.ir.  The  next  step  is  into  the  ideal  and 
supernatural,  and  the  only  being  who  ap- 
]  roaches  Miranda,  with  whom  she  can 
I  e  contrasted,  is  Ariel.  Beside  the  subtle 
essence  of  this  ethereal  sprite,  this  crea- 
t  ire  of  elemental  light  and  air,  that '  ran 


upon  the  winds,  rode  the  curl'd  clouds, 
and,  in  the  colours  of  the  rainbow,  lived' 
— Miranda  herself  appears  a  palpable 
reality,  a  woman,  «  breathing  thoughtful 
breath,'  a  woman,  walking  the  earth  in 
her  mortal  loveliness,  with  a  heart  as 
frail-strung,  as  passion-touched,  as  ever 
fluttered  in  a  female  bosom. 

"  1  have  said  that  Miranda  possesses 
merely  the  elementary  attributes  of  wo- 
manhood, but  each  of  these  stand  in  her 
with  a  distinct  and  peculiar  grace.  She 
resembles  nothing  upon  earth ;  but  do 
we  therefore  compare  her,  in  our  own 
minds,  with  any  of  those  fabled  beings 
with  which  the  fancy  of  ancient  poets 
peopled  the  forest  depths,  the  fountain, 
or  the  ocean  ? — Oread  or  dryad  fleet,  sea- 
maid, or  naiad  of  the  stream  ?  We  can- 
not think  of  them  together.  Miranda  is 
a  consistent,  natural,  human  being.  Our 
impression  of  her  nymph-like  beauty,  her 
peerless  grace  and  purity  of  soul,  has  a 
distinct  and  individual  character.  Not 
only  she  is  exquisitely  lovely,  being  what 
she  is,  but  we  are  made  to  feel  that  she 
could  not  possibly  be  otherwise  than  as 
she  is  portrayed.  She  has  never  beheld 
one  of  her  own  sex ;  she  has  never  caught 
from  society  one  imitated  or  artificial 
grace.  The  impulses  which  have  come 
to  her,  in  her  enchanted  solitude,  are  of 
heaven  and  nature,  not  of  the  world  and 
its  vanities.  She  has  sprung  up  into 
beauty  beneath  the  eye  of  her  father,  the 
princely  magician  ;  her  companions  have 
been  the  rocks  and  woods,  the  many- 
shaped,  many-tinted  clouds,  and  the  silent 
stars ;  her  playmates  the  ocean  billows, 
that  stooped  their  foamy  crests,  and  ran 
rippling  to  kiss  her  feet.  Ariel  and  his 
attendant  sprites  hovered  over  her  head, 
ministered  duteous  to  her  every  wish, 
and  presented  before  her  pageants  of 
beauty  and  grandeur.  The  very  air,  made 
vocal  by  her  father's  art,  floated  in  music 
around  her.  If  we  can  pre-suppose  such 
a  situation  with  all  its  circumstances,  do 
we  not  behold  in  the  character  of  Mi- 
randa not  only  the  credible,  but  the  na- 
tural, the  necessary  results  of  such  a  si- 
tuation ?  She  retains  her  woman's  heart, 
for  that  is  unalterable  and  inalienable,  as 
a  part  of  her  being  ;  but  her  deportment, 
her  looks,  her  language,  her  thoughts — 
all  these,  from  the  supernatural  and  poe- 
tical circumstances  around  her,  assume  a 
cast  of  the  pure  ideal ;  and  to  us,  who 
are  in  the  secret  of  her  human  and  pity- 
ing nature,  nothing  can  be  more  charm- 
ing and  consistent  than  the  effect  which 
she  produces  upon  others,  who  never 
having  beheld  any  thing  resembling  her, 
approach  her  as  '  a  wonder,'  as  some- 
thing celestial." 


Characteristics  of  Women. 


412 

Where  is  there  in  poetry  any  thing 
equal  to  the  first  scene  between  Fer- 
dinand and  Miranda  ?  Lured  on  by 
the  invisible  Ariel,  playing  and  sing- 
ing the  wildest  of  songs,  the  noble 
Neapolitan  approaches  Prospero  and 
his  daughter. 

"  Mira.  What  is't  ?  a  spirit? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about!    Believe  me, 

sir, 

It  carries  a  brave  form  : — But 'tis  a  spirit. 
Pro.  No,  wench;    it  eats  and  sleeps, 

and  hath  such  senses 
As  we  have,  such :  This  gallant,  which 

thou  seest, 

Was  in  the  wreck;  and  but  he's  some- 
thing stain'd 
With  grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou 

might'st  call  him 

A  goodly  person  :  he  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mira.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.  It  goes  on,  [Aside. 

As   my   soul   prompts   it : — Spirit,  fine 

spirit !  I'll  free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Fer.  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs" attend! — Vouchsafe, 

my  prayer 

May  know,  if  you  remain  upon  this  island; 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction 

give, 

How  I  may  bear  me  here  :  My  prime  re- 
quest, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you 

wonder ! 
If  you  be  maid,  or -no? 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir  ; 

But,  certainly  a  maid. 

Fer.  My  language  !  heavens  ! — 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this 

speech, 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pro.  How!  the  best? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  king  of  Naples 

heard  thee  ? 
Fer.   A  single  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that 

wonders 
To  hear  them  speak  of  Naples ;  He  does 

hear  me  ; 
And,  that  he  does,  I  weep :  myself  am 

Naples ; 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb, 

beheld 
The  king  my  father  wreck'd. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  mercy ! 

Fer.  Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords  ;  the 

duke  of  Milan, 
And  his  brave  son,  being  twain. 

Pro.  The  duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  con- 
trol thee, 


No.  III. 


[March, 


If  now  'twere  fit  to  do't : — At  the  first 

sight  [Aside. 

They  have  chang'd  eyes : — Delicate  Ariel, 

I'll  set  thee  free  for  this  ! — A  word,  good 

sir; 
I   fear,   you  have   done    yourself  some 

wrong :  a  word. 
Mira.  Why  speaks   my  father  so  un- 

gently?  This 

Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw;  the  first 
That  e'er  I  sigh'd  for :    pity  move  my 

father 
To  be  inclin'd  my  way ! 

Fer.  O,  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  affection  not  gone  forth,  I'll 

make  you 
The  queen  of  Naples. 

Pro.          Soft,  sir:  one  word  more. — 
They  are  both  in  cither's  powers:   but 

this  swift  business 

I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  win- 
ning [Aside. 
Make  the  prize  light — One  word  more  ; 

I  charge  thee, 
That  thou  attend  me:   thou  dost  here 

usurp 
The  name  thou  ow'st  not ;  and  hast  put 

thyself 

Upon  this  island,  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on't. 

Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

Mira.  There's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in 

such  a  temple  : 

If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  an  house, 
Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  with'c. 
Pro.  Follow  me. —  [To  Ferd. 

Speak  not  you  for  him  ;  he's  a  traitor.— 

Come, 

I'll  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together  : 
Sea  -water  shalt  thou  drink,  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fresh-brook  muscles,  wither'd  roots, 

and  husks 

Wherein  the  acorn  cradled ;  Follow. 
Fer.  No ; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power.  [He  draws. 

Mira.  O  dear  father, 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He's  gentle,  and  not  fearful. 

Pro.  What,  I  say, 

My  foot  my  tutor ! — Put  thy  sword  up, 

traitor ; 
Who  mak'st  a  show,  but  dar'st  not  strike, 

thy  conscience 
Is  so  possess'd  with  guilt :  come  from  thy 

ward ; 

For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick, 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

Mira.  Beseech  you  father  ! 

Pro.  Hence;  hang  not  on  my  garments. 
Mira.  Sir,  have  pity ; 

I'll  be  his  surety. 

Pro.  Silence  ;  one  word  more 

Shall  make  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  the  e. 
What! 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination.  413 

too,  have  their  share  in  her  bosom, 
for  her  father's  anger  seems  kindled 
against  him  who  she  thought  might 
be  "  a  spirit."  No  tumult  is  in  her 
veins — though  her  heart  be  beating 
—and  when  Ferdinand  says, 


1833.] 

An  advocate  for  an  impostor  ?  hush ! 

Thou  think'st  there  are  no  more  such 

shapes  as  he, 

Having  seen  but  him  and  Caliban  :  Fool- 
ish wench ! 

To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Mm.  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble ;  I  have  no  am- 
bition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 

Pro.  Come  on;  obey:  [To  Ferd. 

Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again, 
And  have  no  vigour  in  them. 

Per.  So  they  are ; 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound 

up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  which  I 

feel, 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's 

threats, 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to 

me, 

Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a-day 
Behold  this  maid;  all  corners  else  o'  the 

earth 

Let  liberty  make  use  of ;  space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 

Pro.  It  works : — Come  on. — 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel ! — Fol- 
low me. —     [To  FERD.  and  MIR. 
Hark,  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me. 

[  To  ARIEL. 

Mira,  Be  of  comfort ; 

My  father's  of  a  better  nature,  sir, 
Than  he  appears  by  speech  ;  this  is  un- 
wonted, 
Which  now  came  from  him. 

Pro.  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds ;  but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command. 
Ari.  To  the  syllable. 

Pro.  Come,  follow;  speak  not  for  him." 

Juliet  is  thrilled  to  the  heart's  core 
by  the  first  kiss  of  Romeo.  Her  Life 
is  in  a  moment  Passion.  She  must 
possess  him  or  she  dies.  "  If  he  be 
married,  my  grave  shall  be  my  wed- 
ding-bed !"  Sleep  flies  her  till  she 
rest  in  Romeo's  bosom.  Yet  is  she 
pure.  His  blood,  too,  is  turned  to 
liquid  fire.  And  from  transient  bliss 
they  are  hurried  on  by  fatalities  at- 
tending their  passion  to  death.  It 
burns  to  the  last — the  full  flame  is 
extinguished  all  at  once  in  the  tomb. 
Miranda  as  suddenly  loves  j  but  with 
her  'tis  all  imagination — save  the 
sweet  impulse  of  innocent  nature, 
passion  there  is  none.  Surprise, 
wonder,  admiration,delight — in  them 
she  finds  a  new  being,  and  it  all  ga- 
thers upon  Ferdinand.  Pity  and  fear, 


"  My  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you 

Wonder ! 

If  you  be  maid  or  no?" 
Her  simplicity  calmly  answers, 

"  No  wonder,  sir ; 
But  certainly  a  maid  !" 

She  says,  indeed,  "  this  is  the 
first  man  that  e'er  I  sighed  for!" 
But  how  gentle  must  have  been  that 
sigh !  Its  sweetness  but  made  her 
pray — "  pity  move  my  father  to  be 
inclined  my  way  !"  and  at  the  close 
of  the  scene,  when  she  bids  Ferdi- 
nand be  comforted,  for  that  "  my 
father's  of  a  better  nature,  sir,  than 
he  appears  by  speech,"  her  looks,  no 
doubt,  like  her  language,  are  those 
but  of  pitiful  and  sorrowful  affec- 
tion— all  that  yet  she  knows  of  Love. 
"  Enter  FERDINAND,  bearing  a  Log. 
Fer.  There  be  some  sports  are  painful ; 

and  their  labour 
Delight  in  them  sets  off :   some  kinds  of 

baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone;    and  most  poor 

matters 

Point  to  rich  ends.  This  my  mean  task 
Would  be  as  heavy  to  me,  as  odious ;  but 
The  mistress,  which  I  serve,  quickens 

what's  dead, 
And  makes  my  labours  pleasures  :  O,  she 

is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father's 

crabbed      . 
And  he's  composed  of  harshness.   I  must 

remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile 

them  up, 

Upon  a  sore  injunction  :    My  sweet  mis- 
tress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work  :  and  says, 

such  baseness 

Had  ne'er  like  executor.     I  forget : 
But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh 

my  labours ; 

Most  busy-less,  when  I  do  it. 
Enter    MIRANDA  ;    and   PROSPERO  at  a 

Distance. 

Mira.  Alas,  now  !  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard  :    I  would,  the  light- 
ning had 
Burnt  up  those  logs,  that  you  are  enjoin'd 

to  pile ! 

Pray,  set  it  down,  and  rest  you :  when 
this  burns, 


414 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  III. 


[March, 


'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you  :  My 
father 

Is  hard  at  study ;  pray  now,  rest  your- 
self; 

He's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Fer.  O  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set,  before  I  shall  discharge 

What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

Mir  a.  If  you'll  sit  down, 

I'll  bear  your  logs  the  while  :    Pray,  give 
me  that : 

I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

Fer.  No,  precious  creature ; 

I  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my 
back, 

Than  you  should  such  dishonour  undergo, 

While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Mira.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you :  and  I  should  do  it 

With  much  more  ease;  for  my  good  will 
is  to  it, 

And  yours  against. 

Pro.     Poor  worm  !  thou  art  infected  j 

This  visitation  shews  it. 
Mira.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.    No,   noble  mistress;     'tis  fresh 
morning  with  me, 

When  you  are  by  at  night.    I  do  beseech 
you, 

(Chiefly,  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  pray- 
ers,) 

What  is  your  name  ? 

Mira.  Miranda : — O  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  hest  to  say  so! 

Fer.  Admir'd  Miranda  ! 

Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration ;  worth 

What's  dearest  to  the  world!   Full  many 
a  lady 

I  have  ey'd  with  best  regard ;  and  many 
a  time 

The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into 
bondage 

Brought  my  too  diligent  ear  :  for  several 
virtues 

Have  I  lik'd  several  women  ;  never  any 

With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 

Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she 
ow'd, 

And  put  it  to  the  foil :   But  you,  O  you, 

So  perfect,  and  so  peerless,  are  created 

Of  every  creature's  best. 

Mira.  I  do  not  know 

<One  of  my  sex ;  no  woman's  face  remem- 
ber, 

Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  hare 
I  seen 

More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good 
friend, 

And  my  dear  father :  how  features  are 
abroad, 

I  am  skill-less  of;  but,  by  my  modesty, 

(The  jewel  in  my  dower,)  I  would  not 
wish 

Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you  ; 

Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 


Besides  yourself,  to  like  of:  But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's 

precepts 
I  therein  do  forget. 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 

A  prince,  Miranda  ;  I  do  think,  a  king  ; 
(I  would,  not  so!)  and  would  no  more 

endure 

This  wooden  slavery,  than  to  suffer 
The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth. — Hear  my 

soul  speak  ; — 

The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service ;  there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it;  and  for  your 

sake, 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Mira.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Fer.    O  heaven,  O  earth,  bear  witness 

to  this  sound, 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind 

event, 

If  I  speak  true  ;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me,  to  mischief!  I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'the  Avorld, 
Do  love,  prize,  honour  you. 

Mira.  I  am  a  fool, 

To  weep  at  what  I'm  glad  of. 

Pro.  Fair  encounter 

Of  two  most  rare  affections !   Heavens 

rain  grace 

On  that  which  breeds  between  them ! 
Fer.  Wherefore  weep  you  ? 

Mira.  At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare 

not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give;  and  much  less 

take, 
What  I  shall  die  to  want :   But  this  is 

trifling ; 

And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.      Hence,  bash- 
ful cunning ! 

And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  inno- 
cence ! 

I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me  ; 
If  not,   I'll  die  your  maid :  to  be  your 

fellow 

You  may  deny  me  ;  but  I'll  be  your  ser- 
vant, 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest, 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Mira.  My  husband  then  ? 

Fer.   Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom :  here's  my 

hand. 
Mira.    And  mine,  with  my  heart  in't : 

And  now  farewell, 
Till  half-an-hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand  !   thousand! 

[Exeunt  FER.  and  MIRA. 
Pro.   So  glad  of  this  as  they,  I  cannot 

be, 

Who  are  surpris'd  with  all ;  but  my  re- 
joicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.  I'll  to  my  book ; 


1833.] 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


415 


For  yet,  ere  supper  time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.         [Exit." 

What  celestial  servitude  is  that  of 
Ferdinand  I  The  log-bearer  is  a  god. 
For  "  my  sweet  mistress  weeps  when 
she  sees  me  work."  No  wonder  she 
weeps  to  see  so  "  brave  a  form"  sla- 
ving like  Caliban.  The  young  Prince 
had  never  carried  logs  till  now — nei- 
ther assuredly  had  Miranda — but  she 
offers  to  do  so  now — and  even  thinks 
it  fitter  that  she  should  than  "  the 
first  man  she  ever  sighed  for" — she, 
the  daughter  of  the  Great  Magician, 
who  in  his  own  country  had,  she 
knows,  been  the  greatest  of  the  great, 
and  who  is  now  obeyed  by  the  ele- 
ments, and  the  creatures  of  the  ele- 
ments. 'Tis  almost  a  pity  Ferdinand 
allowed  her  not  one  trial,  she  had 
looked  so  more  than  beautiful  under 
the  burden.  Aye — Miranda  now 
knows  love.  Prospero  says  so— 
"Poor  worm!  thou  art  infected!" 
She  too — like  Juliet — proposes  mar- 
riage. But  she  knows  not  so  well  as 
that  other  warmer  Italian  what  mar- 
riage means ;  and  if  he  will  not  mar- 
ry her — she  believes  it  possible  he 
will  not — then  is  she  content "  to  die 
his  maid."  And  in  saying  so  she 
said  the  holy  truth.  Had  Juliet  said 
so  to  Romeo  she  had  surely  lied. 
But  heaven  preserve  us,are  we  indeed 
so  foolish  as  to  idly  dream  of  bring- 
ing out  beauties!  Of  rubbing  with 
our  coarse  clumsy  hands,  to  brighten 
their  lustre,  gems  in  their  own 
native  splendour  eyeing  the  sun  in 
heaven  that  wonders  at  their  unre- 
flected  light  ?  No — we  are  but  admi- 
ring them— and  so  is  the  lady  whose 
commentaries  are  written  in  the  same 
spirit,  and  who  finely  says  of  this 
matchless  scene, — "  In  Ferdinand, 
who  is  a  noble  creature,  we  have  all 
the  chivalrous  magnanimity  with 
which  man,  in  a  high  state  of  civili- 
sation, disguises  his  real  superiority, 
and  does  humble  homage  to  the 
being  of  whose  destiny  he  disposes ; 
while  Miranda,  the  mere  child  of  na- 
ture, is  struck  with  wonder  at  her 
own  emotions.  Only  conscious  of 
her  own  weakness  as  a  woman,  and 
ignorant  of  those  usages  of  society 
which  teach  us  to  dissemble  the  real 
passion,  and  assume  (sometimes 
abuse)  our  unreal  and  transient  pow- 
er, she  is  equally  ready  to  place  her 
life,  her  love,  her  service,  beneath 
iis  feet,  Her  hasb.fuln.ess,"  ft  J8 


where  said  by  the  same  fine  obser- 
ver, "  is  less  a  quality  than  an  instinct, 
it  is  like  the  self-unfolding  of  a  flow- 
er, spontaneous  and  unconscious." 

"Enter  PROSPERO,  FERDINAND,  and 

MIRANDA. 
Pro.  If  I  have  too  austerely  punish'd 

you, 

Your  compensation  makes  amends ;  for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  thread  of  mine 

own  life, 
Or  that  for  which  I  live ;  whom  once 

again 

I  tender  to  thy  hand  :  all  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love ;  and  thou 
Hast  strangely  stood  the  test :  here,  afore 

Heaven, 

I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.  O  Ferdinand, 
Do  not  smile  at  me,  that  I  boast  her  off, 
For  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all 

praise, 
And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Fer.  I  do  believe  it, 

Against  an  oracle. 
Pro.  Then,  as  my  gift,  and  thine  own 

acquisition, 
Worthily  purchas'd,  take  my  daughter  : 

But 

If  thou  dost  break  her  virgin  knot  before 
All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 
With  full  and  holy  rite  be  minister'd, 
No  sweet  aspersion  shall  the  heavens  let 

fall 
To  make  this  contract  grow ;  but  barren 

hate, 

Sour-ey'd  disdain,  and  discord,  shall  be- 
strew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so 

loathly, 
That  you  shall  hate  it  both  :  therefore, 

take  heed, 
As  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you. 

Fer.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue,  and  long  life, 
With  such  love  as  'tis  now  ;  the  murki- 
est den, 
The  most  opportune  place,  the  strongest 

suggestion 

Our  worser  genius  can,  shall  never  melt 
Mine  honour  into  lust ;  to  take  away 
The  edge  of  that  day's  celebration, 
When  I  shall  think,  or  Phoebus'  steeds 

are  founder'd, 
Or  night  kept  chain'd  below. 

Pro.  Fairly  spoke : 

Sit  then,  and  talk  with  her,  she  is  thine 

own.— 
What,   Ariel  ;    my  industrious  servant 

Ariel! 

Enter  ARIEL. 
ATI.  What  would  my  potent  master? 

here  I  am. 
Pro.  Thou  and   thy  meaner  fellows 

your  last  service 


416 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  III. 


[March, 


Did  worthily  perform;  and  I  must  use 

you 

In  such  another  trick  :  go,  bring  the  rab- 
ble, 
O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here,  to 

this  place : 

Incite  them  to  quick  motion ;  for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couple 
Some  vanity  of  mine  art;  it  is  my  pro- 
mise, 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 

Ari.  Presently  ? 

Pro.   Aye,  with  a  twink. 
Ari.   Before  you  can  say,  Come,  and  got 
And  breathe  twice;  and  cry,  so,  so; 
Each  one,  tripping  on  his  toe, 
Will  be  here  with  mop  and  mowe : 
Do  you  love  me,  master?  no. 

Pro.    Dearly,  my  delicate  Ariel :    Do 

not  approach, 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

Ari.  Well  I  conceive. 

[Exit. 
Pro.   Look,  thou  be  true  :   do  not  give 

dalliance 
Too  much  the  rein ;  the  strongest  oaths 

are  straw 

To  the  tire  i'  the  blood  :  be  more  abste- 
mious, 
Or  else,  good  night,  your  vow ! 

Fer.  I  warrant  you,  sir  ; 

The  white  cold  virgin  snow  upon  my 

heart 
Abates  the  ardour  of  my  liver." 

Prospero  possesses,  from  first  to 
last  not  only  our  respect,  but  our 
affection.  Through  the  magician  we 
always  see  the  man — and  in  the  man 
the  father.  He  loves  his  daughter 
better  than  all  his  books,  yet  his 
library  to  him  is  life.  His  wand  is 
waved  but  for  her  delight ;  all  his 
harshness  to  Ferdinand  is  but  seem- 
ing ;  to  that  noble  slave  it  is  the  source 
of  divinest  happiness ;  and,  looking 
forwards  to  their  marriage,  he  will 
then  resign  his  dominion  over  all  the 
spirits,  and  let  the  disenchanted  and 
forsaken  Isle  settle  down  into  com- 
mon daylight  on  common  sea.  Mrs 
Jameson  thus  speaks  of  Prospero— 

"  As  Miranda,  being  what  she  is, 
could  only  have  had  a  Ferdinand  for  her 
lover,  and  an  Ariel  for  her  attendant,  so 
she  could  have  had  with  propriety  no 
other  father  than  the  majestic  and  gifted 
being,  who  fondly  claims  her  as  '  a  thread 
of  his  own  life — nay,  that  for  which  he 
lives.'  Prospero,  with  his  magical  powers, 
his  superhuman  wisdom,  his  moral  worth 
and  grandeur,  and  his  kingly  dignity,  is 
x>ne  of  the  most  sublime  visions  that  ever 
swept  with  umple  robes,  pale  brow,  and 


sceptred  hand,  before  the  eye  of  fancy. 
He  controls  the  invisible  world,  and 
works  through  the  agency  of  spirits;  not 
by  any  evil  and  forbidden  compact,  but 
solely  by  superior  might  of  intellect — by 
potent  spells  gathered  from  the  lore  of 
ages,  and  abjured  when  he  mingles  again 
as  a  man  with  his  fellow-men.  He  is  as 
distinct  a  being  from  the  necromancers 
and  astrologers  celebrated  in  Shakspeare's 
age,  as  can  well  be  imagined  ;  and  all  the 
wizards  of  poetry  and  fiction,  even  Faust 
and  St  Leon,  sink  into  common  places 
before  the  princely,  the  philosophic,  the 
benevolent  Prospero." 

O  Miranda !  how  much  happier 
wert  thou  in  a  father  than  Juliet  or 
Ophelia!  Think  of  Capulet  or  Po- 
lonius  along  with  Prospero.  Yet 
they  too  loved  their  father — and  one 
of  them  went  mad — so  some  said—- 
for his  sake.  Good  girls  always 
love  their  father,  even  though  he  be 
fool  and  knave — for  piety  is  sweet 
to  female  hearts — and  though  sin  or 
folly  may  make  them  sad  as  they 
look  at  the  author  of  their  being,  yet 
sire  is  still  a  gracious  name,  and 
round  the  brows  of  parent  to  pure 
filial  eyes  seems  ever  to  be  wreath- 
ed a  heavenly  halo. 

In  this  scene  there  is  perfect  bless- 
edness. Was  there  ever  so  tenderly 
paternal  line  as 

"  I  have  given  you  here  a  thread  of  mine 
own  life!" 

Let  no  father  fear  to  praise  his  daugh- 
ter to  her  face — if  she  deserve  it.  If 
she  be  beautiful  and  good,  let  him 
tell  her  and  heaven  that  her  beauty 
and  her  goodness  do  make  him  blest. 
Both  will  breathe  more  sweetly,  burn 
more  brightly,  at  his  smiles  and  his 
words — even  as  did  Miranda's  now  in 
the  lime-grove-weather-fended  cell 
in  the  Enchanted  Isle.  But  hath 
Prospero  no  fears  for  her  virgin  in- 
nocence, as  she  and  her  lover  roam 
at  their  own  sweet  will  among  the 
solitary  places  silent  but  for  the  sea- 
murmur  on  the  yellow  sands,  and 
the  music  of  the  invisible  Ariel,  in 
cloud  or  sunshine  ?  Not  fears—- 
but the  shadows  of  fears — for  Mi- 
randa, though  divine,  is  human,  and 
the  bright-eyed  Prince  is  a  "child 
of  strengthand  state,"  and  of  passion. 
But  the  expression  of  such  shadowy 
fears  serves  only  to  heighten  the 
image  of  the  perfect  purity  of  Mi- 
randa. The  shipwrecked  sailor  is 
too  noble  a  creature  for  the  sin  of 


1833.] 


Characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination. 


417 


ingratitude ;  but  without  thinking  of 
what  he  owes  to  his  benefactor,  "  the 
thread  of  mine  own  life"  is  holy  to 
his  heart— holy  that  "  white,  cold  vir- 
gin snow."  Freely  father  and  lover 
speak — giving  and  receiving  solemn 
advice;  but  Miranda  is  mute — she 
sits  listening  in  her  simplicity — the 
sweet  subject  of  their  discourse — 
and  as  she  hears  her  Ferdinand 
speak  hope  "for  quiet  days,  fair 
issue,  and  long  life,"  unmoved  in 
her  innocence  as  an  angel.  The  while 
Prospero  has  been  giving  his  orders 
to  Ariel,  the  lovers  have  met  in  an 
embrace — before  their  father's  eyes. 
"Be  more  abstemious."  But  it  was 
not  in  nature  for  Ferdinand  to  be  so ; 
and  as  for  Miranda,  as  well  might  a 
rose  in  the  wilderness  turn  away  her 
fragrant  blushes  from  the  sun  that 
loves  the  leaves  he  beautifies. 

The  Aerial  Masque  got  up  by  Pro- 
spero "  a  contract  of  true  love  to  ce- 
lebrate, and  some  donation  freely  to 
estate  on  the  blessed  lovers,"  is  in 
beautiful  keeping  with  all  the  rest  of 
the  Enchanted  Island  life.  Iris, 
"  Many-coloured  messenger, 
That  ne'er  must  disobey  the  wife  of  Ju- 
piter," 

in  richest  language  calls  Ceres 
to  leave  all  her  other  domains, 
and  to  come  and  sport  "  here  on 
this  grass-plot, 'on  this  very  place." 
Ceres  comes,  and  asks  if  Venus  and 
her  son  attend  Juno,  for  that  she  has 
forsworn  "  her  and  her  blind  boy's 
ncandal'd  company,"  ever  since  they 
did  plot  the  means  "  that  dusky  Dis 
her  daughter  got;"  but  the  Heaven- 
ly Bow  tells  Ceres  not  to  be  afraid 
of  her  society,  for  that  she 

"  Met  her  deity 
Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos ;  and 

her  son 
:L3ove- drawn  with  her  ;  here  thought  they 

to  have  done 
Some  wanton  charm  upon  this  man  and 

maid, 
Whose  vows  are,  that  no  bed-rite  shall  be 

paid 
Till  Hymen's  "torch  be  lighted." 

How  delicately  the  Phantoms,  the 
Apparitions  of  Goddesses,  commend 
Ferdinand  and  Miranda  for  their 
modest  and  chaste  affection;  Pros- 
pero thus  again  counselling  them, 
through  visionary  lips,  "  to  be  abste- 
mious." Juno  joins  Ceres,  and  they 
f-ing  an  antenuptial  song,  which  may 
as  a  model  for  all  such  songs 


as  long  as  there  is  marrying  and  gi- 
ving in  marriage. 

"  SONG. 

Juno.  Honour,  riches,  marriage-blessing, 
Long  continuance,  and  increasing, 
Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you  ! 
Juno  sings  her  blessing  on  you. 
Cer.  Earth's  increase,  and foison  plenty ; 
Barns  and  garners  never  empty  ; 
Vines,    with    clustering    bunches 

growing  ; 

Plants,  withgoodly  burden  bowing; 
Spring  come  toyou,  at  the  farthest. 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest ; 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you  ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 
Fer.  This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly  :  May  I  be  bold 
To  think  these  spirits  ? 

Pro.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

I  have  from  their  confines  call'd  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever  ; 

So  rare  a  wonder'd  father,  and  a  wife, 
Make  this  place  Paradise. 

[JUNO  and  CERES  whisper,  and  send 

Iris  on  employment, 

pro.  Sweet  now,  silence  : 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously; 
There's  something  else  to  do:  hush  and 

be  mute, 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marr'd. 

Iris.   You  nymphs,  call'd  Naiads,  of  the 

wand'ring  brooks, 

With  your  sedg'd  crowns,  and  ever  harm- 
less looks, 
Leave  your  crisp  channels ;  Juno  does 

command  : 
Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to 

celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love  ;  be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 
You   sun-burn'd   sicklemen,    of   August 

weary, 
Come  hither  from   the  furrow,  and  be 

merry; 
Makeholyday:  your  rye-stcaw  hats  put 

on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every 

one 

In  country  footing. 

[Then     enter    certain     Reapers,    properly 
habited  ;  they  join  with  the  Nymphs  in 
a  graceful  dance  ;  toivards  the  end  whereof 
Prospero  starts  suddenly,    and    speaks; 
after  ivhich,  to  a  sharp,  hollow,  and  con- 
fused noise,  they  heavily  vanish." 
Prospero    is    disturbed,   magnifi- 
cently moralizes,  and  Ferdinand  and 
Miranda,  wishing  him  peace,  walk 
away  in  their  happiness  wherever 
love  may  lead,  into  other  enchant- 
ments. 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  III. 


418 

In  dreams  we  never — wonder. 
Happen  what  may — all  seems  in  the 
course  of  nature.  Without  wings  we 
fly,  nor  think  we  that  motion  strange 
though  most  delightful;  down  we 
sink  without  diving-bell,  to  the  roots 
of  coral  rocks,  and,  unsurprised,  bid 
good  day  to  the  Queen  of  the  Mer- 
maids; realities  seem  to  people  what 
we  know  not  then  to  be  the  realms  of 
imagination.  Shakspeare  is  Somnus 
— and  the  Tempest  is  a  dream.  We 
wonder  not  to  see  the  brave  vessel 
by  Prospero  "  dashed  all  to  pieces," 
by  Prospero  rebuilt,  launched,  mast- 
ed, rigged  anew, 

" in  all  her  trim  freshly  beheld 

Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship." 

Most  exquisitely  beautiful  is  Ariel, 
gay  creature  of  the  element;  but 
"seeing  is  believing,"  and  we  are 
prepared  to  hear  him  play  and  sing, 
visible  himself  or  invisible;  with  him 
"  whatever  is,  is  right."  Caliban  him- 
self is  unquestioned  where  all  is  en- 
chantment, and  we  say  not  a  word 
on  being  told  that  a  demon  was  his 
sire,  and  a  witch  his  .dam.  Iris 
—  Ceres  —  Juno  —  Naiads  —  spirits 
in  the  shape  of  hounds  —  reapers 
brought  from  far-off  climes  —  and 
nymphs  not  native  to  the  Isle — they 
come  and  go;  nor  startled  are  we — 
such  over  our  whole  being  is  the 
power  of  genius  —  by  the  magical 
masque,  more  than  by  natural  pa- 
geant of  sunset-clouds  !  Who  gave 
Prospero  his  magic  book  and  staff? 
We  ask  not — nor  care  to  know.  One 
Being  alone  commands  our  wonder 
through  our  love.  The  human  Prin- 
cess of  the  Isle  of  Glamoury ;  and 
she  will  be  the  world's  wonder,  till 
the  world's  self  hath  passed  away 
with  all  its  dreams. 

Heavens  !  what  has  become  of  all 
the  rest  of  the  shipwrecked?  We 
have  forgotten  them  all  as  entirely 
as  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  have  done 
—but  the  scenes  we  have  stolen  are 
not  all  "  The  Tempest."  We  daresay 
you  have  all  of  you  heard  it  said  and 
seen  it  written,  that  the  beauty  and 
purity  of  Miranda  are  miraculously 
heightened  by  contrast  with  the  hi- 
deousness  of  Caliban.  He  is,  indeed, 
the  most  hideous  of  all  monsters 
(one  excepted)  ever  miscreated  or 


[March, 


misbegotten; — and  even  Miss   

herself  would  look  less  revolting  if 
set  near  the  hairy  hide  of  flesh  so 
fishified.  But  we  had  forgotten  the 
hag-born;  and  Miranda 

"  Was  yet  a  spirit  still  and  bright, 

With  something  of  an  angel  light," 
without  the  aid  of  any  contrast.    She 
needed  no   foil — any  more   than  a 
star,  "  when  only  one  is  shining  in 
the  sky." 

Why,  really  some  of  the  drunken 
sailors  are  little  better  than  Caliban. 
Trinculo  has  ijjore  wit,  for  he  was 
educated  at  Wapping  College,  but 
Stephano  is  about  on  a  par,  as  to  in- 
tellect, with  the  son  of  Sycorax.  As 
a  moral  being,  the  "  poor  monster," 
if  we  take  into  account  his  birth  and 
parentage,  is  not  worse  than  either 
of  the  tars — and  all  three  are  alike 
ripe  and  ready  for  rape  and  murder. 
While  they  are  plotting  the  death  of 
Prospero  and  violation  of  Miranda, 
Sebastian  and  Antonio  were  con- 
spirators against  the  life  of  the  King 
of  Naples.  But  the  punishment  of 
the  guilty  has  been  preparing  by  the 
magician ;  and,  therefore,  the  break- 
ing up  of  the  beautiful  pageant  in 
honour  of  the  contract.  A mazement 
and  fear  fall  on  noble  and  knave; 
all  is  cleared  up ;  all  is  reconciled ; 
and  all  eyes,  at  the  close,  are  fixed 
on  MIRANDA. 

"  Miranda.  O  WONDER 

HOW    MANY    GOODLY    CREATURES    ARE 

THERE  HERE  ! 
HOW  BEAUTEOUS  MANKIND  IS  !    O  BRAVE 

NEW  WORLD ! 
THAT  HAS  SUCH  PEOPLE  IN'T  ! 

Pro.  'TIS  NEW  TO  THEE." 

The  whole  wide  world  is  hence- 
forth, in  her  imagination— Paradise, 
Oh !  did  it  not  once  seem  so  to  one 
and  all  of  us, — when  our  bliss  bade 
the  sun  burn  bright  on  a  day  of 
clouds ;  when  we  could  change  at  will 
gloom  into  glory;  when  at  the  sight 
of  a  few  daisies,  the  earth  seemed 
all  overspread  with  flowers,  and* 
flowers  that  knew  no  withering;  when 
the  inarticulate  voice  of  streams 
murmured  to  ours  their  own  un- 
wearied joy  in  the  wilderness ;  when 
we  did  say  in  our  hearts  the  very 
words  of  the  magician's  child ;  when 
thou  hadst  thine  own  Ferdinand, 
and  we  our  own  Miranda  I 


Printed  by  Bulhntyne  and  Company^  Paul's  Work,  Edinburgh, 


BLACKWOOD'S 


EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCVI. 


APRIL,  1833. 
PART  I. 


Voi.  XXXIII. 


THE   FACTORY   SYSTEM. 


THERE  are  few  apophthegms  more 
pregnant  than  "  Charity  begins  at 
home."  There  it  is  born  and  bred. 
It  gets  its  education  by  the  fireside. 
One  of  its  first  lessons  is,  to  rock  the 
cradle  of  infancy,  lisping  or  singing  a 
prayer;  another  almost  as  early,  to 
minister  silently  by  the  bed  of  age. 
And  thus  gradually  expanding  to  its 
perfect  growth,  it  becomes  the  re- 
ligion of  the  hearth— the  guardian 
genius  of  domestic  life — the  spirit 
that  imbues  and  embalms  all  our 
best  human  affections.  Thus  trained 
within  holy  walls,  it  delights  to  walk 
through  their  neighbourhood.  It 
makes  as  yet  no  long  excursions, 
but  keeps  within  the  vicinage  of  its 
beloved  birth-place.  It  is  never  at 
a  loss  to  find  there  objects  having  a 
natural  claim  on  its  tender  solici- 
tude; and  towards  them  its  heart 
yearns  "with  loves  and  longings  in- 
finite." The  circle  of  its  cares  con- 
tinues to  widen  and  widen;  and  it 
sees  that  they  may  eventually  em- 
brace the  uttermost  ends  of  the 
earth.  But  it  never  ceases  to  feel 
that  the  light  within  it,  which  as- 
suredly is  from  heaven,  must  be  con- 
centrated before  it  be  diffused — that 
otherwise  there  will  ensue  loss  or 
extinction  of  the  celestial  flame. 
Charity  is  but  another  name  for  love. 
A)  id  love  is  founded  "  in  reason,  and 
is  judicious,"  intuitively  discerning 
ecds  and  means,  and  achieving  those 
by  following  these,  as  if  obedient  to 
a  holy  instinct.  Its  home  is  now  its 
na  tal  land.  It  hears  the  voice  of  God 
—the  still  small  voice  of  conscience 
—bidding  it  busy  itself  with  the  con- 

VOL,  XXXIH.  NO.  CCVI. 


cerns  of  that  region.  In  one  great 
sense  we  are  all  brethren — brethren 
of  mankind.  "  The  blue  sky  bends 
over  us  all."  But  dearest — such  is 
nature's  fiat — is  still  the  visible  ho- 
rizon !  If  we  shut  our  eyes  to  the 
sights  it  encircles,  our  imaginations 
shall  not  prosper  of  those  lying  be- 
yond; if  we  shut  our  ears  to  the 
sounds  close  beside  us,  can  we  hope 
to  please  Providence,  by  listening  to 
those  that  come  across  the  seas  ?  Let 
us  not  seek  to  reverse  the  order  of 
nature.  Our  duties  extend  from  the 
shadow  of  our  own  house  "  to  the 
farthest  extreme  of  the  poles."  But 
all  the  duties  that  lie  near,  are  com- 
paratively clear  and  easy ;  the  distant 
are  often  doubtful  and  difficult;  and 
they  who  strive  earnestly  or  passion- 
ately to  effect  first  what  should  be 
attempted  last,  can  have  read  to  little 
purpose  the  New  Testament.  Let 
us  not  fly  away  as  on  wings  on  aerial 
voyages  of  discovery,  while  disre- 
garded miseries  are  lying  thick  around 
our  feet ! 

Never  at  any  time  of  our  social 
state  was  there  more  for  man  to  do 
for  man  than  now.  There  has  been 
a  breaking  up  of  the  entire  system. 
It  may  all  be  for  our  ultimate  good. 
But  this  is  certain,  that  the  love  of 
money  is  the  ruling  passion  of  the 
rich — of  the  poor,  the  mere  love  of 
life.  Here  we  behold  the  splendour 
of  ease,  affluence,  and  luxury — there 
the  squalor  of  toil,  want,  and  hunger. 
The  lower  orders — for  godsake  quar- 
rel not  with  the  word  lower,  for 
they  are  as  low  as  tyranny  can  tread 
them  down— are  in  many  places  as 
2  E 


The  Factory  System, 


420 

much  parts  of  machinery  as  are 
spindles.  Thousands  are  but  cogs. 
The  more  delicate  parts  of  ma- 
chinery soonest  wear  out ;  and 
these  are  boys  and  girls.  You  can 
have  no  conception  of  the  waste  of 
infants.  The  weak  wretches  are 
goon  worn  out  and  flung  away.  True 
that  they  are  not  expensive.  They 
are  to  be  purchased  from  their  pa- 
rents at  a  low  price.  The  truth  is, 
they  are  too  cheap.  Their  very 
bodies  are  worth  more  than  they 
bring;  and  then  there  is  one  error  in 
the  calculation,  which,  great  as  it 
seems  to  us,  has  been  seldom  noti- 
ced,— seldom  has  buyer  or  seller 
thought  of  inserting  their  souls. 

This  brings  us  at  once  into  the  Fac- 
tories. It  was  the  introduction  of 
Sir  Richard  Arkwright's  invention, — 
Mr  Sadler  remarks,  in  his  noble 
Speech  on  moving  the  second  read- 
ing of  the  Factories'  Regulation  Bill, 
—that  revolutionized  the  entire  sys- 
tem of  our  national  industry.  Pre- 
viously to  that  period,  the  incipient 
manufactures  of  the  country  were 
carried  on  in  the  villages,  and  around 
the  domestic  hearth.  "That  invention 
transferred  them  principally  to  the 
great  towns,  and  almost  confined 
them  to  what  are  now  called  Fac- 
tories. Thus  children  became  the 
principal  operatives ;  and  they  no 
longer  performed  their  tasks,  as  be- 
fore, under  the  parental  eye,  and 
had  them  affectionately  and  con- 
siderately apportioned,  according 
to  their  health  and  capacities;  but 
one  universal  rule  of  labour  was 
prescribed  to  all  ages,  to  both  sexes, 
and  every  state  and  constitution. 
But  a  regulation,  therefore,  it  might 
have  been  expected,  would  have 
been  adapted  to  the  different  de- 
grees of  physical  strength  in  the 
young,  the  delicate,  and  especially  the 


[April, 


female  sex.  But  instead  of  that,  it 
was  doubled  in  many  cases,  beyond 
what  the  most  athletic  and  robust 
men  in  the  prime  and  vigour  of  life 
can  with  impunity  sustain.  Our  an- 
cestors would  not  have  supposed  it 
possible,  exclaims  this  benevolent, 
enlightened,  and  eloquent  Statesman 
—posterity  will  not  believe  it  true, 
that  a  generation  of  Englishmen 
could  exist  that  would  labour  lisping 
infancy,  of  a  few  summers  old,  re- 
gardless alike  of  its  smiles  or  tears, 
and  unmoved  by  its  unresisting 
weakness,  eleven,  twelve,  thirteen, 
fourteen,,  sixteen,  hours  a-day,  and 
through  the  weary  night  also,  till,  in 
the  dewy  morn  of  existence,  thejtmd 
of  youth  faded  and  fell  ere  it  "was 
unfolded.  "  Oh !  cursed  lust  of  gold!" 
Oh!  the  guilt  which  England  was 
contracting  in  the  kindling  eye  of 
Heaven,  when  nothing  but  exulta- 
tions were  heard  about  the  perfec- 
tion of  her  machinery,  the  want  of 
her  manufactures,  and  the  rapid  in- 
crease of  her  wealth  and  prospe- 
rity! 

Yes — "  true  it  is  and  of  verity," 
that  few  of  our  political  economists 
have  suffered  their  eyes  to  see  such 
things ;  and  in  that  voluntary  blind- 
ness have  their  hearts  been  harden- 
ed. But  the  wonder  and  the  pity 
and  the  shame  is,  that  the  people  of 
England  have  suffered  themselves  to 
be  hood-winked  by  such  false 
"  friends  of  humanity."  They  have 
among  them  wiser  instructors.  Still 
they  pin  their  faith  to  the  dicta  that 
drivel  in  dust  from  the  cold  hard  lips 
of  an  oracle  of  dry  bones,  such  as 
Peter  Macculloch,  when  they  may 
hear,  if  they  will  but  choose  to  listen, 
responses  from  the  inner  shrine  of 
the  sacred  genius  of  William  Words- 
worth ! 


"  '  I  have  lived  to  mark 
A  new  and  unforeseen  Creation  rise 
From  out  the  labours  of  a  peaceful  Land, 
"Wielding  her  potent  Enginery  to  frame 
And  to  produce,  with  appetite  as  keen 
As  that  of  War,  which  rests  not  night  or  day. 
Industrious  to  destroy  !  WTith  fruitless  pains 
Might  one  like  me  now  visit  many  a  tract 
Which,  in  his  youth,  he  trod,  and  trod  again, 
A  lone  Pedestrian  with  a  scanty  freight, 
Wished  for,  or  welcome,  whereso'er  he  came, 
Among  the  Tenantry  of  Thorpe  and  Vill  ; 
Or  straggling  Burgh,  of  ancient  charter  proud, 
And  dignified  by  battlements  and  towers 


1833.]  The  Factory  System.  421 

Of  some  stern  Castle,  mouldering  on  the  brow 

Of  a  green  hill  or  bank  of  rugged  stream. 

The  foot-path  faintly  marked,  the  horse-track  wild, 

And  formidable  length  of  plashy  lane, 

(Prized  avenues  ere  others  had  been  shaped, 

Or  easier  links  connecting  place  with  place,) 

Have  vanished,— swallowed  up  by  stately  roads, 

Easy  and  bold,  that  penetrate  the  gloom 

Of  England's  farthest  Glens.    The  Earth  has  lent 

Her  waters,  Air  her  breezes ;  and  the  Sail 

Of  traffic  glides  with  ceaseless  interchange, 

Glistening  along  the  low  and  woody  dale, 

Or  on  the  naked  mountain's  lofty  side. 

Meanwhile,  at  social  Industry's  command, 

How  quick,  how  vast  an  increase  !  From  the  germ  • 

Of  some  poor  Hamlet,  rapidly  produced 

Here  a  huge  Town,  continuous  and  compact, 

Hiding  the  face  of  earth  for  leagues — and  there, 

Where  not  a  Habitation  stood  before, 

The  Abodes  of  men  irregularly  massed 

Like  trees  in  forests—spread  through  spacious  tracts, 

O'er  which  the  smoke  of  unremitting  fires 

Hangs  permanent,  and  plentiful  as  wreaths 

Of  vapour  glittering  in  the  morning  sun. 

And,  wheresoe'er  the  Traveller  turns  his  steps, 

He  sees  the  barren  wilderness  erased, 

Or  disappearing;  triumph  that  proclaims 

How  much  the  mild  Directress  of  the  plough 

Owes  to  alliance  with  these  new-born  Arts T 

— Hence  is  the  wide  Sea  peopled,— and  the  Shores 

Of  Britain  are  resorted  to  by  Ships 

Freighted  from  every  climate  of  the  world 

With  the  world's  choicest  produce.    Hence  that  sum 

Of  keels  that  rest  within  her  crowded  ports, 

Or  ride  at  anchor  in  her  sounds  and  bays ; 

That  animating  spectacle  of  Sails 

Which  through  her  inland  regions,  to  and  fro 

Pass  with  the  respirations  of  the  tide, 

Perpetual,  multitudinous !  Finally, 

Hence  a  dread  arm  of  floating  Power,  a  voice 

Of  Thunder,  daunting  those  who  would  approach 

With  hostile  purposes  the  blessed  lale, 

Truth's  consecrated  residence,  the  seat 

Impregnable,  of  Liberty  and  Peace. 

"  *  And  yet,  O  happy  Pastor  of  a  Flock ! 
Faithfully  watched,  and  by  that  loving  care 
And  Heaven's  good  providence  preserved  from  taint ! 
With  You  I  grieve,  when  on  the  darker  side 
Of  this  great  change  I  look ;  and  there  behold, 
Through  strong  temptation  of  those  gainful  Arts, 
Such  outrage  done  to  Nature,  as  compels 
The  indignant  Power  to  justify  herself  j 
Yea  to  avenge  her  violated  rights 
For  England's  bane.— -When  soothing  darkness  spreads 
O'er  hill  and  vale,'  the  Wanderer  thus  expressed 
His  recollections,  *  and  the  punctual  stars, 
While  all  things  else  are  gathering  to  their  homes, 
Advance,  and  in  the  firmament  of  heaven 
Glitter— but  undisturbing,  undisturbed, 
As  if  their  silent  company  were  charged 
With  peaceful  admonitions  for  the  heart 


422  The  Factory  System.  [April, 

Of  all-beholding  Man,  earth's  thoughtful  Lord; 

Then,  in  full  many  a  region,  once  like  this 

The  assured  domain  of  calm  simplicity 

And  pensive  quiet,  an  unnatural  light, 

Prepared  for  never-resting  Labour's  eyes, 

Breaks  from  a  many-windowed  Fabric  huge  ; 

And  at  the  appointed  hour  a  Bell  is  heard — 

Of  harsher  import  than  the  Curfew-knoll 

That  spake  the  Norman  Conqueror's  stern  behest, 

A  local  summons  to  unceasing  toil ! 

Disgorged  are  now  the  Ministers  of  day ; 

And,  as  they  issue  from  the  illumined  pile, 

A  fresh  Band  meets  them,  at  the  crowded  door, — 

And  in  the  courts—and  where  the  rumbling  Stream, 

That  turns  the  multitude  of  dizzy  wheels, 

Glares,  like  a  troubled  Spirit,  in  its  bed 

Among  the  rocks  below.    Men,  Maidens,  Youths, 

Mother  and  little  children,  Boys  and  Girls, 

Enter,  and  each  the  wonted  task  resumes 

Within  this  Temple — where  is  offered  up 

To  Gain— the  Master  Idol  of  the  Realm, 

Perpetual  sacrifice.     Even  thus  of  old 

Our  Ancestors,  within  the  still  domain 

Of  vast  Cathedral  or  Conventual  Church, 

Their  vigils  kept ;  where  tapers  day  and  night 

On  the  dim  altar  burned  continually, 

In  token  that  the  House  was  evermore 

Watching  to  God.     Religious  men  were  they  j 

Nor  would  their  Reason,  tutored  to  aspire 

Above  this  transitory  world,  allow 

That  there  should  pass  a  moment  of  the  year, 

When  in  their  land  the  Almighty's  Service  ceased* 

"  '  Triumph  who  will  in  these  profaner  rites 
Which  We,  a  generation  self-extolled, 
As  zealously  perform  !  I  cannot  share 
His  proud  complacency  ,•  yet  I  exult, 
Casting  reserve  away,  exult  to  see 
An  Intellectual  mastery  exercised 
O'er  the  blind  Elements  ;  a  purpose  given, 
A  perseverance  fed ;  almost  a  soul 
Imparted — to  brute  Matter.    I  rejoice, 
Measuring  the  force  of  those  gigantic  powers, 
Which  by  the  thinking  Mind  have  been  compelled 
To  serve  the  Will  of  feeble-bodied  Man. 
For  with  the  sense  of  admiration  blends 
The  animating  hope  that  time  may  come 
When  strengthened,  yet  not  dazzled,  by  the  might 
Of  this  dominion  over  Nature  gained, 
Men  of  all  lands  shall  exercise  the  same 
In  due  proportion  to  their  Country's  need ; 
Learning,  though  late,  that  all  true  glory  rests, 
All  praise,  all  safety,  and  all  happiness, 
Upon" the  Moral  law.    Egyptian  Thebes  ; 
Tyre  by  the  margin  of  the  sounding  waves ; 
Palmyra,  central  in  the  Desart,  fell ; 
And  the  Arts  died  by  which  they  had  been  raised. 
— Call  Archimedes  from  his  buried  Tomb 
Upon  the  plain  of  vanquished  Syracuse, 
And  feelingly  the  Sage  shall  make  report 
How  insecure,  how  baseless  in  itself, 


1833;]  The  Factory  System. 

Is  that  Philosophy,  whose  sway  is  framed 
For  mere  material  instruments  : — how  weak 
Those  Arts,  and  high  Inventions,  if  unpropped 
By  Virtue. — He  with  sighs  of  pensive  grief, 
Amid  his  calm  abstractions,  would  admit 
That  not  the  slender  privilege  is  theirs 
To  save  themselves  from  blank  forgetfulness.'  " 


423 


There  you  have  Poetry,  and  Moral 
Philosophy,  and  Christianity,  and 
Political  Economy,  all  in  one — Truth 
— the  pure  bright  ore  of  Truth. 
You  know  where  to  go  for  the  dross 
of  falsehood. 

What,  then,  is  the  object  of  that 
Bill,  which  Mr  Sadler,  alas,  in  vain! 
implored  the  House  to  sanction  with 
Its  authority  ?  The  liberation'  of 
children  and  other  young  persons 
employed  in  the  mills  and  facto- 
ries of  the  United  Kingdom,  from 
chat  over-exertion  and  long  con- 
finement which  common  sense,  as 
well  as  experience,  has  shewn  to» 
be  utterly  inconsistent  with  the  im- 
provement of  their  minds,  the  pre- 
servation of  their  morals,  and  the 
maintenance  of  their  health — in  a 
\vord,  to  rescue  them  from  a  state  of 
suffering  and  degradation.  And, would 
you  believe  it  ?  many  persons  who 
believe  the  existence  of  the  evils  he 
lias  brought  to  light,  oppose  him  on 
principle  !  The  wiseacres  are  reluc- 
tant to  legislate  on  such  matters — 
they  hold  all  such  interference  to  be 
{in  evil.  They  have  learned  a  few 
words  of  French,  and  each  parrot  from 
his  perch,  as  he  keeps  swinging  him- 
£  elf  to  and  fro  in  his  glittering  cage, 
ejaculates,  "  Laissez  nous  faire  !" 

Mr  Sadler  condescends  to  argue 
with  these  weaklings  of  the  flock. 
He  challenges  them  to  shew  a  case 
which  has  stronger  claims  for  the  in- 
t3rposition  of  the  law,  whether  we 
regard  the  nature  of  the  evil  to  be 
abated,  as  it  affects  the  individuals, 
society  at  large,  and  posterity;  or 
tiie  utter  helplessness  of  those  on 
whose  behalf  we  are  called  on  to  in- 
terfere ;  or  the  fact,  which  experience 
has  left  no  longer  in  doubt,  that  if 
tie  law  does  not,  there  is  no  other 
power  that  can,  or  will,  adequately 
protect  them.  But  the  same,  and 
other  persons,  likewisfe  ground  their 
opposition  on  the  pretence  that  the 
v«?ry  principle  of  the  Bill  is  an  im- 
proper interference  between  the  em- 
ployer and  the  employed,  and  an  at- 
tempt to  regulate  by  law  the  market 


of  labour.    Words  — words—words 
— the  mere  mocking  repetition  of  a 
doctrine  of  which  they  have  not  caught 
a    glimpse,     and    yet    blindfolded 
would  apply !     Men  are  free  agents 
— quo' they.  Mr  Sadler  seeks  to  make 
them  slaves.    Free-agents !  dragging 
at  their  heels  the  clank  of  inextri- 
cable chains.      Of  whom  do   they 
speak  ?     Of  the  full-grown  ?     Then 
must  they  maintain,  that  in  this  coun- 
try the   demand  for    labour  never 
fully  equals  the  supply.    Were  that 
the  case,  the  employer  and  the  em- 
ployed might  meet  on  equal  terms  in 
the  market  for  labour.    But  as  it  is, 
must  Mr  Sadler,  who  is  no  Political 
Economist  forsooth,  (the  cross-bred 
curs  that  dog  the  heels  of  Ricardo 
snappishly  bark  against  him,)  remind 
them  that  the  unequal  division  of 
property,  or  rather  its  monopoly  by 
the  few,  leaves  the  many  nothing  but 
what  they  can  obtain  by  their  daily 
labour ;  that  that  very  labour  cannot 
become  available  for  the  purposes 
of  daily   subsistence,   without  the 
consent    of     the    capitalists;    that 
the  materials,  the  elements  on  which 
labour    can    be    bestowed,  are    in 
their  possession  ?    Will    they    not 
but   "  withdraw  the    fringed   cur- 
tains   of   their    eyes,    and   tell    us 
who  comes  yonder?"     Crowds  of 
people   over-worked,— followed  by 
crowds  who  have  no  work  at  all.  To 
use  Mr  Sadler's  more  forcible  ex- 
pressions,— one  part  of  the  commu- 
nity reduced    to  the   condition  of 
slaves  by  over-exertion,  and  another 
part  to  that  of  paupers  by  involun- 
tary idleness.     Truly   does  he  say, 
that  wealth,  still  more  than  know- 
ledge, is  power ;  and  power  liable  to 
abuse  wherever  vested,  is  least  of  all 
free  from  tyrannical  exercise,  when  it 
owes  its  existence  to  a  sordid  source. 
Hence  have  all  laws,  human  or  di- 
vine, attempted  to  protect  the  la- 
bourer from  the  injustice  and  cruel- 
ty which  are  too  often  practised  upon 
him.     Yes!    What  else  are  Provi- 
sions for  the  Poor !     They  too,  in- 
deed, come  under  the  ban  of  all  who 


424 


The  Factory  Syttem. 


[Apri 


swear  by  non-interference.  They 
must  hold  the  Truck-system  to  be 
best.  Why  should  not  wages  be 
paid  in  soap  and  tallow  ?  But  of  all 
interference  between  master  and 
man,  the  most  odious,  because  the 
most  imperative — the  most  tyranni- 
cal— must  be  the  institution  of  the 
Sabbath.  The  following  sentences  of 
Mr  Sadler's  Speech  deserve  to  be 
written  in  letters  of  gold. 

"  The  Sabbath  is  a  constantly-recur- 
ring example  of  interference  between 
the  employer  and  the  employed,solely 
and  avowedly  in  favour  of  the  latter : 
and  I  cannot  help  regretting,  that  al- 
most every  other  red-letter  day  has 
been  long  ago  blotted  out  from  the 
dark  calendar  of  labouring  poverty, 
whose  holydays  are  now  too  '  few 
and  far  between'  to  cheer  the  spirits 
or  recruit  the  health  of  our  indus- 
trious population.  It  was  promised, 
indeed,  and  might  have  been  expect- 
ed, that  the  great  inventions  of  re- 
cent times  would  have  restored  a 
few  of  these; — would  have  some- 
what abridged  human  labour  in  its 
duration,  and  abated  its  intensity : 
and  it  is  only  by  effecting  this  that 
machinery  can  justify  its  very  defini- 
tion, as  consisting  of  inventions  to 
shorten  human  labour.  I  look  for- 
ward to  the  period  when  machinery 
will  fully  vindicate  its  pretensions, 
vand  surpass,  in  its  beneficial  effects, 
all  that  its  most  sanguine  advocates 
have  anticipated :  when  those  inven- 
tions, whether  so  complicate  and  mi- 
nute as  almost  to  supplant  the  human 
hand,  or  so  stupendous  as  to  tame 
the  very  elements,  and  yoke  them  to 
the  triumphal  car  of  human  industry, 
shall  outstrip  our  boldest  expecta- 
tions, not  so  much,  indeed,  by  still 
further  augmenting  the  superfluities 
of  the  rich,  as  by  increasing  the  com- 
forts, and  diminishing  the  labour  of 
the  poor;  thereby  restoring  to  the 
mass  of  our  fellow-beings  those  phy- 
sical enjoyments,  that  degree  of  lei- 
sure, those  means  of  moral  and  men- 
tal improvement,  which  alone  can 
advance  them  to  that  state  of  happi- 
ness and  dignity,  to  which,  I  trust,  it 
is  their  destiny  to  attain.  Hitherto, 
however,  I  repeat,  the  effect  has  been 
far  different.  The  condition  of  the 
operative  manufacturers  has  been 
rendered  more  and  more  dependent 
and  precarious  :  their  labour,  when 
employed,  is  in  many  cases  so  in- 


creased, as  to  be  utterly  irreconci- 
lable with  the  preservation  of  health 
or  even  life ;  infancy  itself  is  forced 
into  the  market  of  labour,  where 
it  becomes  the  unresisting  victim 
of  cruelty  and  oppression;  while, 
as  might  be  expected  from  such 
an  unnatural  state  of  things,  the  re- 
muneration for  this  increasing  and 
excessive  toil  is  regularly  diminish- 
ing, till  at  length  multitudes  among 
us  are  reduced,  in  their  physical  con- 
dition at  least,  below  the  level  of  the 
slave  or  the  brute." 

But  what  think  ye  of  free  agents 
in  the  shape  of  children  from  four  to 
nine  years  of  age,  and,  if  you  please, 
upwards  ?  What  is  the  real  condition 
of  these  sons  and  daughters — these 
boys  and  girls — these  infants  of  li- 
berty ?  Out  of  sight  out  of  mind, 
— for  the  present  if  you  choose — 
with  bastards  and  orphans.  The 
commonplace  objection,  that  the  pa- 
rents are  free  agents,  and  that,  there- 
fore, the  children  ought  to  be  re- 
garded as  such,  will  hardly  apply  to 
orphans, — and  too  often  bastards  are 
orphans  at  the  best, — for  too  often 
better  would  it  have  been  for  them 
had  their  father  been  hanged  before 
their  birth,  and  had  their  mother 
died  in  childbed.  The  Factories  are 
too  full  by  far  of  such  free  agents ; 
and  Mr  Sadler  can  see  no  harm  in 
legislating  for  their  protection  from 
those  showers  of  cuffs  and  kicks  to 
which  now  "  their  naked  frailties 
suffer  from  exposure."  But  let  us 
look  at  the  legitimates.  He  separates 
the  parents,  who,  in  their  free  agen- 
cy, send  their  children  to  infantile 
slavery,  into  two  classes ;  those  who 
by  extreme  indigence  are  driven  to 
do  so  with  great  reluctance  and  bit- 
ter regret ;  those,  who  dead  to  all  the 
instincts  of  nature,  instead  of  pro- 
viding for  their  offspring,  make  their 
offspring  provide  for  them,  and  not 
only  for  [their  necessities,  but  for 
their  intemperance  and  profligacy. 
The  first  class,  say  we,  are  not  to  be 
pitied  only,  but  to  be  protected; 
they  must  not  be  blamed ;  their  "  po- 
verty but  not  their  will  consents ;" 
and  many,  perhaps  most  of  them,  do 
what  they  can  to  cheer  their  chil- 
dren's lot,,  but  they  have  little  in 
their  power.  They  see  them  often 
EO  utterly  wearied  and  worn  out  at 
night,  that  they  have  to  boat  them  to 
keep  them  from  falling  asleep  before 


1833.] 

they  have  had  their  scanty  supper. 
The  most  affectionate  heart  ceases 
at  last  to  send  up  to  the  eyes  useless 
tears,  the  well-spring  itself  is  dried 
up,  and  where  all  is  arid,  love  weak- 
ens and  dies.  The  other  class,  Mi- 
Sadler  strongly  says,  count  upon 
their  children  as  upon  their  cattle, 
and  they  make  the  certainty  of  having 
offspring  the  indispensable  condition 
of  marriage,  that  they  may  breed 
what  he  calls  a  generation  of  slaves 
—what  men,  in  their  own  conceit 
wiser  than  he,  call  a  race  of  free 
agents.  Such  is  the  disgusting  state 
of  degradation  to  which  the  system 
leads.  It  shews  us  fathers  "  without 
the  storge  of  the  beast  or  the  feelings 
of  the  man ;"  and  all  this  wickedness 
and  woe  must  be  suffered  to  wax 
wider  and  wider,  rather  than  revoke 
the  principle  of  non-interference  ! 

Not  so  thought  the  late — not  so, 
we  venture  to  affirm,  thinks  the  pre- 
sent—Sir Robert  Peel.    The  former 
has  recorded  his  deliberate  judg- 
ment upon  this  subject  in  a  document 
which  he  deliveredLto  the  Committee 
on  the  Bill  he  introduced  in  1816. 
"  Such  indiscriminate  and  unlimited 
employment  of  the  poor,  consisting 
of  a  great  proportion  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  trading  districts,  will  be 
attended  with  effects  to  the  rising 
generation  so  serious  and  alarming, 
that  I  cannot  contemplate  them  with- 
out dismay.    And  thus  that  great 
effort  of  British  ingenuity,  whereby 
the  machinery  of  our  manufacturers 
has  been  brought  to  such  perfection, 
instead  of  being  a  blessing,  will  be 
converted  into  its  bitterest  curse." 
Early  in  this  century,  he  obtained 
the  first  act  for  the  protection  of  the 
poor  children  employed  in  cotton 
factories;  and  sixteen  years  after- 
wards, he  carried  another  measure 
of  a  similar  but  more  comprehensive 
nature.  Sir  John  Hobhouse,  the  ses- 
sion before  last,  obtained  another  act, 
having  the  same  benevolent  object 
in  view.    But,  alas !  on  every  occa- 
sion selfish  opposition  has  virtually 
succeeded  in  defeating  the  original 
intention  of  those  who  have  succes- 
sively proposed  such  measures.     It 
has    succeeded  in  lengthening  the 
term  of  infantile  labour,  in  connect- 
ing   every    art    to    one    particular 
branch  of  the  business,  in  introdu- 
cing provisions  which  have  rendered 
them  liable  to  constant  evasions,  and 


The  Factory  System.  425 

it  is  well  known  that  the  whole  of 
these  are  evaded  and  rendered  little 
better  than  a  dead  letter.  But  Mi- 
Sadler  was  not  discouraged  by  all 
those  failures.  He  has  not  been  dis- 
couraged by  his  own  defeat.  The 
report  of  the  Committee,  of  which 
he  was  chairman,  is  before  the  pub- 
lic. Lord  Morpeth,  it  would  seem, 
has  felt  himself  compelled  to  give  up 
his  Bill,  an  Eleven  or  Twelve  Hours' 
Bill,  introduced  in  opposition  to 
Lord  Ashley's  Ten  Hour  Bill,  in  an 
unparliamentary  and  even  ungentle- 
manly  manner,  (which  we  should  not 
have  expected  from  him,)  and  we 
shall  not  suffer  ourselves  to  fear  that 
Mr  Sadler's  triumph  will  yet  be 
complete  in  that  of  his  Noble  Suc- 
cessor, in  the  cause  of  humanity,  li- 
berty, and  justice. 

Mr  Sadler  is  too  good  and  too 
wise  a  man  to  deal  in  violent  and  in- 
discriminate abuse  of  the  men  who 
uphold  and  act  upon  the  present 
factory  system.     In  contending  for 
the  necessity  of  his  measure,  he  does 
not  implicate  the  conduct  of  the  mill- 
owners  generally;  many  of  whom  he 
is  well  convinced  are  among  the 
most   humane  and    considerate   of 
employers.     Their  interests,  as  well 
as  the  welfare  of  the  children,  great- 
ly demand  legislative  protection,  and 
he  respectfully  inscribes  his  speech 
to  John  Wood,  Esq.,  junior,  of  Brad- 
ford, and  those  mill- owners,  who, 
like   him,    earnestly  wish   for   the 
regulation  of  the  present  factory- 
system.     The  great  invention  of  Sir 
Richard  Arkwright,  originally  used 
for  the  spinning  of  cotton,  has  at 
length  been  applied,  with  the  neces- 
sary adaptations,  to  a  similar  process 
in  all  our  manufactures;  and  he  holds 
that  it  would  be  the  grossest  injus- 
tice, as  well  as  insult,  to  argue  that 
those  engaged  in  the  cotton-trade 
(where  Parliament  has  several  times 
seen  it  necessary  to  regulate  the  la- 
bour of  children)  were  one  whit  less 
humane  and  considerate  than  those 
engaged  in  spinning  any  other  ma- 
terial.    The  same  law  should  apply 
to  all.     It  is  against  the  system  he 
fights — not  against  the  men  who  have 
got  involved  in  it  by  the  operation 
of  causes  hard  to  resist,  and  which 
he  thoroughly  understands.  The  evil 
has  been  progressive;  competition, 
not  with  foreign  markets,  but  be- 
tween capitalists  at  home,  has  car- 


426 

ried  it  to  a  height  which  it  cannot 
perhaps  exceed,  for  it  has  reached 
the  limit  set  by  Nature's  self,  and 
flesh  and  blood  would  "  thaw,  and 
resolve  itself  into  a  dew,"  under  any 
severer  misery. 

The  evidence  in  the  Report  will 
be  called  ex  parte.  The  same  learn- 
ed persons,  who  have  been  quoting 
French,  are  now  quoting  Latin  ;  and 
having  attracted  little  attention  by 
the  senseless  cry  of  "  Laissez  nous 
faire,"  they  are  entitled  to  be  heard, 
and  they  will  be  heard,  when,  claim- 
ing the  privilege  of  a  fair  hearing, 
they  rationally  say,  "  audi  alterant 
partem"  Meanwhile, we  deal  with 
the  evidence  before  us — and  it  is 
such  as  we  cannot  by  any  power  of 
fancy  imagine  to  be  rebutted.  If  it  be, 
we  shall  rejoice  over  the  delapidated 
falsehood  as  it  falls  into  rubbish. 

No  desire  have  we — any  more 
than  Mr  Sadler — to  make  out  a  case 
against  the  mill-owners.  So  far  from 
it,  we  freely  and  fully  admit  that 
there  are  many  evils  necessarily  in- 
herent in  the  labour  in  factories. 
They  will  endure  for  ever.  No  le- 
gislative enactments— no  regulations, 
however  wise  and  humane — will  en- 
tirely remove  them — while  the  be- 
ings working  there  breathe  by  lungs, 
and  their  blood  circulates  from  their 
hearts.  The  atmosphere  must  be  hot, 
and  dusty,  and  polluted  ;  and  there- 
fore does  humanity  demand  for  them 
who  must  inhale  it,  a  few  more  gulps 
of  fresh  air.  Sickness  and  sorrow 
enough,  and  too  much,  will  there  be 
under  a  Ten  Hours'  Bill — but  many 
will  then  escape  death,  who  now 
wither  away  out  of  a  languid  life, 
old-looking  dwarfs  though  yet  in 
their  teens.  The  engine  will,  under 
any  bill,  clutch  up  boy  or  girl,  and 
dash  out  their  brains  against  the 
ceiling,  or  crush  them  into  pancakes 
by  pressure  against  the  walls,  or 
seem  to  be  devouring  them,  as,  in 
horrid  entanglement,  mutilated  body 
and  deformed  limbs  choke  the  steam- 
fed  giant,  till,  for  a  few  moments  he 
roughs— rather  than  clanks— over 
his  bloody  meal,  and  threatens  even 
^11  at  once  to  stop,  when  away  he 
goes  again,  free  from  all  impedi- 
ment, as  if  fresh-oiled  with  that  liba- 
tion, and  in  scorn  of  his  keeper,  who, 
in  consternation,  has  been  shivering 
'amidst  the  shrieks  like  the  ghost  of 
a  paralytic.  But  we  shall  not  have 


The  Factory  System. 


[April, 


to  shudder  so  often  at  the  thought 
of  "  some  sleeping  killed ;"  nor  be 
then  justified  in  exclaiming,  "  All 
murdered !" 

It  is  impossible,  Mr  Sadler  tells 
us,  to  furnish  any  uniform  account 
of  the  hours  of  labour  endured  by 
children  in  the  Factories,  and  he  is 
careful  not  to  represent  extreme 
cases  as  general  ones.  Yet  is  it  the 
bounden  duty  of  Parliament  to  pro- 
vide against  such  extreme  cases,  just 
as  itprovidesagainstatrocious  crimes. 
The  following  were  the  hours  of  la- 
bour imposed  upon  the  children  em- 
ployed in  a  Factory  at  Leeds  the 
summer  before  last.  On  Monday 
morning,  work  commenced  at  six 
o'clock;  at  nine,  half  an  hour  for 
breakfast;  from  half-past  nine  till 
twelve,  work.  Dinner,  one  hour ; 
from  five  till  eight,  work;  rest  for 
half  an  hour.  From  half-past  eight 
till  twelve  (midnight),  work;  an 
hour's  rest.  From  one  in  the  morn- 
ing till  five,  work  ;  half  an  hour's 
rest.  From  half-past  five  till  nine, 
work;  breakfast  From  half-past 
nine  till  twelve,  work ;  dinner  j 
from  one  till  half-past  four,  work. 
Rest  half  an  hour;  and  work  again 
from  five  till  nine  on  Tuesday  even- 
ing, when  the  labour  terminated, 
"  and  the  party  of  adult  and  infant 
slaves"  are  dismissed  for  the  night, 
after  having  toiled  thirty-nine  hours, 
with  brief  intervals  (amounting  only 
to  six  hours  in  the  whole)  for  re- 
freshment, but  none  for  sleep.  On 
Wednesday  and  Thursday,  day-work 
only.  From  Friday  morning  till  Sa- 
turday night,  the  same  labour  re- 
peated, but  closed  at  five — to  show 
that  even  such  masters  can  be  mer- 
ciful. This  is  one  of  the  extreme 
cases — but  they  are  not  of  very  rare 
occurrence ;  ordinarily  the  working 
hours  vary  from  twelve  to  fourteen  j 
they  are  often  extended  to  sixteen  ; 
but  in  some  mills  (are  we  right  in 
saying  so  ?)  they  seldom  exceed 
twelve  for  children. 

The  length  of  labour  varies  accord- 
ing to  the  humanity  of  the  employer, 
and  the  demand  for  his  goods  at  par- 
ticular seasons.  Thus  sometimes 
the  operatives,  mostly  children,  are 
worked  nearly  to  death;  at  other 
times,  they  are  thrown  partially  or 
totally  out  of  work,  and  left  to  beg- 
gary or  the  parish.  Averaged 
throughout  the  year,  their  work  may 


]833.] 


The  Factory  System. 


not  seem  excessive.  But  is  it  just, 
fcsks  Mr  Sadler,  that  the  owners 
should  be  allowed  to  throw  out  of 
employment  all  these  children  at  a 
few  days'  notice,  and  to  work  them 
ft  an  unlimited  number  of  hours  the 
rioment  it  suits  their  purpose  ?  Just 
c  r  unjust,  it  is — say  we — a  lament- 
able condition  for  the  children — and 
\ve  do  think  with  Mr  Sadler,  that,  if 
tie  effect  of  his  bill  were  in  some 
measure  to  equalize  the  labour,  and 
thereby  prevent  those  distressing 
f!  actuations,  distressing  in  both  ex- 
tremes, it  would  so  far  accomplish  a 
most  beneficial  object. 

Man  is  said  to  be  distinguished 
from  the  other  living  kinds,  by  being 
a  laughing  animal.  While  Mr  Sadler 
was  dwelling  with  disgust  and  indig- 
nation on  the  shocking  cruelty  of 
forcing  girls  approaching  to  puberty 
to  work  far  beyond  their  strength, 
aid  was  describing  the  miserable 
elects  of  such  slavery  on  their  per- 
sons and  constitutions,  a  biped,  whose 
feathers  were  all  in  his  nest,  vainly 
attempted  to  prove  that  he  was  not 
a  dunghill  fowl,  by — laughing.  His 
laugh,  however,  was  so  much  like  a  , 
cauckle,  or  a  clack,  that  it  failed  even 
to  establish  his  sex.  His  risibility 
was  excited  by  hearing  that  the  dan- 
gor  and  difficulty  of  childbearing 
were  thereby  increased ;  and  that 
young  wives,  who  had  all  childhood 
and  girlhood  long  been  forced  to 
stand  at  their  work  for  perhaps  four- 
teen hours  a-day,  ran  a  great  risk  of 
perishing  miserably  in  parturition. 
t(e  made  that  statement  on  the  au- 
thority of  Dr  Llewellyn  Jones  be- 
fcre  the  Lords'  Committee  of  1818, 
who  said  that  during  the  short  pe- 
riod of  his  practice  at  Holy  well, 
(where  there  were  extensive  cotton 
factories,)  he  met  with  more  difficult 
and  dangerous  cases  than  a  gentle- 
man of  great  practice  in  Birmingham, 
Mr  Freer,  had  met  with  in  the  whole 
course  of  his  life.  This  sounded  so 
excessively  funny  to  our  two-legged 

tie  'islator,  that  "  he  could  not  retain 
his  laughter  for  affection,"  just  as 
certain  gifted  individuals  are  said  in 
SI  akspeare  to  lose  the  power  of  a 
slightly  different  kind  of  retention, 
"  \  'hen  the  bagpi  pe  plays  i'  their  nose." 
Indeed,  Mr  Sadler's  speech,  from  be- 
ginning to  end,  must  have  been  to 
hi  in  a  source  of  infinite  amusement. 
V\  e  advise  him  as  a  friend  to  be  cau- 


427 

tious  how  he  reads  the  report,  (600 
folio  pages,)  for  such  are  the  horrors 
and  the  miseries  it  relates,  that,  be- 
fore he  gets  half  through,  he  will  die 
of  laughing,  in  giggle-convulsions. 
What  can  be  conceived  more  ludi- 
crous, in  parts,  or  as  a  whole,  than 
the  following  picture  painted  by  us 
from  the  life  ? 

A  Factory  child — say,  a  smally  girl, 
"Simon's  sickly  daughter" — must  be 
at  her  work — say  at  four  o'clock  of 
a  snowy  winter-morning — else  she 
will  be  cursed — fined — or  strapped. 
Her  father's  house  is  a  long  mile 
from  the  mill— and  has  no  clock. 
To  ensure  punctuality,  the  smally 
sickly  wretch  ("  nature,"  eays  Mr 
Sadler,  laughably,  "  is  not  very  wake- 
ful on  a  short  night's  rest,  after  a  long 
day's  labour,")  has  been  roused 
much  too  early,  by  one  of  her  pa- 
rents shaking  the  sleeper,  "  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger ;"  and  with  the 
sleet  in  her  face,  away  she  sets  off  to 
the  town  just  as  the  cock,  after  his 
first  few  faint  crows,  has  again  put 
his  head  under  his  wing,  on  his  perch 
between  his  favourite  partlets.  'Tis 
no  uncommon  case;  "  whoever,"  says 
Mr  Sadler,  "  has  lived  in  a  manufac- 
turing town,  must  have  heard,  if  he 
happened  to  be  awake  many  hours 
before  light  on  a  winter's  morning, 
the  patter  of  little  pattens  on  the  pave- 
ment, lasting  perhaps  for  half  an 
hour  together,  though  the  time 
appointed  for  assembling  was  the 
same."  She  works  for  some  hours 
before  breakfast,  after  what  some 
folks  would  have  called  no  supper—- 
and then  what  a  breakfast — covered 
with  dust !  Nor  is  she  allowed  to  eat 
it,  such  as  it  is,  sitting;  but  must 
swallow  a  mouthful  now  and  then  as 
best  she  may,  standing  and  working 
at  the  beck  of  that  engine.  Her  work, 
it  is  true,  may  not  be  of  a  very  hard 
or  heavy  kind.  Nay,  it  is  even  light. 
But  her  eye  must  be  quick,  and  her 
hand  nimble,  and  her  mind  on  the 
alert — for  if  she  have  "  a  bad-side," 
smack  comes  the  strap  across  her 
shoulders.  It  is  not  so  much  the 
degree  of  the  wretch's  labour  that 
wears  her  out,  as  its  duration.  Wea- 
risome uniformity,  continued  posi- 
tion, constant  and  close  confinement 
— these  are  cruel  to  body  and  mind, 
and  these  are  her  portion.  A  cockney 
in  a  counting-house  "  wielding  his 
delicate  pen,"  as  he  "  pens  a  stanza. 


428 


The  Factory  System. 


[April, 


while  he  should  engross,"  is  wearier 
at  nightfall  in  his  embroidered  vest, 
than  the  naked  coalheaver  who  has 
hoisted  from  the  hold  of  a  Newcas- 
tler  a  ton  of  black  diamonds  to  each 
of  his  twelve  pots  of  porter.  At  mid- 
day "  to  dinner  with  what  appetite 
she  may,"  and  some  hours  after,  a 
cup  of  thin  sugarless  tea,  for  nothing 
else  will  stay  on  her  stomach.  There 
is  a  demand — and  work  must  go  on 
till  midnight.  She  gets  drowsy,  and 
lies  down  on  the  floor  to  snatch  some 
sleep.  The  overlooker  espies  her 
white  face  upon  her  thin  arm  for  a 
pillow — blue  eyelids  shut — pale  lips 
apart ;  and,  to  cure  that  lazy  trick, 
dashes  over  her  head,  and  neck,  and 
breast,  and  body,  a  bucketful  of  water. 
Well  may  our  legislator  laugh  at  the 
recital,  for  all  the  imps  there  laugh 
louder  than  he  at  the  reality,  and  it 
cannot  be  denied,  that  the  practical 
joke  is  of  the  first  water.  And  now 
the  whole  gang  of  small  sweaty  sickly 
slaves  is  at  work  in  spite  of  the  stu- 
por of  sleepiness, — and  how  think  ye 
do  they  contrive  to  keep  themselves 
awake  ?  By  all  manner  of  indecen- 
cies of  look,  speech,  and  action,  pos- 
sible in  purgatory.  Fathers  have 
sworn  to  it,  and  wished  they  had 
been  childless.  Weak,  sickly,  rick- 
ety, chicken-breasted,  crooked,  de- 
crepit, spine-distorted  Sally,  scarcely 
nine  years  old,  to  that  leering  de- 
formed dwarf  Daniel,  answers  ob- 
scenity to  obscenity,  at  which  the 
street-walking  prostitute  would 
shudder,  and  fear  the  downfall  of 
the  day  of  judgment  I 

Yet  it  is  maintained  by  some  that 
the  factories  are  healthy.  Let  us 
speak  first  of  the  health  of  the  body 
— afterwards  of  the  soul. 

We  hold  in  the  highest  honour  the 
medical  profession.  But  it  contains 
some  queer  practitioners.  We  have 
before  us  "  A  Summary  View  of,  and 
Extracts  from,  the  Evidence"  of  cer- 
tain medical  gentlemen,  who  attend- 
ed as  witnesses  against  the  Bill,  in 
1818.  Let  us  hear  Drs  Richard 
Holmes,  Henry  Hardie,  Edward  Gar- 
butt,  Surgeons  Thomas  Wilson,  Wil- 
liam James  Wilson,  James  Ainsworth, 
Thomas  Turner,  and  Samuel  Barton. 

Dr  Holmes  is  thus  addressed : — 
"  Suppose  I  were  to  ask  you,  whe- 
ther you  thought  it  injurious  to  a 
child  to  be  kept  standing  three- and- 
twenty  hours  out  of  the  four- anti-twen- 


ty, should  you  not  think  that  it  must 
necessarily  be  injurious  to  the  health, 
without  any  fact  to  rest  upon,  as  a 
simple  proposition  put  to  a  gentle- 
man in  the  medical  profession  r"  This 
seems  to  be  any  thing  but  a  poser. 
But  the  Doctor,  putting  his  gold- 
headed  cane  to  his  under  lip,  and 
shaking  his  head  like  a  Mandarin, 
replieth  in  slow  and  measured 
speech,  "Before  I  answered  that 
question,  I  should  wish  to  have  an 
examination  to  see  how  the  case  stood. 
If  there  were  such  an  extravagant 
thing  to  take  place,  and  it  should  ap- 
pear that  the  person  was  not  injured 
by  having  stood  three-and-twenty 
hours,  I  should  then  say  it  was  not 
inconsistent  with  the  health  of  the  per- 
son so  employed  !"  There  is  a  block- 
head for  you  of  a  CL.  (150)  M.D. 
power  indeed !  If  the  Doctor  be  yet 
alive,  we  beg  to  ask  him,  "  Do  you 
think  it  injurious  for  a  child  to  fall 
out  of  a  window  in  the  third  story?" 
We  are  prepared  for  his  answer. 
"Before  I  answer  that  question,  I 
should  like  to  have  an  examination 
how  the  case  stood."  Well — he  has 
an  examination;  and,  strange  to  say, 
not  a  bone  in  the  child's  body  has 
been  broken,  and  so  little  the  worse 
was  the  little  lively  fellow  of  the  ac- 
cident, that  he  went  to  school  trund- 
ling his  hoop,  that  very  afternoon. 
The  Doctor,  palming  the  fee,  with  his 
wisest  face  delivers  his  opinion 
that  Tumble-down-Dick  is  none  the 
worse— we  deliver  ours  gratis,  that 
he  was  much  the  better.  But  that  isnot 
the  question.  The  question  is,  "  Is 
it  likely  to  be  injurious  to  a  child  to 
fall  out  of  a  window  three  stories 
high  on  pavement  ?"  We  assert  that 
it  is  highly  so — the  Doctor  must  have 
an  examination  to  see  how  each  par- 
ticular case  stands  or  rather  falls— 
and  no  doubt  should  he  find  a  boy's 
brains  scattered  about,  he  will  pro- 
nounce them  bad  symptoms.  The 
Doctor  was  next  asked  in  the  Lords' 
Committee, "  Is  it  your  opinion,  as  a 
medical  man,  that  recreation  and 
exercise  in  the  open  air  are  neces- 
sary for  growing  children  ?"  He 
answered,  "  I  cannot  certainly  give 
an  opinion  upon  that."  Poo— poo — 
Doctor — you  might  certainly  have 
given  an  opinion.  Could  a  mouse 
flourish  all  summer  below  an  invert- 
ed toddy-tumbler  ?  There  is  no  say- 
ing; but  surely  he  would  be  happier, 


The  Factory  System. 


and  probably  fatter,  were  he  living 
in  a  meal-garnel.  Dr  Hardie  was 
equally  cautious. 

"  At  what  age  do  you  think  it 
.vould  be  perfectly  safe  to  the  con- 
stitution of  an  infant,  working  in  the 
temperature  of  80°,  to  work  eighty 
hours  per  week? — /  have  no  fact 
10  guide  me  in  replying. 

"  How  many  hours  in  the  day  do 
you  think  children,  from  six  to  twelve 
years  of  age,  may  be  employed  in  a 
temperature  of  80Q  at  an  employ- 
ment which  requires  them  to  stand 
much  the  greater  part  of  their  time, 
consistently  with  safety  to  their  con- 
t  titution  ? — I  cannot  answer  that 
question.  I  have  no  fact  to  direct  me 
to  any  conclusion. 

"  Supposing  that  one  set  of  chil- 
( Ten  are  employed  continually  to  do 
i  ight-work,  and  another  set  employ- 
ed to  do  day-work,  as  a  medical  man, 
co  you  think  there  could  be  any  ma- 
terial  difference  in  the  effect  on  their 
health  respectively? — /  have  no  fact 
to  go  upon,  and  therefore  cannot  give 
c.n  opinion." 

Never  was  a  man  so  destitute  of 
facts  as  Dr  Henry  Hardie.  Heaven 
Mess  him!  Had  he  never  heard  be- 
fore his  examination,  of  the  effect 
(  f  different  degrees  of  temperature 
<  n  the  human  body  ?  Of  the  Torrid 
Zone  ?  Of  the  Antarctic  Circle  ?  and 
so  forth.  If,  since  ignorance  be  bliss, 
';is  folly  to  be  wise,  he  must  have 
Ived  on  the  earth  in  the  third  hea- 
ven. On  that  principle,  if  on  no* 
ether,  assuredly  he  is  no  fool. 

"  Something  has  been  said  about 
oust  and  flue;  are  you  of  opinion 
t  lat  the  flue  and  waste  of  cotton  can 
be  inhaled  into  the  lungs  so  as  to  be 
i  ijurious  ? — No,  I  am  not." 

Thomas  Wilson,  surgeon  and  apo- 
t  lecary,  delivers  the  same  opinion 
about  lungs. 

"  Should  you  think  it  a  dangerous 
t  ling  to  a  young  person  to  be  from 
day  to  day  inhaling  the  finer  particles 
of  the  filaments  of  cotton  ? — No. 

"  You  think  it  would  not  be  inju- 
r  ous  at  all,  to  be  receiving  day  after 
d  ay,  those  particles  of  cotton  ? — No. 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  produce 
no  effect  at  all  upon  the  lungs  of  a 
young  person? — I  think  not — very 
little. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  state  how  the 
c  institution  would  be  safe,  under 


429 

such  circumstances,  from  receiving 
those  things  into  the  lungs? — EX- 
PECTORATION IS  OCCASIONED,  WHICH 
BRINGS  IT  BACK  AGAIN. 

"  Is  not  a  constant  state  of  expecto- 
ration injurious  to  health  ? — No. 

"  Would  not  a  constant  state  of 
expectoration  be  injurious  to  the 
health  of  a  very  young  person  ?— 

NOT  A  SLIGHT  EXPECTORATION." 

Who  said  it  was  slight  ? 

"  Is  it  not,  in  your  judgment,  as  a 
medical  man,  necessary  that  young 
persons  should  have  a  little  recrea- 
tion or  amusement  during  the  day  ? 
— I  do  not  see  it  is  necessary." 

Now,  gentle  reader,  which  of  those 
two,  the  doctor  or  the  surgeon,  do 
you  think  the  more  audacious  block- 
head ?  Call  Edward  Garbutt.  (En- 
ter Dr  Garbutt.) 

"  Do  you  think  that  children  from 
six  to  twelve  years  of  age,  being  em- 
ployed from  thirteen  to  sixteen  hours 
in  a  cotton  factory,  in  an  erect  posi- 
tion, and  in  a  temperature  of  about 
80°,  is  consistent  with  safety  to  the 
constitution  ? — Not  having  examined 
children  under  these  circumstances, 
I  am  totally  unable  to  give  an  an- 
swer to  the  question." 

Suppose  we  put  the  question  thus 
— "  Do  you  think  that  children  from 
four  to  six,  being  employed  from 
eighteen  to  twenty  hours  in  a  cotton 
factory,  in  an  erect  position,  con- 
stantly expectorating  the  filaments 
of  cotton,  and  in  a  temperature  of 
120°,  is  likely  to  make  them  rosy 
and  robust  ?"  The  doctor's  answer 
would  be  the  same — "  I  am  totally 
unable  to  give  an  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion." 

These  three  blockheads  would  ap- 
pear to  be  exceeded  by  a  fourth- 
James  Ainsworth,  surgeon. 

"  Can  a  child  of  six  years  of  age 
to  twelve  be  employed  for  thirteen 
to  fifteen  hours  daily,  in  a  tempera- 
ture of  80°,  and  in  an  erect  position, 
consistently  with  safety  to  its  con- 
stitution ? — I  never  saw  an  instance 
of  the  kind.AS  A  FACT  brought  before 
me,  and  therefore  cannot  say. 

"  I  am  supposing  such  to  be  the 
fact,  and  ask  you  your  opinion  upon 
it? — Then  I  must  meet  that  with  a 
supposition  which  I  wish  to  avoid. 
[What  can  that  be?]  /  have  NO 
FACT.  My  experience  does  not  en- 
able me  to  answer  that  question. 


430 

"  You  are  incapable  of  answering 
the  question,  not  having  before  you 
the  fact  of  a  child  so  situated? — I 
HAVE  NO  FACTS,  and  must,  therefore, 
beg  leave  to  declinegivingan opinion. 

"  You  are  equally  incapable,  whe- 
ther the  question  be  thirteen,  four- 
teen, or  fifteen  hours  ?— There  must 
be  a  limit,  but  with  that  limit  I  am 
unacquainted. 

"  You  sensibly  say,  and  properly 
so,  there  must  be  a  limit.  If  a  per- 
son about  to  institute  a  cotton  ma- 
nufactory, were  to  ask  your  opinion, 
for  humanity's  sake,  how  many  hours 
he  might  employ  children  from  six 
years  to  twelve,  in  a  temperature  of 
80°,  and  in  an  erect  position,  and 
this  day  after  day,  in  as  much  as  there 
is  a  limit,  what  limit  would  you  re- 
commend ? — /  do  not  think  that  any 
man  I  am  acquainted  with  would 
put  such  a  question  to  me  ;  it  is  one 
that  I  could  not  think  it  proper  to  re- 
ply to  any  man. 

"  Is  it  that  you  feel  incapable  of 
even  recommending  any  limit  un- 
der those  circumstances  ? — IN  COM- 
MON CONVERSATION  I  SHOULD  TELL 
HIM,  THAT  HE  ASKED  ME  A  VERY 
STRANGE  QUESTION,  AND  SO  SHOULD 
TURN  MY  BACK  UPON  HIM  IMMEDI- 
ATELY. 

"  Supposing  that  I  had  the  honour 
of  your  private  acquaintance,  and 
were  to  put  that  question,  what 
would  be  your  answer? — I  SHOULD 

LEAVE  YOU." 

Call  Thomas  Wilson,  surgeon  and 
apothecary,  (enter  Thomas.)  "  Do 
you  think  it  would  benefit  a  child's 
health  of  eight  years  old  to  be  kept 
twelve  hours  upon  its  legs? — REALLY 

I  AM  NOT  PREPARED  TO  ANSWER  THAT 
aUESTION. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it?— I 
really  cannot  tell  you. 

"  Is  your  medical  skill  so  limited, 
that  you  can  form  no  opinion  whether 
or  not  it  would  be  injurious? — I 
conceive  that  would  be  quite  a  mat- 
ter of  opinion  !  I 

"  I  ask  your  opinion. — As  I  HAVE 
NO  FACTS  to  go  by,  I  do  not  feel 
prepared  to  answer  the  question. 

'  You  cannot  form  an  opinion 
whether  a  child  of  eight  years'  old 
being  kept  standing  fourteen  hours, 
without  intermission,  would  be  in- 
jurious to  his  health  or  not? — I 
HAVE  KO  FACT  to  guide  me. 


The  Factory  System. 


[April, 


"  What  is  your  opinion?  —  I 
should  think  you  would  wish  me  to 
have  some  ground :  I  HAVE  NO 
GROUND  for  that  opinion,  and  there- 
fore do  not  wish  to  form  it. 

"  But  from  your  knowledge  of  a 
child's  structure  ?  —  I  HAVE  NO 

KNOWLEDGE  TO  GUIDE  ME. 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  too 
much  for  the  physical  strength  of  a 
child  to  be  kept  fourteen  hours  a-day 
upon  its  legs  ?— I  am  not  prepared 
to  answer  TO  THE  FACT. 

"  I  ask  not  to  the  facts,  but  to 
your  opinion.  I  ask  of  a  medical 
gentleman,  a  man  who  professes  me- 
dical science,  and  would  wish  to  be 
thought  so,  what  is  his  opinion  ? — 
You  would  not  wish  me,  or  any 
other  man,  to  advance  an  opinion 
WITHOUT  ANY  FACTS  to  found  that 
opinion  on  ? 

"  If  you  tell  me,  as  a  medical  gen- 
tleman, that  you  can  form  no  opi- 
nion at  all,  that  you  are  not  compe- 
tent to  form  an  opinion  at  all  upon 
the  subject,  I  am  satisfied. — I  am 
not  competent,  from  not  being  IN 

POSSESSION  OF  THE  FACTS. 

"  Should  you  not  expect  that  the 
persons  employed  in  beating  cotton, 
from  which  a' great  quantity  of  dele- 
terious dust  and  dirt  results,  would 
be  affected  by  it  ? — I  HAVE  NO  REA- 
SON TO  THINK  so. 

"  And,  with  reference  to  a  young 
person,  you  have  never  formed  any 
opinion  of  the  effect  on  his  health, 
of  being  kept  twelve  hours,  without 
intermission,  in  a  room  of  the  tem- 
perature Of  74°  ? — I  HAVE  NO  FACTS 
TO  GO  BY." 

This  fifth  blockhead  appears  to 
bear  off  the  cap  and  bells  from  all 
competitors.  He  stands  like  "  Tene- 
riffe  or  Atlas  unremoved."  And 
all  who  follow  seem  but  small  insig- 
nificant ninnies  in  comparison. 

A  Lords'  Committee  is  one  place, 
aad  a  Court  of  Justice  is  another. 
Had  those  doctors,  surgeons,  and 
apothecaries,  been  called  to  give  evi- 
dence in  a  court  of  justice,  and  spo- 
ken with  such  obstinate  insolence 
and  ignorance,  Judge,  Jury,  and 
Counsel,  would  all  have  more  than 
suspected  their  honesty,  and  they 
would  not  have  left  the  witness'  box 
with  flying  colours.  It  is  a  libel,  we 
understand,  to  call  almost  any  medi- 
cal man,  from  physician  to  the  king, 


1333.] 


The  Factory  System. 


down  to  horse  hedge-doctor,  a 
quack.  Therefore  we  do  not  call 
any  of  these  Galens,  Esculapiuses, 
or  Hippocrateses,  quacks.  But  we 
call  them  once  more — dead  or  alive 
— audacious  blockheads. 

Mr  Sadler  alludes  to  such  evi- 
dence as  we  have  now  quoted;  and 
hints  that  much  of  the  same  sort  will 
be  forthcoming  soon;  nay,  that  cer- 
tificates and  declarations  will  be  ob- 
tained from  divines  and  doctors  as 
to  the  morality  and  health  which 
the  present  system  promotes  and 
secures.  It  was  said  before  the 
Committee  of  J 8 18,  that  the  children 
•who  were  worked  without  any  regu- 
lation, were  not  only  equally,  but 
more  healthy  and  better  instructed 
than  those  not  so  occupied;  that 
night-labour  was  in  no  way  prejudi- 
cial, but  actually  preferred ;  that  the 
artificial  heat  of  the  rooms  was  really 
advantageous  and  quite  pleasant; 
and  that  nothing  could  equal  the  re- 
luctance of  the  children  to  have  it 
abated;  that  BO  far  from  being  fa- 
tigued with,  for  example,  twelve 
hours'  labour,  the  children  perform- 
ed even  the  last  hour's  work  with 
greater  interest  and  spirit  than  any 
of  the  rest ! 

Medical  men,  however,  of  a  very 
di  fferent  stamp  were  examined  before 
the  Committee  of  1818— Winstanley, 
Anhton,  Graham,  Ward,  Bellot,  Dean, 
Dudley,  Boutflower,  Simmons,  Jar- 
rold,  and  Jones — all  highly  respect- 
able, some  of  them  of  the  highest 
eminence.  They  spoke  out  like  ho- 
nest and  skilful  men,  and  gave  their 
opinions  which  were  wanted;  and 
thoy  stated  facts,  too,  and  melancholy 
ones — "which made  them  shudder." 
Di  Winstanley  says,  that  in  general 
tho  children  in  Cotton  Factories  are 
sickly  and  small  in  stature,  and  un- 
healthy in  their  general  appearance, 
with  sallow  complexion,  shewing  a 
great  debility  of  constitution,  and  a 
want  of  muscular  strength ;  that,  on 
examination  of  about  a  hundred  of 
them  in  a  Sunday  school,  he  found 
forty-seven  had  received  consider- 
able, three  very  considerable,  and 
o tiers  greater  or  less  injuries ;  and 
that  when  the  Factory  children  were 
separated  from  the  rest,  the  differ- 
ence in  the  appearance  as  to  health 
and  size  was  striking  at  first  sight. 
Dr  Ashton  gave  in  a  report,  shewing 
that,  in  six  Factories  he  visited  with 


431. 

other  medical  men,  the  aggregate 
number  was  824,  of  whom  163  were 
healthy,  240  delicate,  43  much  stunt- 
ed, 100  with  enlarged  ankles  or  knees, 
and  37  distorted  in  the  inferior  ex- 
tremities, and  258  unhealthy  ;  and  he 
took  alternately  a  dirty  and  a  clean 
Factory,  in  order  to  satisfy  himself — - 
three  reported  to  be  the  cleanest,  and 
three  the  dirtiest,  in  the  town  of  Stock- 
port.  He  visited  Church-gate  Sunday 
school,  containing  1 143  children.  Of 
that  number  there  were  291  girls 
and  275  boys  employed  in  Factories  ; 
and  their  countenances  betrayed 
such  sickliness,  wanness,  and  ill- 
health,  that  he  could  at  once  distin- 
guish, without  giving  the  masters  the 
trouble  to  separate  them  from  the 
rest  employed  differently,  who  were 
blooming  and  ruddy.  All  those  au- 
thorities agreed  that  employment 
in  Cotton  Factories  brings  on  disease 
and  shortens  life.  Dr  Simmons  says, 
that  the  children  look  so  much  worse 
than  others,  that,  in  the  general  po- 
pulation of  Manchester,  he  could  al- 
most unerringly  point  them  out  on 
the  streets.  They  are  all  IN  POSSES- 
SION OF  FACTS  ;  but,  independently 
of  facts,  they  all  deliver  opinions 
founded  on  their  knowledge  of  the 
nature  of  things,  without  hesitation 
and  without  doubt,  as  to  the  perni- 
cious and  deadly  effects  of  those  oc- 
cupations, on  which  the  above  auda- 
cious blockheads  persisted  in  decla- 
ring their  incapacity  to  form  any 
judgment.  Dr  Perceval,  "  a  name 
equally  dear  to  philosophy  and  phi- 
lanthropy," who  saw  the  rise,  pro- 
gress, and  effects  of  the  system,  and 
closely  connected  though  he  was 
with  many  who  were  making  rapid 
fortunes  by  it,  expressed  himself 
upon  the  subject,  says  Mr  Sadler,  as 
a  professional  man  and  a  patriot,  in 
terms  of  the  strongest  indignation. 
He  says,  even  of  the  krge  Factories, 
which  some  suppose  need  little  regu- 
lation, that  they  "  are  generally  inju- 
rious to  the  constitution  of  those 
employed  in  them,  even  when  no 
particular  diseases  prevail,  from  the 
close  confinement  which  is  enjoined, 
from  the  debilitating  effects  of  hot 
or  impure  air,  and  from  the  want  of 
the  active  exercises  which  nature 
points  out  as  essential  to  childhood 
and  youth.  The  untimely  labour  of 
the  night,  and  the  protracted  labour 
of  the  day,  not  only  tend  to  diminish 


432 

future  expectation  as  to  the  general 
run  of  life  and  industry,  by  impair- 
ing the  strength,  and  destroying  the 
vital  stamina  of  the  rising  generation  ; 
but  it  too  often  gives  encourage- 
ment to  idleness,  extravagance,  and 
profligacy,  in  the  parents,  who,  con- 
trary to  the  order  of  nature,  subsist 
by  the  oppression  of  their  offspring." 
He  afterwards  asserts  the  necessity 
of  establishing  "  a  general  system  of 
laws  for  the  wise,  humane,  and  equal 
government  of  all  such  works." 

The  evidence  of  the  distinguished 
Medical  Men  examined  before  the 
Committee  last  summer,  is  all  to  the 
same  effect.  Mr  Samuel  Smith,  sur- 
geon in  Leeds,  says,  that  the  digestive 
organs  of  the  children  are  soon  ma- 
terially impaired  in  their  powers — 
extreme  debility  and  lassitude  follow 
—so  that  although  the  body  is  not 
reduced  to  a  state  of  actual  disease, 
and  though  there  may  not  -be  any 
decided  organic  change  in  any  parti- 
cular viscera  of  the  body,  yet  still  it  is 
very  different  from  a  state  of  health. 
They  are  "  out  of  condition,"  and 
when  the  body  is  reduced  to  that 
state,  there  is  a  continual  tendency  to 
disease.  He  has  no  hesitation  in 
saying,  that  if  a  number  of  Factory 
children  should  be  attacked  by  the 
cholera,  the  mortality  would  be 
greater  and  more  sudden  than  among 
the  same  number  of  children  in  other 
employments.  There  is  never  a  year 
passes — but  he  sees  several  instances 
where  children  "  are  in  the  act  of 
being  worn  to  death  by  thus  working 
at  Factories."  Nor  does  he  hesitate 
to  confess  his  belief,  after  much 
scientific  detail,  as  laid  before  the 
Committee — that  if  the  same  causes 
continue  to  operate  a  few  generations 
more,the  manufacturers  of  Yorkshire, 
instead  of  being  what  they  were  fifty 
years  ago,  as  fine  a  race  of  people  as 
were  to  be  iound  throughout  the 
country,  will  be  a  very  diminutive 
and  degenerated  race.  Mr  Thackrah, 
surgeon,  Leeds,  says,  in  reference  to 
the  more  dusty  occupations,  that  the 
lungs  are  sooner  or  later  seriously 
altered  in  their  capacities,  and  the 
power  of  respiration  diminished ; 
that  after  middle  age,  inflammatory 
affections  or  change  of  structure  are 
found  in  the  lungs  and  air  tube,  and  a 
number  of  maladies  of  other  parts  are 
connected  with  or  result  from  those 
changes  of  the  pulmonary  organs, 


The  Factory  System. 


[April, 


He  found  men  who  had  attained  the 
age  of  from  forty  to  fifty  (in  dusty 
occupations)  almost  universally  dis- 
eased. With  respect  to  the  children 
in  mills,  if  you  ask  them,  "  Are  you 
pretty  well?"  They  say,  "Yes." 
They  have  not  any  particular  ail- 
ment, but  if  you  examine  them  they 
have  not  that  degree  of  health,  that 
muscular  power,  and  that  buoyancy 
of  spirits  to  be  found  in  children  not 
confined  and  congregated  in  mills. 
The  insufficiency  of  the  period  of 
sleep  he  thinks  a  very  great  cruelty 
of  the  system.  And  the  same  time 
of  labour  in  mills  he  thinks  more 
injurious  than  it  would  be  in  private 
houses,  or  the  house  manufacture. 
In  the  present  state  of  things  he 
thinks  that  physical  education,  or  the 
improvement  of  health,  is  most  ur- 
gently required ;  and  that  is  impos- 
sible without  some  regulation  that 
could  give  air  and  exercise. 

The  evidence  of  Sir  Anthony  Car- 
lisle shews  a  master  mind.  At  every 
blow  he  knocks  the  right  nail  on  the 
head.  From  forty  years'  observation 
and  practice,  he  is  satisfied  that  vigor- 
ous health,  and  the  ordinary  duration 
of  life,  cannot  be  generally  maintain- 
ed under  the  circumstances  of  twelve 
hours'  labour,  day  by  day.  He  speaks 
not  of  children,  but  of  adults.  But 
during  the  growth  and  formation  of 
the  young  creature,  its  liability  to 
deviate  from  the  natural  standard  is 
much  greater  than  in  the  adult.  Un- 
less the  young  creature  be  duly  ex- 
ercised and  not  overlaboured,  duly 
fed  and  properly  treated  with  regard 
to  the  needful  regulations  of  life,  all 
will  go  wrong.  All  domesticated 
creatures  that  are  kept  in  close  con- 
finement, and  worked  at  too  early 
an  age,  or  too  severely,  become  de- 
teriorated in  form  and  vigour,  and 
are  more  or  less  injured,  so  as  to  un- 
fit them  for  the  performance  of  their 
ordinary  and  habitual  labours.  And 
are  the  young  of  the  human  race  an  ex- 
ception from  the  general  law  of  life  ? 
We  must  not,  he  says,  be  deluded  by 
outward  shew.  Children  brought 
up  from  early  life  in  warm  rooms 
may  enjoy  an  apparent  degree  of 
health  until  almost  the  age  of  matu- 
rity, but  they  never  obtain  vigorous 
health.  They  are  unfit  to  carry  on 
a  succeeding  generation  of  healthy 
human  beings ;  nor  is  there  any  thing 
more  hereditary  than  family  ten- 


1833.] 


The  Factory  System. 


dencies,  particularly  such  as  are  en- 
gendered by  such  habits  as  are  hurt- 
ful to  the  first  formation  of  physical 
structures. 

When  asked  if  he  does  not  think 
that  the  general  custom  of  society 
which  abridges  the  duration  of  la- 
bour during  half  the  year,  six  winter 
months,  (in  factories  how  small  the 
difference  I)  is  dictated  by  the  nature 
and  condition  of  human  beings — he 
answers,  that  it  arises  from  the  Law 
of  Animal  Life.  In  the  winter  season 
the  whole  animal  creation  requires 
greater  rest  than  in  the  summer  sea- 
son. The  whole  creation,  man,  ani- 
mals, birds,  fishes,  insects,  rise,  if 
they  be  day-creatures,  with  the  rising 
sun,  and  go  to  rest  with  the  setting 
sun,  winter  and  summer.  Even  the 
nocturnal  creatures  do  not  wander 
all  night;  they  only  go  out  at  twilight, 
and  early  in  the  morning.  During 
the  stillness  of  midnight,  the  whole 
creation  is  at  rest.  Dr  Blundell,  on 
the  same  subject,  says  simply  and 
finely,  "  day-labour,  I  think,  is  more 
consistent  with  health  than  night- 
•abour.  Many  animals  are  by  nature 
nocturnal;  man  is  not;  to  them  the 
star-light  is,  I  presume,  agreeable ; 
but  man  finds  it  a  pleasant  thing  to 
behold  the  light  of  the  sun." 

All  these  are  truths  which  it  might 
weem  any  one  might  know;  but  enun- 
ciated by  men  of  science,  they  strike 
the  sides  of  a  bad  system  like  cannon- 
balls.  Do  you  think  that  a  child 
under  nine  years  of  age  ought  to  be 
•loomed  to  habitual  long  labour  in  a 
Factory  ?  You  or  I  say  no — and  em- 
ployers laugh  at  us;  Sir  Anthony 
Carlisle  says  no — and  they  frown  and 
bite  their  lips.  But  he  says  more 
than— no;  he  says,  "  My  own  opi- 
nion is,  as  a  matter  of  feeling,  that  to 
do  so  is  to  condemn  and  treat  the 
child  as  a  criminal ;  it  is  a  punish- 
ment which  inflicts  upon  it  the  ruin 
of  its  bodily  and  moral  health,  and 
renders  it  an  inefficient  member  of 
the  community,  both  as  to  itself  and 
its  progeny.  It  is  to  my  mind  an 
offence  against  nature,  which,  alas  ! 
is  visited  upon  the  innocent  creature 
i  nstead  of  its  oppressor,  by  the  loss 
of  its  health,  or  the  premature  de- 
struction of  its  race."  A  sixty-two 
pound  shot — from  a  carronade — 
at  point-blank  distance  —  whiz  — 
through  the  Factories.  Children  de- 
mand legislative  protection,  in  his 


__^^_^H  433 

opinion,  for  their  own  sakes,  and  for 
the  sake  of  future  generations  of 
English  labourers ;  because  every 
succeeding  generation  will  be  pro- 
gressively deteriorated,  if  we  do  not 
stop  these  sins  against  nature  and 
humanity.  Nature  has  been  very 
wise  in  punishing  all  the  offences 
we  commit  against  her  in  our  own 
person.  If  young  persons  between 
nine  and  eighteen  are  worked  longer 
than  twelve  hours,  including  two  for 
meals,  their  employers,  he  adds,  must 
consider  them  machines  or  mere 
animals,  not  moral  beings.  Sir  An- 
thony does  himself  great  honour  by 
the  spirit  in  which  he  speaks  of  the 
poor.  On  Sabbath  let  the  children, 
he  says,  go  to  church— let  the  church 
be  well  ventilated;  and  there  from  a 
good  scholar  and  divine,  let  them 
derive  instruction,  moral  and  reli- 
gious. He  cannot,  as  matters  now 
are,  approve  of  Sunday  schools.  It 
is  only  changing  the  week-day  labour 
of  the  body,  for  the  Sunday  labour 
of  ^the  mind.  Let  the  little  worn- 
out  creatures  have  some  little  time 
for  repose,  for  domestic  enjoyment 
and  instruction,  and  for  the  exercise 
of  the  domestic  and  kindred  affec- 
tions. For 

"  Gravely  says  the  mild  physician," 

"  I  am  of  opinion  that  the  instinctive 
and  natural  affections  of  the  indus- 
trious classes  of  society  are  more 
pure,  more  sincere,  and  more  active, 
than  among  the  educated  classes  ;  I 
have  witnessed  sacrifices  on  the  part 
of  people  in  the  lowest  condition  of 
life,  which  I  never  saw  among  peo- 
ple educated  artificially  from  the 
commencement  of  life.  The  yearn- 
ings of  those  people  after  their  pro- 
geny, and  their  filial  affections,  dis- 
parage the  heartless  manners  and 
cold  morals  which  too  often  prevail 
in  fashionable  life."  And  is  it  not, 
in  great  measure,  for  sake  of  people 
in  fashionable  life,  with  their  "  heart- 
less manners  and  cold  morals,"  that 
the  Factory-System,  by  its  unnatural 
labours,  dulls  and  deadens  those  af- 
fections in  the  hearts  of  the  poor, 
which  this  man  of  experience  and 
wisdom  so  truly  and  beautifully  de- 
scribes ? 

Dr  Blundell,  on  being  asked  what 
he  thinks  of  some  of  the  extreme 
cases  of  long-continued  labour,  with- 
out intermission  for  sleep,  which 


434 

have  sometimes  occurred  for  months 
together  at  factories,  involving  chil- 
dren and  young  persons,  replies, 
that  to  convince  him  that  it  could  be 
endured  without  great  injury,  would 
require  evidence  unbiassed  and  cu- 
mulative, and  of  several  consentient 
witnesses;  and  that,  after  all,  he 
would  wish  for  the  evidence  of  his 
own  sight  and  touch.  Sir  William 
Bliggard,  we  perceive,  on  being  ask- 
ed a  somewhat  similar  question, 
answers,  "  Horribly  so."  From  such 
labour,  and  from  labour  not  nearly 
approaching  it  in  continuance,  such 
as  is  common  in  factories,  Dr  Blun- 
dell  would  expect  dyspeptic  symp- 
toms, and  all  its  consequences ;  ner- 
vous diseases ;  stunted  growth  ;  lan- 
guors; lassitude;  general  debility; 
and  a  recourse  to  unusual  stimulants 
to  rid  the  mind  of  its  distressing  feel- 
ings. "  I  look,"  says  he,  "  upon  the 
factory  towns  as  nurseries  of  feeble 
bodies  and  fretful  minds." 

The  evidence  of  Dr  Farre  is  at 
once  a  medical  and  a  moral  lecture ; 
nor  is  it  possible  to  peruse  it  without 
loving  and  venerating  the  man.  To 
the  usual  questions  about  air  and 
exercise,  with  due  intervals  for  rest 
and  meals,  he  says  all  that  need 
or  can  be  said  in  one  line — "  they 
are  so  essential  that  without  them 
medical  treatment  is  unavailing ;" 
and  then  he  says  solemnly — "  Man 
can  do  no  more  than  he  is  allowed 
or  permitted  to  do  by  nature,  and  in 
attempting  to  transgress  the  bounds 
Providence  has  pointed  out  to  him,  he 
abridges  his  life  in  the  exact  propor- 
tion in  which  he  transgresses  the 
laws  of  nature  and  the  Divine  com- 
mand." There  is  to  us  something 
sublime  in  its  simplicity,  in  the  fol- 
lowing answer  to  the  question,  if 
twelve -hours -a- day  labour  be  as 
much  as  the  human  constitution  can 
sustain  without  injury  ?  "  It  depends 
upon  the  kind  and  degree  of  exer- 
tion; for  the  human  being  is  the 
creature  of  a  day,  and  it  is  possible 
for  the  most  athletic  man,  under  the 
highest  conflicts  of  body  or  mind, 
and  especially  of  both,  to  exhaust  in 
one  hour  the  whole  of  his  nervous 
energy  provided  for  that  day,  so  as 
to  be  reduced,  even  in  that  short 
space  of  time,  to  a  state  of  extreme 
torpor,  confounded  with  apoplexy, 
resembling,  and  sometimes  termina- 
ting in  death,  The  injury  is  in  pro- 


The  Factory  System. 


[April, 


portion  to  the  exhaustion  of  the  sen- 
sorial  power.  Let  me  take  the  life 
of  a  day  to  make  myself  clearly  un- 
derstood. It  consists  of  alternate 
action  and  repose ;  and  repose  is  not 
sufficient  without  sleep.  The  alter- 
nation of  the  day  and  the  night  is  a 
beautiful  provision  in  the  order  of 
Providence  for  the  healing  of  man, 
so  that  the  night  repairs  the  waste  of 
the  day,  and  he  is  thereby  fitted  for 
the  labour  of  the  ensuing  day.  If 
he  attempt  to  live  two  days  in  one, 
or  to  give  only  one  night  and  two 
days'  labour,  he  abridges  his  life  in 
the  same,  or  rather  in  a  greater  pro- 
portion— for  as  his  days  are,  so  will 
be  his  years." 

Dr  Farre  was  in  his  youth  enga- 
ged in  medical  practice  in  the  West 
Indies — in  the  island  of  Barbadoes. 
He  informs  us,  that  there  the  labour 
of  children  and  very  young  persons 
consisted  in  exercising  them  in  ga- 
thering in  the  green  crops  for  the 
stock — not  in  digging  or  carrying 
manure.  Such  long  continued  la- 
bour as  that  by  which  the  children 
in  our  factories  are  enslaved,  would 
not  have  been  credited  in  Barbadoes. 
The  employment  of  the  Negro  chil- 
dren was  used  only  as  a  training  for 
health  and  future  occupation.  Per- 
haps the  selfishness  of  the  owners 
saved  them  from  sacrifice.  Be  it  so. 
Here  the  selfishness  of  the  employ- 
ers sends  them  to  sacrifice.  Dr 
Farre  boldly  speaks  the  truth — "  In 
English  factories  every  thing  which 
is  valuable  in  manhood,  is  sacrificed 
to  an  inferior  advantage  in  childhood. 
You  purchase  your  advantage  at  the 
price  of  infanticide ;  the  profit  thus 
gained  is  death  to  the  child."  Poli- 
tical Economy,  he  urges,  ought  not  to 
be  suffered  to  trench  on  Vital  Econo- 
my. The  voice  of  the  profession  would 
maintain  that  truth,  and  never  assent 
to  life  being  balanced  against  health. 
That  the  lire  is  more  than  the  meat, 
is  a  divine  maxim,  which  we  are 
bound  to  obey.  The  vigour  of  the 
animal  life  depends  upon  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  blood,  and  the  balance 
preserved  between  the  pulmonary 
and  aortic  circulation;  but  in  the 
aortic  circulation,  there  is  also  a  ba- 
lance between  the  arterial  and  the 
venous  systems,  and  the  heart  is  the 
regulating  organ  of  the  whole.  If 
the  arterial  circulation  be  too  much 
exhausted,  an  accumulation  takes 


1833.] 


The  Factory  System. 


place  on  the  venous  side — the  blood 
is  deteriorated,  and  organic  diseases 
;ire  produced,  which  abridge  life. 
But  there  is  another,  and  a  higher 
effect,  for  man  is  to  be  considered  as 
Homething  vastly  better  than  an  ani- 
mal ;  and  the  effect  of  diminishing 
ihe  power  of  the  heart  and  arteries, 
by  over-labour  in  a  confined  atmo- 
sphere, is  to  deteriorate  the  blood, 
and  thus  to  excite,  in  the  animal  part 
of  the  mind,  gloomy  and  discontented 
trains  of  thought,  which  disturb  and 
destroy  human  happiness,  and  lead 
to  habits  of  over-stimulation.  The 
i  eflecting  or  spiritual  mind  gradually 
becomes  debased ;  and  unless  edu- 
cation  interpose  to  meet  the  difficul- 
ties of  the  case,  the  being  is  neces- 
sarily ruined,  both  for  the  present 
and  for  future  life.  Ventilation,  ex- 
ercise, and  diminished  exertion  in 
tlie  Factories,  are  therefore  the  most 
obvious  means  of  doing  so,  joined  to 
the  change  of  ideas  resulting  from 
an  education  adapted  to  the  spiritual 
nature  of  man.  Dr  Fame  therefore 
views  remission  of  the  hours  of  la- 
bour imposed  upon  children  and 
young  persons  in  Factories,  not  only 
as  a  benefit,  but  as  a  duty ;  and  em- 
phatically adds,  that,  speaking  not 
only  as  a  physician,  a  Christian,  and 
a  parent,  but  also  from  the  common 
sympathies  of  a  man,  the  State  is 
bound  to  afford  it. 

The  sentiments  and  opinions  of  Mr 
Surgeon  Green,  of  St  Thomas's  Hos- 
pital, are  equally  excellent.  They  do 
honour  to  his  head  and  heart.  He  de- 
nounces the  system  which  demands 
uniform,  long-continued,  unintermit- 
ted,and  therefore  wearisome, though 
perhaps  "light"  work, from  children 
(or  adults),  without  air  or  exercise — 
and  with  meals  hurried  and  often 
scanty.  He  draws  a  frightful  picture 
ot  the  maladies  that  must  be  engen- 
dered by  such  a  kind  of  life — and 
fears,  that  this  country  will  have 
much  to  answer  for  in  permitting 
the  growth  of  that  system  of  em- 
ploying children  in  Factories.  They 
should  not  be  suffered  to  become 
"  victims  of  avarice."  We  do  not 
believe  that  there  is  a  medical  man 
of  any  character  in  Britain,  who 
would  hesitate  one  moment  to  de- 
cbre  his  belief,  that  the  average  la- 
bour, the  year  through,  for  a  full- 
grown,  strong,  and  healthy  man, 
ought  not  to  exceed  twelve  hours, 

VOL,  XXXIII,  NO,  CCVI. 


prs 
W( 


435 

meals  included.  From  nine  to  twelve, 
Mr  Green  thinks  six  hours  in  the 
twenty-four  enough ;  and  that  from 
twelve  upwards,  the  hours  should  be 
gradually  increased  to  the  maximum. 
All  the  eminent  medical  men,  whose 
evidence  is  given  in  the  report,  are  of 
one  Opinion  respecting  infant  labour. 
Eight  hours'  work,  eight  hours'  sleep, 
and  eight  hours'  recreation,  is  the 
allotment  of  the  twenty-four,  which 
seems  most  agreeable  to  nature  to 
some  of  them,  for  adults.  But  to  the 
great  majority  of  employers  of  all 
kinds  of  labour,  such  a  humane  divi- 
sion of  the  day  must  seem  very  pre- 
posterous ;  for  as  man  was  born  to 
trouble,  as  the  sparks  fly  upwards, 
so,  according  to  their  creed,  was  he 
born  to  labour,  as  the  sweat  drops 
downwards.  Are  not  the  poor  the 
"  working  classes  ?"  Then  let  them 
work — work — work.  If  they  are  to 
rest  hours  and  hours  on  week-days, 
ray,  what  is  the  use  of  the  Sabbath  ? 

ork  is  the  Chief  End  and  whole 
Duty  of  Man. 

Nobody  dreams,  that  in  Britain 
labour  can  now  be  apportioned  to 
men,  women,  and  children,  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  nature.  We  are 
in  a  most  unnatural  state.  But  we 
ought,  nevertheless,  to  remember 
that  there  are  laws  of  nature;  and 
sometimes  in  extremity  even  to  con- 
sult them,  that  nature  may  not,  see- 
ing we  have  flung  off  our  allegiance, 
abdicate  the  throne,  and  leave  us  to 
grope  our  groaning  way  through  the 
empire  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 

It  is  a  general  rule  without  excep- 
tion, that  all  writers  are  blockheads 
who  sign  themselves  Vindex.  Ttie 
Vindex  of  the  Halifax  and  Hudders- 
field  Express,  is  the  First  Blockhead 
of  his  year.  There  has  been  much 
,said,  says  he,  "  about  the  length  of 
the  hours  of  labour.  I  will,  for  the 
information  of  the  public,  lay  before 
you  an  account  of  the  customs  of  our 
manufacturing  neighbours  of  both 
continents.  In  the  States  of  New 
York,Ohio,  Jersey,Pennsylvania,  and 
generally  through  the  United  States 
of  America,  the  hours  of  labour  in 
mills  are  from  sunrise  to  sunset.  The 
bell  rings  at  three  o'clock  A.  M.,  the 
mill  begins  to  run  at  four,  and  con- 
tinues till  eleven  A.  M.  ;  they  rest  two 
hours  during  the  heat  of  the  day, 
(which  they  do  not  in  Halifax  or 
Huddersfield,)and  run  from  one  P.M., 


The  Factory  System. 


436 

to  seven  P.M.  or  thirteen  hours  per  day. 
In  the  winter  half-year,  they  com- 
mence at  half- past  five  A.  M.,  and  run 
till  twelve  o'clock ;  dinner  one  hour, 
and  run  from  one  p.  M.  to  half-past 
seven  P.M.  i.e.  thirteen  hours  and  a- half 
per  day."  Very  well— they  run  too 
long, and  probably  too  fast — and  what 
does  all  this  running  prove  as  to  the 
right  time  and  ratio  of  running? 
But  Vindex  thinks  he  has  gained  a 
great  victory  over  something,  and 
thus  brays  the  Ass  of  the  Express. 
"  This  is  the  routine  in  the  land  of 
liberty  and  equality,  the  chosen  land 
of  freedom  and  independence,  where 
personal  and  public  liberty  are  en- 
joyed in  a  perhaps  greater  extent 
than  in  any  other  nation  of  the  world." 
Is  he  sarcastic  on  Jonathan  ?  No  !  he 
is  as  serious  as  a  chamberpot — as  Mr 
Twiss.  In  "  the  chosen  land  of  free- 
dom and  independence,"  men  work 
from  sunrise  to  sunset,  thirteen 
hours  all  summer,  and  half  an  hour 
longer  all  winter — and  therefore  it  is 
right.  Does  he  not  see,  that  by  his 
own  statement  they  are  steam-driven 
slaves  ? 

In  Germany,  the  Netherlands,  and 
France,  again,  he  says  "  they  run 
from  five  A.  M.  till  eight  P.  M.,  with 
one  hour  interval — fourteen  hours 
per  day.  They  receive  their  wages 
every  fortnight,  on  Saturday  after- 
noon, when  they  stop  at  five  p.  M.; 
but  on  the  alternate  Saturdays  they 
work  up  the  three  hours,  and  actu- 
ally run  till  ten  o'clock  at  night. 
This,  let  it  be  noted,  is  seventeen 
hours'  labour  for  that  day." 

Yes  !  let  it  be  noted.  We  hope 
— we  suspect— that  it  is  not  true. 
If  it  be,  who  set  them  running  seven- 
teen hours  every  alternate  Saturday  ? 
and  who  desires  not  that  they  should 
stop?  They  beat  the  "  routine  in 
the  land  of  liberty  and  equality"  all 
to  sticks. 

"  A  manufacturer,"  who  last  year 

Siblished  a  letter  to  Sir  John  Cam 
obhouse,  is  a  queer  Friend  of  the 
Poor.  "  Necessity  demands  it  of 
them,"  he  says,  "  and  necessity  sel- 
dom gives  any  other  reasons  for  its 
orders."  "  The  labouring  classes," 
he  continues,  "  know  this  truth  in- 
stinctively. They  are  seriously  im- 
pressed with  it  from  childhood ; 
they  know  it  in  manhood  by  expe- 
rience; and  they  think  it  not  a 
hardship  to  labour,  but  a  hardship 


[April, 


and  an  imputation  on  their  charac- 
ters to  be  idle.  It  is  a  reproach 
among  the  respectable  of  the  lower 
classes  to  live  without  visible  occu- 
pation, which  is  at  once  an  imputa- 
tion upon  their  honesty,  and  a  slur 
upon  their  character.  When,  how- 
ever, I  come  to  reduce  these  aspira- 
tions and  benevolent  wishes  to  prac- 
tice, and  when  I  come  to  consider 
the  practical  consequences  of  such  a 
measure,  even  in  its  most  modified 
application,  upon  those  whom  it 
proposes  to  benefit,  I  find  such  phil- 
anthropy as  this  quite  unfit  for  daily 
wear — a  mere  closet  system  of  phi- 
losophy— a  dreamy  abstraction— and 
as  mistaken  and  galling  a  kindness 
as  it  would  be  to  clothe  the  working 
classes  in  purple  velvet,  or  brocade, 
and  regale  them  with  the  elegancies 
of  high  life,  amidst  the  calls  of  want, 
and  the  cries  of  poverty."  Does  a 
"  man  live  without  visible  employ- 
ment" who  is  seen  working  in  a  Fac- 
tory ten  hours  a- day  ?  Would  it  be 
"  a  serious  imputation  on  his  cha- 
racter" to  be  seen  constantly  so 
occupied  ?  An  "  imputation  on  his 
honesty?"  A  Bill  to  secure  ten  hours' 
labour,  "  a  dreamy  abstraction !"  "A 
mistaken  and  galling  kindness,"  to 
equalize  the  labour  in  Factories 
with  all  labour  out  of  them !  Check 
shirt,  canvass  trowsers,  and  no  stock- 
ings— for  such  will  continue  to  be 
their  dress — likened  "  to  purple  vel- 
vet and  brocade  !"  The  man's  name 
must  be  Vindex. 

What  a  set  of  lazy,  idle,  disrepu- 
table, dishonest  fellows  are  masons, 
bricklayers,  and  carpenters!  The 
wonder  is,  how  any  house  is  ever 
seen  rising  from  the  foundation. 
The  average  of  actual  agricultural 
work  is  not,  through  the  year,  nine 
hours.  In  harvest  time,  it  is,  no 
doubt,  long  and  severe ;  and  sorely 
wearied  often  are  men,  women,  and 
children.  "  A  manufacturer"  is  fa- 
cetious on  the  clod-hoppers.  All  ar- 
gument, he  says, founded  on  "coun- 
try air,  a  temperature  of  60  degrees, 
south  aspect,  dry  feet,  brawny  limbs, 
and  rosy  cheeks,  is,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  '  a  most  lame  and  impotent 
conclusion.'  "  Agricultural  labour- 
ers, such  as  drainers,  and  ditchers, 
stand  on  very  weak  ground  when 

E riding  themselves  on  "  their  dry 
;etj"    but  on  very  strong,    when 
pointing  to  their  brawny  limbs,  "The 


1833.J 


The  Factory  System. 


437 


human  frame  and  constitution  will 
become,"  he  says,  "  acclimated"  to 
any  thing ;  and,  no  doubt,  they  will ; 
but  though  there  may  "  be  health  in 
the  factory,  as  well  as  the  field,"  it 
has  been  proved  that  there  is  not  so 
much.  It  is  cruel  to  tell  little  boys 
and  girls  that  they  will  be  "  accli- 
mated" to  any  thing;  and  then  shut 
them  up  for  fourteen  or  fifteen  hours 
a*day  in  a  sort  of  oven.  Such  treat- 
ment is  more  philosophical  than 
Christian.  Lest  "  justice  should 
degenerate  into  cruelty,"  it  has  been 
enacted,  that  no  convict  condemned 
to  hard  labour  shall  work  above  ten 
hours  a-day.  And  we  have  heard 
of  benevolent  individuals  busying 
themselves  about  the  hulks,  though 
there  the  actual  labour  is  in  summer 
considerably  less  than  ten,  and  in 
winter  than  eight  hours ;  and  healthy 
hulking  fellows  they  are  in  conse- 
quence; nor,  in  our  opinion,  would 
it  be  amiss  to  add  to  their  labour  the 
hours  that,  under  Mr  Sadler's 
Bill— or  my  Lord  Ashley's— will  be 
taken  from  that  of  honest  men,  wo- 
men, and  children  in  the  Factories. 

We  have  read  a  Pamphlet  by  Dr 
James  Phillip  Kaye,  on  the  Moral 
and  Physical  Condition  of  the  Work- 
ing Classes  employed  in  the  Cotton 
Manufacture  in  Manchester.  It  is 
rather  too  formally  written,  and  ra- 
ther too  dogmatic.  The  writer,  more- 
over, is  a  Political  Economist,  and 
till  for  Free  Trade.  He  is  of  opinion, 
"  that  those  political  speculators 
(Mr  Sadler  among  the  number)  who 
propose  a  serious  reduction  of  the 
hours  of  labour,  unpreceded  by  the 
relief  of  commercial  burdens,  and  un- 
jiccompanied  by  the  introduction  of 
j,  general  system  of  education,  ap- 
pear to  be  deluded  by  a  theoretical 
c  himera."  We  have  perhaps  written 
enough  already  to  shew,  that  it  would 
be  more  correct  to  say,  that  they  are 
"  alarmed  by  a  practical  chimera" — 
namely,  the  Factory  System.  A  ge- 
neral system  of  education  would  ap- 
\  ear,  at  present,  to  be  your  only 
true  delusive  "  theoretical  chimera." 
1 3  it  not  too  absurd  to  propose  to  delay 
the  correction  or  removal  of  a  posi- 
tive and  particular  evil  before  your 
eyes,  till  a  blessing  shall  be  realized, 
now  floating  at  a  distance  before  your 
imagination  ?  A  general  system  of 
education  indeed !  Let  us  first  have 
some  education  on  a  small  scale- 


here  and  there  —  and  especially 
among  the  Factories.  It  would  be 
well  were  all  capitalists  like  Dr 
Kaye's  friend,  Mr  Thomas  Ashton 
of  Hyde,  of  whose  establishment  we 
perceive  Mr  Green  (surgeon)  also 
speaks  in  terms  of  the  highest  praise, 
in  his  evidence  before  the  Commit- 
tee. But  we  respect  Dr  Kaye's  cha- 
racter, and  we  admire  his  talents,— 
and  shall  enrich  our  Article  with  an 
extract  from  his  Pamphlet.  He  thinks 
that  the  evils  affecting  the  working- 
classes  in  Manchester,  so  far  from 
being  the  necessary  results  of  the 
manufactory  system,furnish  evidence 
of  a  disease  which  impairs  its  ener- 
gies, if  it  does  not  threaten  its  vital- 
ity. The  increase  of  the  manufac- 
turing establishments,  and  the  conse- 
quent colonization  of  the  district, 
have  been  exceedingly  more  rapid 
than  the  growth  of  its  civic  establish- 
ments. And  he  then  dwells  forcibly 
on  the  immigration  of  Irish  as  one 
chief  source  of  the  demoralization, 
and  consequent  physical  depression 
of  the  people.  It  is  one;  and  no- 
body has  shewn  that  so  well  as  Mr 
Sadler.  But  when  Dr  Kaye  says, 
"  that,  some  years  ago,  the  internal 
arrangements  of  mills  (now  so  much 
improved,)  as  regarded  temperature, 
ventilation,  cleanliness,  and  the  pro- 
per separation  of  the  sexes,  were 
such  as  to  be  extremely  objection- 
able"— we  stop.  That  is  indeed 
blinking  the  Bill.  Setting  aside,  how- 
ever, for  the  present,  the  differences 
of  opinion  as  to  the  causes  of  the  con- 
dition of  the  manufacturing  popula- 
tion of  Manchester,  we  thank  Dr 
Kaye  for  the  following  powerful  pic- 
ture :— • 

"  Political  economy,  though  its  ob- 
ject be  to  ascertain  the  means  of  in- 
creasing the  wealth  of  nations,  can- 
not accomplish  its  design,  without  at 
the  same  time  regarding  their  hap- 
piness, and,  as  its  largest  ingredient, 
the  cultivation  of  religion  and  mora- 
lity. With  unfeigned  regret,  we  are 
therefore  constrained  to  add,  that  the 
standard  of  morality  is  exceedingly 
debased,  and  that  religious  obser- 
vances are  neglected  amongst  the 
operative  population  of  Manchester. 
The  bonds  of  domestic  sympathy  are 
too  generally  relaxed ;  and  as  a  con- 
sequence, the  filial  and  paternal  du- 
ties are  uncultivated.  The  artisan 
has  not  time  to  cherish  these  feel- 


438 

ings,  by  the  familiar  and  grateful 
arts  which  are  their  constant  food, 
and  without  which  nourishment  they 
perish.  An  apathy  benumbs  his  spi- 
rit. Too  frequently  the  father,  en- 
joying perfect  health,  and  with  ample 
opportunities  of  employment,  is  sup- 
ported in  idleness  on  the  earnings  of 
his  oppressed  children  j  and  on  the 
other  hand,  when  age  and  decrepi- 
tude cripple  the  energies  of  the  pa- 
rents, their  adult  children  abandon 
them  to  the  scanty  maintenance  de- 
rived from  parochial  relief. 

"  That  religious  observances  are 
exceedingly  neglected,  we  have  had 
constant  opportunities  of  ascertain- 
ing, in  the  performance  of  our  duty 
as  Physician  to  the  Ardwick  and  An- 
coats  Dispensary,  which  frequent- 
ly conducted  us  to  the  houses  of  the 
poor  on  Sunday.  With  rare  excep- 
tions, the  adults  of  the  vast  popula- 
tion of  84,147,  contained  in  Districts 
Nos.  1,  2,  3,  4,  spend  Sunday  either 
in  supine  sloth,  in  sensuality,  or  in 
listless  inactivity.  A  certain  portion 
only  of  the  labouring  classes  enjoy 
even  healthful  recreation  on  that  day, 
and  a  very  small  number  frequent 
the  places  of  worship. 

"  Having  enumerated  so  many 
causes  of  physical  depression,  per- 
haps the  most  direct  proof  of  the  ex- 
tent to  which  the  effect  coexists  in 
natural  alliance  with  poverty,  may 
be  derived  from  the  records  of  the 
medical  charities  of  the  town.  Du- 
ring the  year  preceding  July,  1831 — 
21,196  patients  were  treated  at  the 
Royal  Infirmary — 472  at  the  House 
of  Recovery— 3163  at  the  Ardwick 
and  Ancoats  Dispensary,  of  which 
(subtracting  one-sixth  as  belonging  to 
the  township  of  Ardwick)  263 6  were 
inhabitants  of  Manchester — perhaps 
2000  at  the  Workhouse  Dispensary, 
and  1500  at  the  Children's,  making 
a  total  of  28,804,  without  including 
the  Lock  Hospital  and  the  Eye  In- 
stitution. '  If  to  this  sum,'  says  Mr 
Roberton,  engaged  in  making  a  si- 
milar calculation,  *  we  were  further 
to  add  the  incomparably  greater 
amount  of  all  ranks  visited  or  advi- 
sed as  private  patients  by  the  whole 
body  (not  a  small  one)  of  profes- 
sional men ;  those  prescribed  for  by 
chemists  and  druggists,  scarcely  of 
inferior  pretension ;  and  by  herb 
doctors  and  quacks ;  those  who  swal- 
low patent  medicines  ;  and,  lastly, 


The  Factory  System. 


[April, 


the  subjects  of  that  ever  flourishing 
branch  —  domestic  medicine  ;  we 
should  be  compelled  to  admit  that 
not  fewer,perhaps,  than  three- fourths 
of  the  inhabitants  of  Manchester  an- 
nually are,  or  fancy  they  are,  under 
the  necessity  of  submitting  to  me- 
dical treatment.' 

"  Ingenious  deductions,  by  Mr 
Roberton,  from  facts  contained  in 
the  records  of  the  Lying-in-Hospital 
of  Manchester,  prove,  in  a  different 
manner,  the  extreme  dependence  of 
the  poor  on  the  charitable  institu- 
tions of  the  town.  The  average  an- 
nual number  of  births,  (deducted 
from  a  comparison  of  the  last  four 
years,)  attended  by  the  officers  of 
the  Lying-in  Charity,  is  four  thou- 
sand three  hundred ;  and  the  num- 
ber of  births  to  the  population  may 
be  assumed  as  one  in  twenty-eight 
inhabitants.  This  annual  average  of 
births,  therefore,  represents  a  popu- 
lation of  124,400,  and  assuming  that 
of  Manchester  and  the  environs  to 
be  230,000,  more  than  one-half  of  its 
inhabitants  are,  therefore,  either  so 
destitute  or  so  degraded,  as  to  re- 
quire the  assistance  of  public  charity 
in  bringing  their  offspring  into  the 
world. 

"  The  children  thus  adopted  by 
the  public,  are  often  neglected  by 
their  parents.  The  early  age  at 
which  girls  are  admitted  into  the  fac- 
tories, prevents  their  acquiring  much 
knowledge  of  domestic  economy; 
and,  even  supposing  them  to  have 
had  accidental  opportunities  of  ma- 
king this  acquisition,  the  extent  to 
which  women  are  employed  in  the 
mills,  does  not,  even  after  marriage, 
permit  the  general  application  of  its 
principles.  The  infant  is  the  victim 
of  the  system  ;  it  has  not  lived  long, 
ere  it  is  abandoned  to  the  care  of  a 
hireling  or  neighbour,  whilst  its  mo- 
ther pursues  her  accustomed  toil. 
Sometimes  a  little  girl  has  the  charge 
of  the  child,  or  even  of  two  or  three 
collected  from  neighbouring  houses. 
Thus  abandoned  to  one  whose  sym- 
pathies are  not  interested  in  its  wel- 
fare, or  whose  time  is  too  often  also 
occupied  in  household  drudgery,  the 
child  is  ill-fed,  dirty,  ill-clothed,  ex- 
posed to  cold  and  neglect ;  and,  in 
consequence,  more  than  one-half  of 
the  offspring  of  the  poor  (as  may  be 
proved  by  the  bills  of  mortality  of 
the  town)  die  before  they  have  com- 


1833.] 


The  Factory  System. 


pleted  their  fifth  year.  The  strongest 
survive;  but  the  same  causes  which 
destroy  the  weakest,  impair  the  vi- 
gour of  the  more  robust;  and  hence 
the  children  of  our  manufacturing 
population  are  proverbially  pale  and 
callow,  though  not  generally  emacia- 
ted, nor  the  subjects  of  disease.  We 
cannot  subscribe  to  those  exaggera- 
ted and  unscientific  accounts  of  the 
physical  ailments  to  which  they  are 
liable,  which  have  been  lately  revi- 
ved  with  an  eagernessand  haste  equal- 
ly unfriendly  to  taste  and  truth ;  but 
we  are  convinced,  that  the  operation 
of  these  causes,  continuing  uncheck- 
ed through  successive  generations, 
would  tend  to  depress  the  health  of 
the  people ;  and  that  consequent 
physical  ills  would  accumulate  in  an 
unhappy  progression. 

"  We  have  avoided  alluding  to  evi- 
dence which  is  founded  on  general 
opinion,  or  depends  merely  on  mat- 
tors  of  perception ;  and  have  chiefly 
availed  ourselves  of  such  as  admit- 
ted of  a  statistical  classification.  We 
may,  however,  be  permitted  to  add, 
that  our  own  experience,  confirmed 
by  that  of  those  members  of  our  pro- 
fession, on  whose  judgment  we  can 
rely  with  the  greatest  confidence,  in- 
duces us  to  conclude,  that  diseases 
assume  a  lower  and  more  chronic 
type  in  Manchester,  than  in  smaller 
towns  and  in  agricultural  districts  ; 
and  a  residence  in  the  Hospitals  of 
Edinburgh,  and  practice  in  the  Dis- 
pensaries amongst  the  most  debased 
piirt  of  its  inhabitants,  enables  us  to 
affirm  with  confidence,  that  the  dis- 
eases occurring  here  admit  of  less 
active  antiphlogistic  or  depletory 
treatment,  than  those  incident  to  the 
degraded  population  of  the  old  town 
of  that  city." 

We  have  read  Mr  Roberton's  ex- 
cellent tract,  "Remarks  on  the  Health 
of  English  Manufacturers,"  and  he 
does  indeed  demolish  Mr  Senior's 
assumption,founded,asMr  Sadler  re- 
marks, on  a  series  of  gross  mistakes, 
that  a  great  improvement  has  taken 
place  in  the  health  of  our  manufac- 
turing population.  The  persons  pre- 
sumptuously calling  themselves,, par 
excellence,  the  Political  Economists, 
are,  with  the  exception  of  Thomson 
and  Torrens,  grossly,  shamefully  ig- 
norant of  statistics.  Like  the  wor- 
thies we  were  dealing  with  a  few 
pajres  back,  they  HATE  NO  FACTS  ;  but, 


439 

unlike  the  worthies,  they  theorize 
without  them,  and  out  of  two   or 
three  puny  observations,  proceed,  by 
way  or  induction,  to  establish  genera'l 
laws.     Such  general  laws  last  longer 
than  might  be  expected,  perhaps  a 
few  months,  and  afterwards  are  never 
more  heard  of  on  this  side  of  the 
grave.    The  indefatigable   Political 
Economists  forthwith  set  about  ma- 
king a  fresh  batch  of  general  laws, 
which  they  shovel  out  of  their  oven, 
in  a  strange  state,  at  once  doughy 
and  crusty,  hard  to  the  gums,  and 
sour  to  the  palate,  and  by  that  small 
portion  of  the  public,  infatuatedly 
addicted  to  attempts  at  fare  which,  if 
not  impracticable,  would  prove  fatal, 
"  with  sputtering  noise  rejected."    A 
history  of  their  general  laws  of  po- 
pulation, would  afford  a  rich  treatto 
the  lovers  of  the  inconsistent,  the 
contradictory,  and  the  irreconcilable ; 
and  the  most  illustrious  suicides  in 
that  line  are  Senior  and  Maculloch. 
Ultra-mulish  and   superassinine  in 
obstinacy  as  is  the  Stot — a  pig  being 
in  comparison  easy  of  persuasion, — . 
yet  even  he  has  been  known,  under 
the  influence  of  the  "  rung  on  his 
hurdles,"  grimly  to  change  his  po- 
sition, and  of  a  sudden  to  turn  his 
tail  towards  the  south,  that  had  long 
been  affronted  by  his  snout.     The 
English  Poor'sLa  ws  did  he  for  a  dozen 
years  angrily  accuse   of  being  the 
accursed  cause  of  all  the  horrors  of 
an  excessive   population;    and  for 
four  years  has  he  been  as  earnestly 
asserting,  that  they  have  been  the 
chief  cause  of  keeping  'population 
down — two  assertions  equally  wide 
of  the  truth.    He  and  Senior  are  at 
present  delighted,  but  not  astonish- 
ed, at  the  health  and  longevity  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Manchester;  and  great 
must  be  their  scorn  of  their  admirer 
Dr  Kaye.    Mr  Roberton  -has  proved, 
that  "  the  nature  of  the  present  em- 
ployment of  the  people  of  Manches- 
ter renders  existence  itself,  in  thou- 
sands of  instances,  one  long  disease." 
We  have  seen  in  the  extract  from 
Dr  Kaye's  pamphlet,  from    proofs 
given  by  Mr  Roberton,  that  during 
1830,  the  patients  admitted  at  the 
four  great  dispensaries  amounted  to 
22,626,  independently  of  those  assist- 
ed at  -other  charitable  institutions, 
such  as  the  Infirmary,  amounting  at 
least  to  10,000   more.     To  this  he 
many  other  calculations,  which 


The  Factory  System. 


440 

bring  him  to  this  conclusion,  that 
"  not  fewer,  perhaps,  than  three- 
fourths  of  the  inhabitants  of  Man- 
chester annually  are,  or  fancy  they 
are,  under  the  necessity  of  submit- 
ting to  medical  treatment."  To  the 
evils  of  the  Factory  System  his  ob- 
servant eyes  are  wide  open,  and 
especially  to  the  "astounding  ine- 
briety." The  present  manufacturing 
system,  he  shews,  "has  not  produced 
a  healthy  population,  but  one,  on  the 
contrary,  where  there  always  exists 
considerable,  and  sometimes  general 
poverty,  and  an  extraordinary  amount 
of  petty  crime ;  that  in  several  re- 
spects, they  are  in  a  less  healthy, 
and  a  worse  condition  than  at  any 
period  within  the  two  last  cen- 
turies." 

Dr  Kaye,  referring  to  the  frequent 
allusions  that  have  been  made  to  the 
supposed  rate  of  mortality  in  Man- 
chester, as  a  standard  by  which  the 
health  of  the  manufacturing  popula- 
tion may  be  ascertained,  well  ob* 
serves,  that  from  the  mortality  of 
towns  their  comparative  health  can- 
not be  invariably  deduced.  For  there 
is  a  state  of  physical  depression 
which  does  not  terminate  in  total  or- 
ganic changes,  which,  however,  con- 
verts existence  into  a  prolonged  dis- 
ease, and  is  not  only  compatible 
with  life,  but  is  proverbially  pro- 
tracted to  an  advanced  senility.  ,  But 
even  were  this  untrue,  he  tells  us 
that  there  exists  no  method  of  cor- 
rectly ascertaining  the  average  pro- 
portion of  deaths  in  Manchester.  The 
imperfection  of  the  registers  is  such 
as  to  baffle  the  ingenuity  of  the  most 
zealous  inquirer. 

This  is  perfectly  conclusive  against 
Senior  and  Maculloch— and  for  Mi- 
Sadler.  The  question  of  health  is 
disposed  of — and  so  we  humbly  think 
is  that  of  longevity— by  Mr  Kaye's 
own  pamphlet.  But  "  the  ingenuity 
of  the  most  zealous  inquirer"  is  not 
to  be  baffled  even  by  the  "  imperfec- 
tion of  the  registers"  in  Manchester. 
Mr  Sadler,  the  best  statistician  in 
Britain,  has  studied  the  registers 
such  as  they  are,  and  disposed  of  the 
assumed  longevity  in  unanswerable 
style.  He  takes  the  whole  parish  of 
Manchester  (thereby  doing  great  in- 
justice to  his  own  argument,  as  that 
parish  contains  nearly  thirty  town- 
ships and  chapelries,  some  of  which 
are  principally  agricultural),  and  he 


[April, 


finds  that  in  the  collegiate  churches 
there,  and  those  of  Charlton,  now  part 
of  the  town,  in  the  two  churches  of 
Salford,  and  in  the  eleven  chapelries, 
including  the  Roman  Catholic  and 
other  dissenting  burial-grounds,  there 
were  interred,  between  the  years 
1821  and  1830  inclusive,  59,377  indi- 
viduals. The  mean  population  du- 
ring that  time  was  228,951,  giving  a 
proportion  of  1  in  37  9-10ths,  as  the 
annual  mortality  of  the  extended  dis- 
trict included  in  the  entire  parish  of 
Manchester.  In  Salford  the  number 
of  deaths  during  the  same  term  was 
996,  the  mean  population  having  been 
32,421,  or  1  death  in  every  32£.  Yet 
it  has  been  stated  over  and  over 
again,  that  the  mortality  had  kept 
diminishing  for  half  a  century ;  that 
in  181 1  it  had  fallen  so  low  as  one  in 
74,  and  that  in  1821,  the  proportion 
was  still  smaller !  In  a  petition  from 
the  mill-overseers  of  Keighly  against 
Mr  Sadler's  Bill,  they  content  them- 
selves with  stating  the  proportion  as 
1  in  58 ;  and  by  way  of  heightening  it 
by  contrast,  with  gross  ignorance  and 
assurance,  they  state  that  of  Middle- 
sex as  1  in  26,  having  gone  back,  we 
presume,  to  the  Sweating  Sickness. 
Mr  Sadler  could  not  get  at  all  the 
burials;  several  burial-grounds,  and 
among  them  St  Peter's,  are  left  out  in 
his  calculation ;  so  that  we  may  fairly 
state  the  proportion  of  deaths  as  1  in 
35— a  sad  mortality  for  all  England,  if 
health  and  longevity  are  to  be  found 
in  brightest  bloom  and  most  patriar- 
chal bearing  in  Manchester. 

It  is  to  be  remembered,  too,  that 
this  mortality  is  found  in  a  popula- 
tion increasing  immensely  by  immi- 
gration. The  annual  immigrants  are 
probably  in  the  active  period  of  life ; 
therefore,  the  community  will  exhi- 
bit a  corresponding  diminution  in  the 
proportion  of  deaths,  without  that 
circumstance  at  all  proving  any  real 
increase  in  the  general  health  and 
longevity  of  the  place.  Farther,  it  is 
admitted  on  all  hands,  that  the  lon- 
gevity of  the  wealthier  classes  has 
all  this  while  been  greatly  improved ; 
therefore  a  vast  excess  of  this  mor- 
tality rests  upon  the  poor.  In  Paris, 
where  the  mortality  may  be  stated 
as  1  in  42,  Dr  Villerme  found  that 
in  the  first  arondissement,  where  the 
wealthier  inhabitants  principally  re- 
side, it  was  but  1  in  52 ;  while,  in 
the  twelfth,  principally  inhabited  by 


1833.] 


The  Factory  System. 


the  poor,  it  was  1  in  24.  Apply  that 
to  Manchester,  and  of  the  poor  (alas  ! 
how  numerous  !)  take  the  poorest, 
and  what  a  dismal  despotism  of 
death ! 

But  Mr  Sadler  goes  into  the  very 
heart  of  his  melancholy  subject,  and 
compares  the  proportion  of  those 
buried  under  and  above  the  age  of 
forty  in  Manchester  (that  part  of  it 
in  which  the  registered  burials  are 
pven  together  with  the  ages  of  the 
interred)  with  the  corresponding  in- 
terments of  the  immensely  larger 
cities  of  London  and  Paris.  What 
£i-e  the  results  ?  To  every  100,000 
i  iterments  under  forty,  there  would 
l-e  above  that  age,  in  London  63,666  ; 
in  Paris  65,109  ;  in  Manchester  only 
47,291, — in  other  words,  16,375  fewer 
would  have  survived  that  period  in 
1  Manchester  than  in  London,  and  i  7,8 1 8- 
J<iwer  than  in  Paris.  The  operative 
spinners  complain  that  few  of  them- 
s  *lves  survive  forty !  It  is  quite  true. 
Calculating  the  mean  duration  of  life 
from  mortality  registers,  it  is  in  Lon- 
don  about  32  years,  in  Paris  34,  in 
Manchester  24^  years  only !  In  other 
towns  where  the  same  system  pre- 
vails, it  is  still  less ;  in  Stockport,  it 
in  22  years  only,  that  town  not  ha- 
ving increased  so  rapidly  as  Man- 
chester from  immigration. 

We  have  already  touched  incident- 
ally on  the  Cruelties  perpetrated  in 
the  Factories.  What  is  a  billy-roller? 
A.  billy-roller  is  a  heavy  rod,  from 
two  to  three  yards  long,  and  of  two 
inches  diameter,  with  an  iron  pivot 
a1;  each  end.  Its  primary  and  pro- 
per function  is  to  run  on  the  top  of 
tlie  cording  over  the  feeding  cloth. 
Ils  secondary  and  improper  function 
is  to  rap  little  children  "  on  the  head, 
iraking  their  heads  crack,  so  that 
you  may  hear  the  blow  at  the  dis- 
t£  nee  of  six  or  eight  yards,  in  spite 
of  the  din  and  rolling  of  the  ma- 
chinery." Mr  Whitehead,  clothier 
at  Seholes,  near  Holmfirth,  a  most 
r<  spectable  and  trust-worthy  man, 
te  11s  the  Committee,  that  often  when 
a  child,  so  fatigued  as  not  to  know 
w  lether  it  is  at  work  or  not,  falls 
into  some,  error,  the  billy- spinner 
ta.tes  the  billy-roller  and  says, 
"Damn  thee,  little  devil,  close  it," 
ar>d  then  smites  it  over  head,  face,  or 
shoulders.  It  is  very  difficult,  he 
adds,  to  go  into  a  mill  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  day — particularly  winter, 


441 

when  the  children  are  weary  and 
sleepy — and  not  to  hear  some  of  them 
crying  for  being  thus  beaten.  A 
young  girl  has  had  the  end  of  a  billy- 
roller  jammed  through  her  cheek; 
and  a  woman  in  Holmfirth  was  beat- 
en to  death.  We  have  been  taking 
another  glance  over  the  cruelties,  as 
described  by  scores  of  witnesses, 
not  a  few  of  whom  had  been  suffer- 
ers, but  any  detailed  account  of  them 
would  be  sickening — so  we  refrain. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  unless  the  wit- 
nesses be  all  liars  of  the  first  magni- 
tude, the  billy-roller  is  in  active  em- 
ployment in  many  factories— that 
black-strap  is  at  frequent  work  in 
them  all — that  cuffs  from  open  and 
blows  from  clenched  hands  are  plen- 
tiful as  blackberries — that  samples 
are  shewn  of  every  species  of  sha- 
king—and that  there  is  no  dearth  of 
that  perhaps  most  brutal  of  all  beastly 
punishment,  kicking. 

To  be  billy-rollered  or  strapped, 
after  perhaps  having  been  bucketed 
for  falling  asleep,  is  bad  to  endure ; 
still  it  seems  to  be  insensate  matter 
that  gives  the  pain — wood  or  leather. 
A  blow  from  the  fist  is  hateful ;  yet 
the  hand  being  in  common  use,  the 
degradation  is  not  in  such  cases 
utter.  The  boy  wipes  his  bloody 
nose,  and  he  forgives  the  fist  of  the 
overlooker.  But  a  foot— a  large,  stink- 
ing, splay-foot — flung  suddenly  out 
"  with  a  fung"  ere  a  boy  has  time 
by  crouching  to  elude  or  supplicate, 
savage  as  it  is,  is  yet  more  insulting, 
and  sends  to  the  core  of  the  heart 
the  shame  of  slavery,  that  can  be  ex- 
tinguished but  by  undying  hatred 
and  deadly  revenge.  We  wonder 
there  are  no  murders.  But  what  if 
the  kicked  be — a  girl !  We  do  not 
mean  a  little  girl,  eight  or  ten  years' 
old,  for  that  is  not  the  precise  kind 
of  brutality  we  are  thinking  of  in  a 
kicking  to  such  a  one  as  she;  the 
worst  of  a  kick  in  her  case  is,  that  it 
may  kill  her  on  the  spot,  or  make  her 
a  cripple  for  life.  We  mean  a  girl 
who,  approaching  to  puberty,  and  in 
those  heated  regions  they  too  soon 
reach  it,  has  something  of  the  pride 
of  sex,  perhaps  of  beauty;  and  in 
presence  of  her  sweetheart,  she  her- 
self being  chaste  and  not  immodest, 
and  many  such  there  are  even  in 
Factories,  feels  her  whole  being  de- 
graded beneath  that  of  a  brute-beast, 
in  her  person  suddenly  assailed  by 


442 

such    shameful    outrage 

hoof  of  a  fiend  grinning  the  while 


The  Factory  System.  [April, 

from  the    and  a  pious  man,  a  preacher  among 


like  a  satyr.  Mr  Sadler— exhibiting 
some  black,  heavy,  leathern  thongs, 
one  of  them  fixed  in  a  sort  of  handle, 
the  smack  of  which,  when  struck 
upon  the  table,  resounded  through 
the  House — exclaimed, "  Sir,  I  should 
wish  to  propose  an  additional  clause 
in  this  bill,  enacting,  that  the  over- 
seer who  dares  to  lay  the  lash  on  the 
almost  naked  body  of  the  child,  shall 
be  sentenced  to  the  tread-mill  for  a 
month  ;  and  it  would  be  right  if  the 
master,  who  knowingly  tolerates  the 
infliction  of  this  cruelty  on  abused 
infancy,  this  insult  on  parental  feel- 
ing, this  disgrace"  on  the  national 
character,  should  bear  him  company, 
though  he  roll  to  the  house  of  cor- 
rection in  his  chariot."  A  month  in 
the  tread- mill !  Why,  many  a  dis- 
honest fellow  gets  that  and  more  for 
but  picking  a  bumpkin's  fob  of  his 
watch,  or  the  pocket  of  his  great- 
coat of  a  purse  at  the  door  of  the 
theatre.  The  man  who  kicks  a  girl 
must  not  be  suffered  to  pollute  the 
steps  of  a  tread-mill,  or  to  violate  the 
feelings  of  vagrants.  He  must  be 
flogged  privately  and  publicly,  his 
raw  back  denied  plaster,  his  head 
shaved,  and  his  carcass  clothed  in 
some  ingeniously  ignominious  dress, 
of  a  substance  suited  to  be  spit  upon, 
and  a  board  adjusted  to  his  posteri- 
ors, that  his  life  may  not  be  sacrificed 
by  the  continual  kicking  legalized  by 
the  legislative  wisdom  of  the  State, 
nor  yet  the  feet  of  its  inflictors  soil- 
ed by  contact  with  the  "  shame- 
ful parts  of  his  constitution." 

If  there  be  truth  in  the  account  we 
have  thus  far  given  of  the  Factory 
System,  what  must  be  the  Morality — 
we  mean  the  immorality  of  the  boys 
and  girls  !  Mr  Drake,  a  worthy  ma- 
nufacturer, says,  "  As  far  as  I  have 
observed  with  regard  to  morals  in 
the  Mills,  there  is  every  thing  about 
them  that  is  disgusting  to  every  one 
conscious  of  correct  morality.  Their 
language  is  very  indecent  ;  and  both 


the  Methodists,  says,  "  They  are,  ge- 
nerally speaking,  ignorant  and  wick- 
ed, proverbially  so;  to  hear  them  in 
the  Factory,  and  see  their  conduct, 
would  move  any  body  with  commi- 
seration that  had  any  thing  like  a 
feeling  of  concern  for  the  morals  of 
his  fellow-creatures ;  they  are,  in  ge- 
neral, bad  to  an  extreme/' — But  here 
the  details  are  far  more  painful  than 
of  the  cases  of  cruelty,  and  some  of 
them  truly  horrible.  Many  Factories 
are  the  worst  of  brothels.  Yet  has 
MacCulloch  many  times  publicly 
avowed  his  belief,  that  females  so 
employed  are  more  virtuous  than 
those  who  lead  a  rural  life  !  He,  and 
others  like  him,  shutting  their  leaden 
eyes  on  all  other  facts  familiarly 
known  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  or 
stupidly  staring  at  them  with  dogged 
determination  to  misrepresent  all 
they  see,  have  founded  their  misbe- 
lief on  the  comparative  number  of 
illegitimate  children.  The  simplest 
persons  examined  before  the  Com- 
mittee know  too  well  the  cause  of 
that  effect.  True  it  is,  that  "  that 
effect  defective  comes  by  cause." — 
*'  I  have  yet  to  learn,"  says  one  wit- 
ness of  a  different  stamp,  "  that  the 
promiscuous  intercourse  of  the  sexes 
is  favourable  to  an  increase  of  popu- 
lation."— Fathers  wept  before  the 
Committee,  thinking  of  their  own 
daughters.  The  contagion  of  vice 
in  the  heated  and  huddled  Factory 
is  dreadful,  and  the  disease  is  rank 
among  very  childhood.  There  is  no 
need  to  argue  about  the  matter ;  to 
educe  and  deduce — like  a  blockhead 
to  prove  it  so — or  so;  or  like  a  dunce 
to  proceed  from  premises  to  conclu- 
sions, which,  like  a  dray-horse,  he 
draws.  There  is  the  vice— the  guilt 
— the  sin — acting  before  our  very- 
eyes.  And  it  must  be  shuddered  at 
in  its  enormity,  that  in  our  horror 
we  may  be  driven  on  to  discover  and 
to  apply  a  cure.  Better  in  excitement 
to  exaggerate,  than  in  indifference  to 
extenuate  moral  evil.  Our  error  in 


sexes  take  great  liberties  with  each    judgment  in  the  one  case  vehement- 
other  in  the  Mills,  without  being  at    ly  instigates  us  on  the  right  path  to 
all  ashamed  of  their  conduct."     An- 
other witness  says,  "  They  are  im- 
moral in  all  their  conduct.     Going 
to  the  Factories  is  like  going  to  a 
school,  but  it  is  to  learn  every  thing 
that  is  bad."     Mr  Benjamin  Brad- 
shaw,  a  witness  of  great  intelligence, 


the  attainment  of  a  noble  end.  In 
the  other,  it  holds  us  back  from  tak- 
ing even  a  few  steps,  and  in  spite  of 
all  the  misgivings  that  will  touch  our 
hearts,  reconciles  us  to  what  our 
awakened  conscience  would  con- 
demn, were  we  to  contemplate 


1833.] 


The  Factory  System, 


it  without  a  passion  of  pity  and 
grief. 

Some  years  ago,  certain  printed  pa- 
pers were  put  into  private  circulation 
by  persons  in  a  decent  rank  of  life, 
and  belonging  to  the  self- dubbed 
Political  Economists,  in  London,  for 
which  offence  their  authors  should 
have  been  set  in  the  j)illory,  though 
that  punishment  has  fallen  into  de- 
suetude, and  is  not  now,  even  in 
such  cases,  authorized  by  law.  They 
suggested,  or  rather  described  and  re- 
commended various  unnatural  means 
to  prevent  conception.  Miscreants ! 
And  it  appears  from  the  evidence  of 
more  than  one  witness,  that  tracts 
as  atrocious  as  the  papers  we  have 
alluded  to,  have  been  circulated 
among  the  Factories — and,  we  fear, 
their  hellish  suggestions  acted  upon 
by  great  numbers.  The  Reverend 
G.  S.  Bull  says,  "  that  he  cannot  con- 
ceal from  the  Committee  that  he  has 
frequently  heard  from  the  parents 
of  young  persons  and  others  en- 
gaged in  Factories,  hints  and  remarks 
from  which  he  gathered  that  means 
of  that  description  were  resorted 
to;"  and  being  farther  interrogated, 
lie  adds, — "  My  disgust  prevented 
me  from  pursuing  the  subject  any 
farther." 

Yet  think  not  that  even  the  Factory 
System  has  utterly  eradicated  all 
virtue  from  the  female  character. 
Many  masters  there  are  who  do  all 
they  can  for  their  children.  It  may 
seem,  but  it  is  not,  invidious  to  men- 
tion by  name  one  out  of  many — Mr 
John  Wood,  junior  of  Bradford,  of 
whom  the  Rev.  G.  S.  Bull  of  Bierly 
thus  spoke  a  few  days  ago  at  a  great 
Factory  Bill  meeting  held  at  Not' 
oingham.  "I  have  the  honour  of  living 
in  the  same  parish  with  that  distin- 
guished and  benevolent  individual ; 
I  have  the  honour  of  superintending 
u  day-sChool  established  by  him,  and 
I  inform  this  assemblage,  that  he 
lias  lately  taken  on  60  additional 
hands,  in  order  that  60  children 
jnight  be  left  at  liberty  to  attend 
ihat  school.  It  is  impossible  to  de- 
hcribe  the  delight  felt  by  him  in  put- 
ting that  school  on  its  legs,  and  he 
t  aid  to  me,  '  Sir,  THAT  is  THE  BEST 
LOOM  IN  MY  WORKS.'  The  affection 
that  subsists  between  the  employer 
iind  the  children  in  the  whole  of 
Mr  Wood's  establishment,  is  more 
leautiful  than  I  can  express."  And 


443 

who  is  the  Rev.  G.  S.  Bull  ?  The  man 
who,  next  to  Mr  Sadler — not  forget- 
ting his  admirable  lay  brother,  Rich- 
ard Oastler — has  most  strenuously 
exerted  himself — soul  and  body — in 
this  holy  cause.  He  had,  at  the  time 
he  was  examined,  Sunday-schools 
under  his  superintendence  contain- 
ing 5 16  scholars,  one  third  of  them 
being  engaged  in  Factories.  He  has 
been  led  to  conclude,  from  an  obser- 
vation of  the  different  classes,  that 
there  is  much  more  demoralization 
arising  from  the  Factory  System, 
than  from  any  other  system  of  em- 
ployment for  the  children  of  the 
poor.  But  he  says  with  great  ear- 
nestness, in  another  part  of  his  most 
instructive  evidence,  "  I  should 
do  injustice  to  many  young  persons 
who  are  brought  up  in  the  Factory 
System,  if  I  did  not  say,  that  their 
industry,  neatness,  and  disposition 
to  improve  themselves,  are  beyond 
the  powers  of  my  commendation.  I 
knowseveral  such.  Ihave  several  such 
females  employed,  under  my  super- 
intendence, as  Sunday-school  teach- 
ers, for  whom  I  do,  and  ought  to  en- 
tertain the  greatest  respect;  but  I 
would  say,  that  these  are  exceptions 
to  the  generality  of  young  persons, 
brought  up  in  Factories." — The  ge- 
nerality of  them,  he  says,  are  as  un- 
fit as  they  possibly  can  be  to  fill  the 
important  station  of  a  cottager's  wife. 
Many  cannot  even  mend  a  hole  in 
their  garments,  or  darn  a  stocking ; 
and  he  knew  of  one  little  girl  whose 
father  was  so  anxious  that  she  should 
acquire  the  use  of  the  needle,  that 
"  when  he  was  confined  at  home 
himself  by  a  lameness,  he  sat  over 
her,  after  her  return  from  work,  with 
a  little  light  rod  in  his  hand,  and  in- 
sisted on  her  mending  her  stockings, 
though  she  was  falling  asleep  conti- 
nually, and  when  she  nodded  over  it, 
he  gave  her  a  very  gentle  tap  upon 
the  head  with  the  rod." — "  The  Fac- 
tory-dolls," as  a  working-man  calls 
them,  can  in  no  case  make  or  mend 
their  own  clothes,  nor  in  any  way 
supply  the  wants  of  a  family  when 
they  become  mothers. 

In  a  letter  in  defence  of  the  Cotton 
Factories,  addressed  to  Lord  Al- 
thorp,  by  Mr  Holland  Hoole,  we 
find  this  passage,  "  The  week  which 
follows  Whitsunday  is  a  universal 
holyday  in  Manchester,  and  is  cele- 
brated by  processions  of  Sunday- 


444 


The  Factory  System. 


[April, 


school  children,  assembled  to  the 
number  of  2o  to  30,000.  Your  Lord- 
ship might  there  see  *  the  miserable 
victims  of  the  Cotton  Factory  Sys- 
tem,' well  clad,  and  often  even  ele- 
gantly dressed,  in  full  health  and 
beauty,  a  sight  to  gladden  a  monarch 
— not  to  be  paralleled,  perhaps,  in 
the  whole  of  the  civilized  world; 
and  your  Lordship  would,  I  firmly 
believe,  draw  this  conclusion,  that 
the  hands  employed  in  Cotton  Fac- 
tories, so  far  from  being  degraded 
below  their  neighbours  of  the  same 
rank  in  society,  far  exceed  them  in 
comfort,  in  order,  and  even  in 
health." 

This  is  very  amiable.  Mr  Holland 
Hoole  is  a  good-hearted,  nor  do  we 
doubt,  an  enlightened  man,  and  the 
spectacle  he  speaks  of  is,  we  know, 
very  beautiful.  We  have  seen  it. 
Many  of  the  girls  at  Factories  are  of 
an  interesting  appearance — not  a  few 
lovely ;  many  of  the  boys  good-look- 
ing— not  a  few  handsome;  and  the 
whole  together,  in  their  best  array, 
make  a  pleasant  show.  They  are 
English.  But  there  is  much  wan 
smiling  there,  and  many  woe-begone 
faces,  that  "  vainly  struggle  at  a 
smile ;"  hundreds  white  as  plaster  of 
Paris;  and  scores  of  an  indescribable 
colour, — of  which  the  ground  looks 
yellow  glimmered  over  by  blue, — less 
like  death  than  consumption.  They 
are,  in  general,  neatly  clad;  and 
strange  if,  on  such  an  occasion,  it  were 
otherwise  in  Lancashire ;  too  "  ele- 
gantly dressed,"  many  of  the  girls 
are,  we  fear;  yet  we  must  not  be 
harshly  critical  on  such  a  holy  day. 

One  of  the  witnesses, — Thomas 
Daniel,  an  acute  man, — says  before 
the  Committee,  "as  to  the  appear- 
ance of  health  of  the  children,  (who 
walk  in  Whitsunday-week  proces- 
sion,) they  are  the  most  delicate  and 
the  most  feeble- looking;  and  as  to 
their  dresses,  it  may  be  thought  very 
fine  with  them,  and  it  certainly  is 
attended  with  some  expense,  but  it 
is  of  no  value ;  and  the  dresses  are 
principally  of  white  calico  or  cambric 
frocks,  that  make  them  look  fine,  and 
they  take  great  pride  in  them,  I  have 
no  doubt."  Thomas  is  no  great 
admirer  of  Whitsun-week  holydays. 
And  far  better,  think  we,  were  they 
distributed.  In  most  places,  there 
are  but  two  holydays  in  the  whole 
year.  As  for  Lord  Al thorp,  he  is 


perhaps  a  better  judge  of  fat  cattle  at 
a  Show  in  Smithfield,  than  of  lean 
Factory  boys  and  "girls  in  a  Whit- 
sunday festival  in  Manchester.  He 
might,  therefore,  draw  from  such  a 
sight  such  a  conclusion  as  Mr  Hol- 
land Hoole  firmly  believes  he  would ; 
but  such  conclusion  would  be  illogi- 
cal. The  "comfort"  and  "order"  ap- 
parent in  that  well-garbed  and  well- 
marshalled  assemblage,  transitory  as 
a  slow-floating  beautiful  summer- 
cloud,  seem  almost  to  belong  to  a 
visionary  world,  before  the  eyes  of 
him  who  has  seen  the  discomfort  and 
disorder  of  the  real  world,  in  which 
the  creatures  of  that  pageantry  are 
glad  to  get  kicked  and  strapped,  so 
that  from  his  throne  descends  not  th6 
Billy-roller. 

Contrast  the  picture  painted  by  Mr 
Holland  Hoole,  with  one  of  a  similar 
kind  by  Ebenezer  Elliot, — "  Preston 
Mills,"  a  Jubilee  in  celebration 
of  the  Reform  Bill.  We  take  it 
from  this  year's  Amulet,  an  Annual 
always  full  of  good  things.  Ebenezer 
Elliot  is  next— not  behind  Crabbe— 
the  greatest  Poet  of  the  Poor.  And 
he  calls  poetry  (did  not  we  ourselves 
use  the  same  words  before  him,  in  the 
Noctes  ?)  "  impassioned  truth." 

"  The  day  was  fair,  the  cannon  roar'd, 
Cold  blew  the  bracing  north, 

And  Preston's  mills  by  thousands  pour'd 
Their  little  captives  forth. 

"  All  in  their  best  they  paced  the  street, 
All  glad  that  they  were  free ; 

And  sang  a  song  with  voices  sweet— 
They  sang  of  liberty ! 

"  But  from  their  lips  the  rose  had  fled, 
Like  '  death-iu-life'  they  smiled  j 

And  still  as  each  pass'd  by,  I  said, 
Alas  !  is  that  a  child  ? 

' '  Flags  waved,  and  men — a  ghastly  ere  w— 
March' d  with  them  side  by  side  ; 

While  hand  in  hand,  and  two  by  two, 
They  moved — a  living  tide. 

"  Thousands  and  thousands  —  oh,   so 

white ! 

With  eyes  so  glazed  and  dull ! 
Alas  !  it  was  indeed  a  aight 
Too  sadly  beautiful ! 

"  And,  oh,  the  pang  their  voices  gave, 

Refuses  to  depart! 
*  This  is  a  wailing  for  the  grave  !' 

I  whisper'd  to  my  heart. 


1833.] 


The  Factory  System. 


"  It  was  as  if,  where  roses  blush'd, 

A  sudden,  blasting  gale, 
O'er  fields  of  bloom  had  rudely  rush'd, 

And  turn'd  the  roses  pale. 

"  It  was  as  if,  in  glen  and  grove, 

The  wild  birds  sadly  sung ; 
And  every  linnet  mourn'd  its  love, 

And  every  thrush  its  young. 

"  It  was  as  if,  in  dungeon  gloom, 
Where  chain'd  Despair  reclined, 

A  sound  came  from  the  living  tomb, 
And  hymn'd  the  passing  wind. 

"  And  while  they  sang,  and  though  they 
smiled, 

My  soul  groan'd  heavily — 
Oh  !  who  would  wish  to  have  a  child  ! 

A  mother  who  would  be  !" 


The  contagion  of  vice 
from  the  Factories.  They  are^  many 
of  them,  nurseries  of  prostitution. 
In  bad  times — and  how  long  is  it 
since  they  have  been  good  ? — in  bad 
dmes,  which  are,  like  demons'  visits, 
ntiany  and  short  between — shoals  are 
sent  into  the  streets,  to  shame,  sin, 
and  death.  So  says  the  evidence — 
and  is  it  possible  to  disbelieve  it? 
That  evil  is  in  the  Factory-system ; 
and,  alas  !  in  many  a  system  besides, 
[s  it,  therefore,  to  be  denied,  over- 
looked, let  alone,  given  up  as  hope- 
less? God  forbid  we  should  calum- 
niate the  poor  creatures — we  but  be- 
lieve in  sorrow  what  their  parents 
•iave  told  us  j — and  we  do  not,  like 
Mr  Mill,  call  on  "  legislation,"  or  the 
"powerful  agency  of  popular  sanc- 
tion," to  "  direct  an  intense  degree 
of  disapprobation"  on  such  sufferers 
;ind  sinners;  but  we  call  on  both  to 
do  what  they  can  for  their  protec- 
tion from  such  woe  and  such  wick- 
edness. 

We  call  not  even  "  for  an  intense 
degree  of  disapprobation"  on  the 
overlookers  and  others,  who,  it  has 
been  proved,  are  too  frequently 
guilty  of  very  great  barbarities. 
Their  temper,  their  patience,  must 
1  >e  often  severely  tried.  Nay,  some- 
times  they  are  cruel  from  a  sense  of 
<  luty.  The  strap  rouses  the  soundest 
sleeper — the  most  callous  feel  the 
billy-roller.  Slaves  will  grow  up 
i  ato  tyrants.  With  more  sleep  and 
more  rest,  there  would  be  far  less 
punishment — there  would  then  be 
no  call  for  cruelty ; — the  supply,  we 
presume,  would  be  regulated  by  the 


445 

demand.  We  call  not  even  "  for  an 
intense  degree  of  disapprobation"  on 
the  supporters  of  the  system  out  of 
which  such  evils  inevitably  arise. 
But  we  denounce  the  system  itself, 
as  it  now  works ;  and  we  call  down 
blessings  on  the  heads  of  all  men 
who  are  striving  to  reform  it.  Some 
of  "  the  modes  in  which  legislation 
can  weaken  the  tendency  of  such 
evils  to  increase"  have  been  shewn; 
and  though  the  regulations  it  may 
enact  will  leave  many  evils  to  be  be- 
wailed, some  —  much  —  nay,  great 
diminution  of  them  may  before  very 
long  be  effected  j — enough  to  justify 
still  better  and  brighter  hopes  of  the 
distant  future. 

Such  is  the  Factory  System  which 
Mr  Sadler  has  so  nobly  striven—- 
with some  noble  coadjutors — to  de- 
prive of  its  sting.  But  how  will  that 
be  done  by  his  Bill  ?  The  sting  will 
still  be  in  the  monster;  but  much  of 
the  venom  will  be  taken  from  it,  and 
what  is  left  will  not  be  mortal.  For 
first  of  all,  it  prohibits  the  labour  of 
infants  under  the  age  of  nine  years. 
How  much  may,  in  time,  be  learned 
at  home  or  at  school,  before  the  ex- 
piration of  that  period,  now  worse 
than  lost !  How  many  little  domestic 
arts  and  appliances,  in  which  child- 
ren of  the  same  tender  years  are  so 
skilful,  "  among  the  rural  villages 
and  farms!"  And  better  far  even 
than  these,  how  much  of  filial  affec- 
tion sweetening  the  sense  of  duty, 
a  sense,  alas !  in  those  districts  with- 
in many  miserable  families  utterly 
unknown  !  Children  may  then  learn 
to  say  their  prayers,  and  their  parents 
will  be  happy  to  hear  them  doing  so 
— to  see  their  little  arms  and  hands 
in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  unscarred 
and  undiscoloured  by  cruel  wounds. 
Now,  prayer  must  seem  to  too  many 
wretched  parents  a  mockery — or 
worse  than  a  mockery  from  such  livid 
lips ;  and  how  can  the  poor  creatures 
get  through  a  prayer  under  a  load  of 
weariness, — struggling,  or  sinking 
without  a  struggle,  into  the  short 
respite  of  sleep ! 

Then  to  all  between  nine  and 
eighteen  years,  actual  work,  exclu- 
sive of  meals  and  refreshment,  is  to 
be  limited  to — ten  hours.  Ten  hours ! 
limited  to  ten  hours  !  "  Is  there  not, 
Sir," — indignantly  exclaims  the  elo- 
quentChildren'sFriend — "something 
inexpressibly  cruel,  moft  disgusting- 


446 


Tht  Factory  System. 


[April, 


ly  selfish,  in  thus  attempting  to  as- 
certain the  utmost  limits  to  which 
infant  labour  and  fatigue  may  be  car- 
ried, without  their  certainly  occa- 
sioning misery  and  destruction  ! — 
the  full  extent  of  profitable  torture 
that  may  be  safely  inflicted,  and  in 
appealing  to  learned  and  experien- 
ced doctors  to  fix  the  precise  point, 
beyond  which  it  would  be  murder  to 
proceed !"  To  the  humane  mind, 
somewhat  inconsiderate  in  its  mer- 
ciful disposition,  it  at  first  seems  as 
if  Mr  Sadler's  own  Bill  were  bar- 
barous. It  cuts  off  but  one  hour — 
— or  two — (aye,  in  many  cases,  three 
and  four,  and  five,)  from  the  weary 
working-day,  and  still  leaves  child- 
ren slaves.  But  poor  people,  young 
and  old,  must  work,  and  they  are 
willing  to  work.  Even  in  one  hour 
may  then  be  developed  many  bless- 
ings. In  one  hour  are  now  crowded 
countless  curses.  Put  on  or  take  off 
twenty  pounds,  when  a  strong  man's 
back  bears  200,  and  he  slackens  his 
pace  in  pain,  or  increases  it  with 
pleasure,  beneath  the  loaded,  or  the 
lightened  burden. 

But  the  mercy  is  to  be  shewn 
not  to  their  mere  bodies,  but  to 
their  minds.  Yes  !  they  have  minds 
— and  what  is  more,  hearts,  and  im- 
mortal souls.  Many  who  harangue 
and  scribble  about  the  education  of 
the  people,  forget  that, — or  perhaps 
they  do  not  believe  it.  We,  who 
have  been  called  lovers  of  intellec- 
tual darkness  among  the  lower  ranks, 
have  wished  to  see  the  torch  of 
knowledge  lighted  at  the  sun  of  Re- 
velation, that  it  may  burn,  a  shining 
and  a  saving  light,  over  all  the  land, 
undimmed  by  mists,  and  steady  in 
storms. 

But  what  minds — to  say  nothing 
of  hearts  and  souls — can  there  be  in 
those  Factories  ?  Many  of  extraor- 
dinary— of  surpassing  worth.  They 
have  sent  witnesses  to  the  Commit- 
tee who  are  an  honour  to  England. 
They  have  sent  delegates  over  great 
part  of  the  north,  whom  to  despise 
would  prove  the  proudest  aristocrat 
to  be  despicable,  man  to  man.  "  What 
lessons  had  they  known  ?"  There  is 
the  mystery.  But  in  that  clamorous 
and  doleful  region  they  found  silence 
and  light,  in  which  the  powers  and 
faculties  of  their  minds  grew  up  to 
no  unstately  strength  ;  as  one  some- 
times sees  trees  green  and  flourish- 


ing, though  their  leaves  be  somewhat 
dimmed  with  dust,  and  their  knotted 
boles  begrimed  with  the  smoke — 
with  the  soot  of  cities. 

And  what  are  their  hearts?  We 
have  seen  them,  and  groaned  to  see, 
withered  and  rotten,  or  when  crush- 
ed, full  of  ashes.  But  all  are  not 
such.  Nature's  holiest  affections 
have,  in  thousands  of  cases,  there 
survived  both  the  mildew  and  the 
blight.  The  profligate  boy,  who  may 
have  cursed  his  own  father  to  his 
face,  and  broken  his  mother's  heart, 
grown  up  to  be  a  man,  has  outgrown 
the  vices  that  once  seemed  festering 
in  his  own  heart,  and  to  blacken  its 
very  blood.  He  has  become  a  good 
husband  to  the  wife,  whom  when  al- 
most a  child  he  had  basely  seduced ; 
and  rather  than  see  his  boy  such  a  boy 
as  he  was,  his  girl  such  a  girl  as  once 
was  the  mother  that  bore  him,  would 
he  see  them  both  buried  in  one 
grave,  and  pray  that  their  parents 
too  might  be  dust  to  dust. 

How  much  unassisted  human  na- 
ture may  thus  do  by  means  of  its 
own  affections,  for  its  own  purifica- 
tion, we  know  not ;  but  let  in  upon 
the  forsaken  soul  even  some  small 
stray  light  of  religion,  like  a  few 
broken  sun-rays  through  a  chink  in 
the  window  of  a  room  lying  in  de- 
serted darkness,  and  in  both  there 
shall  be  the  same  vital  change.  Per- 
haps a  few  plants  in  flower-pots  had 
been  left  by  the  tenants  on  going 
away,  to  die  on  the  floor  in  their 
worthlessness ;  and  they  were  almost 
dead.  But  they  lift  up  their  leaves 
at  that  faint  touch  of  light,  and  look 
towards  the  day.  Thus  will  they 
live  lingeringly  on,  and  wondrously 
survive  in  that  less  than  twilight. 
Let  in  more  sun,  and  with  it  too 
the  blessed  tfreath  of  heaven,  and 
they  will  recover  some  tinge  of 
beauty.  Fling  open  the  shutters,  and 
shew  them  all  the  sky,  and  in  a 
few  weeks  green  as  emerald  is  the 
foliage,  and  bright  are  the  blossoms 
as  rubies.  Even  so  is  it  with  the 
flowering  plants — the  thoughts  and 
feelings  in  that  soul — the  soul  of  an 
operative  in  a  Factory  or  Cotton-mill ; 
and  if  you  think  the  illustration  out 
of  place  as  too  poetical,  you  can  feel 
nothing  for  the  glory  that  is  seen  by 
the  inner  eye,  sometimes  stealing 
over  the  degradation  of  our  fallen 
nature. 


1833.] 


The  Factory  System, 


As  the  Factory  System  now  works, 
all  who  do  get  any  education,  get  it 
tnder  dismal  difficulties  and  disad- 
vantages; the  most  any  get  can  be 
but  little;  and  thousands  on  thou- 
sands get  none.  The  very  young, 
wearied  and  worn  out  as  they  must 
be,  do  not  need  to  be  sent  to  bed; 
but  if  the  power  of  cruelty  could  for- 
ward them  on  their  last  legs,  to 
school,  we  defy  it  to  keep  the  leaden 
lids  from  closing  over  the  dim  eyes 
in  sleep.  By  the  time  they  might, 
by  possibility,  goto  school,  what  in- 
clination will  they  have  to  learn  ? 
A  school-room  filled  at  sunset  with 
children,  who  have  been  employed 
an  they  have  been  since  sunrise, 
would  be  a  shocking  spectacle,  and 
we  devoutly  trust  there  are  few  such 
places  of  punishment  in  a  Christian 
land.  But  under  Mr  Sadler's  Bill, 
school  education,  which  had  been 
going  on  with  many  before  nine 
years  of  age,  might  be  continued,  in 
some  measure,  after  that  period,  and 
all  might  have  some  instruction.  A 
wish  for  it,  perhaps  a  desire,  might 
spring  up  among  the  children  them- 
selves ;  and  those  parents  who  have 
now  not  only  an  excuse  for  their 
indifference,  but  in  nature  and  rea- 
son a  right  of  scorn,  when  you  talk 
to  them  about  reading  and  writing, 
would  be  ashamed  of  their  own  ig- 
norance, and  look  better  after  their 
children  in  all  things.  They  would 
be  proud  and  happy  to  see  them 
getting  a  month's  schooling  now  and 
then,  and  small,  after  all  has  been 
.  done,  must  be  the  scholarship  that 
can  ever  be  acquired,  except  what 
nature  teaches,  in  those  Factories. 

Under  the  present  system, — sorry 
are  we  to  say  it,  but  it  is  true,— little 
good  is  done  by  Sunday-schools. 
Uiider  Mr  Sadler's  bill,  great  good 
mi*ht  be  done  by  them — good  in- 
calculable; for  they  would  entirely 
change  their  character.  Now,  they 
are  the  only  means  of  education. 
The  Rev.  G.  S.  Bull  says,  that  «  Chil- 
dren cannot  obtain  any  thing  like 
a  knowledge  of  letters  suitable  for  a 
cottage  education,  except  on  Sun- 
da}."  That  excellent  man  has  been 
a  Sunday-school  teacher  ever  since 
he  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  has 
scarcely  ever  spent  aSunday  without 
att(  nding  them  personally.  In  seven 
Sunday-schools  in  his  own  neigh- 
bourhood, there  are  1135  scholars. 
Bu(  be  confesses  that  their  effects 


447 

have  not  been  great,  in  counteract- 
ing the  immoral  and  irreligious  ten- 
dencies that  exist  in  human  nature, 
throughout  the  manufacturing  dis- 
tricts. Their  failure,  he  says,  is 
mainly  attributable  to  the  "  lassitude 
of  the  scholars."  The  poor  creatures 
cannot  command  their  attention.  Be- 
sides, the  time  during  which  they 
are  instructed  is  quite  insufficient 
to  produce  the  desired  effect  ;  —  two 
hours  before  divine  service,  in  sum- 
mer, one  hour  in  winter,  and  another 
hour  before  divine  service  in  the 
afternoon.  But  from  the  time  of 
instruction  have  to  be  deducted  the 
intervals  of  marking  attendance,  gi- 
ving out  books  and  taking  them  in, 
and  preparing  to  attend  divine  ser- 
vice, which  is  a  very  considerable 
diminution  of  time.  During  nearly 
the  whole  time,  they  are  occu- 
pied with  the  mere  machinery  of 
reading,  —  the  A,  B,  C  part  of  it;  and 
as  to  impressing  religious  precepts, 
or  explaining  religious  doctrines,  it 
is  next  to  impossible.  Then  there  is 
great  difficulty  in  finding  proper 
teachers.  They  belong  to  that  class 
who  have  to  make  long  and  laborious 
exertions  during  the  preceding  week, 
to  earn  their  own  maintenance.  And 
they,  asks  the  Chairman  of  the  Com- 
mittee, "nevertheless,  seeing  the  total 
destitution  in  which  the  children 
would  be  otherwise  left,  devote  their 
only  day  of  leisure  or  of  domestic 
enjoyment,  to  the  noble  purpose  of 
giving  some  little  'instruction  or  in- 
formation to  those  poor  deserted 
children  ?"  And  the  Rev.  G.  S.  Bull 
replies,  "I  would  say  that  I,  as  a 
clergyman,  am  almost  entirely  in- 
debted to  the  labouring  classes  for 
the  assistance  by  which  51  6  children 
are,  in  some  degree,  religiously  edu- 
cated under  my  care  ;  and  I  would 
also  add,  that  it  is  the  lamentation  of 
many  of  my  teachers  —  their  own 
spontaneous  lamentation  —  that  the 
circumstances  of  their  youth,  I  was 
oing  to  say  infancy,  the  continuous 
abour  to  which  they  have  been  ac- 
customed, and  the  little  leisure  they 
have  had  for  improvement,  render 
them  far  less  efficient  than  they 
would  wish."  At  a  meeting  of  48 
Sunday-school  teachers,  of  various 
denominations,(a  teacher  being  voted 
to  the  chair,  who  was  himself  part- 
owner  of  a  Factory,)  they  came  to  a 
unanimous  resolution,  that  the  Fac- 
tory System,  as  at  present  conduct- 


g 
l 


448 

ed,  decidedly  interfered  with  their 
plans  of  religious  instruction,  and 
that  the  amelioration  which  had  been 
proposed,  was  absolutely  necessary, 
that  they  might  have  any  chance  of 
producing  those  effects  which  they 
desired  to  see,  as  the  result  of  their 
labours.  We  can  add  nothing  to  the 
simple  statement  of  these  simple  men. 
Under  Mr  Sadler's  Bill,  evening 
schools  would  arise,  children  would 
then  learn  to  read,  and  then  Sunday 
schools  would  be  schools  of  religion. 

But  while  children  continue  to  be 
employed  in  the  Factories,  say  twelve 
hours  and  a  half  a-day,  exclusive  of 
meals  and  recreation^  it  must  be  a 
painful  thing  to  all  minds,  as  it  has 
often  been  to  the  mind  of  the  good 
clergyman  from  whom  we  have  been 
quoting,  "  to  consider  the  manner  in 
which  we  confine  the  children  on 
the  Sabbath-day,  after  the  very  close 
confinement  of  the  week.  They  may 
think  that  our  system  on  the  Sabbath- 
day  is  a  sort  of  justification  of  the 
system  in  the  week-day;  for  we, 
while  they  are  stowed  up  in  the 
mills  during  six  days  of  the  week, 
confine  them  in  our  crowded  Sunday- 
school-rooms  on  the  Sabbath-day/* 
Oneandallof  the  medical  witnesses — 
Blundell,  Carlisle,  Brodie,  Roget, 
Blizzard,  Elliotson,  Tuthill,  Green, 
Key,  Guthrie,  Bell,  Travers,— speak 
in  the  strongest  terms  of  the  certain 
and  great  injury  to  the  health  of  chil- 
dren who  have  been  working  all  the 
week  twelve  hours  a-day  and  more,  in 
heated  Factories,  from  being  shut  up 
again  in  crowded  schools  on  the 
Sabbath.  Under  the  present  system, 
the  most  conscientious  and  pious 
men  can  hardly  bring  themselves  to 
believe  Sunday  schools  should  be 
encouraged ;  under  another,  no  con- 
scientious and  pious  man  could  for 
a  moment  doubt  that  they  would  be 
a  precious  blessing  to  the  poor. 

Is  it  possible  that  such  simple  and 
clear  truths  as  these,  which  require 
not  to  be  evolved,"  but  merely  held 
up  to  the  light,  that  all  men  of 
common  intelligence  and  humanity 
may  see  them  as  plain  as  Scripture, 
can  be  dim  or  doubtful,  or  disbe- 
lieved ?  Aye— they  are  invisible  to  "  A 
manufacturer," — who  foolishly  and 
insolently  says  of  Mr  Sadler— among 
other  thrice  repeated  calumnies — 
"  that  if  the  worthy  gentleman  un- 
derstands the  subject  at  all,  he  must 
know  very  well  that  his  only  chance 


The  Factory  System. 


[April, 


of  benefiting  the  working-classes,  and 
of  sustaining  his  popularity,  is  in 
the  failure  of  his  own  Bill."  This 
very  ungentlemanly  person  says, 
"  But  to  the  point  at  issue — let  me 
inquire  how  the  health  and  morals 
of  the  population  are  to  be  secured" 
(nobody  ever  said  so),  "  by  lessening 
the  duration  of  labour  only  half  an 
hour  per  day,"  (he  is  speaking  of  Sir 
Cam  Hobhouse's  Bill,)  "  or  even  a 
whole  hour  per  day,  as  some  restric- 
tionists  would  curtail  them  ?  How  is 
health  to  be  improved,  how  are  evil 
communications  and  acquaintance 
to  be  counteracted  by  half  an  hour's 
respite  from  the  sources  of  conta- 
gion, whilst  the  children  are  still  ex- 
posed to  them  all  the  rest  of  the 
day  ?  Is  it  not  self-evident,  that  if 
either  the  physical  or  moral  atmo- 
sphere be  infected,  nothing  but 
strict  quarantine  can  prevent  infec- 
tion? If  exposure  to  the  source  of 
infection  for  a  single  hour  be  suffi- 
cient to  produce  disease,  how  can 
the  effects  of  ten,  eleven,  or  eleven 
and  a  half  hours'  association  with 
the  causes  be  counteracted  by  half  an 
hour's  earlier  removal,  or  by  any 
thing  but  total  absence  from  expo- 
sure ?" 

We  have  shewn  him  how — but 
there  are  none  so  blind  as  those  who 
will  not  see — and  he  will  continue 
to  hug  himself  on  the  close  of  that 
most  absurd  paragraph,  in  which  he 
affirms,  that  limitation  of  hours  of 
labour  "  will  avail  no  more  than  to 
fix  limits  to  the  rolling  tide  of  ocean, 
or  the  boundless  powers  of  thought  /" 

How  fine ! 

We  have  no  room  now — to  enter  at 
any  length  into  the  pditico-economi- 
cal  view  of  the  question.  It  would 
appear  that  some  Mill-owners  have 
declared  they  cannot  abridge  "the 
long  and  slavish  hours  of  infant  la» 
bour,"  because  of  the  Corn  Laws. 
Suppose  they  were  justto  try.  We  do 
not  see  any  very  great  difficulty  they 
would  have  to  encounter  in  getting 
on  tolerably  well  with  theabridgment 
and  the  Corn  Laws.  Were  not  many 
of  them  once  very  poor — who  are  now 
very  rich  men — in  spite  of  the  Corn 
Laws  ?  During  their  progress  to  opu- 
lence (the  wealth  of  some  of  them  to 
the  imagination  of  a  poor  man  like  us 
seems  enormous)  were  wages  always 
progressive  too,  and  the  operative 
well-off?  But  has  it  never  occurred 
to  them,  that  "  many  of  them  owe 


1833.] 


The  Factory  System. 


every  farthing  they  possess  to  these 
little  labourers  ?"  They  may  com- 
plain, then,  of  the  Corn  Laws ;  but 
not  employ  them  as  an  argument 
against  their  showing  gratitude  to 
their  benefactors.  Grant  they  suffer 
some  loss.  la  the  sight  of  smiles 
spread  over  five  hundred  human 
faces  no  recompense  to  a  rich  or 
well-to-do  man  for  the  loss  of  a  shil- 
ling or  two  in  the  pound  ?  To  men 
of  commonplace — common-run  hu- 
manity— we  think  it  might;  and 
among  the  Mill- owners  there  are 
many  men  whose  characters  are  up 
to  that  mark, — many  far  above  it, 
who  will  not  oppose — but  we  trust 
support,  Mr  Sadler's  Bill,  and  after- 
wards with  a  safe  conscience,  if  such 
he  their  way  of  thinking,  they  may 
try  to  crack  the  heads  of  the  Corn 
Laws  with  their  billy-rollers. 

"  When  the  demand  is  given,  prices 
und  values  vary  inversely  as  the 
supply."  So  it  has  been  shortly  and 
truly  said  by  a  sage.  If  under  a  Ten- 
Hour  Bill  the  supply  be  less,  the 
value  will  be  just  so  much  greater; 
&nd  to  the  capitalist  there  may  be 
no  loss  at  all.  When  he  talks  of  not 
being  able  to  afford  abridgment  of 
labour,  he  would  appear  to  be  labour- 
ing under  a  confusion  of  ideas.  But, 
perhaps,  so  are  we ;  therefore  we 
shall  leave  the  axiom  to  take  care  of 
itself  within  inverted  comas. 

But  they  are  afraid  that  the  loss 
will  fall  upon  the  poor.  This  is  taking 
up  new  ground — a  change  of  posi- 
tion. They  surely  can  consent — if 
they  choose — to  an  abridgment  of 
the  wages  of  the  poor — in  spite  of 
the  Corn  Laws.  But  do  wages  fall 
with  under-production,  as  well  as 
with  over-production  V  Then  we 
pity  the  poor  wages. 

But  is  not  the  demand  that  governs 
the  employment  of  many  of  our  Mills 
and^Factories  governed  by  foreign 
competition?  No — it  is  not.  The 
most  formidable  competition,  as  Mr 
Sadler  clearly  shews  in  his  speech, 
is  between  rival  British  spinners — a 
competition  in  cruelty  and  oppres- 
sion— of  which  these  innocent  little 
labourers,  whose  cause  he  cham- 
pions, are  the  victims. 

But  grant  that  the  operatives  un- 
der a  Ten-Hour  Bill  will  get  less 
wages,because  they  will  then  produce 
less.  How  much  less  will  they  pro- 
duce ?  As  a  man  works  better  when 
he  is  not  tired  than  when  he  is,  he 


•  449 

will,  it  is  admitted  on  and  by  all 
hands,  do  as  much,  minus  one  twelfth' 
part,  in  ten  hours  as  in  twelve;  and  is 
a  twelfth-part  of  his  weekly  wages  a 
price  that  he  would  grudge  to  pay 
for  some  domestic  happiness  every 
evening,  some  rest  and  something 
better  than  rest  every  Sabbath  ? 

But  as  he  will  suffer  less  under  ten 
hours'  work  than  under  twelve  or 
more,  so  he  will  cost  himself  less  in 
keeping  himself  alive.  Doctor's  fees, 
one  item  of  his  expenses,will  dwindle 
down  to  next  to  nothing.  The  child- 
ren will  have  time  to  go  home  to 
meals.  That  is  no  small  saving.  And 
Joseph  Sadler,  the  Rev.  Mr  Bull,  and 
other  witnesses,  point  out  many  sa- 
vings besides — which  taken  together 
might  more  than  counterbalance  the 
loss  of  a  twelfth-part  of  wages. 

But  what  if,  in  ten  hours,  opera- 
tives in  factories  were  to  do  as  much 
as  they  now  do?  Then  would  they  be 
"  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise  ;"  and 
they  would  owe  it  all  to  Mr  Sadler. 
But  what  if  all  these  paragraphs 
beginning  with  "but"  be  but  a  series 
of  blunders  ?  It  is  not  surely  a  blunder 
to  assert  that  the  wealth  of  a  nation 
can  never  be  increased  by  the  sacri- 
fice of  the  strength  and  lives  of 
the  people  employed  in  one  great 
branch  of  its  manufactures.  Pau- 
perism is  not  a  source  of  national 
wealth.  In  factories  you  see  few 
operatives  above  forty  years  old. 
Have  they  gone  to  their  graves,  or 
the  workhouse  ? 

Many  to  the  workhouse — more  to 
the  grave. 

In  the  Appendix  to  the  Report,  there 
is  a  Comparative  Table  of  the  dura- 
tion of  life.  We  have  the  number  of 
persons  buried,  and  at  what  age 
buried,  during  fifteen  years,  (1815 
to  1830,)  in  certain  counties  and 
places;  namely,  in  Rutland,  Essex, 
London,  Chester,  Norwich,  and  Car- 
lisle ;  the  several  parishes  of  Bolton- 
le-Moors,  Bury,  Preston,  Wigan, 
Bradford,  (in  Yorkshire,)  Stockport 
andMacclesfield;  the  Town  of  Leeds, 
and  the  Townships  of  Holbeck  and 
Beeston,  in  the  Parish  of  Leeds  ; 
shewingthe  number  buried  underfive 
years  of  age,  from  5  to  10,  from  10 
to  15,  from  15  to  20,  from  20  to  30, 
and  so  for  each  decennary  period  to 
the  end  of  life :  with  decimal  results 
annexed,  for  the  purpose  of  com- 
parison. It  is  a  most  instructive  nest 
of  Tables,  and  here  are  results, 


450  The  Factory  System. 

In  every  10,000  of  the  Persons  buried,  there  died— 


[April, 


In  the  Healthy  County 

In  the  Marshy  County,       .... 
In  the  Metropolis, 

In  the  City  of  Chester, 

In  the  City  of  Norwich,      .... 

In  the  City  of  Carlisle,  (former  state) . 

In  the  City  of  Carlisle,  (present  state) 

In  the  Town  of  Bradford,  (Worsted  Spinning) 

In  the  Town  of  Macclesfield  j  Si\Sn?J™Jn|and  } 
In  the  Town  of  Wigan,  (Cotton  Spinning,  &c.) 
In  the  Town  of  Preston,         (ditto)     . 
In  the  Town  of  Bury,  (ditto)     . 

In  the  Town  of  Stockport,      (ditto)     . 
In  the  Town  of  Bolton,          (ditto)     . 

rT      ,        C  Woollen,  Flax,  and  ~) 
In  the  Town  of  Leeds,     J    Silk  Spinning,  &c.    J 

Holbeck  (Flax  Spinning)    .... 

So  that  about  as  many  have  died 
before  their  twentieth  year,  where  the 
Factory  system  exclusively  prevails, 
as  before  their  fortieth  year  else- 
where. 

But  are  the  operatives  themselves 
afraid  of  a  fall  in  their  wages  under 
a  Ten-Hour  Bill  ?  No.  Men,  women, 
and  children,  are  unanimous  for  re- 
lease from  slavery.  Many  believe 
there  will  be  no  fall,  many  that  there 
will;  but  though  as  a  class  they  are 
degraded,  they  are  yet  human ;  they 
feel,  though  you  treat  them  as  such, 
that  they  are  neither  machines  nor 
brutes. 

Seeing  and  feeling  the  subject  in 
all  its  bearings,  Mr  Sadler,  towards 
the  close  of  his  speech,  broke  forth 
into  the  following  fine  strain  of  elo- 
quence : — "  The  industrious  classes 
are  looking  with  intense  interest  to 
the  proceedings  of  this  night,  and  are 
deinandingprotection  for  themselves 
and  their  children.  Thousands  of 
maternal  bosoms  are  beating  with 
the  deepest  anxiety  for  the  future 
fate  of  their  long  oppressed  and  de- 
graded offspring.  Nay,  the  children 
themselves  are  made  aware  of  the 
importance  of  your  present  decision, 
and  look  towards  this  House  for  suc- 
cour. I  wish  I  could  bring  a  group 
of  these  little  ones  to  that  bar, — I  am 
sure  their  silent  appearance  would 


3756 
4279 
4580 
4538 
4962 
5319 
5668 
5896 


Under  43     Lived  to  40 
Years  old.  and  upwards. 


5031 
5805 
6111 
.6066 
6049 
6325 
6927 
7061 


388$ 
393*. 
3951 
3674 
3071 
2939 


5889    7300    2700 


5911 
6083 
6017 
6005 
6113 


7117 
7462 
7319 
7367 
7459 


2883 
2538 
2681 
2633 
2541 


7441    2559 


7337    2663 


6213 
6133 

— when  in  the  intervals  of  those  loud 
and  general  acclamations  which  rent 
the  air,  while  their  great  and  unri- 
valled champion,  Richard  Oastler, 
(whose  name  is  now  lisped  by  thou- 
sands of  these  infants,  and  will  be 
transmitted  to  posterity  with  undi- 
minished  gratitude  and  affection ;) — 
when  this  friend  of  the  Factory  child- 
ren was  pleading  their  cause  as  he 
alone  can  plead  it,  the  repeated 
cheers  of  a  number  of  shrill  voices 
were  heard,  which  sounded  like 
echoes  to  our  own  ;  and  on  looking 
around,  we  saw  several  groups  of 
little  children,  amidst  the  crowd,  who 
raised  their  voices  in  the  fervour  of 
hope  and  exultation,  while  they  heard 
their  sufferings  commiserated,  and, 
as  they  believed,  about  to  be  redress- 
ed. Sir,  I  still  hope,  as  I  did  then, 
that  their  righteous  cause  will  pre- 
vail. But  I  have  seen  enough  to  mingle 
apprehension  with  my  hopes.  I  per- 
ceive the  rich  and  the  powerful  once 
more  leaguing  against  them,  and 
wielding  that  wealth  which  these 
children,  or  such  as  they,  have  crea- 
ted, against  their  cause.  I  have  long 
seen  the  mighty  efforts  that  are  made 
to  keep  them  in  bondage,  and  have 
been  deeply  affected  at  their  conti- 
nued success ;  so  that  I  can  hardly 
refrain  from  exclaiming  with  one  of 
old,  *  I  returned,  and  considered  all 


plead  more  forcibly  in  their  behalf    the  oppressions  that  are  done  under 


than  the  loudest  eloquence.  I  shall 
not  soon  forget  their  affecting  pre- 
sence on  a  recent  occasion,  when 
many  thousands  of  the  people  of  the 
north  were  assembled  m  their  cause 


the  sun,  and  beheld  the  tears  of  such 
as  were  oppressed,  and  on  the  side 
of  the  oppressors  there  was  power, 
but  they  had  no  comforter!' " 


1832.] 


Tom  Crinfflefs  Log, 


451 


TOM  CRINGLE'S  LOG. 
CHAP.  XX. 

BRINGIN7G  UP  LEE-WAY, 


Sleep,  gentle  sleep— 

Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains, 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge, 
And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds, 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top, 
Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  them 
With  deaf  ning  clamours  in  the  slippery  shrouds, 
That  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes— 
Canst  thou,  oh  partial  sleep,  give  thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude  ? 

King  Henry  If. 


AFTER  dinner  we  carried  on  very 
much  as  usual,  although  the  events 
of  the  previous  day  had  their  natural 
e;Fect;  there  was  little  mirth,  and  no 
Icud  laughter.  Once  more  we  all 
turned  in,  the  calm  still  continuing, 
and  next  morning  after  breakfast, 
friend  Aaron  took  to  the  Log  again. 

"  Let  me  see, — *  Heligoland  light — 
north  and  by  west' — so  many  leagues. 
Ail  leather  and  prunella  to  me, 
Tom — *  wind  baffling — weather  hazy 
— Lady  Passengers  on  deck  for  the 
first  time.'  What !  the  plump  lit- 
tlo  partridges  formerly  mentioned, 
Tom?"  I  nodded. 

"  Arrived  in  the  Downs — ordered 
by  signal  from  the  guard-ship  to 
proceed  to  Portsmouth.  Arrived  at 
Spithead — ordered  to  fit  to  receive 
a  general  officer,  and  six  pieces  of 
fit  Id  artillery,  and  a  Spanish  Eccle- 
siastic, the  Canon  of ." 

"  Plenty  of  great  guns,  Tom,  at 
any  rate — a  regular  park  of  ar- 
tillery. Pray,  what  was  the  calibre 
of  the  Spanish  Priest  ? — was  he  a 
long  gun,  or  a  short  gun,  a  brass  can- 
non, or  a  carronade  ?" 

"  He  was  a  very  pleasant,  stout 
little  man,"  said  I. 

"Oh — a  bomb  I  suppose." 

"  Received  General  **#*  and  his 
wi.'e,  and  Aid-de-camp,  and  two 
poodle-dogs,  one  white  man-servant, 
on<»  black  ditto,  and  the  Canon  of 
,  and  the  six  nine-pound  field- 
pieces,  and  sailed  for  the  Cove  of 
Cork. 

"  It  was  blowing  hard  as  we  stood 
in  for  the  Old  Head  of  Kinsale— - 
pilot  boat  breasting  the  foaming 
surge  like  a  sea  gull — '  Carrol  Cove* 
in  her  tiny  mainsail — pilot  jumped 

VOL.  xxxin.  NO.  ccvi. 


into  the  main  channel — bottle  of 
rum  swung  by  the  lead  line  into  the 
boat — all  very  clever. 

"  Ran  in,  and  anchored  under 
Spike  Island.  A  line-of- battle  ship, 
and  three  frigates,  and  a  number  of 
merchantmen  at  anchor — men  of  wac 
lovely  craft — bands  playing — a  good 
deal  of  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  war.  In  the  evening,  Mr  Tree- 
nail, the  second  lieutenant,  sent  for 
me. 

"  «  Mr  Cringle,'  said  he,  '  you 
have  an  uncle  in  Cork,  I  believe  ?' 

"  I  said  I  had. 

"  *  I  am  going  there  on  duty  to- 
night; I  daresay,  if  you  asked  the 
Captain  to  let  you  accompany  me, 
he  would  do  so.'  This  was  too  good 
an  offer  not  to  be  taken  advantage 
of.  I  plucked  up  courage,  made  my 
bow,  asked  leave,  and  got  it ;  and  the 
evening  found  my  friend,  the  lieute- 
nant, and  myself,  after  a  ride  of  three 
hours,  during  which  I,  for  one,  had 
my  bottom  sheathing  grievously 
rubbed,  and  a  considerable  bothera- 
tion at  crossing  the  Ferry  at  Passage, 
safe  in  our  Inn  at  Cork.  I  soon 
found  out  that  the  object  of  my  su- 
perior officer  was  to  gain  informa- 
tion amongst  the  crimp  shops,  where 
ten  men  who  had  run  from  one  of 
the  West  Indiameu,  waiting  at  Cove 
for  convoy,  were  stowed  away,  but 
I  was  not  let  farther  into  the  secret ; 
so  I  set  out  to  pay  my  visit,  and 
after  passing  a  pleasant  evening 
with  my  friends,  Mr  and  Mrs  Job 
Cringle,  the  Lieutenant  dropped  in 
upon  us  about  nine  o'clock.  He 
was  heartily  welcomed,  and  under 
the  plea  of  our  being  obliged  to  re- 
turn to  the  ship  early  next  morning, 
2  G 


452 

we  soon  took  leave,  and  returned  to 
the  Inn.  As  I  was  turning  into  the 
public  room,  the  door  was  open.  I 
could  see  it  full  of  blowzy-faced 
in unsters,  glimmering  and  jabber- 
ing, through  the  mist  of  hot  brandy, 
grog,  and  gin  twist  ;  with  poodle 
JJeujimins,  and  great-coats,  and 
cloaks  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  steam- 
ing on  their  pegs,  with  barcelonas 
and  comforters,  and  damp  travelling 
caps  of  seal  skin,  and  blue  cloth, 
and  tartan,  arranged  above  the  same. 
Nevertheless,  such  a  society  in  my 
juvenile  estimation, during  my  short 
escapade  from  the  middy's  berth,  had 
its  charms,  and  I  was  rolling  in  with 
a  tolerable  swagger,  when  Mr  Tree- 
nail pinched  my  arm. 

"  '  Mr  Cringle,  come  here,  into  my 
room.' 

"  From  the  way  in  which  he  spoke, 
I  imagined,  in  my  innocence,  that 
his  room  was  at  my  elbow ;  but  no 
such  thing— we  had  to  ascend  along, 
and  not  overclean  staircase,  to  the 
fourth  floor,  before  we  were  shewn 
into  a  miserable  little  double-bedded 
room.  So  soon  as  we  had  entered, 
the  Lieutenant  shut  the  door. 

"  *  Tom,'  said  he,  '  I  have  taken  a 
fancy  to  you,  and  therefore  I  applied 
for  leave  to  bring  you  with  me;  but 
I  must  expose  you  to  some  danger, 
and,  I  will  allow,  not  altogether  in 
a  very  creditable  way  either.  You 
must  enact  the  spy  for  a  short  space.' 
I  did  not  like  the  notion  certainly, 
but  I  had  little  time  for  considera- 
tion. 

"  '  Here,'  he  continued—'  here  is 
a  bundle.'  He  threw  it  on  the 
floor.  '  You  must  rig  in  the  clothes 
it  contains,  and  make  your  way  into 
the  celebrated  crimp  shop  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  pick  up  all  the 
information  you  can  regarding  the 
haunts  of  the  pressable  men  at  Cove, 
especially  with  regard  to  the  ten  sea- 
men, who  have  run  from  the  West 
Indiaman  we  left  below.  You  know 
the  Admiral  has  forbidden  pressing 
in  Cork,  so  you  must  contrive  to 
frighten  the  blue  jackets  down  to 
Cove,  by  representing  yourself  as 
an  apprentice  of  one  of  the  mer- 
chant vessels,  who  had  run  from 
his  indentures,  and  that  you  had  nar- 
ruwly  escaped  from  a  press-gang  this 
very  night  here' 
"  I  made  no  scruples,  but  forth-' 


Tom  Cringle  s  Log. 


[April 


with  arrayed  myself  in  tlie  slops  con  - 
tained  in  the  bundle;  in  a  second- 
hand pair  of  shag  trowsers."-— 
"  Tom,"  said  Aaron,  "  that  was  very 
abominable"  —  "  Red  flannel  shirt, 
coarse  blue  cloth  jacket,  and  no 
waistcoat. 

"  '  Now,'  said  Mr  Treenail, «  stick 
a  quid  of  tobacco  into  your  cheek, 
and  take  the  cockade  out  of  your 
hat;  or  stop,  leave  it,  and  ship  this 
stripped  woollen  night-cap  so,  and 
come  along  with  me.' 

"  We  left  the  house,  and  walked 
half  a  mile  down  what  we  call  a  Key, 
but  an  Irishman  a  K<iyt  and  with 
some  shew  of  reason  surely,  when 
we  both  spell  it  Quay" — "  Bah!" 
quoth  Bang — "trash." 

"  Presently  we  arrived  before  a 
kind  of  low  grog-shop — a  bright 
lamp  was  flaring  in  the  breeze  at  the 
door,  one  of  the  panes  of  the  glass  of 
it  being  broken. 

"  Before  I  entered,  Mr  Treenail  took 
me  to  one  side,  *  Torn,  Tom  Cringle, 
you  must  go  into  this  crimp  shop, 
pass  yourself  oft'  for  an  apprentice  of 
the  Guava,  bound  for  Trinidad,  and 
pick  up  all  the  knowledge  you  can 
regarding  the  whereabouts  of  the 
men,  for  we  are,  as  you  know,  cruelly 
ill  manned,  and  must  replenish  as  we 
best  may.'  I  entered  the  house, 
after  having  agreed  to  rejoin  my  su- 
perior officer,  so  soon  as  1  considered 
I  had  obtained  my  object.  1  rapped 
at  the  inner  door,  in  which  there 
was  a  small  unglazed  aperture  cut, 
about  four  inches  square;  and  I  now, 
for  the  first  time,  perceived  that  a 
strong  glare  of  light  was  cast  into 
the  lobby,  where  1  stood,  by  a  large 
argand,  with  a  brilliant  reflector,  that 
like  a  magazine  lantern  had  been 
morticed  into  the  bulkhead,  at  a 
height  of  about  two  feet  above  the 
door  in  which  the  spy- hole  was  cut. 
My  first  signal  was  not  attended  to; 
I  rapped  again,  and  looking  round  I 
noticed  Mr  Treenail  flitting  back- 
wards and  forwards  across  the  door- 
way, in  the  rain,  with  his  pale  face 
and  his  sharp  nose,  with  the  spark- 
ling drop  at  the  end  on't,  glancing  in 
the  light  of  the  lamp.  I  heard  a  step 
within,  and  a  very  pretty  face  now- 
appeared  at  the  wicket. 

*'  *  Who  are  you  saking  here,  an 
please  ye  ?' 

" «  No  one  in  particular,  my  dear, 


333.*] 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


>ut  if  you  don't  let  me  in,  I  shall  be 
lodged  in  jail. before  five  minutes  be 
over/ 

"  '  I  can't  help  that,  young  man,' 
taid  she;  '  but  where  are  ye  from, 
darling  ?' 

"  'Hush! — I  am  run  from  the 
Guava,  now  lying  at  the  Cove.' 

" '  Oh,'  said  my  beauty,  '  come  in ;' 
and  she  opened  the  door,  but  still 
kept  it  on  the  chain  in  such  a  way, 
that  although  by  bobbing,  I  creeped 
a  id  slid  in  beneath  it,  yet  a  common- 
sized  man  could  not  possibly  have 
squeezed  himself  through.  The  in- 
s^  ant  I  entered,  the  door  was  once 
more  banged  to,  and  the  next  mo- 
re ent  I  was  ushered  into  the  kitchen, 
a  room  about  fourteen  feet  square, 
with  a  well-sanded  floor,  a  huge 
dresser  on  one  side,  and  over  against 
it  a  respectable  shew  of  pewter  dishes 
in  racks  against  the  wall.  There  was 
a  long  stripe  of  a  deal  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room — but  no  table- 
cloth— at  the  bottom  of  which  sat  a 
large,  bloated,  brandy,  or  rather 
whisky- faced  savage,  dressed  in  a 
shabby  great-coat  of  the  hodden 
grey  worn  by  the  Irish  peasantry, 
dirty  s  wand  own  vest,  and  greasy 
ccrduroy  breeches,  worsted  stock- 
ings, and  well-patched  shoes ;  he  was 
snioking  a  long  pipe.  Around  the 
taole  sat  about  a  dozen  seamen,  from 
w  lose  wet  jackets  and  trowsers  the 
heat  of  the  blazing  fire,  that  roared 
uj>  the  chimney,  sent  up  a  smoky 
stnam  that  cast  a  halo  round  the 
lamp,  which  stank  abominably  of 
coarse  whale  oil,  and  depending  from 
th«j  roof,  hung  down  within  two  feet 
of  the  table.  They  were,  generally 
speaking,  hard  weatherbeaten-look- 
im;  men,  and  the  greater  proportion 
ha if,  or  more  than  half  drunk.  When 
I  entered,  I  walked  up  to  the  land- 
loid. 

'"Yo  ho,  my  young  un,  whence 
an  1  whither  bound,  my  hearty  ?* 

'' '  The  first  don't  signify  much  to 
yoi,'  said  I,  'seeing  1  have  where- 
wi  hal  in  the  locker  to  pay  my  shot; 
an  1  as  to  the  second,  of  that  here- 
after; so,  old  boy,  let's  have  some 
gr(  g,  and  then  say  if  you  can  ship 
me  with  one  of  them  colliers  that  are 
lyi  ig  alongside  the  quay?' 

"  '  My  eye,  what  a  lot  of -brass  that 
sm  ill  chap  has !'  grumbled  mine  host. 
'  V\  hy,  my  lad,  we  shall  see  to-mor- 
rov  morning;  but  you  gammons  so 


bad  about  the  rhino,  that  we  mu*t 
prove  you  a  bit;  so,  Kate,  my  dear* 
— to  the  pretty  girl  who  had  let  me 
in — '  score  a  pint  of  rum  against 
Why,  what  is  your  name  ?' 

" '  What's  that  to  you  ?'  rejoined  I, 
'  let's  have  the  drink,  and  don't  doubt 
but  the  shiners  shall  be  forthcoming.' 

"  '  Hurrah!'  shouted  the  party, most 
of  them  now  very  tipsy.  So  the  rum 
was  produced  forthwith,  and  as  I 
lighted  a  pipe  and  filled  a  glass  or* 
swizzle,  I  struck  in,  '  Messmates,  I 
hope,  you  have  all  shipped  ?' 

"  '  No,  we  han't/  said  some  of 
them. 

"  '  Nor  shall  we  be  in  any  hurry, 
boy,'  said  others. 

'"Do  as  you  please,  but  I  shall, 
as  soon  as  I  can,  I  know;  and  I  re- 
commend all  of  you  making  your- 
selves scarce  to-night,  and  keeping 
a  bright  look-out.' 

"  '  Why,  boy,  why  ?' 

"  '  Simply  because  I  have  just 
escaped  a  press-gang,  by  bracing 
sharp  up  at  the  corner  of  the  street, 
and  shoving  into  this  dark  alley  here.* 

"  This  called  forth  another  volley 
of  oaths  and  unsavoury  exclamations, 
and  all  was  bustle  and  confusion,  and 
packing  up  of  buridies,  and  settling 
of  reckonings. 

"'  Where,'  said  one  of  the  seamen, 
'  where  do  you  go  to,  my  lad  ?' 

"  '  Why,  if  I  can't  get  shipped  to- 
night, I  shall  trundle  down  to  Cove 
immediately,  so  as  to  cross  at  Pas- 
sage before  daylight,  and  take  my 
chance  of  shipping  with  some  of  the 
outward-bound  that  are  to  sail,  if  the 
wind  holds,  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
There  is  to  be  no  pressing  when 
blue  Peter  flies  at  the  fore — and  that 
was  hoisted  this  afternoon,  I  know, 
and  the  foretopsail  will  be  loose  to- 
morrow.' 

"  '  D— n  my  wig,  but  the  small 
chap  is  right,'  roared  one. 

"  '  I've  a  bloody  great  mind  to  go 
down  with  him,'  stuttered  another, 
after  several  unavailing  attempts  to 
weigh  from  the  bench,  where  he  had 
brought  himself  to  anchor. 

"  '  Hurrah!'  yelled  a  third,  as  he 
hugged  me,  and  nearly  suffocated  me 
with  his  maudling  caresses, '  I  trun- 
dles wid  you  too,  my  darling,  by  the 
piper.' 

" '  Have  with  you,  boy — have  with 
you,'  shouted  half-a-dozen  other 
voices,  while  each  stuck  his  oaken 


454 


Criiif/le's  Log. 


[April, 


twig  through  the  handkerchief  that 
held  his  bundle,  and  shouldered  it, 
clapping  his  straw  or  tarpaulin  hat, 
with  a  slap  on  the  crown,  on  one 
side  of  his  head,  and  staggering  and 
swaying  about  under  the  influence 
of  the  poteen,  and  slapping  his  thigh, 
as  he  bent  double,  laughing  like  to 
split  himself,  till  the  water  ran  over 
his  cheeks  from  his  drunken  half- 
shut  eyes,  and  while  jets  of  tobacco 
juice  were  squirting  in  all  directions. 

"  I  paid  the  reckoning,  urging  the 
party  to  proceed  all  the  while,  and 
indicating  Pat  Doolan's  at  the  Cove 
as  a  good  rendezvous;  and  promising 
to  overtake  them  before  they  reached 
Passage,  I  parted  company  at  the 
corner  of  the  street,  and  rejoined  the 
lieutenant. 

"  Next  morning  we  spent  in  look- 
ing about  the  town.  Cork  is  a  fine 
town — contains  seventy  thousand 
inhabitants,  more  or  less" — "  Safe 
in  that,  Tom,"  quoth  Aaron — "  and 
three  hundred  thousand  pigs,  driven 
by  herdsmen,  with  coarse  grey 
great-coats.  They  are  not  so  hand- 
some as  those  in  England,  where 
the  legs  are  short,  and  tails  curly; 
here  the  legs  are  long,  the  flanks 
sharp  and  thin,  and  tails  long  and 
straight." 

"  Which  party  do  you  here  speak 
of,  Tom — the  pigs  or  grey-coated 
drivers?" 

"Allans!" 

"  All  classes  speak  with  a  deuced 
brogue,  and  worship  graven  images, 
arrived  at  Cove  to  a  late  dinner." 

'*  Compendious  enough  this,"  said 
our  critic.  "  Could  they  find  no  graven 
images  to  bow  down  before,  except 
those  who  had  arrived  at  Cove  to  a 
late  dinner  ?" 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Wagtail, "  do  get 
on,  Aaron."  He  continued — 

"  It  was  about  half-past  ten  o'clock, 
and  I  was  preparing  to  turn  in,  when 
the  master  at  arms  called  down  to 
me, — 

"  *  Mr  Cringle,  you  are  wanted  in 
the  gun-room.' 

"  I  put  on  my  jacket  again,  and 
immediately  proceeded  thither,  and 
on  my  way  I  noticed  a  group  of 
seamen,  standing  on  the  starboard 
gangway,  dressed  in  pea  jackets,  un- 
der which,  by  the  light  of  a  lantern, 
carried  by  one  of  them,  I  could  see 
they  were  all  armed  with  pistol  and 
cutlass.  They  appeared  in  great 


glee,  and  as  they  made  way  for  me, 
I  could  hear  one  fellow  whisper, 
*  There  goes  the  little  beagle.'  When 
I  entered  the  gun-room,  the  first 
lieutenant,  master,  and  purser,  were 
sitting  smoking  and  enjoying  them- 
selves over  a  glass  of  cold  grog — the 
gunner  taking  the  watch  on  deck — 
the  doctor  was  piping  any  thing  but 
mellifluously  on  the  double  flageolet, 
while  the  Spanish  Priest,  and  Aide- 
de-Camp  to  the  General,  were  play- 
ing at  chess,  and  wrangling  in  bad 
French.  I  could  hear  Mr  Treenail 
rumbling  and  stumbling  in  his  State- 
room, as  he  accoutred  himself  in  a 
jacket  similar  to  those  of  the  armed 
boat's  crew  whom  I  had  passed,  and 
presently  he  stepped  into  the  gun- 
room, armed  also  with  cutlass  and 
pistol. 

"  *  Mr  Cringle,  get  ready  to  go  in 
the  boat  with  me,  and  bring  your 
arms  with  you.' 

"  I  now  knew  whereabouts  he  was, 
and  that  my  Cork  friends  were  the 
quarry  at  which  we  aimed.  I  did 
as  I  was  ordered,  and  we  immedi- 
ately pulled  on  shore,  where,  lea- 
ving two  strong  fellows  in  charge  of 
the  boat,  with  instructions  to  fire 
their  pistols  and  shove  off  a  couple 
of  boat-lengths,  should  any  suspi- 
cious circumstance,  indicating  an  at- 
tack, take  place,  we  separated,  like  a 
pulk  of  Cossacks  com  ing  to  the  charge, 
but  without  the  hourah,  with  orders 
to  meet  before  Pat  Doolan's  door, 
as  speedily  as  our  legs  could  carry 
us.  We  had  landed  about  a  cable's- 
length  to  the  right  of  the  high  preci- 
pitous bank — up  which  we  stole  in 
straggling  parties — on  which  that 
abominable  congregation  of  the  most 
filthy  huts  ever  pig  grunted  in,  is  si- 
tuated, called  the  Holy  Ground.  Pat 
Doolan's  domicile  was  in  a  little  dirty 
lane,  about  the  middle  of  the  village. 
Presently  ten  strapping  fellows,  in- 
cluding the  lieutenant,  were  before 
the  door,  each  man  with  his  stretch- 
er in  his  hand.  It  was  a  very  tem- 
pestuous, although  moonlight  night, 
occasionally  clear,  with  the  moon- 
beams at  one  moment  sparkling 
brightly  in  the  small  ripples  on  the 
filthy  puddles  before  the  door,  and 
on  the  gem-like  water-drops  that 
hung  from  the  eaves  of  the  thatched 
roof,  and  lighting  up  the  dark  statue- 
like  figures  of  the  men,  and  casting 
their  long  shadows  strongly  against 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


the  mud  wall  of  the  house ;  at  an- 
other, a  black  cloud,  as  it  flew  across 
1  er  disk,  cast  every  thing  into  deep 
shade,  while  the  only  noise  we  heard 
was  the  hoarse  dashing  of  the  dis- 
tint  surf,  rising  and  falling  on  the 
f  tful  gusts  of  the  breeze.  We  tried 
the  door.  It  was  fast. 

" '  Surround  the  house,  men,'  said 
the  lieutenant,  in  a  whisper.  He 
rapped  loudly.  *  Pat  Doolan,  my 
man,  open  your  door,  will  ye  ?'  No 
answer.  *  If  you  don't,  we  shall 
make  free  to  break  it  open,  Patrick, 
dear.' 

"  All  this  while  the  light  of  a  fire, 
cr  of  candles,  streamed  through  the 
joints  of  the  door.  The  threat  at 
length  appeared  to  have  the  desired 
effect.  A  poor  decrepid  old  man  un- 
did the  bolt  and  let  us  in.  *  Ohon  a 
rw  !  Ohon  a  reel  What  make  you 
all  this  boder  for — come  you  to  help 
us  to  wake  poor  ould  Kate  there, 
a  id  bring  you  the  whisky  wid  you?' 

"/  Old  man,  where  is  Pat  Doolan  V 
said  the  lieutenant. 

"  'Gone  to  borrow  whisky,  to  wake 
ould  Kate,  there; — the  howling  will 
begin  whenever  Mother  Doncannon 
and  Mistress  Conolly  come  over 
from  Middleton,  and  I  look  for  dern 
every  minute.' 

"  There  was  no  vestige  of  any  living 
thing  in  the  miserable  hovel,  except 
the  old  fellow.  On  two  low  trestles, 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  lay  a  cof- 
fin with  the  lid  on,  on  the. top  of 
which  was  stretched  the  dead  body 
ol  an  old  emaciated  woman  in  her 
gi  ave-clothes,  the  quality  of  which 
was  much  finer  than  one  could  have 
expected  to  have  seen  in  the  midst 
of  the  surrounding  squalidness.  The 
face  of  the  corpse  was  uncovered, 
the  hands  were  crossed  on  the  breast, 
acd  there  was  a  plate  of  salt  on  the 
stomach. 

"An  iron  cresset,  charged  with 
coarse  rancid  oil,  hung  from  thereof, 
the  dull  smoky  red  light  flickering 
on  the  dead  corpse,  as  the  breeze 
sti  earned  in  through  the  door  and 
in  mberless  chinks  in  the  walls, 
making  the  cold,  rigid,  sharp  fea- 
tu  -es  appear  to  move,  and  glimmer, 
and  gibber  as  it  were,  from  the 
ch-mging  shades.  Close  to  the  head, 
there  was  a  small  door  opening  into 
an  apartment  of  some  kind,  but  the 
cojfin  was  placed  so  near  it,  that  one 
could  not  pass  between  the  body 
and  the  door. 


455 

" «  My  good  man,'  said  Treenail,  to 
the  solitary  mourner,  «  I  must  beg 
leave  to  remove  the  body  a  bit,  and 
have  the  goodness  to  open  that  door.' 

" '  Door,  yere  honour  !  It's  no  door 
o'  mine — and  it's  not  opening  that 
same,  that  old  Phil  Carrol  shall 
busy  himself  wid.' 

"  *  Transom,'  said  Mr  Treenail, 
quick  and  sharp,  *  remove  the  body.' 
It  was  done. 

"  *  Cruel  heavy  the  old  dame  is,  sir, 
for  all  her  wasted  appearance,'  said 
one  of  the  men. 

"  The  lieutenant  now  ranged  the 
press-gang  against  the  wall  fronting 
the  door,  and  stepping  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  drew  his  pistol  and 
cocked  it.  '  Messmates,'  he  sung 
out,  as  if  addressing  the  sculkers  in 
the  other  room,  '  L  know  you  are 
here — the  house  is  surrounded — and 
unless  you  open  that  door  now,  by 
the  powers,  but  I'll  fire  slap  into  you.' 
There  was  a  bustle,  and  a  rumbling 
tumbling  noise  within.  *  My  lads, 
we  are  now  sure  of  our  game,'  sung 
out  Treenail,  with  great  animation. 
'  Sling  that  clumsy  bench  there.' 
He  pointed  to  an  oaken  form  about 
eight  feet  long,  and  nearly  three 
inches  thick.  To  produce  a  two-inch 
rope,  and  junk  it  into  three  lengths, 
and  rig  the  battering-ram,  was  the 
work  of  an  instant.  *  One,  two, 
three,' — and  bang  the  door  flew 
open,  and  there  were  our  men  stow- 
ed away,  each  sitting  on  the  top  of 
his  bag,  as  snug  as  could  be,  although 
looking  very  much  like  condemned 
thieves.  We  bound  eight  of  them, 
and  thrusting  a  stretcher  across  their 
backs,  under  their  arms,  and  lashing 
the  fins  to  the  same  by  good  stout 
lanyards,  we  were  proceeding  to 
stump  our  prisoners  off  to  the  boat, 
when,  with  the  innate  devilry  that  I 
have  inherited,  I  know  not  how,  but 
the  original  sin  of  which  has  more 
than  once  nearly  cost  me  my  life,  I 
said,  without  addressing  my  superior 
officer,  or  any  one  else,  directly, — '  I 
should  like  now  to  scale  my  pistol 
through  that  coffin.  If  I  miss,  1  can't 
hurt  the  old  woman ;  and  an  eyelet 
hole  in  the  coffin  itself,  will  only  be 
an  act  of  civility  to  the  worms.' " 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  that  part  of  the 
record,  Mr  Bang.  Pray  draw  your 
pen  through  it." 

"  Pen  !"  said  he—"  why,  I  have 
none  at  hand,  Tom,  and  if  I  had,  I 
would  not  expunge  it.  I  would  leave 


456 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[April, 


it  in  your  power  to  satisfy  your  con- 
science, if  you  can  do  so,  by  draw- 
ing your  pen  through  it  yourself — a 
bad  sentiment,  and  cruel  under  the 
circumstances,  Cringle — but,  come 
along." 

'  Ilookedtowards  my  superior  offi- 
cer, who  answered  me  with  a  know- 
ing shake  of  the  head.  I  advanced, 
while  all  was  silent  as  death — the 
sharp  click  of  the  pistol  lock  now 
struck  acutely  on  my  own  ear.  I  pre- 
sented, when — crash — the  lid  of  the 
coffin,  old  woman  and  all,  was  dash- 
ed off  in  an  instant,  the  corpse  flying 
up  in  the  air,  and  then  falling  heavily 
on  the  floor,  rolling  over  and  over, 
while  a  tall  handsome  fellow,  in  his 
stripped  flannel  shirt  and  bluetrow- 
sers,  and  the  sweat  pouring  down  over 
his  face  in  streams,  sat  up  in  the  shell. 

" '  All  right,'  said  Mr  Treenail,— 
1  help  him  out  of  his  berth.' 

"  He  was  pinioned  like  the  rest,  and 
forthwith  we  walked  them  all  off  to 
the  beach.  By  this  time  there  was 
an  unusual  bustlein  the  Holy  Ground, 
and  we  could  hear  many  an  anathe- 
ma, curses,  not  loud  but  deep,  ejacu- 
lated from  many  a  half-opened  door 
as  we  passed  along.  We  reached  the 
boat,  and  time  it  was  we  did  so,  for 
a  number  of  stout  fellows,  who  had 
followed  us  in  a  gradually  increasing 
crowd,  until  they  amounted  to  forty 
at  the  fewest,  now  nearly  surroundy 
ed  us,  and  kept  closing  in.  As  the 
last  of  us  jumped  into  the  boat,  they 
made  a  rush,  so  that  if  we  had  not 
shoved  off  with  the  speed  of  light,  I 
think  it  very  likely  that  we  should 
have  been  overpowered.  However, 
we  reached  the  ship  in  safety,  and 
the  day  following  we  weighed,  and 
stood  out  to  sea  with  our  convoy. 

"  A  line-of-battle  ship  led — and  two 
frigates  and  three  sloops  of  our  class 
were  stationed  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  fleet,  whipping  them  in  as  it  were. 
Nothing  particular  happened  for 
three  weeks.  We  made  Madeira  in 
fourteen  days,  looked  in,  but  did  not 
anchor." 

"Ahem,  ahem,"  said  Aaron — *  su- 
perb island — magnificent  mountains 
— white  town,' — and  all  very  fine 
1  make  no -doubt,"  as  he  read  on. 

"  On  this  evening,  (we  had  by 
this  time  progressed  into  the  trades, 
and  were  within  three  hundred  miles 
of  Barbadoes,)  the  sun  had  set  bright 
and  clear,  after  a  most  beautiful  day, 


and  we  were  bowling  along  right 
before  it,  rolling  like  the  very  devil ; 
but  there  was  no  moon,  and  although 
the  stars  sparkled  brilliantly,  yet  it 
was  dark,  and  as  we  were  the  stern- 
most  of  the  men-of-war,  we  had  the 
task  of  whipping  in  the  sluggards. 
It  was  my  watch  on  deck.  A  gun  from 
the  Commodore,  who  shewed  a 
number  of  lights.  *  What  is  that,  Mr 
Kennedy  ?'  said  the  Captain  to  the 
old  gunner. — *  The  Commodore  has 
made  the  night  signal  for  the  stern- 
most  ships  to  make  more  sail  and 
close,  sir.'  We  repeated  the  signal — 
and  stood  on  hailing  the  dullest  of 
the  merchantmen  in  our  neighbour- 
hood to  make  more  sail,  and  firing 
a  musket-shot  now  and  then  over  the 
more  distant  of  them.  By  and  by  we 
saw  a  large  West-Iudiaman  suddenly 
haul  her  wind,  and  stand  across  our 
bows. 

" '  Forward  there,'  sung  out  Mr 
Splinter,  '  stand  by  to  fire  a  shot  at 
that  fellow  from  the  boat  gun  if  he 
does  not  bear  up.  What  can  he  be 
after  ? — Sergeant  Armstrong,'  to  a 
marine,  who  was  standing  close  by 
him,  in  the  waist ; — '  get  a  musket, 
and  fire  over  him.'  It  was  done,  and 
the  ship  immediately  bore  upon  her 
course  again ;  we  now  ranged  along- 
side of  him  on  his  larboard  quarter. 

"  <  Ho,  the  ship,  a  hoy  !'—'  Hillo  !' 
was  the  reply.  *  Make  more  sail,  sir, 
and  run  mto  the  body  of  the  fleet,  or 
I  shall  fire  into  you;  why  don't  you, 
sir,  keep  in  the  wake  of  the  Commo- 
dore ?'  No  answer. 

"  *  What  meant  you  by  hauling 
your  wind  just  now,  sir  ?' 

" '  Yesh,  Yesh,'  at  length  responded 
a  voice  from  the  merchantman. 

"  '  Something  wrong  here,'  said  Mr 
Splinter.  '  Back  your  maintopsail, 
sir,  and  hoist  a  light  at  the  peak ;  I 
fchall  send  a  boat  on  board  of  you. 
Boatswain's  mate,  pipe  away  the 
crew  of  the  jolly  boat.'  We  also 
backed  our  maintopsail,  and  were  in 
the  act  of  lowering  down  the  boat, 
when  the  officer  rattled  out.  '  Keep 
all  fast,  with  the  boat;  I  can't  com- 
prehend that  chap's  manoeuvres  for 
the  soul  of  me.  He  has  not  hove-to.' 
Once  more  we  were  within  pistol- 
shot  of  him.  *  Why  don't  you  heave- 
to,  sir?'  All  silent. 

"  Presently  we  could  perceive  a 
confusion  and  noise  of  struggling 
on  board,  and  angry  voices,  as  if 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle  s  Log. 


people  were  trying  to  force  their 
way  up  the  hatchways  from  below; 
and  a  heavy  thumping  on  the  deck, 
and  a  creaking  of  the  blocks,  and 
rattling  of  the  cordage,  while  the 
mainyard  was  first  braced  one  way, 
and  then  another,  as  if  two  parties 
were  striving  for  the  mastery.  At 
length  a  voice  hailed  distinctly.  *  We 

are  captured  by  a  '  A  sudden 

sharp  cry,  and  a  splash  overboard, 
told  of  some  fearful  deed. 

"  *  We  are  taken  by  a  privateer,  or 
pirate,'  sung  out  another  voice.  This 
was  followed  by  a  heavy  crunching 
blow,  as  when  the  spike  of  a  butcher's 
ixe  is  driven  through  a  bullock's 
forehead  deep  into  the  brain. 

"  By  this  the  captain  was  on  deck, 
all  hands  had  been  called,  and  the 
word  had  been  passed  to  clear  away 
1  wo  of  the  foremost  carronades  on 
ihe  starboard  side,  and  to  load  them 
with  grape. 

"  *  On  board  there — get  below,  all 
you  of  the  English  crew,  as  I  shall 
lire  with  grape.' 

"  The  hint  was  now  taken.  The  ship 
it  length  came  to  •  ...the  wind — we 
lounded  to,  under  her  lee — -and  an 
sirmed  boat,  with  Mr  Treenail,  and 
myself,  and  sixteen  men,  with  cut- 
lasses, were  sent  on  board. 

"  We  jumped  on  deck,  and  at  the 
gangway,  Mr  Treenail  stumbled,  and 
lell  over  the  dead  body  of  a  man,  no 
doubt  the  one  who  had  hailed  last, 
with  his  scull  cloven  to  the  eyes, 
i  nd  a  broken  cutlass  blade  sticking 
in  the  gash.  We  were  immediately 
rccosted  by  the  mate,  who  was 
lashed  down  to  a  ringbolt  close  by 
the  bits,  with  his  hands  tied  at  the 
wrists  by  sharp  cords,  so  tightly, 
that  the  blood  was  spouting  from 
I  eneath  his  nails. 

"  *  We  have  been  surprised  by  a 
j-rivateer  schooner,  sir;  the  lieutenant 
of  her,  and  twelve  men,  are  now  in 
the  cabin.' 

"  *  Where  are  the  rest  of  the  crew?' 
" '  All  secured  in  the  forecastle, 
»  xcept  the  second  mate  and  boat- 
swain, the  men  who  hailed  you  just 
now  ;  the  last  was  knocked  on  the 
1  ead,  and  the  former  was  stabbed 
and  thrown  overboard.' 

"  We  immediately  released  the 
Men,  eighteen  in  number,  and  armed 
them  with  boarding  pikes.  *  What 
vessel  is  that  astern  of  us?'  said 
Treenail  to  the  mate.  Before  he 


•  4.57 

could  answer,  a  shot  from  the  brig 
fired  at  the  privateer,  shewed  she 
was  broad  awake.  Next  moment 
Captain  Deadeye  hailed.  *  Have  you 
mastered  the  prize  crew,  Mr  Tree- 
nail ?' — *  Aye,  aye,  sir.' — '  Then  keep 
your  course,  and  keep  two  lights 
hoisted  at  your  mizen  peak  during 
the  night,  and  blue  Peter  at  the  main- 
topsail  yard  arm ;  when  the  day 
breaks,  I  shall  haul  my  wind  after 
the  suspicious  sail  in  your  wake.' 

"  Another  shot,  and  another,  from 
the  brig.  By  this  the  lieutenant  had 
descended  to  the  cabin  followed  by 
his  people,  while  the  merchant  crew 
once  more  took  charge  of  the  ship, 
crowding  sail  into  the  body  of  the 
fleet. 

"  I  followed  him  close,  pistol  and 
cutlass  in  hand,  and  I  shall  never  for- 
get the  scene  that  presented  itself 
when  I  entered.  The  cabin  was  that 
of  a  vessel  of  five  hundred  tons,  ele- 
gantly fitted  up ;  the  panels  were 
filled  with  crimson  cloth,  and  gold 
mouldings,  with  superb  damask 
hangings  before  the  stern  windows 
and  the  side  berths,  and  brilliantly 
lighted  up  by  two  large  swinging 
lamps  hung  from  the  deck  above, 
which  were  reflected  from,  and  mul- 
tiplied in,  several  plate  glass  mirrors 
in  the  panels.  In  the  recess,  which 
in  cold  weather  had  been  occupied 
by  the  stove,  now  stood  a  splendid 
cabinet  piano,  the  silk  corresponding 
with  the  crimson  cloth  of  the  panels  ; 
it  was  open,  a  Leghorn  bonnet  with 
a  green  veil,  a  parasol,  and  two  long 
white  gloves,  as  if  recently  pulled  off, 
lay  on  it,  with  the  very  mould  of  the 
hands  in  them. 

"  The  rudder  case  was  particularly 
beautiful;  it  was  a  cichly  carved  and 
gilded  palm-tree,  the  stem  painted 
white,  and  interlaced  with  golden 
fretwork,  like  the  lozenges  of  a  pine- 
apple, while  the  leaves  spread  up 
and  abroad  on  the  roof. 

"  The  table  was  laid  for  supper, 
with  cold  meat,  and  wine,  and  a 
profusion  of  silver  things,  all  spark- 
ling brightly;  but  it  was  in  great 
disorder,  wine  spilt,  and  glasses 
broken,  and  dishes  with  meat  upset, 
and  knives,  and  forks,  and  spoons, 
scattered  all  about.  She  was  evi- 
dently one  of  those  London  West 
Indiamen,  on  board  of  which  I  knew 
there  was  much  splendour  and  great 
comfort.  But,  alas!  the  hand  of  law- 


456 

less  violence  had  been  there.  The 
captain  lay  across  the  table,  with  his 
head  hanging  over  the  side  of  it  next 
to  us,  and  unable  to  help  him  self,  with 
his  hands  tied  behind  his  back,  and 
a  gag  in  his  mouth  ;  his  face  purple 
from  the  blood  running  to  his  head, 
and  the  white  of  his  eyes  turned  up, 
while  his  loud  stertorous  breathing 
but  too  clearly  indicated  the  rupture 
of  a  vessel  on  the  brain. 

"  He  was  a  stout  portly  man,  and 
although  we  released  him  on  the  in- 
stant, and  had  him  bled,  and  threw 
water  on  his  face,  and  did  all  we 
could  for  him,  he  never  spoke  after- 
wards, and  died  in  half  an  hour. 

"  Four  gentlemanly-looking  men 
were  sitting  at  table,  lashed  to  their 
chairs,  pale  and  trembling,  while 
six  of  the  most  ruffian- looking 
scoundrels  I  ever  beheld,  stood  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  table  in  a  row 
fronting  us,  with  the  light  from  the 
lamps  shining  full  on  them.  Three 
of  them  were  small,  but  very  square 
mulattoes;  one  was  a  South  Ameri- 
can Indian,  with  the  square  high- 
boned  visage,  and  long,  lank,  black 
glossy  hair  of  his  cast.  These  four 
had  no  clothing  besides  their  trow- 
sers,  and  stood  with  their  arms 
folded,  in  all  the  calmness  of  despe- 
rate men,  caught  in  the  very  fact  of 
some  horrible  atrocity,  which  they 
knew  shut  out  all  hope  of  mercy. 
The  two  others  were  white  French- 
men, tall,  bushy-whiskered,  sallow 
desperadoes,  but  still,  wonderful  to 
relate,  with,  if  I  may  so  speak,  the 
manners  of  gentlemen.  One  of  them 
squinted,  and  had  a  hair-lip,  which 
gave  him  a  horrible  expression.  They 
were  dressed  in  white  trowsers  and 
shirts,  yellow  silk  sashes  round  their 
waists,  and  a  sort  of  blue  uniform  jac- 
kets, blue  Gascon  caps,with  the  peaks, 
from  each  of  which  depended  a  large 
bullion  tassel,  hanging  down  on  one 
side  of  their  heads.  The  whole  party 
had  apparently  made  up  their  minds 
that  resistance  was  vain,  for  their 
pistols  and  cutlasses,  some  of  them 
bloody,  had  all  been  laid  on  the  table, 
with  the  buts  and  handles  towards 
us,  contrasting  horribly  with  the  glit- 
tering equipage  of  steel,  and  crystal, 
and  silver  things,  on  the  snow-white 
damask  table-cloth.  They  were  im- 
mediately seized,  and  ironed, to  which 
they  submitted  in  silence.  We  next 
released  the  passengers,  and  were 


Tom  Ormgle's  Log. 


[Apri), 


overpowered  with  thanks,  one  dan- 
cing, one  crying,  one  laughing,  and 
another  praying.  But,  merciful  Hea- 
ven !  what  an  object  met  our  eyes  ! 
Drawing  aside  the  curtain  that  con- 
cealedasofa,fittedintoa  recess,  there 
lay,  more  dead  than  alive,  a  tall  and 
most  beautiful  girl,  her  head  resting 
on  her  left  arm,  her  clothes  dishe- 
velled and  torn,  blood  on  her  bosom, 
and  foam  on  her  mouth,  with  her 
long  dark  hair  loose  and  dishevelled, 
and  covering  the  upper  part  of  her 
deadly  pale  face,  through  which 
her  wild  sparkling  black  eyes,  pro- 
truding from  their  sockets,  glanced 
and  glared  with  the  fire  ot  a  ma- 
niac's, while  her  blue  lips  kept  gib- 
bering an  incoherent  prayer  one  mo- 
ment, and  the  next  imploring  mercy, 
as  if  she  had  still  been  in  the  hands 
of  those  who  knew  not  the  name; 
and  anon,  a  low  hysterical  laugh 
made  our  very  blood  freeze  in  our 
bosoms,  which  soon  elided  in  a  long 
dismal  yell,  as  she  rolled  off  the 
couch  upon  the  hard  deck,  and  lay 
in  a  dead  faint. 

"  Alas  the  day  !  a  maniac  she  was 
from  that  hour.  She  was  the  only 
daughter  of  the  murdered  master  of 
the  ship,  and  never  awoke  in  her  un- 
clouded reason,  to  the  fearful  con- 
sciousness of  her  own  dishonour  and 
her  parent's  death." 

"  Tom,"  said  Bang,  "  that  is  a  me- 
lancholy affair,  I  can't  read  any  more 
of  it.  What  followed  ?  Tell  ,us." 

"  Why  the  Torch  captured  the 
schooner,  sir,  and  we  left  the  priva- 
teer's men  at  Barbadoes  to  meet  their 
reward,  and  several  of  the  merchant 
sailors  were  turned  over  to  the  guard- 
ship,  to  prove  the  facts  in  the  first 
instance,  and  to  serve  his  Majesty  as 
impressed  men  in  the  second." 

"  Ah,"  said  Aaron  again,  "  melan- 
choly indeed,  and  but  scrimp  mea- 
sure of  justice  to  the  poor  ship's 
crew.  But  let  us  get  on." 

"  Anchored  at  Carlisle  Bay,  Bar- 
badoes.— Town  seemed  built  of  cards 
— black  faces— showy  dresses  of 

the  negroes — dined  at  Mr  C 's 

—capital  dinner — little  breeze  mill 
at  the  end  of  the  room,  that  pumped 
a  solution  of  saltpetre  and  water  into 
a  trough  of  tin,  perforated  with  small 
holes,  below  which,  and  exposed  to 
the  breeze,  were  ranged  the  wine  and 
liqueurs,  all  in  cotton  bags ;  the  wa- 
ter then  flowed  into  a  well,  where 


833.] 


Tom  Or  ingle's  Log. 


the  pump  was  stepped,  and  thus  was 
again  pumped  up  and  kept  circula- 
ting." 

"  Deuced  good  contrivance  that 
same,  ah,"  said  Gelid. 

"  Landed  the  artillery,  the  sol- 
Jiers,  officers,  and  the  Spanish  Ca- 
tion." 

"  Oh,  discharged  the  whole  bat- 
tery, eh  ?"  said  Aaron. 

"  Next  morning,  weighed  at  day- 
dawn,  and  soon  lost  sight  of  the 
brightblue  waters  of  Carlisle  Bay,  and 
the  smiling  fields  and  tall  cocoa-nut 
trees  of  the  beautiful  island.  In  a 
week  after  we  arrived  off  the  east  end 
(>f  Jamaica,  and  that  same  evening, 
in  obedience  to  the  orders  of  the  ad- 
miral on  the  Windward  Island  station, 
we  hove  to  in  Bull  Bay,  in  order 
to  land  despatches,  and  secure  our 
tithe  of  the  crews  of  the  merchant- 
A  essels  bound  for  Kingston,  and  the 
j  orts  10  leeward,  as  they  passed  us. 
We  had  fallen  in  with  a  pilot  canoe 
off  Morant  Bay  with  four  negroes  on 
board,  who  requested  us  to  hoist  in 
tlieir  boat,  and  take  them  all  on  board, 
as  the  pilot  schooner,  to  which  they 
belonged,  had  that  morning  bore  up 
for  Kingston,  and  left  instructions  to 
them  to  follow  her  in  the  first  vessel 
appearing  afterwards.  We  did  so, 
and  now,  as  it  was  getting  dark,  the 
c  iptain  came  up  to  Mr  Treenail. 

"<  Why,  Mr  Treenail,  I  think  we 
had  better  heave  to  for  the  night, 
and  in  this  case  I  shall  want  you  to 
go  in  the  cutter  to  Port  Royal  to  de- 
liver the  despatches  onboard  the  flag- 
ship.' 

"  *  I  don't  think  the  admiral  will  be 
ai  Port  Royal,  sir,'  responded  the 
li  mteuant;  'and,  if  I  might  suggest, 
tl  ose  black  chaps  have  offered  to 
take  me  ashore  here  on  the  Palisa- 
ch  es,  a  narrow  spit  of  land,  not  above 
one  hundred  yards  across,  that  di- 
vides the  harbour  from  the  ocean, 
ard  to  haul  the  canoe  across,  and 
ta  ce  me  to  the  agent's  house  in  King- 
ston, who  will  doubtless  frank  me  up 
to  the  Pen,  where  the  Admiral  re- 
sides, arid  I  shall  thus  deliver  the 
le:ters,  and  be  back  again  by  day- 
dc  wn.' 

" '  Not  a  bad  plan,'  said  old  Dead- 
e^  a ;  '  put  it  iti  execution,  and  1  will 
go  below  and  get  the  .despatches  im- 
mediately.' 

"The  canoe  was  once  more  hoisted 
ous  j  the  three  black  fellows,  the  pi- 


m  459 

lot  of  the  ship  continuing  on  board, 
jumped  into  her  alongside. 

"  *  Had  you  not  better  take  a  cou- 
ple of  hands  with  you,  Mr  Treenail?' 
said  the  skipper. 

"'Why,  no,  sir;  I  don't  think  I  shall 
want  them,  but  if  you  will  spare  me 
Mr  Cringle  I  will  be  obliged,  in  case 
I  want  any  help.' 

"  We  shoved  off,  and  as  the  glowing 
sun  dipped  under  Portland  Point,  as 
thetongue  of  land  that  runs  out  about 
four  miles  to  the  southward,  on  the 
western  side  of  Port  Royal  harbour, 
is  called,  we  arrived  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  Palisadoes.  The  surf, 
at  the  particular  spot  we  steered  for, 
did  not  break  on  the  shore  in  a  roll- 
ing curling  wave,  as  it  usually  does, 
but  smoothed  away  under  the  lee  of 
a  small  sandy  promontory  that  ran 
out  into  the  sea,  about  half  a  cable's 
length  to  windward,  and  then  slid  up 
the  smooth  white  sand,without  break- 
ing, in  a  deep  clear  green  swell,  for 
the  space  of  twenty  yards,  gradually 
shoaling  until  it  frothed  away  in  a 
shallow  white  fringe,  that  buzzed  as 
it  receded  back  into  the  deep  green 
sea,  until  it  was  again  propelled  for- 
ward by  the  succeeding  billow. 

"'Isay,friendBungo,  how  shall  we 
manage  ?  You  don't  mean  to  swamp 
us  in»a  shove  through  that  surf,  do 
you  ?'  said  Mr  Treenail. 

"  '  No  fear,  massa,  if  you  and  toder 
leetle  man-of-war  Buccra,  only  keep 
dem  seat  when  we  rise  on  de  crest 
of  de  swell  dere.' 

"  We  sat  quiet  enough.  Treenail 
was  coolness  itself,  and  I  aped  him 
as  well  as  I  could.  The  loud  mur- 
mur— I  may  as  well  call  it  roar  of 
the  sea — was  trying  enough  as  we  ap- 
proached, buoyed  on  the  last  long 
undulation. 

"  '  Now  sit  still,  massa,  bote.' 

"  We  sank  down  into  the  trough, 
and  presently  were  hove  forwards 
with  a  smooth  sliding  motion  up 
on  the  beach — until,  grit,  grit,  we 
stranded  on  the  cream-coloured  sand, 
high  and  dry. 

"  '  Now  jomp,  massa,  jomp.' 

"  We  leapt  with  all  our  strength,and 
thereby  toppled  down  on  our  noses ; 
the  sea  receded,  arid  before  the  next 
billow  approached,  we  had  run  the 
canoe  twenty  yards  beyond  high  wa- 
ter mark. 

"  It  was  the  work  of  a  very  few- 
minutes  to  haul  the  canoe  across  the 


460 


•Tom  Cringles  Log. 


[April, 


sand-bank,  and  to  launch  it  once  more 
iri  the  placid  waters  of  the  harbour 
of  Kingston.  We  pulled  across  to- 
wards the  town,  until  we  landed  at 
the  bottom  of  Hanover  Street,  the 
lights  from  the  cabin  windows  of  the 
merchantmen  glimmering  as  we  pass- 
ed, and  the  town  only  discernible  from 
a  solitary  sparkle  here  and  there. 
But  the  contrast  when  we  landed 
was  very  striking.  We  had  come 
through  the  darkness  of  the  night  in 
comparative  quietness,  and  in  two 
hours,  from  the  time  we  had  left  the 
old  Torch,  we  were  transferred  from 
her  orderly  deck  to  the  bustle  of  a 
crowded  town. 

"  One  of  our  crew  undertook  to  be 
the  guide  to  the  agent's  house.  We 
arrived  before  it.  It  was  a  large 
mansion,  and  we  could  see  lights 
glimmering  in  the  ground  floor,  but 
it  was  gaily  lit  up  aloft.  The  house 
itself  stood  back  from  the  street, 
from  which  it  was  separated  by  an 
iron  railing. 

"  We  knocked  at  the  outer  gate, 
but  no  one  answered.  At  length  our 
black  guides  found  out  a  bell-pull, 
and  presently  the  clang  of  a  bell  re- 
sounded throughout  the  mansion. 
Still  no  one  answered.  I  pushed 
against  the  door,  and  found  it  was 
open,  and  Mr  Treenail  and  myself 
immediately  ascended  a  flight  of  six 
marble  steps,  and  stood  in  the  lower 
piazza,  with  the  hall,  or  lower  vesti- 
bule, before  us.  We  entered.  A 
very  well-dressed  brown  woman, 
who  was  sitting  at  her  work  at  a 
small  table,  along  with  two  young 
girls  of  the  same  complexion,  in- 
stantly rose  to  receive  us. 
"  *  Beg  pardon/  said  Mr  Treenail, 

'pray,  is  this  Mr 's  house  ?' 

"  «  Yes,  sir,  it  is.' 

"  'Will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
say  if  he  be  at  home  ?' 

"  '  Oh  yes,  sir,  he  is  dere  upon 
dinner  wid  company,'  said  the  lady. 
"  '  Well,'  continued  the  lieutenant, 
'  say  to  him  that  an  officer  of  his 
Majesty's  sloop,  Torch, is  below,  with 
despatches  for  the  Admiral.' 

"  '  Surely,  sir— surely,'  the  dark 
lady  continued — '  follow  me,  sir, and 
dat  small  gentleman,  [Thomas  Crin- 
gle, Esquire,  no  less,]  him  will  bet- 
ter follow  me  too.' 

"We  left  the  room,  and  turning  to 
the  right,  landed  in  the  lower  piazza 
of  the  house,  fronting  the  north.  A 


large  clumsy  stair  occupied  the  east- 
ernmost end,  with  a  massive  maho- 
gany balustrade,  but  the  whole  af- 
fair below  was  very  511  lit  up.  The 
brown  lady  preceded  us,  and  plant- 
ing herself  at  the  bottom  of  the  stair- 
case, began  to  shout  to  some  one — 
'  Toby,  Toby — buccra  gentleman  ar- 
rive, Toby.'  But  no  Toby  responded 
to  the  call. 

"  '  My  dear  madam,'  said  Treenail, 
'  I  have  little  time  for  ceremony. 
Pray  usher  us  up  into  Mr 's  pre- 
sence.' 

"  «  Den  follow  me,  gentlemen, 
please.' 

"  Forthwith  we  all  ascended  the 
dark  staircase,  until  we  reached  the 
first  landing-place,  when  we  heard  a 
noise  as  of  two  negroes  wrangling 
above  us  on  the  dark  staircase. 

" '  You  rascal,'  sang  out  one, '  take 
dat,  larn  you,  for  teal  my  wittal' — 
then  a  sharp  crack,  as  if  he  had 
smote  the  culprit  across  the  pate; 
whereupon,  like  a  shot,  a  black  fel- 
low, in  a  handsome  livery,  trundled 
down,  pursued  by  another  servant 
with  a  large  silver  ladle  in  his  hand, 
with  which  he  was  belabouring  the 
fugitive  over  his  flint-hard  skull, 
right  against  our  hostess,  with  the 
drumstick  of  a  turkey  in  his  hand,  or 
rather  in  his  mouth.  '  Top,  you  tief 
— top,  you  tief— for  me  piece  dat,' 
shouted  the  pursuer.  '  You  dam  ras- 
call,'  quoth  the  dame— but  she  had 
no  time  to  utter  another  word  before 
the  fugitive  pitched,  with  all  his 
weight,  right  against  her ;  and  at  the 
very  moment  another  servant  came 
trundling  down  with  a  large  tray  full 
of  all  kinds  of  meats — and  I  especial- 
ly remember  that  two  large  crystal 
stands  of  jellies  composed  part  of  his 
load — so  there  we  were  regularly 
capsized,  and  caught  all  of  a  heap  in 
the  dark  landing-place,  half  way  up 
the  stair,  and  down  the  other  flight 
tumbled  our  guide,  with  Mr  Treenail 
and  myself,  and  the  two  blackies,  on 
the  top  of  her,  rolling  in  our  descent 
over,  or  rather  into  another  large 
mahogany  tray,  which  bad  just  been 
carried  out,  with  a  tureen  of  turtle - 
soup  in  it,  and  a  dish  of  roast-beef, 
and  platefuls  of  land  crabs,  and  the 
Lord  knows  what  all  besides.  The 
crash  reached  the  ear  of  the  landlord, 
who  was  seated  at  the  head  of  his 
table,  in  the  upper  piazza,  a  long 
gallery  about  fifty  feet  long  by  four- 


1833.] 

teen  wide,  and  he  immediately  rose 
and  ordered  his  butler  to  take  a  light. 
When  he  came  down  to  ascertain  the 
cause  of  the  uproar,  1  shall  never  for- 
get the  scene.  There  was,  first  of  all, 
mine  host,  a  remarkably  neat  per- 
sonage, standing  on  the  polished  ma- 
hogany stair,  three  steps  above  his 
servant,  who  was  a  very  well-dressed 
respectable  elderly  negro,  with  a 
candle  in  each  hand;  and  beneath 
him,  on  the  landing-place,  lay  two 
trays  of  viands,  broken  tureens  of 
soup,  fragments  of  dishes,  and  frac- 
tured glasses,  and  a  chaos  of  eat- 
ables and  drinkables,  and  table-gear 
scattered  all  about,  amidst  which  lay 
scrambling  my  lieutenant  and  my- 
self, the  old  brown  house-keeper, 
and  the  two  negro  servants,  all  more 
or  less  covered  with  gravy  and  wine 
dregs.  However,  after  a  good  laugh, 
we  all  gathered  ourselves  up,  and  at 
length  we  were  ushered  on  the 
scene.  Mine  host,  after  stifling  his 
laughter  the  best  way  he  could, 
again  sat  down  at  the  head  of  his 
table,  sparkling  with  crystal  and 
waxlights,  while  a  superb  lamp  hung 
overhead.  The  company  was  com- 
posed chiefly  of  naval  and  military 
men,  but  there  was  also  a  sprink- 
ling of  civilians,  or  rnuftees,  to  use 
a  West  India  expression.  Most 
of  them  rose  as  we  entered,  and 
after  they  had  taken  a  glass  of 
wine,  and  had  their  laugh  at  our 
mishap,  our  landlord  retired  to  one 
side  with  Mr  Treenail,  while  I,  poor 
little  middy  as  I  was,  remained 
standing  at  the  end  of  the  room,  close 
to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  The  gentle- 
man who  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  table 
had  his  back  towards  me,  and  was 
not  at  first  aware  of  my  presence. 
But  the  guest  at  his  right  hand,  a 
lappy-looking,  red-faced,  well-dress- 
id  man,  soon  drew  his  attention  to- 
wards me.  The  party  to  whom  I  was 
,hus  indebted  seemed  a  very  jovial- 
1  ooking  personage,  and  appeared  to  be 
>vell  known  to  all  hands,  and  indeed 
rhe  life  of  the  party,  for,  like  Falstaff, 
Jie  was  not  only  witty  in  himself, 
nit  the  cause  of  wit  in  others." 

When  he  had  read  thus  far,  Mr 
jJang  looked  at  me  with  a  sly  twin- 
kle of  his  eye,  and  a  shake  of  his  head. 
*'  Ah,  you  villain!  But  let  me  pro- 
reed." 

"  The  gentleman  to  whom  he  had 
I  ointed  me  out  immediately  rose, 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


461 


made  his  bow,  ordered  a  chair,  and 
made  room  for  me  beside  himself, 
where  the  moment  it  was  known  that 
we  were  directfrom  home,  such  a  vol- 
ley of  questions  was  fired  off  atme,  that 
I  didnot  know  which  to  answer  first. 
At  lengih,  after  Treenail  had  taken  a 
glass  or  two  of  wine,  the  agent  start- 
ed him  off  to  the  Admiral's  Pen  in  his 
own  gig,  and  I  was  desired  to  stay 
where  I  was  until  he  returned. 

"  Why,  I  say,  Tom,"  again  quoth 
Aaron,  "  I  never  knew  before  that 
you  were  in  Jamaica,  at  the  period 
you  here  write  of." 

"  Why,  my  dear  sir,  I  scarcely  can 
say  that  1  was  there,  my  visit  was  so 
hurried." 

"  Hurried !"  rejoined  he,  "hurried 
— by  no  means,  were  you  not  in  the 
island  for  four  or  five  hours?  Ah, 
long  enough  to  have  authorized  your 
writing  an  anti-slavery  pamphlet  of 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pages." 

I  smiled. 

"  Oh,  you  may  laugh,  my  boy,  but 
it  is  true — oh  what  a  subject  for  an 
anti- slavery  lecture — listen  and  be 
instructed," — here  our  friend  shook 
himself  as  a  bruiser  does  to  ascertain 
that  all  is  right  before  he  throws  up 
his  guard,  and  for  the  first  five  mi- 
nutes he  only  jerked  his  right  shoul- 
der this  way  and  his  left  shoulder 
t'other  way,  while  his  fins  walloped 
down  against  his  sides  like  empty 
sleeves — at  length  as  he  warmed — 
he  stretched  forth  his  arms  like  Saint 
Paul  in  the  Cartoon — and  although 
he  now  and  then  could  not  help 
sticking  his  tongue  in  his  cheek, 
still  the  exhibition  was  so  true  and 
so  exquisitely  comical,  that  1  never 
shall  forget  it. — "  The  whole  white 
inhabitants  of  Kingston  are  luxu- 
rious monsters,  living  in  more  than 
Eastern  splendour;  and  their  uni- 
versal practice,  during  their  mag- 
nificent repasts,  is  to  entertain  them- 
selves, by  compelling  their  black  ser- 
vants to  belabour  each  other  across 
the  pate  with  silver  ladles,  and  to 
stick  drumsticks  of  turkeys  down 
each  other's  throats.  Merciful  heaven! 
— only  picture  the  miserable  slaves, 
each  with  the  spaul  of  a  turkey  stick- 
ing in  his  gob ;  dwell  upon  that,  my 
dearly  beloved  hearers,  dwell  upon 
that — and  then  let  those  who  have 
the  atrocious  hardihood  to  do  so, 
speak  of  the  kindlinessof  theplanters* 
hearts.  Kindliness !  kindliness,  to 


Tom  Cringle  s  Log. 


462 

cram  the  leg  of  a  turkey  down  a 
man's  throat,  while  his  yoke-fellow 
in  bondage  is  fracturing  his  tender 
woolly  skull— for  all  negroes,  as  is 
well  known,  have  craniums,   much 
thinner,  and  more  fragile  than  an  egg- 
shell— with  so  tremendous  a  weapon 
as  a  silver  ladle  ?  Aye,a  silver  ladle ! ! ! 
Some  people  make  light  of  a  silver 
ladle  as  an  instrument  of  punishment 
— it  is  spoken  of  as  a  very  slight  af- 
fair, and  that  the  blows  inflicted  by 
it  are  mere  child's  play.     If  any  of 
you,  my  beloved  hearers,  labour  un- 
der this  delusion,  and  will  allow  me, 
for  your  edification,  to  hammer  you 
about  the  chops  with   one   of   the 
aforesaid  silver  soup-ladles  of  those 
yellow   tyrants,    for    one   little   half 
hour,  I  pledge  myself  the  delusion 
shall  be  dispelled  once  and  for  ever. 
Well  then,  after  this  fearful  scene  has 
continued  for,    1  dare  not  say  how 
long — the  black  butler — ay,  the  black 
butler,     a    slave    himself — oh,     my 
friends,  even  the  black  butlers  are 
slaves — the  very  men  who  minister 
the   wine   in   health   which   maketh 
their  hearts  glad,  and  the  castor  oil 
in  sickness,  which  maketh  them  any 
thing  but  of  a  cheerful  countenance — 
this  very  black  butler  is  desired,  on 
peril   of  having  a  drumstick   stuck 
into  his  own  gizzard  also,  and  his 
skull  fractured  by  the  aforesaid  iron 
ladles — red  hot,  it  may  be — aye,  and 
who  shall  say  they  are  not  full  of 
molten    lead?    yes,    molten    lead — 
does  not  our  reverend  brother  Lach- 
rimse  Roarern  say  that  the  ladles  might 
have  been  full  of  molten  lead,  and 
what  evidence  have  we  on  the  other 
side,  that  they  were  not  full  of  molten 
lead?  Why,  none  at  all,  none — nothing 
but  the  oaths  of  all   the  naval  and 
military  officers  who  have  ever  served 
in  these  pestilent  settlements;  and  of 
all  the  planters  and  merchants  in  the 
West  Indies,  the  interested  planters 
— those  planters  who  suborn  all  the 
navy    and    army   to    a    man — those 
planters  whose  molasses  is  but  an- 
other name  for  human  blood.   (Here 
a  large  puff  and  blow,  and  a  swabifi- 
cation    of  the   white    handkerchief, 
while  the  congregation  blow  a  flou- 
rish   of   trumpets.)      My    friends — 
(another  puff) — my  friends — we  all 
know,  my  friends, that  bullocks'  blood 
is  largely  used  in  the  sugar  refineries 
in  England,  but  alas  !  there  is  no  bul- 
locks' blood  used  in  the  refineries  in 


[April, 


the  West  Indies.  This  I  will  prove 
to  you  on  the  oath  of  six  dissenting 
clergymen.  No.  What  then  is  the 
inference?  Oh,  is  it  not  palpable? 
Do  you  not  every  day,  as  jurors,  hang 
men  on  circumstantial  evidence?  Are 
not  many  of  yourselves  hanged  and 
transported  every  year,ori  the  simple 
fact  being  proved,  of  your  being  found 
stooping  down  in  pity  over  some  poor 
fellow  with  a  broken  head,  with  your 
hands  in  his  breeches'  pockets  in  order 
to  help  him  up  ?  And  can  you  fail 
to  draw  the  proper  inference  in  the 
present  case  ?  Oh,  no !  no !  my 
friends,  it  is  the  blood  of  the  Negroes 
that  is  used  in  these  refining  pande- 
moniums—>of  the  poor  Negroes,  who 
are  worth  one  hundred  pounds  a- 

Eiece  to  their  masters,  and  on  whose 
ealth  and  capacity  for  work  these 
same  planters  absolutely  and  entirely 
depend." 

Here  our  friend  gathered  all  his 
energies,  and  began  to  roar  like  a 
perfect  bull  of  Bashan,  and  to  swing 
his  arms  about  like  the  sails  of  a 
wind-mill,  and  to  stamp  and  jump, 
and  lollop  about  with  his  body  as  he 
went  on. 

"  Well,  this  butler,  this  poor  black 
butler — this  poor  black  slavjB  butler 
— this  poor  black  Christian  slave  but- 
ler— for  he  may  have  been  a  Chris- 
tian, and  most  likely  was  a  Chris- 
tian, and  indeed  must  have  been  a 
Christian — is  enforced,  after  all  the 
cruelties  already  related,  on  pain  of 
being  choked  with  the  leg  of  a  tur- 
key himself,  and  having  molten  lead 
poured  down  his  own  throat,  to  do 
what  ? — who  would  not  weep  ? — to — 
to— to  chuck  each  of  his  fellow-ser- 
vants, poor  miserable  creatures!  each 
with  a  bone  in  his  throat,  and  molten 
lead  in  his  belly,  and  a  fractured 
skull — to  chuck  them,  neck  and  croup, 
one  after  another,  down  a  dark  stair- 
case, a  pitch-dark  staircase,  amidst  a 
chaos  of  plates  and  dishes,  and  the  hard- 
est and  most  expensive  china,  and  the 
finest  cut  crystal — that  the  wounds  in- 
flicted maybe  the  keener — and  silver 
spoons,  and  knives  and  forks.  Yea, 
my  Christian  brethren,  carving-knives 
and  pitchforks  right  down  on  the  top 
of  their  brown  mistresses,  who  are 
thereby  invariably  bruised  like  the 
clown  in  the  pantomime — at  least  as 
I  am  told  he  is,  for  /never  go  to  such 
profane  places — oh,  no ! — bruised  as 
flat  as  pancakes,  and  generally  mur- 


Tom  Cringle  s  Log. 


dered  outright  on  the  spot  Last  of  all 
the  landlord  gets  up,  and  kicks  the 
miserable  butler  himself  down  after 
his  mates,  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
living  mass ;  and  this  not  once  and 
away,  but  every  day  in  the  week, 
Sundays  not  excepted.  Oh,  my  dear, 
dear  hearers,  can  you — can  you,  with 
your  fleshly  hearts  thumping  and 
bumping  against  your  small  ribs,  for- 
get the  black  butler,  and  the  mulatto 
concubines,  and  the  pitchforks,  and 
the  iron  ladles  full  of  molten  lead  ? 
My  feelings  overpower  me,  I  must 
conclude.  Go  in  peace,  and  ponder 
these  things  in  your  hearts,  and  pay 
your  sixpences  at  the  doors. — Exeunt 
omnes,  piping  their  eyes,  and  blowing 
their  noses." 

Our  shouts  of  laughter  interrupted 
our  friend,  who  never  moved  a 
muscle.  Presently  he  proceeded. 

"  The  whole  party  seemed  very- 
happy,  my  boon  ally  was  fun  itself, 
and  I  was  much  entertained  with 
the  mess  he  made  when  any  of  the 
foreigners  at  table  addressed  him 
in  French  or  Spanish.  1  was  parti- 
cularly struck  with  a  srflall,  thin, 
dark  Spaniard,  who  told  very  feel- 
ingly how  the  very  night  before,  on 
returning  home  from  a  party  to  his 
own  lodgings,  on  passing  through 
the  piazza,  he  stumbled  against  some- 
thing heavy  that  lay  in  his  grass- 
hammock,  which  usually  hung  there. 
He  called  for  a  light,  when,  to  his 
horror,  he  found  the  body  of  his  old 
and  faithful  valet  lying  in  it,  dead 
and  cold,  with  a  knife  sticking  un- 
der his  fifth  rib — no  doubt  intended 
for  his  master.  The  speaker  was 
Bolivar.  About  midnight,  Mr  Tree- 
nail returned,  we  shook  hands  with 

Mr  ,  and  once  more  shoved 

off;  and  guided  by  the  lights  shewn 
on  board  the  Torch,  we  were  safe 
home  again  by  three  in  the  morning, 
when  we  immediately  made  sail,  and 
nothing  particular  happened  until 
we  arrived  within  a  day's  sail  of 
Nassau.  It  seemed,  that  about  a 
week  before,  a  large  American  brig, 
bound  from  Havanna  to  Boston,  had 
been  captured  in  this  very  channel 
by  one  of  our  men-of-war  schooners, 
and  carried  into  Nassau.  Out  of 
this  same  port  of  Nassau,  New  Pro- 
vidence, for  their  own  security  the 
Authorities  had  fitted  a  small  schoon- 
er, carrying  six  guns,  and  twenty- 
four  men.  She  was  commanded  by 


463 

a  very  gallant  fellow— there  is  no  dis- 
puting that — for  in  a  fine  clear  night, 
when  all  the  officers  were  below 
rummaging  in  their  kits  for  the  kill- 
ing things  they  should  array  them- 
selves in  on  the  morrow,  so  as  to 
smite  the  Fair  of  New  Providence  to 
the  heart  at  a  blow —  Whiss — a  shot 
flew  over  our  mast-head. 

"  *  A  small  schooner  lying-to  right 
a-head,  sir,'  sung  out  the  boatswain 
from  the  forecastle. 

"  Before  we  could  beat  to  quarters, 
another  sung  between  our  masts. 
We  kept  steadily  on  our  course,  and 
as  we  approached  our  pigmy  anta- 
gonist, he  bore  up.  Presently  we 
were  alongside  of  him. 

"  '  Heave  to,'  hailed  the  strange 
sail ;  *  heave  to,  or  I'll  sink  you.' 

"  The  captain  took  the  trumpet — 

*  Schooner,    ahoy'  —  no    answer — 

*  Damn  your  blood,  sir,  if  you  don't 
let  every  thing  go  by  the  run  this 
instant,  I'll  tire  a  broadside.    Strike, 
sir,  to  his  Britannic  Majesty's  sloop 
Torch.' 

"  The  poor  fellow  commanding  the 
schooner  had  by  this  time  found  out 
his  mistake,  and  immediatelycame  on 
board,  where,  instead  of  being  lauded 
for  his  gallantry,  I  am  sorry  to  say 
he  was  roundly  rated  for  his  want  of 
discernment  in  mistaking  his  Majes- 
ty's cruiser  for  a  Yankee  merch&«t- 
man.  Next  forenoon  we  arrived  at 
Nassau." 

"  Oh,  confound  it,"  said  Aaron, 
"  I  positively  shall  not  read  any  thing 
abo'ut  Nassau,  as  we  are  so  shortly  to 
see  it.  So  let  me  see" — ah — "  Sailed 
for  Bermuda,  having  taken  on  board 
ten  American  skippers  as  prisoners 
of  war. 

"  For  the  first  three  days  after  we 
cleared  the  Passages,  we  had  fine 
weather.  Wind  at  east  south-east ; 
but  after  that  it  came  on  to  blow  from 
the  north-west,  and  so  continued 
without  intermission  during  the 
whole  of  the  passage  to  Bermuda. 
On  the  fourth  morning  after  we  left 
Nassau,  we  descried  a  sail  in  the 
south-east  quarter,  and  immediately 
made  sail  in  chase.  We  overhauled 
her  about  noon ;  she  hove  to,  afier 
being  fired  at  repeatedly;  and,  on 
boarding  her,  we  found  she  was  a 
Swede  from  Charleston  bound  to 
Havre-de- Grace.  All  the  letters  we 
could  find  onboard  were  very  uncere- 
moniously broken  open,  and  nothing 


464 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[April, 


having  transpired  that  could  identify 
the  cargo  as  enemy's  property,  we 
were  bundling  over  the  side,  when 
a  nautical-looking  subject,  who  had 
attracted  my  attention  from  the  first, 
put  in  his  oar. 

"  '  Lieutenant,'  said  he, '  will  you 
allow  me  to  put  this  barrel  of  New 
York  apples  into  the  boat  as  a  pre- 
sent to  Captain  Deadeye,  from  Cap- 
tain ***  of  the  United  States  navy  r" 
"  Mr  Treenail  bowed,  and  said  he 
would ;  and  we  shoved  off  and  got 
on  board  again,  and  here  there  was 
the  devil  to  pay,  from  the  perplexity 
old  Deadeye  was  thrown  into,  as  to 
whether,  here  in  the  heat  of  the 
American  war,  he  was  bound  to  take 
this  American  captain  prisoner  or 
not.  I  was  no  party  to  the  councils 
of  my  superiors  of  course,  but  the 
foreign  ship  was  finally  allowed  to 
continue  her  course. 

"  The  next  day  I  had  the  forenoon 
watch;  the  weather  had  lulled  un- 
expectedly, nor  was  there  much  sea, 
and  the  deck  was  all  alive,  to  take 
advantage  of  the  fine  blink,  when  the 
man  at  the  mast-head  sung  out — 
'  Breakers  right  a-head,  sir.' 

"  '  Breakers  !'  said  Mr  Splinter,  in 
great  astonishment.  *  Breakers! — 
why  the  man  must  be  mad— I  say, 

Jenkins' 

"*  Breakers  close  under  the  bows,' 
sung  out  the  boatswain  from  for- 
ward. 

"  *  The  devil,'  quoth  Splinter,  and 
he  ran  along  the  gangway,  and  as- 
cended the  forecastle,  while  I  kept 
close  to  his  heels.  We  looked  out 
a-head,  and  there  we  certainly  did 
see  a  splashing,  and  boiling,  and 
white  foaming  of  the  ocean,  that  un- 
questionably looked  very  like  break- 
ers. Gradually,  this  splashing  and 
foaming  appearance  took  a  circular 
whisking  shape,  as  if  the  clear  green 
sea,  for  a  space  of  a  hundred  yards 
in  diameter,  had  been  stirred  about 
by  a  gigantic  invisible  spurtle,  until 
every  thing  hissed  again;  and  the 
curious  part  of  it  was,  that  the  agi- 
tation ot  the  water  seemed  to  keep 
a-head  of  us,  as  if  the  breeze  which 
impelled  us  had  also  floated  it  on- 
wards. At  length  the  whirling  circle 
of  white  foam,  ascended  higher  and 
higher,  and  then  gradually  contract- 
ed itself  into  a  spinning  black  tube, 
which  wavered  about,  for  all  the 
world,  like  a  gigantic  loch-leech,  held 


by  the  tail  between  the  finger  and 
thumb,  while  it  was  poking  its  vast 
snout  about  in  the  clouds  in  search 
of  a  spot  to  fasten  on.  • 

"  *  Is  the  boat  gun  on  the  forecastle 
loaded  ?'  said  Captain  Deadeye. 
"  <  It  is,  sir.' 

" «  Then  luff  a  bit— that  will  do- 
fire.' 

"  The  gun  was  discharged,  and 
down  rushed  the  black  wavering  pil- 
lar in  a  watery  avalanche,  and  in  a 
minute  after  the  dark  heaving  billows 
rolled  over  the  spot  whereout  it 
arose,  as  if  no  such  thing  had  ever 
been." 

"  And  what  was  this  said  troubling 
of  the  waters,  Tom  ?"  said  Aaron. 

"  Why,  my  dear  sir,  it  was  neither 
more  nor  less  than  a  waterspout, 
which  again  is  neither  more  nor  less 
than  a  whirlwind  at  sea,  which  gra- 
dually whisks  the  water  round  and 
round,  and  up  and  up,  as  you  see 
straws-  so  raised,  until  it  reaches  a 
certain  height,  when  it  invariably 
breaks." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Tom,  that  a 
waterspout  is  not  created  by  some 
next  to  supernatural  exertion  of  the 
power  of  the  Deity,  in  order  to  suck 
up  water  into  the  clouds,  that  they, 
like  the  wine-skins  in  Spain,  may  be 
filled  with  rain?" 

"  My  dear  sir,  rain  is  not  salt,  as  it 
must  have  been  if  the  clouds  had 
been  leathern  bags,  and  the  water  of 
the  sea  carried  up  in  waterspouts; 
rain  is  the  vapours  which  arise  from 
the  earth  and  sea,  which  being  con- 
densed, dis " 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Bang, 
"  wait  till  you  are  made  a  lecturer 
in  the  Mechanics'  Institution." 

He  continued, — "  The  morning  af- 
ter the  weather  was  clear  and  beau- 
tiful, although  the  wind  blew  half  a 
gale.  Nothing  particular  happened 
until  about  seven  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing. I  happened  to  have  been  invi- 
ted to  dine  with  the  gunroom  officers 
this  day,  and  every  thing  was  going 
on  smooth  and  comfortable,  when 
Mr  Splinter  spoke,  '  I  say,  master, 
don't  you  smell  gunpowder  ?' 

"  *  Yes  I  do,'  said  the  little  master, 
*  or  something  deuced  like  it.' 

"  To  explain  the  particular  comfort 
of  our  position,  it  may  be  right  to 
mention  that  the  magazine  of  a  brig 
sloop  is  right  under  the  gunroom. 
Three  of  the  American  skippers  had 


1833.] 


Turn  Cringles  Log. 


•  )een  quartered  on  the  gunroom  mess, 
;uid  they  were  all  at  tahle.  Snuff, 
snuff,  stnelled  one,  and  another  sniff- 
led,— '  Gunpowder,  I  guess,  and  in  a 
:;tate  of  ignition.' 

" '  Will  you  not  send  for  the  gun- 
ner, sir  ?'  said  the  third. 

"  Splinter  did  not  like  it,  I  saw, 
jmd  this  quailed  me. 

"  The  captain's  bell  rang.  *  What 
emell  of  brimstone  is  that,  steward  ?' 

"  '  I  really  can't  tell,'  said  the  man, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot;  '  Mr 
Splinter  has  sent  for  the  gunner,  sir.' 

" '  The  devil !'  said  Deadeye,  as  he 
Lurried  on  deck.  We  all  followed. 
A  search  was  made. 

"  *  Some  matches  have  caught  in 
tSie  magazine,'  said  one. 

" '  We  shall  be  up  and  away  like 
sky-rockets,'  said  another. 

"  Several  of  the  American  masters 
ran  out  on  the  jib-boom,  coveting  the 
t3mporary  security  of  being  so  far 
r  amoved  from  the  seat  of  the  ex- 
pected explosion,  and  all  was  alarm 
and  confusion,  until  it  was  ascer- 
t  lined  that  two  of  the  boys,  little  sky- 
larking vagabonds,  had  stolen  some 
pistol  cartridges,  and  had  been  ma- 
lt ing  lightning,  as  it  is  called,  by  hold- 
i  ig  a  lighted  candle  between  the  fin- 
gers, and  putting  some  loose  powder 
i-ito  the  palm  of  the  hand,  and  then 
chucking  it  up  into  the  flame.  They 
got  a  sound  flogging,  on  a  very  uu- 
poetical  part  of  their  corpuses,  and 
once  more  the  ship  subsided  into 
l:er  usual  orderly  discipline.  The 
north  wester  still  continued,  with  a 
clear  blue  sky,  without  a  cloud  over- 
head by  day,  and  bright  cold  moon 
I  y  night.  It  blew  so  hard  for  the  three 
succeeding  days,  that  we  could  not 
carry  more  than  close-reefed  topsails 
t  >  it,  and  a  reefed  foresail.  Indeed, 
towards  six  bells  in  the  forenoon 
watch,  it  came  thundering  down  with 
s  ich  violence,  and  the  sea  increased 
8-j  much,  that  we  had  to  hand  the 
f  >re-  topsails. 

"  This  was  by  no  means  an  easy 
job.  '  Ease  her  a  bit,'  said  the  first 
lieutenant, — *  there— shake  the  wind 
out  of  her  sails  for  a  moment,  until 
t  ic  men  get  the  canvass'— —  whirl, 
a  poor  fellow  pitched  off  the  lee  fore- 
y  ardarm  into  the  sea.  '  Up  with  the 
h  jlm — heave  him  the  bight  of  a  rope.' 
Ve  kept  away,  but  all  was  confusion, 
uitil  an  American  midshipman,  one 
o '  the  prisoners  on  board,  hove  the 
8 


465 

bight  of  a  rope  at  him.  The  man  got 
it  under  his  arms,  and  after  hauling 
him  along  for  a  hundred  yards  at  the 
least — and  one  may  judge  of  the  ve- 
locity with  which  he  was  dragged 
through  the  water,  by  the  fact  that 
it  took  the  united  strain  of  ten  pow- 
erful men  to  get  him  in — and  when 
we  did  get  him  on  board,  pale  and 
blue,  we  found  that  the  running  of 
the  rope  had  crushed  in  his  broad 
chest  below  his  arms,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  girl's  waist,  cutting  into  the 
very  muscles  of  his  chest  and  of  his 
back,  half  an  inch  deep.  He  had  to 
be  bled  before  he  could  breathe,  and 
it  was  an  hour  before  the  circulation 
could  be  restored,  by  the  joint  exer- 
tions of  the  surgeon  and  gunroom 
steward,  chafing  him  with  hot  spirits 
and  camphor,  after  he  had  been 
stripped  and  stowed  away  between 
the  blankets  in  his  hammock. 

"  The  same  afternoon  we  fell  in 
with  a  small  prize  to  the  squadron  in 
the  Chesapeake,  a  dismasted  schoon- 
er, manned  by  a  prize  crew  of  a  mid- 
shipman and  six  men.  She  had  a 
signal  of  distress,  an  American  en- 
sign, with  the  union  down,  hoisted 
on  the  jury-mast,  across  which  there 
was  rigged  a  solitary  lug-sail.  It 
was  blowing  so  hard  that  we  had 
some  difficulty  in  boarding  her,  when 
we  found  she  was  a  Baltimore  pilot- 
boat-built  schooner,  of  about  70  tons 
burden,  laden  with  flour,  and  bound 
for  Bermuda.  But  three  days  before, 
in  a  sudden  squall,  they  had  carried 
away  both  masts,  short  by  the  board, 
and  the  only  spar  which  they  had 
been  able  to  rig,  was  a  spare  top-mast 
which  they  had  jammed  into  one  of 
the  pumps — fortunately  she  was  as 
tight  as  a  bottle — and  stayed  it  the 
best  way  they  could.  The  captain 
offered  to  take  the  little  fellow  who 
had  charge  of  her,  and  his  crew  and 
cargo,  on  board,  and  then  scuttle  her; 
but  no — all  he  wanted  was  a  cask  of 
water  and  some  biscuit,  and  having 
had  a  glass  of  grog,  he  trundled  over 
the  side  again,  and  returned  to  his 
desolate  command.  However,  he 
afterwards  brought  his  prize  safe  in- 
to Bermuda. 

"  The  weather  still  continued  very 
rough,  but  we  saw  nothing  until  the 
second  evening  after  this.  The  fore- 
noon had  been  even  more  boisterous 
than  any  of  the  preceding,  and  we 
were  all  fagged  enough  with  '  make 


466 

sail,'  and  •  shorten  sail,'  and  '  all 
hands,'  the  whole  day  through;  and 
as  the  night  fell,  I  found  myself,  for 
the  fourth  time,  in  the  maintop.  The 
men  had  just  lain  in  from  the  main- 
topsail  yard,  when  we  heard  the 
watch,  called  on  deck, — '  Starboard 
watch,  ahoy,' — which  was  a  cheery 
sound  to  us  of  the  larboard,  who 
were  thus  released  from  duty  on 
deck  and  allowed  to  go  below. 

"  The  men  were  scrambling  down 
the  weather  shrouds,  and  I  was  pre- 
paring to  follow  them,  when  I  jam- 
med my  left  foot  in  the  grating  of 
the  top,  and  capsized  en  my  nose. 
I  had  been  up  nearly  the  vrhole  of 
the  previous  night,  and  on  deck  the 
whole  of  the  day,  and  actively  em- 
ployed too,  as  during  the  greatest 
part  of  it  it  blew  a  gale.  I  stooped 
down  in  some  pain,  to  see  what  had 
bolted  me  to  the  grating,  but  I  had 
no  sooner  extricated  my  foot,  than, 
over-worked  and  over-fatigued  as  I 
was,  I  fell  over  in  the  soundest  sleep 
that  ever  I  have  enjoyed  before  or 
since,  the  back  of  my  neck  resting 
on  a  coil  of  rope,  so  that  my  head 
hung  down  within  it. 

"  The  rain  all  this  time  was  beating 
on  me,  andl  wasdrenched  to  theskin. 
I  must  have  slept  for  two  hours  or 
so,  when  I  was  awakened  by  a  rough 
thump  on  the  side  from  the  stum- 
bling foot  of  the  captain  of  the  top, 
the  word  having  been  passed  to  shake 
a  reef  out  of  the  topsails,  the  wind 
having  rather  suddenly  gone  down. 
It  was  done  ;  and  now  broad  awake,  I 
determined  not  to  be  caught  napping 
again,  so  I  descended,  and  swung 
myself  in  on  deck  out  of  the  main 
rigging,  just  as  Mr  Treenail  was  mus- 
tering the  crew  at  eight  bells.  When 
I  landed  on  the  quarter- deck,  there 
he  stood  abaft  the  binnacle,  with  the 
light  shining  on  his  face,  his  glazed 
hat  glancing,  and  the  rain-drop  spark- 
ling at  the  brim  of  it.  He  had  no- 
ticed me  the  moment  I  descended. 

"  *  Heyday,  Master  Cringle,  you 
are  surely  out  of  your  watch.  Why, 
what  are  you  doing  here,  eh  ?' 

"  I  stepped  up  to  him,  and  told  him 
the  truth,  that  being  over-fatigued,  I 
had  fallen  asleep  in  the  top. 

"  '  Well,  well,  boy,'  said  he,  *  never 
mind,  go  below,  and  turn  in ;  if  you 
don't  take  your  rest,  you  never  will 
be  a  sailor.' 

"  '  But  what  do  you  see  aloft  ?' 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


[April, 


glancing  bis  eye  upwards,  and'  all 
the  crew  on  deck  as  I  passed  them 
looked  anxiously  up  amongst  the 
rigging,  as  if  wondering  what  I  saw 
there,  for  I  had  become  so  chilled  in 
my  snoose,  that  my  neck,  from  rest- 
ing in  the  cold  on  the  coil  of  rope, 
had  become  stiffened  and  rigid  to  an 
inconceivable  degree;  and  although, 
when  I  first  came  on  deck,  I  had  by 
a  strong  exertion  brought  my  caput 
to  its  proper  bearings,  yet  the  mo- 
ment I  was  dismissed  by  my  supe- 
rior officer,  I  for  my  own  comfort 
allowed  myself  to  conform  to  the 
contraction  of  the  muscle,  whereby 
I  once  more  staved  along  the  deck, 
glowering  up  into  the  heavens,  as  if 
I  had  seen  some  wonderful  sight 
there.  «  What  do  you  see  aloft?' 
repeated  Mr  Treenail,  while  the 
crew,  greatly  puzzled,  continued  to 
follow  my  eye,  as  they  thought,  and 
to  stare  up  into  the  rigging. 

"  *  Why,  sir,  I  have  thereby  got  a 
stiff  neck — that's  all,  sir.' 

" «  Go  and  turn  in  at  once,  my  good 
boy — make  haste,  now — tell  our  stew- 
ard to  give  you  a  glass  of  hot  grog, 
and  mind  your  hand  that  you  don't 
get  sick.' 

"  I  did  as  I  was  desired,  swallow- 
ed the  grog,  and  turned  in;  but  I 
could  not  have  been  in  bed  above  an 
hour,  when  the  drum  beat  to  quar- 
ters, and  I  had  once  more  to  bundle 
out  on  the  cold  wet  deck,  ^'here  I 
found  all  excitement — indeed,  I  am 
not  sure  if  I  should  not  write  confu- 
sion. At  the  time  I  speak  of  we  had 
been  beaten  by  the  Americans  in  se- 
veral actions  of  single  ships,  and  our 
discipline  had  improved  in  propor- 
tion as  we  came  to  learn  by  sad  ex- 
perience that  the  enemy  was  not  to 
be  undervalued.  I  found  that  there 
was  a  ship  in  sight,  right  ahead  of  us 
— apparently  carrying  all  sail.  A 
group  of  officers  were  on  the  fore- 
castle with  night-glasses,  the  whole 
crew  being  stationed  in  dark  clus- 
ters round  the  guns  at  quarters. 
Several  of  the  American  skippers 
were  forward  amongst  us,  and  they 
were  of  opinion  that  the  chase  was 
a  man-of-war,  although  our  own 
people  seemed  to  doubt  this.  One 
of  the  skippers  insisted  that  she 
was  the  Hornet,  from  the  unusual 
shortness  of  her  lower  masts,  and 
the  immense  squareness  of  her 
yards.  But  the  puzzle  was,  if  it 
'  9 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  £.og. 


were  the  Hornet,  why  she  did  not 
shorten  sail.  Still  this  might  be  ac- 
counted for,  by  her  either  wishing  to 
make  out  what  \ve  were  before  she 
engaged  us,  or  she  might  be  clearing 
for  action.  At  this  moment  a  whole 
cloud  of  studding  sails  were  blown 
from  the  yards  as  if  the  booms  had 
been  carrots  ;  and  to  prove  that  the 
chase  was  keeping  a  bright  look-out, 
she  immediately  kept  away,  and 
finally  bore  up  dead  before  the  wind, 
under  the  impression,  no  doubt,  that 
she  would  draw  ahead  of  us,  from 
her  gear  being  entire,  before  we 
could  rig  out  our  li^ht  sails  again. 

"  And  so  she  did  for  a  time,  but  at 
length  we  got  within  gun-shot.  The 
American  masters  were  now  ordered 
below,  the  hatches  were  clapped  on, 
and  the  word  passed  to  see  all  clear. 
Our  shot  was  by  this  time  flying  over 
jtnd  over  her,  and  it  was  evident  she 
was  not  a  man-of-war.  We  peppered 
f  way — she  could  not  even  be  a  pri- 
vateer ;  we  were  close  under  her  lee- 
Cjuarter,  and  yet  she  had  never  fired 
a  shot;  and  her  large  swaggering 
Yankee  ensign  was  now  run  up  to 
the  peake,  only  to  be  hauled  down 
the  next  moment.  Hurrah  !  a  large 
cotton  ship,  from  Charleston  to  Bor- 
deaux, prize  to  H.  M.  S.  Torch. 

"  She  was  taken  possession  of, 

and  proved  to  be  the  ,  of  four 

hundred  tons  burden,  fully  loaded 
with  cotton. 

"  By  the  time  we  had  got  the  crew 
on  board,  and  the  second  lieuten- 
ant, with  a  prize  crew  of  fifteen  men, 
had  taken  charge,  the  weather  began 
to  lower  again,  but  nevertheless  we 
took  the  prize  in  tow,  and  continued 
on  our  voyage  for  the  next  three 
days,  without  any  thing  particular 
happening.  It  was  the  middle  watch, 
and  I  was  sound  asleep,  when  I  was 
stirtled  by  a  violent  jerking  of  my 
hammock,  and  a  cry  '  that  the  brig 
was  amongst  the  breakers.'  I  ran  on 
deck  in  my  shirt,  where  I  found  all 
hands,  and  a  scene  of  confusion  such 
as  I  never  had  witnessed  before. 
Tl.e  gale  had  increased,  yet  the  prize 
had  not  been  cast  off,  and  the  conse- 
quence was,  that  by  some  misman- 
agement or  carelessness,  the  swag 
of  the  large  ship  had  suddenly  hove 
tin*  head  sails  of  the  brig  a-back. 
\V«j  accordingly  fetched  stern  way, 
and  ran  foul  of  the  prize,  and  there 
we  were,  in  a  heavy  sea,  with  our 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCVI, 


467 

stern  grinding  against  the  cotton 
ship's  high  quarter. 

"  The  main  boom,  by  the  first  rasp 
that  took  place  after  I  came  on  deck, 
was  broken  short  off,  and  nearly 
twelve  feet  of  it  hove  right  in  over 
the  taffril ;  the  vessels  then  closed, 
and  the  next  rub  ground  off  the  ship's 
mizen  channel  as  clean  as  if  it  had 
been  sawed  away.  Officers  shout- 
ing, men  swearing,  rigging  cracking, 
the  vessels  crashing  and  thumping 
together,  I  thought  we  were  gone, 
when  the  first  lieutenant  seized  his 
trumpet — *  Silence,  men,  hold  your 
tongues,  you  cowards,  and  mind  the 
word  of  command !' 

"  The  effect  was  magical. — '  Brace 
round  the  foreyard  ;  round  with  it — 
set  the  jib — that's  it — fore-topmast 
stay-sail — haul — never  mind,  if  the 
gale  takes  it  out  of  the  bolt  rope' — 
a  thundering  flap,  and  away  it  flew 
in  truth  down  to  leeward,  like  a 
puff  of  white  smoke. — *  Never  mind, 
men,  the  jib  stands.  Belay  all  that 
— down  with  the  helm,  now — don't 
you  see  she  has  sternway  yet  ? 
Zounds!  we  shall  be  smashed  to 
atoms  if  you  don't  mind  your  hands, 
you  lubbers  —  main-topsail  sheets 
let  fly — there  she  pays  off,  and 
has  head-way  once  more,  that's 
it — right  your  helm  now  —  never 
mind  his  spanker-boom,  the  forestay 
will  stand  it — there — up  with  the 
helm,sir — we  have  cleared  him — hur- 
rah !' — And  a  near  thing  it  was  too, 
but  we  soon  had  every  thing  snug  ; 
and  although  the  gale  continued 
without  any  intermission  for  ten 
days,  at  length  we  ran  in  and  anchor- 
ed with  our  prize  in  Five  Fathom 
Hole,  off  the  entrance  to  St  George's 
Harbour. 

"  It  was  lucky  for  us  that  we  got  to 
anchor  at  the  time  we  did,  for  that 
same  afternoon,  one  of  the  most  tre- 
mendous gales  of  wind  from  the 
westward  came  on  that  I  ever  saw. 
Fortunately  it  was  steady  and  did 
not  veer  about,  and  having  good 
ground-tackle  down,  we  rode  it  out 
well  enough.  The  effect  was  very 
uncommon ;  the  wind  was  howling 
over  our  mast-heads,  and  amongst 
the  cedar  bushes  on  the  cliffs  above, 
while  on  deck  it  was  nearly  calm, 
and  there  was  very  little  swell,  being 
a  weather  shore;  but  half  a  mile  out 
at  sea  all  was  white  foam,  and  be- 
yond this  the  tumbling  waves  seem* 

2H 


468  Tom  Cringles' tog.  [April1 

ed  to  meet  from  north  and  south,     epaulets,  with  rich  French  bullion, 


leaving  a  space  of  smooth  water 
under  the  lee  of  the  island,  shaped 
like  the  tail  of  a  comet,  tapering 
away,  and  gradually  roughening  and 
becoming  more  stormy,  until  out  at 
sea  the  roaring  billows  once  more 
owned  allegiance  to  the  genius  of 
the  storm. 

"  There  we  rode,  with  three  anchors 
ahead,  in  safety  through  the  night, 
and  next  day  availing  of  a  temporary 
lull,  we  ran  up,  and  anchored  off  the 
Tanks.  Three  days  after  this,  the 
American  frigate  President  was 
brought  in  by  the  Endymion,  and 
the  rest  of  the  squadron. 

"I  went  on  board,  in  common  with 
every  officer  in  the  fleet,  and  certain- 
ly I  never  saw  a  more  superb  vessel ; 
her  scantling  was  that  of  a  seventy- 
four,  and  she  appeared  to  have  been 
fitted  with  great  care.  I  got  a  week's 
leave  at  this  time,  and,  as  I  had  let- 
ters to  several  families,  I  contrived 
to  spend  my  time  pleasantly  enough. 
"  Bermuda,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
is  a  cluster  of  islands  in  the  middle 
of  the  Atlantic.  There  are  Lord 
knows  how  many  of  them,  but  the 
beauty  of  the  little  straits  and  creeks 
which  divide  them,  no  man  can  de- 
scribe who  has  not  seen  them.  The 
town  of  Saint  George's,  for  instance, 
looks  as  if  the  houses  were  cut 
out  of  chalk;  and  one  evening  the 
family  where  I  was  on  a  visit,  Mrs 

T- 's,  proceeded  to  the  main  island, 

Hamilton,  to  attend  a  ball  there.  We 
had  to  cross  three  ferries,  although 
the  distance  was  not  above  nine 
miles,  if  so  far.  The  Mudian  women 
are  unquestionably  beautiful — so 
thought  Thomas  Moore,  a  tolerable 
judge,  before  me.  By  the  bye,  touch- 
ing this  Mudian  ball,  it  was  a  very 
gay  affair,  the  women  pleasant  and 
beautiful" — "  I  can  conceive  that  any 
how,"  said  Massa  Aaron — "  but  all 
the  men,  when  they  speak,  or  are 
spoken  to,  shut  one  eye  and  spit" — 
"  A  compendious  description  of  a 
community,"  added  our  friend. 

"  The  second  day  of  my  sojourn 
was  fine — the  first  fine  day  we  had 
had  since  our  arrival — and  with  seve- 
ral young  ladies  of  the  family,  I  was 
prowling  through  the  cedar  wood 
above  St  George's,  when  a  dark 
good-looking  man  passed  us  ;  he  was 
dressed  in  tight  worsted  net  panta- 
loons and  Hessian  boots,  and  wore 
a  blue  frock-coat  with  two  large 


and  a  round  hat.  On  passing  he 
touched  his  hat  with  much  grace, 
and  in  the  evening  I  met  him  in  so- 
ciety. It  was  Commodore  Decatur. 
He  was  very  much  a  Frenchman  in 
manner,  or,  I  should  rather  say,  in 
look,  for  although  very  well  bred,  he, 
for  one  ingredient,  by  no  means  pos- 
sessed a  Frenchman's  volubility;  still 
he  was  an  exceedingly  agreeable  and 
very  handsome  man. 

"  The  folio  wing  day  we  spent  in  a 
pleasure  cruise  amongst  the  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  islands,  many 
of  them  not  above  an  acre  of  extent 
— fancy  an  island  of  an  acre  in  ex- 
tent!— with  a  solitary  house,  a  small 
garden,  a  red-skinned  family,  a  pig- 
gery, and  all  around  clear  deep  pel- 
lucid water.  None  of  the  islands  and 
islets  rise  to  any  great  height  cer- 
tainly, but  they  shoot  precipitously 
out  of  the  water,  as  if  the  whole 
group  had  originally  been  a  huge 
platform  of  rock,  with  numberless 
grooves  subsequently  chiselled  out 
in  it  by  art, 

"  We  had  to  wind  our  way  amongst 
these  manifold  small  channels  for 
two  hours,  before  we  reached  the 
gentleman's  house  where  we  had 
been  invited  to  dine ;  at  length  on 
turning  a  corner,  with  both  latteen 
sails  drawing  beautifully,  we  ran 
bump  on  a  shoal ;  there  was  no  dan- 
ger, and  knowing  that  the  Mudians 
were  capital  sailors,  1  sat  still.  Not 

so   Captain  K ,  a  rough  plump 

little  homo, — *  Shove  her  off,  my 
boys,  shove  her  off.'  She  would  not 
move,  and  thereupon  he  in  a  fever 
of  gallantry  jumped  overboard  up  to 
the  waist  in  full  fig ;  and  one  of  the 
men  following  his  example,  we  were 
soon  afloat.  The  ladies  applauded, 
and  the  Captain  sat  in  his  wet  breeks 
for  the  rest  of  the  voyage,  in  all  the 
consciousness  of  being  considered  a 
hero.  Ducks  and  onions  are  the 
grand  staple  of  Bermuda,  but  there 
was  a  fearful  dearth  of  both  at  the 
time  I  speak  of.  A  knot  of  young 
West  India  merchants,  who  with 
heavy  purses  and  large  credits  on 
England,  had  at  this  time  domiciled 
themselves  in  St  George's,  to  batten 
on  the  spoils  of  poor  Jonathan,  ha- 
ving monopolized  all  the  good  things 
of  the  place.  I  happened  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  one  of  them,  and 
thereby  had  less  reason  to  complain; 
but  many  a  poor  fellow,  sent  ashore 


1883.] 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


on  duty,  had  to  put  up  with  but 
Lenten  fair  at  the  taverns.  At  length, 
having  refitted,  we  sailed,  in  com- 
pany with  the  Rayo  frigate,  with  a 
convoy  of  three  transports,  freighted 
with  a  regiment  for  New  Orleans, 
and  several  merchantmen,  bound  for 
the  West  Indies. 

"'The  still  vexed  Bermoothes'— I 
arrived  at  them  in  a  gale  of  wind, 
and  I  sailed  from  them  in  a  gale  of 
wind.  What  the  climate  may  be  in  the 
summer  I  don't  know;  but  during  the 
time  I  was  there,  it  was  one  storm 
after  another. 

"  We  sailed  in  the  evening  with  the 
moon  at  full,  and  the  wind  a  west- 
north-west.  So  soon  as  we  got  from 
under  the  lee  of  the  land,  the  breeze 
struck  us,  and  it  came  on  to  blow 
like  thunder,  so  that  we  were  all 
f  oon  reduced  to  our  storm  stay-sails; 
j  nd  there  we  were,  transports,  mer- 
chantmen, and  men-of-war,  rising  on 
tlie  mountainous  billows  one  mo- 
rient,  and  the  next  losing  sight  of 
e  very  thing  but  the  water  and  sky  in 
tie  deep  trough  of  the  sea,  while  the 
seething  foam  was  blown  over  us  in 
s  lowers  from  the  curling  manes  of 
the  roaring  waves.  But  overhead, 
a  I  this  while,  it  was  as  clear  as  a 
lovely  winter  moon  could  make  it, 
a  id  the  stars  shone  brightly  in  the 
d  ?ep  blue  sky;  there  was  not  even  a 
tl  in  fleecy  shred  of  cloud,  racking 
across  the  moon's  disk.  Ob,  the 
glories  of  a  northwester  !" 

"  The  devil  seize  such  glory  !"  said 
B  mg.  '"  Glory,  indeed  !  with  a  fleet 
ol  transports,  and  a  regiment  of  sol- 
diers on  board  !  Glory !  why,  I  dare- 
say five  hundred  rank  and  file,  at  the 
fe  vvest,  were  all  cascading  at  one  and 
th3  same  moment, — a  thousand  poor 
fe  lows  turned  outside  in,  like  so 
rn.-iny  pairs  of  old  stockings.  Any 
glory  in  that?  But  to  proceed." 

'  Next  morning  the  gale  still  con- 
tirued,  and  when  the  day  broke, 
there  was  the  frigate  standing  across 
our  bows,  rolling  and  pitching,  as 
shi^  tore  her  way  through  the  boiling 
ses ,  under  a  close-reefed  maintop- 
sai  and  reefed  foresail,  with  topgal- 
lar  t  yards  and  royal  masts,  and  every 
thi  ig  that  could  be  struck  with  safety 
in  vvar  time,  down  on  deck.  There 
she  lay  with  her  clear  black  bends, 
and  bright  white  streak,  and  long 
tier  of  cannon  on  the  main-deck,  and 
the  carronades  on  the  quarter-deck 


and  forecastle  grinning  through  the 
ports  in  the  black  bulwarks,  while 
the  white  hammock8,carefully  cover- 
ed by  the  hammock-cloths,  crowned 
the  defences  of  the  gallant  frigate 
fore  and  aft,  as  she  delved  through 
the  green  surge,  one  minute  rolling 
and  rising  on  the  curling  white  crest 
of  a  mountainous  sea,  amidst  a  hiss- 
ing snow-storm  of  white  spray,  with 
her  bright  copper  glancing  from  stem 
to  stern,  and  her  white  canvass  swell- 
ing aloft,  and  twenty  feet  of  her  keel 
forward  occasionally  hove  into  the 
air  and  clean  out  of  the  water,  as  if 
she  had  been  a  sea-bird  rushing  to 
take  wing,  and  the  next,  sinking  en- 
tirely out  of  sight,  hull,  masts,  and 
rigging,  behind  an  intervening  sea, 
that  rose  in  hoarse  thunder  be- 
tween us,  threatening  to  overwhelm 
both  us  and  her.  As  for  the  trans- 
ports, the  largest  of  the  three 
had  lost  her  fore-topmast,  and  had 
bore  up  under  her  foresail ;  another 
was  also  scudding  under  a  close- 
reefed  fore-topsail;  but  the  third  or 
head-quarter  ship,  was  still  lying  to 
windward,  under  her  storm  stay- 
sails. As  for  the  merchant-vessels, 
they  were  nowhere  to  be  seen,  ha- 
ving been  compelled  to  bear  up  in 
the  night,  and  to  run  before  it  under 
bare  poles. 

"  At  length,  as  the  sun  rose,  we  all 
got  before  the  wind,  and  it  soon 
moderated  so  far,  that  we  could 
carry  reefed  topsails  and  foresail; 
and  away  we  all  bowled,  with  a 
clear,  deep,  cold,  blue  sky,  and  a 
bright  sun,  overhead,  and  a  stormy 
leaden-coloured  ocean,  with  whitish, 
green-crested  billows,  below.  The 
sea  continued  to  go  down,  and  the 
wind  to  slacken,  until  the  afternoon, 
when  the  Commodore  made  the  sig- 
nal to  send  a  boat's  crew,  the  instant 
it  could  be  done  with  safety,  on 
board  the  dismasted  ship,  to  assist 
in  repairing  damages,  and  in  getting 
up  a  jury-fore-topmast. 

"  The  damaged  ship  was  at  this 
time  on  our  weather-quarter;  we  ac- 
cordingly took  in  the  fore-topsail, 
and  presently  she  was  alongside. 
We  hailed  her,  that  we  intended  to 
send  a  boat  on  board,  and  desired 
her  to  heave  to,  as  we  did,  and  pre- 
sently she  rounded  to  under  our  loe. 
One  of  the  quarter-boats  was  man- 
ned, with  three  of  the  carpenter's 
crew,  and  six  good  men  over  and 


Torn  Cringle's  Log. 


470 

above  her  complement,  and  lowered, 
carefully  watching  the  rolls,  with  all 
hands  in.  The  moment  she  touched 
the  water,  the  tackles  were  cleverly 
unhooked,  and  we  shoved  off.  With 
great  difficulty,  and  not  without  wet 
jackets,  we  got  on  hoard,  and  the 
boat  returned  to  the  Torch.  The 
evening  when  we  landed  in  the  lob- 
ster-box, as  Jack  loves  to  designate 
a  transport,  was  too  far  advanced  for 
us  to  do  any  thing  towards  refitting 
that  night,  and  the  confusion,  and 
uproar,  and  numberless  abomina- 
tions of  the  crowded  craft,  was  irk- 
some to  a  greater  degree  than  I  was 
willing  to  allow,  after  having  been 
accustomed  to  the  strict  and  orderly 
discipline  of  a  man-of-war.  The 
following  forenoon  the  Torch  was 
ordered  by  signal  to  chase  in  the 
south-east  quarter,  and  hauling  out 
from  the  fleet,  she  was  soon  out  of 
sight. 

"  *  There  goes  my  house  and 
home,'  said  I,  and  a  feeling  of  deso- 
lateness  came  over  me,  that  I  would 
have  been  ashamed  at  the  time  to 
have  acknowledged.  We  stood  on, 
and  worked  hard  all  day  in  repairing 
the  damage  sustained  during  the  gale. 
"  At  length  dinner  was  announced, 
and  I  was  invited,  as  the  officer  in 
charge  of  the  seamen,  to  go  down. 
The  party  in  the  cabin  consisted  of 
an  old  gaisened  major  with  a  brown 
wig,  and  a  voice  melodious  as  the 
sharpening  of  a  saw.  I  fancied  some- 
times that  the  vibration  created  by 
it  set  the  very  glasses  in  the  stew- 
ard's  pantry  a- ringing;  three  cap- 
tains and  six  subalterns,  every  man 
of  whom,  as  the  devil  would  have 
it,  played  on  the  flute,  and  drew  bad 
sketches,  and  kept  journals.  Most 
of  them  were  very  white  and  blue 
in  the  gills  when  we  sat  down,  and 
others  of  a  dingy  sort  of  whitey- 
brown,  while  they  ogled  the  viands 
in  a  most  suspicious  manner.  Evi- 
dently most  of  them  had  but  small 
confidence  in  their  monyplies,  and 
one  or  two,  as  the  ship  gave  a  hea- 
vier roll  than  usual,  looked  wistfully 
towards  the  door,  and  half  rose  from 
their  chairs,  as  if  in  act  to  bolt. 
However,  hot  brandy  grog  being  the 
order  of  the  day,  we  all,  landsmen 
and  sailors,  got  on  astonishingly,  and 
numberless  long  yarns  were  spun  of 
what  '  what's  his  name  of  this,  and 


[April 


so  and  so  of  t'other,  did  or  did  not 
do.' 

"  About  half  past  five  in  the  even- 
ing, the  captain  of  the  transport,  or 
rather  the  agent,  an  old  lieutenant  in 
the  navy,  aud  our  host,  rang  his  bell 
for  the  steward. 

"  *  Whereabouts  are  we  in  the  fleet, 
steward?'  said  the  ancient. 

"  *  The  sternmost  ship  of  all,  sir,' 
said  the  man. 

"  *  Where  is  the  commodore  ?' 
"  '  About  three  miles  a-head,  sir.* 
"  *  And  the  Torch,  has  she  rejoined 
us?' 

"  '  No,  sir ;  she  has  been  out  of 
sight  these  two  hours;  when  last 
seen  she  was  in  chase  of  something 
in  the  south-east,  and  carrying  all 
the  sail  she  could  stagger  under.' 
"  '  Very  well,  very  well.' 
"  A  song  from  Master  Waistbelt, 
one  of  the  young  officers.  Before  he 
had  concluded  the  mate  came  down 
again.  By  this  time  it  was  near  sun- 
down. 

" '  Shall  we  shake  a  reef  out  of  the 
main  and  mizen  topsails,  sir,  and  set 
the  mainsail  and  spanker.  The  wind 
has  lulled,  sir,  and  there  is  a  strange 
sail  in  the  north-west  that  seems  to 
be  dodging  us — but  she  may  be  one 
of  the  merchantmen  after  all,  sir.' 

"  '  Never  mind,  Mr  Leechline,' 
said  our  gallant  captain. 

" '  Mr  Bandaleir — a  song  if  you 
please.' 

"  Now  the  young  soldiers  on  board 
happened  to  be  men  of  the  world, 
and  Bandalier,  who  did  not  sing, 
turned  off  the  request  with  a  good- 
humoured  laugh,  alleging  his  inabi- 
lity with  much  suavity;  but  the  old 
rough  Turk  of  a  tar-bucket  chose  to 
fire  at  this,  and  sang  out — *  Oh,  if 
you  don't  choose  to  sing  when  you 
are  asked,  and  to  sport  your  damned 

fine  airs' 

"  '  Mr  Crowfoot' 

"  '  Captain,'  said  the  agent,  piqued 
at  having  his  title  by  courtesy,  with- 
held. 

" '  By  no  means,'  said  Major  Saw- 
rasp,  who  had  spoken — '  I  believe  I 
am  speaking  to  Lieutenant  Crowfoot, 
agent  for  transport  No.  — ,  wherein 
it  so  happens  I  am  commandiug  offi- 
cer— so' 

"  Old  Crowfoot  saw  he  was  in 
the  wrong  box,  and  therefore  hove 
about,  and  backed  out  in  good  time 


1833.]  Tom 

— making  the  amende  as  smoothly 
as  his  gruff  nature  admitted,  and 
trying  to  look  pleased. 

"  Presently  the  same  infernal  bo- 
thersome steward  came  down  again 
— '  The  strange  sail  is  creeping  up 
on  our  quarter,  sir.' 

" '  Aye/  said  Crowfoot, '  how  does 
nhelay?'" 

i{  There  again  now,"  said  Aaron, 
with  an  irritable  yirny — "  why,  Tom, 
your  style  is  most  pestilent — you  lay 
here  and  you  lay  there — are  you  sure 
chat  you  are  not  a  hen,  Tom  ?" 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge,  my  dear 
fir." 

"But  why  not  lay?"  chimed  in 
Wagtail. 

"  Simply  because  lie  is  the  word, 
you  Hottentot  Venus — lie" — quoth 
Aaron.  "  But  to  proceed. 

"  '  She  is  hauled  by  the  wind  on 
the  starboard  tack,  sir,'  continued 
the  steward. 

"  We  now  all  went  on  deck,  and 
found  that  our  suspicious  friend  had 
shortened  sail,  as  if  he  had  made  us 
cut,  and  was  afraid  to  approach,  or 
was  lying  by  until  night-fall. 
"  Sawrasp  had,  before  this,  with 
fie  tact  and  ease  of  a  soldier  and  a 
gentleman,  soldered  his  feud  with 
Crowfoot,  and,  with  the  rest  of  the 
lobsters,  was  full  of  fight.  The  sun 
at  length  set,  and  the  night  closed 
in  ("  very  prosaic  all  that,"  quoth 
Uang)  when  the  old  major  again  ad- 
dressed Crowfoot. 

"  *  My  dear  fellow,  can't  you  wait 
£  bit,  and  let  us  have  a  rattle  at  that 
c  hap  ?'  And  old  Crowfoot,  who 
never  bore  a  grudge  long,  seemed 
much  inclined  to  fall  in  with  the  sol- 
dier's views;  and  in  fine,  although  the 
weather  was  now  moderate,  he  did 
not  make  sail.  Presently  the  com- 
modore fired  a  gun,  and  shewed 
lights.  It  was  the  signal  to  close. 
*  Oh,  time  enough,'  said  old  Crow- 
foot— '  what  is  the  old  man  afraid 
of?'  Another  gun — and  a  fresh  con- 
stellation onboard  the  frigate.  It  was 
'  an  enemy  in  the  northwest  quar- 
ter.' 

"  '  Hah,  hah,'  sung  out  the  agent — 
'  is  it  so  ?  Major,  what  say  you  to  a 
brush— let  her  close,  eh  ? — should 
like  to  pepper  her — would'nt  you — 
three  hundred  men,  eh  ?' 

"  By  this  time  we  were  all  on  deck 
—the  schooner  came  bowling  along 
under  mainsail  and  jib,  now  rising, 


s  Log. 


471 


and  presentlydisappearingbehind  the 
stormy  heavings  of  the  roaring  sea, 
the  rising  moon  shining  brightly  on 
her  canvass  pinions,  as  if  she  had 
been  an  albatross  skimming  along 
the  surface  of  the  foaming  water, 
while  her  broad  white  streak  glanced 
like  a  silver  ribbon  along  her  clear 
black  side.  She  was  a  very  large 
craft  of  her  class,  long  and  low  in 
the  water,  and  evidently  very  fast. 
It  was  now  evident,  from  our  having 
been  unable  as  yet  to  get  up  our 
foretopmast,  that  she  took  us  for  a 
disabled  merchantman,  which  might 
be  cut  off  from  the  convoy. 

"  As  she  approached,  we  could 
perceive  by  the  bright  moonlight, 
that  she  had  six  guns  of  a  side,  and 
two  long  ones  on  pivots,  the  one  for- 
ward on  the  forecastle,  and  the  other 
choke  up  to  the  mainmast. 

"  Her  deck  was  crowded  with  dark 
figures,  pike  and  cutlass  in  hand; 
we  were  by  this  time  so  near  that 
we  could  see  pistols  in  their  belts, 
and  a  trumpet  in  the  hand  of  a  man 
who  stood  in  the  forerigging,  with 
his  feet  on  the  hammock  netting, 
and  his  back  against  the  shrouds. 
We  had  cleared  away  our  six  eigh- 
teen-pound carronades,  which  com- 
posed our  starboard  broadside,  and 
loaded  them,  each  with  a  round  shot, 
and  a  bag  of  two  hundred  musket- 
balls,  while  three  hundred  soldiers 
in  their  foraging  jackets,  and  with 
their  loaded  muskets  in  their  hands, 
were  lying  on  the  deck,  concealed 
by  the  quarters,  while  the  bluejack- 
ets were  sprawling  in  groups  round 
the  carronades. 

"  I  was  lying  down  beside  the 
gallant  old  Major,  who  had  a  buggler 
close  to  him,  while  Crowfoot  was 
standing  on  the  gun  nearest  us;  but 
getting  tired  of  this  recumbent  posi- 
tion, 1  crept  aft,  until  I  could  see 
through  a  spare  port. 

"  «  Why  don't  the  rascals  fire  ?' 
quoth  Sawrasp. 

"  *  Oh,  that  would  alarm  the  Com- 
modore. They  intend  to  walk  quietly 
on  board  of  us ;  but  they  will  find 
themselves  mistaken  a  little,'  whis- 
pered Crowfoot. 

"  *  Mind,  men,  no  firing  till  the 
bugle  sounds,'  said  the  Major. 

"  The  word  was  passed  along. 
,    "  The  schooner  was  by  this  time 
ploughing  along  within  half  pistol- 
shot,  with  the  white  water  dashing 


472 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[April, 


away  from  her  bows,  and  buzzing 
past  her  sides — her  crew  as  thick  as 
peas  on  her  deck.  Once  or  twice 
she  hauled  her  wind  a  little,  and 
then  again  kept  away  for  us,  as  if 
irresolute  what  to  do.  At  length, 
without  hailing,  and  all  silent  as  the 
grave,  she  put  her  helm  a-starboard, 
and  ranged  alongside. 

"  «  Now,  my  boys,  give  it  him,' 
shouted  Crowfoot—*  Fire !' 

"  '  Ready,  men,'  shouted  the  Ma- 
jor,— *  Present — fire  !' 

"  The  bugles  sounded,  the  cannon 
roared,  the  musketry  rattled,  and 
the  men  cheered,  and  all  was  hurra, 
and  fire,  and  fury.  The  breeze  was 
strong  enough  to  carry  all  the  smoke 
forward,  and  I  saw  the  deck  of  the 
schooner,  where  the  moment  before 
all  was  still  and  motionless,  and  fill- 
ed with  dark  figures,  till  there  scarce- 
ly appeared  standing  room,  at  once 
converted  into  a  shambles.  The 
blasting  fiery  tempest  had  laid  low 
the  whole  mass,  like  a  maize  plat 
before  a  hurricane ;  and  such  a  cry 
arose,  as  if 

*  Men  fought  on  earth, 
And  fiends  in  upper  air.' 

Scarcely  a  man  was  on  his  legs,  the 
whole  crew  seemed  to  have  been  le- 
velled with  the  deck,  many  dead,  no 
doubt,  and  most  wounded,  while  we 
could  see  numbers  endeavouring  to 
creep  towards  the  hatches,  while  the 
black  blood,  in  horrible  streaks, 
gushed  and  gurgled  through  her 
scuppers  down  her  sides,  and  across 
the  bright  white  streak,  that  glanced 
in  the  moonlight."  Bang  stopped 
short. 

"A  pleasant  life  yours,  Tom — 
very." 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  sir,"  re- 
joinedl, "  Inever  recall  that  early  and 
dismal  scene  to  my  recollection, — the 
awful  havoc  created  on  the  schooner's 
deck  by  our  fire,  the  struggling,  and 
crawling,  and  wriggling  of  the  dark 
mass  of  wounded  men,  as  they  en- 
deavoured, fruitlessly,  to  shelter 
themselves  from  our  guns,  even  be- 
hind the  dead  bodies  of  their  slain 
shipmates— without  conjuring  up  a 
very  fearful  and  harrowing  image." 

"  And  what  may  your  ugly  image 
be,  my  dear  boy?"  said  Aaron. 

"  Were  you  ever  at  Biggleswade, 
my  dear  sir  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  have,"  said  Mr 
Bang. 


"  Then  did  you  ever  see  an  eel- 
pot,  with  the  water  drawn  off,  when 
the  snake-like  fish  were  twining,  and 
twisting,  and  crawling,  like  Brobdig- 
nag  maggots,  in  living  knots,  a  hor- 
rible and  disgusting  mass  of  living 
abomination,  amidst  the  filthy  slime 
at  the  bottom  ?" 

"  Ach — have  done,  Tom — hang 
your  similies.  Can't  you  cut  your 
coat  by  me,  man  ?  Only  observe  the 
delicacy  of  mine." 

"The  corby  craw  for  instance," 
said  I,  laughing. 

"  Ever  at  Biggleswade  !"  struck  in 
Paul  Gelid. 

"  Ever  at  Biggleswade !  Lord  love 
you,  Cringle,  "we  have  all  been  at 
Biggleswade.  Don't  youknow,"  (how 
he  conceived  I  should  have  known, 
I  am  sure  I  never  could  tell,)  "  don't 
you  know  that  Wagtail  and  I  once 
made  a  voyage  to  England,  aye,  in 
the  hurricane  months,  too — ah — for 
the  express  purpose  of  eating  eels 
there, — and  Lord,  Tom,  my  dear 
fellow," — (here  he  sunk  his  voice 
into  a  most  dolorous  key)  "  let  me 
tell  you  that  we  were  caught  in  a 
hurricane  in  the  Gulf,  and  very  near- 
ly lost,  when,  instead  of  eating  eels, 
sharks  would  have  eaten  us — ah— 
and  at  length  driven  into  Havannah — 
ah.  And  when  we  did  get  home"— 
(here  I  thought  my  excellent  friend 
would  have  cried  outright) — "  Lord, 
sir !  we  found  that  ihefall  was  not  the 
season  to  eat  eels  in  after  all — ah— 
— that  is,  in  perfection.  But  we 
found  out  from  Whiffle,  whom  we 
met  in  town,  that  he  had  learned 
from  the  guard  of  the  North  mail, 
that  one  of  the  last  season's  pots 
was  still  on  hand  at  Biggleswade; 
so  down  we  trundled  in  the  mail 
that  very  evening." 

"  And  don't  you  remember  the 
awful  cold  I  caught  that  night,  being 
obliged  to  go  outside"?'  quoth  Waggy. 

"Ah,  and  so  you  did,  my  dear 
fellow,"  continued  his  ally. 

"  But  gracious — on  alighting,  we 
found  that  the  agent  of  a  confounded 
gormandizing  Lord  Mayor  had  that 
very  evening  boned  the  entire  con- 
tents of  the  only  remaining  pot,  for 
a  cursed  livery  dinner — ah.  Eels, 
indeed!  we  got  none  but  those  of  the 
new  catch,  full  of  mud,  and  tasting 
of  mud  and  red  worms.  Wagtail  was 
really  very  ill  in  consequence — ah." 

Pepperpot  had  all  this  while  lis- 
tened with  mute  attention,  as  if  the 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's 


473 


narrative  had  been  most  moving,  and 
I  question  not  he  thought  so;  but 
Bang  —  oh,  the  rogue  !  —  looked  also 
very  grave  and  sympathizing,  but 
there  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his  eye, 
that  shewed  he  was  inwardly  enjoy- 
ing the  beautiful  rise  of  his  friend. 
At  length  he  read  on  -  » 

"  Some  one  on  board  of  the  priva- 
teer now  hailed,  '  We  have  surren- 
dered ;  cease  firing,  sir.'  But  devil  a 
;3it  —  we  continued  blazing  away  —  a 
an  tern  was  run  up  to  his  main  gaff, 
and  then  lowered  again. 

"  '  We  have  struck,  sir,'  shouted 
mother  voice,  '  don't  murder  us— 
don't  fire,  sir,  for  Godsake.' 

"But  fire  we  still  did;  no  sailor 
lias  the  least  compunction  at  even 
running  down  a  privateer.  Mercy  to 
privateersmen  is  unknown.  '  Give 
them  the  stem,'  is  the  word,  the 
curs  being  regarded  by  Jack  at  the 
best  as  highwaymen;  so,  when  he 
found  we  still  peppered  away,  and 
sailing  two  feet  for  our  one,  the 
schooner  at  length,  in  their  despera- 
tion, hauled  her  wind,  and  speedily 
got  beyond  range  of  our  carronades, 
having  all  this  time  never  fired  a 
shot.  Shortly  after  this  we  ran  under 
the  Ray  os  stern  —  she  was  lying  to. 

"  '  Mr  Crowfoot,  what  have  you 
been  after?  I  have  a  great  mind  to 
report  you,  sir.' 

"  *  We  could  not  help  it,  sir,'  sung 
oat  Crowfoot,  in  answer  to  the  cap- 
tuin  of  the  frigate  ;  '  we  have  been 
naarly  taken,  sir,  by  a  privateer,  sir  — 
an  immense  vessel,  sir,  that  sails  like 
a  witch,  sir.' 

"  *  Keep  close  in  my  wake  then, 
S'r/  rejoined  the  captain,  in  a  gruff 
,  and  immediately  the  Rayo  bore 


up. 

'*  Next  morning  we  were  all  car- 
ring  as  much  sail  as  we  could  crowd. 
B  j  this  time  we  had  gotten  our  jury 
ft  retopmastup,  and  the^Ra^o,  having 
k''pt  astern  in  the  night,  was  now 
uiider  topsails,  and  topgallant  sails, 
with  the  wet  canvass  at  the  head  of 
tl  e  sails,  shewing  that  the  reefs  had 
b-'en  freshly  shaken  out  —  rolling 
\*  edgelike  on  the  swell,  and  rapidly 
passing  us,  to  resume  her  station  a- 
hi  ad.  As  she  passed  us,  she  made 
tie  signal  to  make  more  sail,  her 
object  being  to  get  through  the  Cai- 
C(  s  passage,  into  which  we  were  now 
ei  tering,  before  nightfall.  It  was 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon.  A 


fine  clear  breezy  day,  fresh  and  plea- 
sant, sometimes  cloudy  overhead,  but 
always  breaking  away  again,  with  a 
bit  of  a  sneezer,  and  a  small  shower. 
As  the  sun  rose  there  were  indications 
of  squalls  in  the  north-eastern  quar- 
ter, and  about  noon  one  of  them  was 
whitening  to  windward.  So  *  hands 
by  the  topgallant  clew-lines'  was  the 
word,  and  we  were  all  standing  by  to 
shorten  sail,  when  the  Commodore 
came  to  the  wind  as  sharp  and  sud- 
denly as  if  he  had  anchored ;  but  on 
a  second  look,  I  saw  his  sheets  were 
let  fly,  haulyards  let  go,  and  appa- 
rently all  was  confusion  on  board  of 
her.  I  ran  to  the  side,  and  looked 
over.  The  long  heaving  dark  blue 
swell,  had  changed  into  a  light  green 
hissing  ripple. 

"  'Zounds,  Captain  Crowfoot,  shoal 
water — why,  it  breaks — we  shall  be 
ashore.' 

"'Down  with  the  helm — brace 
round  the  yards,'  shouted  Crowfoot ; 
'  that's  it — steady — luff,  my  man ;' 
and  the  danger  was  so  imminent  that 
even  the  studdingsailhaulyards  were 
not  let  go,  and  the  consequence  was, 
that  the  booms  snapped  off  like  car- 
rots, as  we  came  to  the  wind. 

" '  Lord  help  us,  we  shall  never 
weather  that  foaming  reefthere — set 
the  spanker — haul  out — haul  down 
the  foretopmast  stay-sail — so,  mind 
your  luff,  my  man.' 
"  The  frigate  now  began  to  fire  right 
and  left,  and  the  hissing  of  the  shot 
overhead  was  a  fearful  augury  of 
what  was  to  take  place ;  so  sudden 
was  the  accident  that  they  had  not 
had  time  to  draw  the  round  shot. 
The  other  transports  were  equally- 
fortunate  with  ourselves,  in  weather- 
ing the  shoal,  and  presently  we  were 
all  close  hauled  to  windward  of  the 
reef,  until  we  weathered  the  eastern- 
most prong,  when  we  bore  up.  But, 
poor  Rayo  I  she  had  struck  on  a  cor- 
ral reef,  where  the  Admiralty  charts 
laid  down  fifteen  fathoms  water;  and 
although  there  was  some  talk  at  the 
time,  of  an  error  in  judgment,  in  not 
having  the  lead  going  in  the  chains, 
still  I  do  believe  there  was  no  fault 
lying  at  the  door  of  her  gallant  cap- 
tain. By  the  time  we  had  weathered 
the  reef,  the  frigate  had  swung  off 
from  the  pinnacle  of  rock  on  which 
she  had  been  in  a  manner  impaled, 
and  was  making  all  the  sail  she 
could,  with  a  fothered  sail  under  her 


Tom  Cringles  Loy. 


bows,  and  chain-pumps  clanging,  and 
whole  cataracts  of  water  gushing 
from  them,  clear  white  jets  spout- 
ing from  all  the  scuppers,  fore  and 
aft.  She  made  the  signal  to  close.  It 
was  answered.  The  next,  alas  !  was 
the  British  ensign,  seized,  union 
down  in  the  main  rigging,  the  signal 
of  the  uttermost  distress.  Still  we 
all  bowled  along  together,  but  her 
yards  were  not  squared,  nor  her  sails 
set  with  her  customary  precision, 
and  her  lurches  became  more  and 
more  sickening,  until  at  length  she 
rolled  so  heavily,  that  she  dipped 
both  yardarms  alternately  in  the 
water,  and  reeled  to  and  fro  like  a 
drunken  man. 

"  '  What  is  that  splash  ?' 
"  It  was  the  larboard  bow  eight- 
een-pound gun  hove  overboard,  and 
watching  the  roll,  the  whole  broad- 
side, one  after  another,  were  cast 
into  the  sea.  The  clang  of  the  chain- 
pumps  increased,  the  water  rushed 
in  at  one  side  of  the  main- deck,  and 
out  at  the  other,  in  absolute  cascades 
from  the  ports.  At  this  moment  the 
whole  fleet  of  boats  were  alongside, 
keeping  way  with  the  ship,  in  the 
light  breeze.  Her  maintopsail  was 
hove  aback,  while  the  captain's  voice 
resounded  through  the  ship. 

"  *  Now,  men — all  hands  —  bags, 
and  hammocks — starboard,  watch 
the  starboard  side — larboard,  watch 
the  larboard  side — no  rushing  now — 
she  will  swim  this  hour  to  come.' 

"The  bags,  and  hammocks,  and 
officers'  kits,  were  handed  into  the 
boats;  the  men  were  told  off  over  the 
side,  as  quietly  by  watches  as  if  at 
muster,  the  officers  last.  At  length 
the  first  lieutenant  came  over  the 
side.  By  this  time  she  was  settling 
down  perceptibly  in  the  water;  the 
old  captain  stood  upon  the  gangway, 
holding  by  the  iron  stancheon,  and, 
taking  off  his  hat,  stood  uncovered 
for  a  moment,  and  with  the  tears 
standing  in  his  eyes.  He  then  re- 
placed it,  descended,  and  took  his 
place  in  the  ship's  launch— the  last 
man  to  leave  the  ship ;  and  there  was 
little  time  to  spare,  for  we  had  scarce- 
ly shoved  off  a  few  yards,  to  clear 
the  spars  of  the  wreck,  when  she 
sended  forward,  heavily,  and  sickly, 
on  the  long  swell. — She  never  rose  to 
the  opposite  heave  of  the  sea,  but 
gradually  sank  by  the  head.  The 
hull  disappeared  slowly  and  digni- 


[Apr 

fiedly,  the  ensign  fluttered  and  va- 
nished beneath  the  dark  ocean — I 
could  have  fancied  reluctantly,  as  if 
it  had  been  drawn  down  through  a 
trap- door.  The  topsails  next  disap- 
peared, the  foretopsail  sinking  fast- 
est ;  and  last  of  all,  the  white  pennant 
at  the  maintopgallant  mast  head,  af- 
ter flickering  and  struggling  in  the 
wind,  flew  up  as  if  imbued  with  life, 
like  a  stream  of  white  fire,  in  the  set- 
ting sun,  and  was  then  drawn  down 
into  the  abyss,  and  the  last  vestige  of 
the  Rayo  vanished  for  ever.  The 
crew,  as  if  moved  by  one  common 
impulse,  gave  three  cheers. 

"  The  Captain  now  stood  up  in  his 
boat — '  Men,  the  Rayo  is  no  more, 
but  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you,  that  al- 
though you  are  now  to  be  distribu- 
ted amongst  the  transports,  you 
are  still  amenable  to  martial  law ;  I 
am  aware,  men,  this  hint  may  not  be 
necessary,  still  it  is  right  you  should 
know  it.' 

"  Our  ship,  immediately  after  the 
frigate's  crew  had  been  bestowed, 
and  the  boats  got  in,  hoisted  the 
Commodore's  light,  and  the  follow- 
ing morning  we  fell  in  with  the 
Torch,  off  the  east  end  of  Jamaica, 
which,  after  seeing  the  transports 
safe  into  Kingston,  and  taking  out 
me  and  my  people,  bore  up  through 
the  Gulf,  and  resumed  her  cruising 
ground  on  the  edge  of  the  Gulf 
stream,  between  25  and  30  north 
latitude." 

"  And  what  follows  this,"  said 
Massa  Aaron, "  for  the  roll  is  done  ?" 
"  Oh,"  said  I, "  we  then  stood  away 
to  the  northward,  and  finally  resu- 
med our  cruizing  ground  off  Bermu- 
da; there  is  the  next  log,"  said  I, 
chucking  another  paper  book  to  him. 
"  Ah,"  said  Bang,—*  Scene  off  Ber- 
muda,' *  Cruize  of  the  Torch,'  and 
so  forth.  All  very  fine  and  moving 
no  doubt,  but  we  shall  take  them  by 
and  by.  But,  Thomas,  it  must  have 
been  a  very  lamencholy  affair  that 
said  evanishing  of  the  Rayo." 
"  It  was,"  I  answered. 
"  Plenty  of  weeping  and  blowing 
of  noses  amongst  her  sentimental 
crew,"  said  he. 

I  smiled.  "  Why,  Mr  Bang,  sailors 
are  very  incomprehensible  beings. 
After  she  went  down,  indeed,  for  the 
first  five  minutes,  it  was  all  a  lach- 
rymose puff  and  blow." 
"  Tom,"  said  Aaron,  "none  of  your 


1833.] 


Tom  Crinylts  Loy. 


476 


would-be  half  smartness,  half  buf- 
foonery ;  tell  me  what  took  place." 

"  Why,  my  dear  sir,  you  are  aw- 
fully dictatorial ;  but  I  will  tell  you, 
when  the  old  Kayo  clipped  out  of 
sight,  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the 
whole  fleet.  '  There  she  goes,  the 
dear  old  beauty,'  said  one  of  her 
crew.  *  There  goes  the  blessed  old 
black  b — tch,'  quoth  another.  '  Ah, 
many  a  merry  night  have  we  had  in 
the  clever  little  craft,'  quoth  a  third ; 
and  there  was  really  a  tolerable 
shedding  of  tears,  and  squirting  of 
tobacco  juice.  But  the  blue  ripple 
had  scarcely  blown  over  the  glass- 
like  surface  of  the  sea  where  she  had 
sunk,  when  the  buoyancy  of  young 
hearts,  with  the  prospect  of  a  good 
furlough  amongst  the  lobster  boxes 
for  a  time,  seemed  to  be  uppermost 
amongst  the  men.  The  officers,  I 
saw  and  knew,  felt  very  differ- 
ently. 

" '  My  eye  P  sung  out  an  old  quar- 
termaster in  our  boat,  perched  well 
forward  with  his  back  against  the 
ring  in  the  stem,  and  his  arms  cross- 
ed, after  having  been  busily  employ- 
ed rummaging  in  his  bag,  *  my  eye, 

what  a  pity — oh,  what  a  pity !' 

"  Come,  there  is  some  feeling, 
genuine,  at  all  events,  thought  I. 

"  <  Why,'  said  Bill  Chesstree,  the 
captain  of  the  fore  top,  *  what  is  can't 
be  helped,  old  Fizgig ;  old  Rayo  has 

gone  down,  and' 

«  *  Old  Rayo  be  d d,  Master 


Bill,'  said  the  man  ;  '  but  may  I  be 
flogged,  if  I  ha'nt  forgotten  half  a 
pound  of  negrohead  baccy  in  Dick 
Catgut's  bag.' 

" '  Launch  ahoy  V  hailed  a  half- 
drunken  voice  from  one  of  the  boats 
astern  of  us.  '  Hillo,'  responded  the 
coxswain.  The  poor  skipper  even 

S ricked  up  his  ears.  *  Have  you  got 
ick  Catgut's  fiddle  among  ye  ?'  This 
said  Dick  Catgut  was  the  corporal  of 
marines,  and  the  prime  instigator  of 
all  the  fun  amongst  the  men.  *  No, 
no,'  said  several  voices,  'no  fiddle 
here.'  The  hail  passed  round  among 
the  other  boats,  « No  fiddle.'  '  I 
would  rather  lose  three  days'  grog 
than  have  his  fiddle  mislaid,'  quoth 
the  man  who  pulled  the  bow  oar. 

" '  Why  don't  you  ask  Dick  him- 
self?' said  our  coxswain.  Alas!  poor 
Dick  was  nowhere  to  be  found  ;  he 
had  been  mislaid  as  well  as  his  fiddle. 
He  had  broken  into  the  spirit  room, 
as  it  turned  out,  and  having  got 
drunk,  did  not  come  to  time  when 
the  frigate  sunk. 

"  I  was  here  interrupted  by  a  hail 
from  the  look-out  man  at  the  mast- 
head,— '  Land  right-a-head.' 

"  Thank  God,"  quoth  Bang. 

"  What  does  it  look  like  ?"  said  I. 

"  It  makes  in  low  hummocks,  sir. 
Now  I  see  houses  on  the  highest 
one." 

"  Hurrah,  Nassau,  New  Provi- 
dence, ho !" 


470 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


[April, 


THE  REVOLUTION  OF  GREECE.* 


PART  I. 


IT  is  falsely  charged  upon  itself 
by  this  age,  in  its  character  of  censor 
morum,  that  effeminacy  in  a  practical 
sense  lies  either  amongst  its  full- 
blown faults,  or  amongst  its  lurking 
tendencies.  A  rich,  a  polished,  a 
refined  age,  may  by  mere  necessity 
of  inference  be  presumed  to  be  a 
luxurious  one ;  and  the  usual  prin- 
ciple>  by  which  moves  the  whole 
trivial  philosophy  which  speculates 
upon  the  character  of  a  particular 
age  or  a  particular  nation,  is  first  of 
all  to  adopt  some  one  central  idea  of 
its  characteristics,  and  then  without 
further  effort  to  pursue  its  integra- 
tion; that  is,  having  assumed  (or,  sup- 
pose even,  having  demonstrated)  the 
existence  of  some  great  influential 
quality  in  excess  sufficient  to  over- 
throw the  apparent  equilibrium  de- 
manded by  the  common  standards 
of  a  just  national  character,  the  spe- 
culator then  proceeds,  as  in  a  matter 
of  acknowledged  right,  to  push  this 
predominant  quality  into  all  its  con- 
sequences and  all  its  closest  affini- 
ties. To  give  one  illustration  of 
such  a  case,  now  perhaps  beginning 
to  be  forgotten :  Somewhere  about 
the  year  1755,  the  once  celebrated 
Dr  Brown,  after  other  little  attempts 
in  literature  and  paradox,  took  up 
the  conceit  that  England  was  ruined 
at  her  heart's  core  by  excess  of 
luxury  and  sensual  self-indulgence. 
He  had  persuaded  himself  that  the 
ancient  activ  ities  and  energies  of  the 
country  were  sapped  by  long  habits 
of  indolence,  and  by  a  morbid  ple- 
thora of  enjoyment  in  every  class. 
Courage,  and  the  old  fiery  spirit  of 
the  people,  had  gone  to  wreck  with 
the  physical  qualities  which  had 
sustained  them.  Even  the  faults  of 
the  public  mind  had  given  way  under 
its  new  complexion  of  character; 
ambition  and  civil  dissension  were 
extinct.  It  was  questionable  whe- 
ther a  good  hearty  assault  and  bat- 
tery, or  a  respectable  knock-down 
blow,  had  been  dealt  by  any  man  in 
London  for  one  or  two  generations. 
The  Doctor  carried  his  reveries  so 
far,  that  he  even  satisfied  himself 


and  one  or  two  friends  (probably  by 
looking  into  the  Parks  at  hours  pro- 
pitious to  his  hypothesis)  that  horses 
were  seldom  or  ever  used  for  riding; 
that,  in  fact,  this  accomplishment 
was  too  boisterous  or  too  perilous 
for  the  gentle  propensities  of  modern 
Britons;  and  that,  by  the  best  ac- 
counts, few  men  of  rank  or  fashion 
were  now  seen  on  horseback.  This 
pleasant  collection  of  dreams  did 
Doctor  Brown  solemnly  propound 
to  the  English  public,  in  two  octavo 
volumes,  under  the  title  of  "  An 
Estimate  of  the  Manners  and  Prin- 
ciples of  the  Times ;"  and  the  report 
of  many  who  lived  in  those  days 
assures  us,  that  for  a  brief  period 
the  book  had  a  prodigious  run.  In 
some  respects  the  Doctor's  conceits 
might  seem  too  startling  and  ex- 
travagant ;  but  to  balance  that,  every 
nation  has  some  pleasure  in  being 
heartily  abused  by  one  of  its  own 
number  ;  and  the  English  nation  has 
always  had  a  special  delight  in  being 
alarmed,  and  in  being  clearly  con- 
vinced, that  it  is  and  ought  to  be  on 
the  brink  of  ruin.  With  such  ad- 
vantages in  the  worthy  Doctor's 
favour,  he  might  have  kept  the  field 
until  some  newer  extravaganza  had 
made  his  own  obsolete — had  not  one 
ugly  turn  in  political  affairs  given  so 
smashing  a  refutation  to  his  practi- 
cal conclusions,  and  called  forth  so 
sudden  a  rebound  of  public  feeling 
in  the  very  opposite  direction,  that  a 
bomb-shell  descending  right  through 
the  whole  impression  of  his  book, 
could  not  more  summarily  have  laid 
a  Chancery  "  injunction"  upon  its 
further  sale.  This  arose  under  the 
brilliant  administration  of  the  first 
Mr  Pitt;  England  was  suddenly  vic- 
torious in  three  quarters  of  the  globe; 
land  and  sea  echoed  to  the  voice  of 
her  triumphs;  and  the  poor  Doctor 
Brown,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  hub- 
bub, cut  his  own  throat  with  his  own 
razor.  Whether  this  dismal  catas- 
trophe were  exactly  due  to  his  mor- 
tification as  a  baffled  visionary,  whose 
favourite  conceit  had  suddenly  ex- 
ploded like  a  rocket  into  smoke  and 


*  History  of  the  Greek  Revolution. 
Edinburgh:  1833. 


By  Thomas  Gordon,  F.R.S.     In  two  vols. 


1833.] 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


477 


stench,  is  more  than  we  know.  But, 
at  all  events,  the  sole  memorial  of 
his  hypothesis,  which  now  reminds 
the  English  reader  that  it  ever  exist- 
ed, is  one  solitary  notice  of  good- 
humoured  satire  pointed  at  it  by 
Cowper.*  And  the  possibility  of 
such  exceeding  folly  in  a  man  other- 
wise of  good  sense  and  judgment, 
not  depraved  by  any  brain-fever  or 
enthusiastic  infatuation,  is  to  be  found 
in  the  vicious  process  of  reasoning 
applied  to  such  estimate's  :  the  Doc- 
tor, having  taken  up  one  novel  idea 
of  the  national  character,  proceeded 
afterwards  by  no  tentative  inquiries, 
or  comparison  with  actual  facts 
and  phenomena  of  daily  experience, 
but  resolutely  developed  out  of  his 
one  idea,  all  that  it  appeared  ana- 
lytically to  involve ;  and  postulated 
audaciously  as  a  solemn  fact  whatso- 
ever could  be  exhibited  in  any  pos- 
sible connexion  with  his  one  central 
principle,  whether  in  the  way  of  con- 
sequence or  of  affinity. 

Pretty  much  upon  this  unhappy 
Brunonian  mode  of  deducing  our 
national  character,  it  is  a  very  plau- 
sible speculation,  which  has  been 
and  will  again  be  chanted,  that  we, 
being  a  luxurious  nation,  must  by 
force  of  good  logical  dependency 
be  liable  to  many  derivative  taints 
and  infirmities  which  ought  of  neces- 
sity to  besiege  the  blood  of  nations  in 
that  predicament.  All  enterprise 
and  spirit  of  adventure,  all  heroism 
and  courting  of  danger  for  its  own 
attractions,  ought  naturally  to  lan- 
guish in  a  generation  enervated  by 
early  habits  of  personal  indulgence. 
Doubtless  they  ought  ;  a  priori,  it 
seems  strictly  demonstrable  that  such 
consequences  should  follow.  Upon 
the  purest  forms  of  inference  in 
Barbara  or  Celarent,  it  can  be  shewn 
satisfactorily,  that  from  all  our  taint- 
ed classes,  a  fortiori  then  from  our 
most  tainted  classes — our  men  of 
fashion  and  of  opulent  fortunes,  no 
description  of  animal  can  possibly 
arise  but  poltroons  and  faineans.  In 
fact,  pretty  generally,  under  the 
known  circumstances  of  our  modern 
English  education  and  of  our  social 
habits,  we  ought  in  obedience  to  all 
the  precognita  of  our  position  to 


shew  ourselves  rank  cowards — yet, 
in  spite  of  so  much  excellent  logic, 
the  facts  are  otherwise  No  age  has 
shewn  in  its  young  patricians  a  more 
heroic  disdain  of  sedentary  ease, 
none  in  a  martial  support  of  liberty 
or  national  independence  has  so  gaily 
volunteered  upon  services  the  most 
desperate,  or  shrunk  less  from  mar- 
tyrdom on  the  field  of  battle,  when- 
ever there  was  hope  to  invite  their 
disinterested  exertions,  or  grandeur 
enough  in  the  cause  to  sustain  them. 
Which  of  us  forgets  the  gallant  Mel- 
lish,  the  frank  and  the  generous,  who 
reconciled  himself  so  gaily  to  the 
loss  of  a  splendid  fortune,  and  from 
the  very  bosom  of  luxury  suddenly 
precipitated  himself  upon  the  hard- 
ships of  Peninsular  warfare  ?  Which 
of  us  forgets  the  adventurous  Lee  of 
Lime,  whom  a  princely  estate  could 
not  detain  in  early  youth  from  court- 
ing perils  in  Nubia  and  Abyssinia, 
nor  (immediately  upon  his  return) 
from  almost  wooing  death  as  a  vo- 
lunteer aide-de-camp  to  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  at  Waterloo?  So  again 
of  Colonel  Evans,  who,  after  losing 
a  fine  estate  long  held  out  to  his 
hopes,  five  times  over  put  himself  at 
the  head  offovlorn  hopes.  Such  cases 
are  memorable,  and  were  conspicu- 
ous at  the  time,  from  the  lustre  of 
wealth  and  high  connexions  which 
surrounded  the  parties  ;  but  many 
thousand  others,  in  which  the  sacri- 
fices of  pers.onal  ease  were  less  no- 
ticeable from  their  narrower  scale  of 
splendour,  had  equal  merit  for  the 
cheerfulness  with  which  those  sacri- 
fices were  made. 

Here,  again,  in  the  person  of  the 
author  before  us,  we  have  another 
instance  of  noble  and  disinterested 
heroism,  which,  from  the  magnitude 
of  the  sacrifices  that  it  involved,  must 
place  him  in  the  same  class  as  the 
Mellishes  and  the  Lees.  This  gallant 
Scotsman,  who  was  born  in  1788,  or 
1789,  lost  his  father  in  early  life.  In- 
heriting from  him  a  good  estate  in 
Aberdeenshire,  and  one  more  consi- 
derable in  Jamaica,  he  found  himself, 
at  the  close  of  a  long  minority,  in  the 
possession  of  a  commanding  fortune. 
Under  the  vigilant  care  of  a  sagacious 
mother,  Mr  Gordon  received  the  very 


*  "  The  inestimable  Estimate  of  Brown.' 


478 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


[April, 


amplest  advantages  of  a  finished  edu- 
cation, studying  first  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Aberdeen,  and  afterwards  for 
two  years  at  Oxford ;  whilst  he  had 
previously  enjoyed  as  a  boy  the  be- 
nefits of  a  private  tutor  from  Oxford. 
Whatever  might  be  the  immediate 
result  from  this  careful  tuition,  Mr 
Gordon  has  since  completed  his  own 
education  in  the  most  comprehensive 
manner,  and  has  carried  his  accom- 
plishments as  a  linguist,  to  a  point  of 
rare  excellence.  Sweden  and  Por- 
tugal excepted,  we  understand  that 
he  has  personally  visited  every  coun- 
try in  Europe.  He  has  travelled  also 
in  Asiatic  Turkey,  in  Persia,  and  in 
Barbary.  From  this  personal  resi- 
dence in  foreign  countries,  we  un- 
derstand that  Mr  Gordon  has  obtain- 
ed an  absolute  mastery  over  certain 
modern  languages,  especially  the 
French,  the  Italian,  the  modern 
Greek,  and  the  Turkish.*  Not  con- 
tent, however,  with  this  extensive 
education,  in  a  literary  sense,  Mr 
Gordon  thought  proper  to  prepare 
himself  for  the  part  which  he  medi- 
tated in  public  life,  by  a  second,  or 
military  education,  in  two  separate 
services;— first,  in  the  British,  where 
he  served  in  the  Greys,  and  in  the 
43d  regiment;  and  subsequently,  du- 
ring the  campaign  of  1813,  as  a  cap- 
tain on  the  Russian  staff. 

Thus  brilliantly  accomplished  for 
conferring  lustre  and  benefit  upon 
any  cause  which  he  might  adopt 
amongst  the  many  revolutionary 
movements  then  continually  emer- 
ging in  Southern  Europe,  he  finally 
carried  the  whole  weight  of  his  great 
talents,  prudence,  and  energy,  toge- 
ther with  the  unlimited  command  of 
his  purse,  to  the  service  of  Greece 
in  her  heroic  struggle  with  the  Sul- 
tan. At  what  point  his  services  and 
his  countenance  were  appreciated 
"by  the  ruling  persons  in  Greece,  will 
be  best  collected  from  the  accompa- 
nying letter,  translated  from  the  ori- 
ginal, in  modern  Greek,  addressed 
to  him  by  the  Provisional  Govern- 
ment of  Greece,  in  1822.  It  will  be 
seen  that  this  official  document  no- 
tices with  great  sorrow  Mr  Gordon's 
absence  from  Greece,  and  with  some 


surprise,  as  a  fact  at  that  time  unex- 
plained and  mysterious ;  but  the 
simple  explanation  of  this  mystery- 
was,  that  Mr  Gordon  had  been 
brought  to  the  very  brink  of  the 
grave  by  a  contagious  fever,  at  Tri- 
polizza,  and  that  his  native  air  was 
found  essential  to  his  restoration. 
Subsequently,  however,  he  returned, 
and  rendered  the  most  powerful  ser- 
vices to  Greece,  until  the  war  was 
brought  to  a  close,  as  much  almost 
by  Turkish  exhaustion,  as  by  the 
armed  interference  of  the  three  great 
conquerors  of  Navarino. 

"  The  Government  of  Greece  to  the 
SIGNOR  GORDON,  a  man  worthy  of 
all  admiration,  and  a  friend  of  the 
Grecians,  Health  and  prosperity. 

"  It  was  not  possible,  most  excel- 
lent sir,  nor  was  it  a  thing  endurable 
to  the  descendants  of  the  Grecians, 
that  they  should  be  deprived  any 
longer  of  those  imprescriptible  rights 
which  belong  to  the  inheritance  of 
their  birth — rights  which  a  barbarian 
of  a  foreign  soil,  an  antichristian  ty- 
rant, issuing  from  the  depths  of  Asia, 
seized  upon  with  a  robber's  hand, 
and  lawlessly  trampling  under  foot, 
administered  up  to  this  time  the  af- 
fairs of  Greece,  after  his  own  lust 
and  will.  Needs  it  was  that  we, 
sooner  or  later,  shattering  this  iron 
and  heavy  sceptre,  should  recover, 
at  the  price  of  life  itself,  (if  that  were 
found  necessary)  our  patrimonial  he- 
ritage, that  thus  our  people  might 
again  be  gathered  to  the  family  of 
free  and  self-legislating  states.  Mo- 
ving, then,  under  such  impulses,  the 
people  of  Greece  advanced  with  one 
heart,  and  perfect  unanimity  of  coun- 
cil, against  an  oppressive  despotism, 
putting  their  hands  to  an  enterprise 
beset  with  difficulties,  and  hard  in- 
deed to  be  achieved,  yet,  in  our  pre- 
sent circumstances,  if  any  one  thing 
in  this  life,  most  indispensable.  This, 
then,  is  the  second  year  which  we 
are  passing  since  we  have  begun  to 
move  in  this  glorious  contest,  once 
again  struggling,  to  all  appearance, 
upon  unequal  terms,  but  grasping 
our  enterprise  with  the  right  hand 


*  Mr  Gordon  is  privately  known  to  be  the  translator  of  the  work  written  by  a 
Turkish  minister,  "  Tchebi  Effendi,"  published  in  the  Appendix  to  Wilkinson's  Wal- 
lachia  ;  and  frequently  referred  to  by  the  Quarterly  Review,  in  its  notices  of  Orien- 
tal affair*. 


833.] 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


and  the  left,  and  with  all  our  might 
stretching  forward  to  the  objects  be- 
fore us. 

"  It  was  the  hope  of  Greece  that, 
in  these  seasons  of  emergency,  she 
would  not  fail  of  help  and  earnest 
resort  of  friends  from  the  Christian 
nations  throughout  Europe.  For  it 
was  agreeable  neither  to  humanity 
nor  to  piety,  that  the  rights  of  nations, 
liable  to  no  grudges  of  malice  or 
scruples  of  jealousy,  should  be  sur- 
reptitiously and  wickedly  filched 
away,  or  mocked  with  outrage  and 
insult;  but  that  they  should  be  set- 
tled firmly  on  those  foundations 
which  Nature  herself  has  furnished 
inabundance'to  the  condition  of  man 
in  society.  However,  so  it  was,  that 
Greece,  cherishing  these  most  rea- 
sonable expectations,  met  with  most 
unmerited  disappointments. 

"  But  you,  noble  and  generous 
Englishman,  no  sooner  heard  the 
trumpet  of  popular  rights  echoing 
melodiously  from  the  summits  of 
Taygetus,  of  Ida,  of  Pindus,  and  of 
Olympus,  than,  turning  with  listen- 
ing ears  to  the  sound,  and  immedi- 
ately renouncing  the  delights  of 
country,  of  family  ties,  and  (what  is 
above  all)  of  domestic  luxury  and 
ease,  and  the  happiness  of  your  own 
fire- side,  you  hurried  to  our  assist- 
ance. But  suddenly,  and  in  contra- 
diction to  the  universal  hope  of 
Greece,  by  leaving  us,  you  have 
thrown  us  all  into  great  perplexity 
and  amazement,  and  that  at  a  crisis 
when  some  were  applying  their 
minds  to  military  pursuits,  some  to 
the  establishment  of  a  civil  admini- 
stration, others  to  other  objects,  but 
all  alike  were  hurrying  and  exerting 
themselves  wherever  circumstances 
seemed  to  invite  them. 

"  Meantime,  the  Government  of 
Greece  having  heard  many  idle  ru- 
mours and  unauthorized  tales  disse- 
minated, but  such  as  seemed  neither 
in  correspondence  with  their  opi- 
nion of  your  own  native  nobility  from 
rank  and  family,  nor  with  what 
was  due  to  the  newly-instituted 
administration,  have  slighted  and 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  them  all,  coming 
to  this  resolution — that,  in  absenting 
yourself  from  Greece,  you  aredoubt- 
less  obeying  some  strong  necessity  ; 
for  that  it  is  not  possible  nor  cre- 
dible of  a  man  such  as  you  displayed 
yourself  to  be  whilst  living  amongst 


479 

us,  that  he  should  moan  to  msultthe 
wretched — least  of  all,  to  insult  the 
unhappy  and  much-suffering  people 
of  Greece.   Under  these  circumstan- 
ces, both  the  Deliberative  and  the 
Executive  Bodies  of  the  Grecian  Go- 
vernmentassemblingseparately,have 
come  to  a  resolution,  without  one 
dissentient  voice,  to  invite  you  back 
to  Greece,  in  order  that  you  may 
again  take  a  share  in  the  Grecian 
contest — a  contest  in  itself  glorious, 
and  not  alien  from  your  character 
and  pursuits.    For  the  liberty  of  any 
one  nation  cannot  be  a  matter  alto- 
gether indifferent  to  the  rest,  but  na- 
turally it  is  a  common  and  diffusive 
interest;  and  nothing  can  be  more 
reasonable  than  that  the  Englishman 
and  the  Grecian,  in  such  a  cause, 
should  make   themselves    yoke-fel- 
lows, and  should  participate  as  bro- 
thers in  so  holy  a  struggle.     There- 
fore, the  Grecian  Government  has- 
tens, by  this  present  distinguished  ex- 
pression of  its  regard,  to  invite  you 
to  the  soil  of  Greece,  a  soil  united 
by  such  tender  memorials  with  your- 
self; confident  that  you,  preferring 
glorious  poverty  and  the  hard  living 
of  Greece,  to  the  luxury  and  indo- 
lence of  an  obscure  seclusion,  will 
hasten  your  return  to  Greece,  agree- 
ably to  your  native  character,  resto- 
ring to  us  our  valued  English  con- 
nexion.   Farewell ! 

"  The  Vice-President  of  the 
Executive, 

"  ATHANASIUS  KANAKARES. 
"  The  Chief- Secretary,  Mi- 
nister of  Foreign  Relations, 
"  NEGENZZ." 

Since  then,  having  in  1817  con- 
nected himself  in  marriage  with  a 
beautiful  young  lady  of  Armenian. 
Greek  extraction,  and  having  pur- 
chased land  and  built  a  house  in  Ar- 
gos,  Mr  Gordon  may  be  considered 
in  some  sense  as  a  Grecian  citizen. 
Services  in  the  field  having  now  for 
some  years  been  no  longer  called  for, 
he  has  exchanged  his  patriotic  sword 
for  a  patriotic  pen — judging  rightly, 
that  in  no  way  so  effectually  can 
Greece  be  served  at  this  time  with 
Western  Europe,  as  by  recording 
faithfully  the  course  of  her  revolu- 
tion, tracing  the  difficulties  which 
lay,  or  which  arose  in  her  path — the 
heroism  with  which  she  surmounted 
them,  and  the  multiplied  errors  by 


%>he  Revolution  of  Greece. 


[April, 


which  she  raised  up  others  to  her- 
self. Mr  Gordon,  of  forty  authors 
who  have  partially  treated  this  theme, 
is  the  first  who  can  be  considered 
either  impartial  or  comprehensive; 
and  upon  his  authority,  not  seldom 
using  his  words,  we  shall  now  pre- 
sent to  our  readers  the  first  continu- 
ous abstract  of  this  most  interesting 
and  romantic  war  : — 

GREECE,  in  the  largest  extent  of 
that  term,  having  once  belonged  to 
the  Byzantine  empire,  is  included,  by 
the  misconception  of  hasty  readers, 
in  the  great  wreck  of  1453.  They 
take  it  for  granted,  that  concurrently 
with  Constantinople,and  the  districts 
adjacent,  these  provinces  passed  at 
that  disastrous  era  into  the  hands  of 
the  Turkish  conqueror;  but  this  is  an 
error.  Parts  of  Greece,  previously 
to  that  era,  had  been  dismembered 
from  the  Eastern  Empire  ;— other 
parts  did  not,  until  long  after  it,  share 
a  common  fate  with  the  metropolis. 
Venice  had  a  deep  interest  in  the 
Morea;  in  that,  and  for  that,  she 
fought  with  various  success  for  ge- 
nerations ;  and  it  was  not  until  the 
year  1717,  nearly  three  centuries 
from  the  establishment  of  the  Cres- 
cent in  Europe,  that  "  the  banner  of 
St  Mark,  driven  finally  from  the  Mo- 
rea and  the  Archipelago,"  was  hence- 
forth exiled  (as  respected  Greece)  to 
the  Ionian  Islands. 

In  these  contests,  though  Greece 
was  the  prize  at  issue,  the  children 
of  Greece  had  no  natural  interest, 
whether  the  cross  prevailed  or  the 
crescent:  the  same  for  all  sub- 
stantial results  was  the  fate  which 
awaited  themselves.  The  Moslem 
might  be  the  more  intolerant  by  his 
maxims,  and  he  might  be  harsher  in 
his  professions ;  but  a  slave  is  not 
the  less  a  slave,  though  his  master 
should  happen  to  hold  the  same 
creed  with  himself;  and  towards 
a  member,  of  the  Greek  Church,  one 
who  looked  westwards  to  Rome  for 
his  religion,  was  likely  to  be  little 
less  of  a  bigot  than  one  who  looked 
to  Mecca.  So  that  we  are  not  sur- 
prised to  find  a  Venetian  rule  of  po- 
licy recommending,  for  the  daily  al- 
lowance of  these  Grecian  slaves,  "  a 
little  bread,  and  a  liberal  application 
of  the  cudgel !"  Whichever  yoke 
were  established,  was  sure  to  be 
hatedj  and  therefore,  it  was  fortu- 
nate for  the  honour  of  the  Christian. 


name,  that  from  the  year  1717,  the 
fears  and  the  enmity  of  the  Greeks 
were  to  be  henceforward  pointed  ex- 
clusively to  wards  Mahometan  tyrants, 
To  be  hated,  however,  sufficiently 
for  resistance,  a  yoke  must  have  been 
long  and  continuously  felt.  Fifty 
years  might  be  necessary  to  season 
the  Greeks  with  a  knowledge  of 
Turkish  oppression;  and  less  than 
two  generations  could  hardly  be  sup- 
posed to  have  manured  the  whole 
territory  with  an  adequate  sense  of 
the  wrongs  they  were  enduring,  and 
the  withering  effects  of  such  wrongs 
on  the  sources  of  public  prosperity. 
Hatred,  besides,  without  hope,  is  no 
root  out  of  which  an  effectual  resist- 
ance can  be  expected  to  grow ;  and 
fifty  years  almost  had  elapsed  before 
a  great  power  had  arisen  in  Europe, 
having  in  any  capital  circumstance  a 
joint  interest  with  Greece,  or  spe- 
cially authorized  by  visible  right  and 
power,  to  interfere  as  her  protector. 
The  semi-Asiatic  power  of  Russia, 
from  the  era  of  the  Czar  Peter  the 
Great,  had  arisen  above  the  horizon 
with  the  sudden  sweep  and  splen- 
dour of  a  meteor.  The  arch  de- 
scribed by  her  ascent  was  as  vast  in 
compass  as  it  was  rapid;  and  in  all 
history,  no  political  growth,  not  that 
of  our  own  Indian  Empire,  had  tra- 
velled by  accelerations  of  speed  so 
terrifically  marked.  Not  that  even 
Russia  could  have  really  grown  in 
strength  according  to  the  apparent 
scale  of  her  progress.  The  strength  was 
doubtless  there,  or  much  of  it,  before 
Peter  and  Catherine ;  but  it  was  la- 
tent: There  had  been  no  such  sud- 
den growth  as  people  fancied ;  but 
there  had  been  a  sudden  evolu- 
tion. Infinite  resources  had  been 
silently  accumulating  from  century 
to  century ;  but  before  the  Czar 
Peter,  no  mind  had  come  across 
them  of  power  sufficient  to  reveal 
their  situation,  or  to  organize  them  for 
practical  effects.  In  some  nations, 
the  manifestations  of  power  are  co- 
incident with  its  growth  :  in  others, 
from  vitious  institutions,  a  vast  crys- 
tallization goes  on  for  ages  blindly 
and  in  silence,  which  the  lamp  of 
some  meteoric  mind  is  required  to 
light  up  into  brilliant  display.  Thus 
it  had  been  in  Russia;  and  hence  to 
the  abused  judgment  of  all  Christen- 
dom, she  had  seemed  to  leap  like 
Pallas  from  the  briain  of  Jupiter-^ 


.  833.] 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


48! 


gorgeously  endowed,  and  in  panoply 
of  civil  array,  for  all  purposes  of  na- 
tional grandeur,  at  the  fiat  of  one 
coarse  barbarian.  As  the  metropo- 
litan home  of  the  Greek  Church,  she 
could  not  disown  a  maternal  interest 
in  the  hurnblestof  the  Grecian  tribes, 
holding  the  same  faith  with  herself, 
and  celebrating  their  worship  by  tlie 
same  rites.  This  interest  she  could, 
at  length,  venture  to  express  in  a  tone 
of  sufficient  emphasis;  and  Greece 
became  aware  that  she  could,  about 
the  very  time  when  Turkish  oppres- 
sion had  begun  to  unite  its  victims 
in  aspirations  for  redemption,  and 
had  turnedtheireyesabroadin  search 
of  some  great  standard  under  whose 
shadow  they  could  flock  for  momen- 
tary protection,  or  for  future  hope. 
What  cabals  were  reared  upon  this 
condition  of  things  by  Russia,  and 
what  premature  dreams  of  indepen- 
dence were  encouraged  throughout 
Greece  in  the  reign  of  Catherine  II., 
may  be  seen  amply  developed  in  the 
once  celebrated  work  of  Mr  William 
Eton. 

Another  great  circumstance  of 
hope  for  Greece  coinciding  with  the 
dawn  of  her  own  earliest  impetus 
in  this  direction,  and  travelling  pari 
passu  almost  with  the  growth  of  her 
mightiest  friend,  was  the  advancing 
decay  of  her  oppressor.  The  wane  of 
the  Turkish  crescent  had  seemed  to 
be  in  some  secret  connexion  of  fatal 
sympathy  with  the  growth  of  the 
Russian  cross.  Perhaps,  the  reader 
will  thank  us  for  rehearsing  the 
main  steps  by  which  the  Ottoman 
power  had  flowed  and  ebbed.*  The 
foundations  of  this  empire  were  laid 
in  the  13th  century,  by  Ortogrul, 
the  chief  of  a  Turkoman  tribe,  re- 
siding in  tents  not  far  from  Dory- 
laBum  in  Phrygia,  (anameso  memora- 
ble in  the  early  crusades),  about  the 
time  when  Jenghiz  had  overthrown 
the  Seljukian  dynasty.  His  son  Os- 
man  first  assumed  the  title  of  Sul- 
tan ;  and  in  1300,  having  reduced  the 
city  of  Prusa  in  Bithynia,  he  made  it 
the  capital  of  his  dominions.  The 
Sultans  whosucceededhim  for  some 
generations,  all  men  of  vigour,  and 
availing  themselves  not  less  of  the 
decrepitude  which  had  by  that  time 
begun  to  palsy  the  Byzantine  scep- 


tre, than  of  the  martial  and  religious 
fanaticism  which  distinguished  their 
ownfollowers,  crossed  the  Hellespont 
— conquering  Thrace  and  the  coun- 
tries up  to  the  Danube.  In  1453,  the 
most  eminent  of  these  Sultans,  Maho- 
met II.,  by  storming  Constantinople, 
put  an  end  to  the  Roman  Empire ;  and 
before  his  death  he  placed  the  Otto- 
man power  in  Europe  pretty  nearly 
on  that  basis  to  which  it  had  again 
fallen  back  by  1821.  The  long  in- 
terval of  time  between  these  two 
dates  involved  a  memorable  flux  and 
reflux  of  power,  and  an  oscillation 
between  two  extremes  of  panic-stri- 
king grandeur,  in  the  ascending  scale 
(insomuch,  that  the  Turkish  Sultan 
was  supposed  to  be  charged  in  the 
Apocalypse  with  the  dissolution  of 
the  Christian  thrones),  and  in  the 
descending  scale  of  paralytic  dotage 
tempting  its  own  instant  ruin.  In  spe- 
culating on  the  causes  of  the  extraor- 
dinary terror  which  the  Turks  once 
inspired,  it  is  amusing,  and  illustra- 
tive of  the  revolutions  worked  by- 
time,  to  find  it  imputed,  in  the  first 
place,  to  superior  discipline  ;  for,  if 
their  discipline  was  imperfect,  they 
had,  however,  a  standing  army  of 
Janissaries,  whilst  the  whole  of 
Christian  Europe  was  accustomed  to 
fight  merely  summer  campaigns  with 
hasty  and  untrained  levies ;  a  second 
cause  lay  in  their  superior  finances, 
for  the  Porte  had  a  regular  revenue, 
when  the  other  Powers  of  Europe  re- 
lied upon  the  bounty  of  their  vassals 
and  clergy ;  and  thirdly,  which  is  the 
most  surprising  feature  of  the  whole 
statement,  the  Turks  were  so  far  a- 
head  of  others  in  the  race  of  im- 
provement, that  to  them  belongs  the 
credit  of  having  first  adopted  the  ex- 
tensive use  of  gunpowder,  and  of 
having  first  brought  battering  trains 
against  fortified  places:  to  his  ar- 
tillery, and  his  musketry  it  was,  that 
Selim  the  Ferocious  (grandson  of 
that  Sultan  who  took  Constantino- 
ple) was  indebted  for  his  victories  in 
Syria  and  Egypt.  Under  Solyman  the 
Magnificent,  (the  well-known  con- 
temporary of  the  Emperor  Charles 
V.,  the  crescent  is  supposed  to  have 
attained  its  utmost  altitude ;  and  al- 
ready for  fifty  years  the  causes  had 
been  in  silent  progress,  which  were 


•  In  this  we  avail  ourselves  partly  of  a  rapid  sketch  by  Mr  Gordon, 


482 

to  throw  the  preponderance  into  the 
Christian  scale.  In  the  reign  of  his 
son,  Selirn  the  Second,  this  crisis 
was  already  passed;  and  the  battle 
of  Lepanto,  in  1571,  which  crippled 
the  Turkish  navy  in  a  degree  never 
Xvholly  recovered,  gave  the  first  overt 
signal  to  Europe  of  a  turn  in  the 
course  of  their  prosperity.  Still,  as 
this  blow  did  not  equally  affect  the 
principal  arm  of  their  military  ser- 
vice, and  as  the  strength  of  the  Ger- 
man Empire  was  too  much  distract- 
ed by  Christian  rivalship,  the  pres- 
tige of  the  Turkish  name  continued 
almost  unbroken  until  their  bloody 
overthrow  in  16G4,  atStGothard,  by 
the  Imperial  General  Montecuculi. 
In  1673,  they  received  another 
memorable  defeat  from  Sobieski,  on 
which  occasion  they  lost  25,000  men. 
In  what  degree,  however,  the  Turk- 
ish Sampson  had  been  shorn  of  his 
original  strength,  was  not  yet  made 
known  to  Europe  by  any  adequate 
expression,  before  the  great  catas- 
trophe of  1683.  In  that  year,  at  the 
instigation  of  the  haughty  Vizier, 
Kara  Mustafa,  the  Turks  had  under- 
taken the  siege  of  Vienna ;  and  great 
was  the  alarm  of  the  Christian  world. 
But  on  the  12th  of  September,  their 
army  of  150,000  men  was  totally  dis- 
persed by  70,000  Poles  and  Germans, 
under  John  Sobieski — "  He  conquer- 
ing through  God,  and  God  by  him."* 
Then  followed  the  treaty  of  Carlovitz, 
which  stripped  the  Porte  of  Hungary, 
the  Ukraine,  and  other  places ;  and 
**  henceforth,"  says  Mr  Gordon, "  Eu- 
rope ceased  to  dread  the  Turks ;  and 
began  even  to  look  upon  their  exist- 
ence as  a  necessary  element  of  the 
balance  of  power  among  its  States." 
Spite  of  their  losses,  however,  du- 
ring the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  Turks  still  maintained  a 
respectable  attitude  against  Christen- 
dom. But  the  wars  of  the  Empress 
Catherine  II.,andtheFrench  Invasion 
of  Egypt,  demonstrated  that  either 
their  native  vigour  was  exhausted  and 
superannuated,  or,  at  least  that  the 
institutions  were  superannuated  by 
which  their  resources  had  been  so 
long  administered.  Accordingly, 
at  the  commencement  of  the  present 
century,  the  Sultan  Selim  II.  endea- 
voured to  reform  the  military  discip- 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


[April, 


line;  but  in  the  first  collision  with 
the  prejudices  of  his  people,  and  the 
interest  of  the  Janissaries,  he  pe- 
rished by  sedition.  Mustafa,  who 
succeeded  to  the  throne,  in  a  few 
months  met  the  same  fate.  But 
then  (1808)  succeeded  a  prince, 
formed  by  nature  for  such  strug- 
gles— cool,  vigorous,  cruel,  and  in- 
trepid. This  was  Mahmoud  the 
Second.  He  perfectly  understood 
the  crisis,  and  determined  to  pursue 
the  plans  of  his  uncle  Selim,  even  at 
the  hazard  of  the  same  fate.  Why 
was  it  that  Turkish  soldiers  had  been 
made  ridiculous  in  arms,  as  often  as 
they  had  met  with  French  troops — 
who  yet  were  so  far  from  being  the 
best  in  Christendom,  that  Egypt  her- 
self, and  the  beaten  Turks,  had  seen 
them  in  turn  uniformly  routed  by  the 
British  ?  Physically,  the  Turks  were 
equal  at  the  very  least  to  the  French  ! 
In  what  lay  their  inferiority  ?  Simply 
in  discipline,  and  in  their  artillery. 
And  so  long  as  their  constitution  and 
discipline  continued  what  they  had 
been,  suited  (that  is)  to  centuries 
long  past  and  gone,  and  to  a  condi- 
tion of  Christendom  obsolete  for 
ages, — so  long  it  seemed  inevitable 
that  the  same  disasters  should  follow 
the  Turkish  banners.  And  to  this 
point,  accordingly,  the  Sultan  deter- 
mined to  address  his  earliest  reforms. 
But  caution  was  necessary ;  he  wait- 
ed and  watched.  He  seized  all  op- 
portunities of  profiting  by  the  cala- 
mities or  the  embarrassments  of  his 
potent  neighbours.  He  put  down 
all  open  revolt.  He  sapped  the  au- 
thority of  all  the  great  families  in 
Asia  Minor,  whose  hereditary  influ- 
ence could  be  a  counterpoise  to  his 
own.  Mecca  and  Medina,  the  holy 
cities  of  his  religion,  he  brought 
again  within  the  pale  of  his  domi- 
nions. He  augmented  and  fostered, 
as  a  counterbalancing  force  to  the 
Janissaries,  the  corps  of  the  Topjees 
or  artillery-men.  He  amassed  pre- 
paratory treasures.  And  up  to  the 
year  1820,  "  his  government,"  says  Mi- 
Gordon,  "was  highly  unpopular ;  but 
it  was  strong,  stern,  and  uniform  ; 
and  he  had  certainly  removed  many 
impediments  to  the  execution  of  his 
ulterior  projects." 

Such  was  the  situation  of  Turkey 

,fii«.  V£  

— . . —    - 


*  See  the  sublime  Sonnet  of  Chiabrera  on  this  subject,  ns  translated  by  Mr  Word*, 
worth.  v*  -nuz*  -agv 


1833.] 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


483 


at  the  moment  when  her  Grecian 
vassal  prepared  to  trample  on  her 
yoke.     In   her  European  territories 
she  reckoned   at  the  utmost    eight 
millions  of  subjects.    But  these,  be- 
sides being  more  or  less  in  a  semi- 
barbarous  condition,  and  scattered 
over  a  very  wide  surface  of  country, 
were  so  much  divided  by  origin,  by 
language,  and  religion,  that  without 
the  support  of  her  Asiatic  arm,  she 
could  not,  according  to  the  general 
opinion,  have  stood  at  all.     The  ra- 
pidity of  her  descent,  it  is  true,  had 
been  arrested  by  the  energy  of  her 
Sultans  during  the  first  twenty  years 
of  the  nineteenth  century.    But  for 
the  last  thirty  of  the  eighteenth,  she 
lad  made  a  headlong  progress  down- 
wards.    So  utterly  also   were  the 
tables  turned,  that  whereas  in  the 
£  fteenth  century,  her  chief  superio- 
rity over  Christendom  had  been  in 
tiie  three  points  of  artillery,  disci- 
pline, and  fixed  revenue,  precisely  in 
these    three    she    had    sunk    into 
utter  insignificance,  whilst  all  Chris- 
tendom had  been  continually  improv- 
ing. Selim  and  Mahmoud  indeed  had 
made  effectual  reforms  in  the  corps 
of  gunners,  as  we  have  said,  and  had 
raised  it  to  the  amount  of  60,000  men ; 
so  that  at  present  they  have  respect- 
able field  artillery,  whereas  previ- 
ously they  had  only  heavy  battering 
trains.   But  the  defects  in  discipline 
cannot  be  remedied,  so  long  as  the 
want  of  a  settled  revenue  obliges  the 
Sultan  to  rely  upon  hurried  levies 
from  the  provincial  militias  of  police. 
Turkey,  however,  might  be  looked 
upon  as  still  formidable  for  internal 
purposes  in  the  haughty  and  fanati- 
cal character  of  her  Moslem  subjects. 
And  we  may  add,  as  a  concluding 
circumstance  of  some  interest,  in  this 
sketch  of  her  modern  condition,  that 
pretty  nearly  the  same  European  ter- 
ritories as  were  assigned  to  the  east- 
era  Roman  empire  at  the  time  of  its 
separation  from  the  western,*  were 
included  within  the  frontier  line  of 
Turkey  on  the  1st  of  January  1821. 

Precisely  in  this  year  commenced 
th )  Grecian  Revolution.  Concur- 
rently with  the  decay  of  her  oppres- 


sor the  Sultan,  had  been  the  prodi- 
gious growth  of  her  patron,  the  Czar. 
In  what  degree  she  looked  up  to  that 
throne,  and  the  intrigues  which  had 
been  pursued  with  a  view  to  that 
connexion,  may  be  seen  (as  we  have 
already  noticed)  in  Eton's  Turkey — 
a  book  which  attracted  a  great  deal 
of  notice  about  30  years  ago.  Mean- 
time, besides  this  secret  reliance  on 
Russian  countenance  or  aid,  Greece 
had  since  that  era  received  great  en- 
couragement to  revolt,  from  the  suc- 
cessful experiment  in  that  direction 
made  by  the  Turkish  province  of 
Servia.  In  1800  Czerni  George  came 
forward  as  the  assertor  of  Servian  in- 
dependence, and  drove  the  Ottomans 
out  of  that  province.  Personally  he 
was  not  finally  successful.  But  his 
example  outlived  him;  and  after  15 
years'  struggle,  Servia  (says  Mr  Gor- 
don) oifered  "  the  unwonted  spec- 
tacle of  a  brave  and  armed  Christian 
nation,  living  under  its  own  laws  in 
the  heart  of  Turkey,"  and  retaining 
no  memorial  of  its  former  servitude, 
but  the  payment  of  a  slender  and 
precarious  tribute  to  the  Sultan,  with 
a  verbal  profession  of  allegiance  to  his 
sceptre.  Appearances  were  thus 
saved  to  the  pride  of  the  haughty 
Moslem  by  barren  concessions  which 
cost  no  real  sacrifice  to  the  substan- 
tially victorious  Servian. 

Examples,  however,  are  thrown 
away  upon  a  people  utterly  degra- 
ded by  long  oppression.  And  the 
Greeks  were  pretty  nearly  in  that 
condition.  "  It  would,  no  doubt," 
says  Mr  Gordon, "  be  possible  to  cite 
a  more  cruel  oppression  than  that  of 
the  Turks  towards  their  Christian 
subjects,  but  none  so  fitted  to  break 
men's  spirit."  The  Greeks,  in  fact, 
(under  which  name  are  to  be  under- 
stood, not  only  those  who  speak 
Greek,  but  the  Christian  Albanians 
of  Roumelia  and  the  Morea,  speak- 
ing a  different  language,  but  united 
with  the  Greeks  in  spiritual  obe- 
dience to  the  same  church,)  were,  in 
the  emphatic  phrase  of  Mr  Gordon, 
"the  slaves  of  slaves:"  that  is  to 
say,  not  only  were  they  liable  to  the 
universal  tyranny  of  the  despotic 


**  "  The  vitals  of  the  monarchy  lay  within  that  vast  triangle  circumscribed  by  the 
Danube,  the  Save,  the  Adriatic,  Euxine,  and   Egean  Seas,  whose  altitude  may  be 
computed  at  500,  and  the  length  of  its  base  at  700  geographical  miles." — GORDON, 
VOL,  XXXIII,  NO,  CCVI.  2  I 


484 

Divan,  but  "  throughout  the  empire 
they  were  in  the  habitual  intercourse 
of  life  subjected  to  vexations,  affronts, 
and  exactions,  from  Mahomedans 
ofeveryrank.  Spoiled  of  their  goods, 
insulted  in  their  religion  and  domes- 
tic honour,  they  could  rarely  obtain 
justice.  The  slightest  flash  of  coura- 
geous resentmentbrought  down  swift 
destruction  on  their  heads  ;  and  crin- 
ging humility  alone  enabled  them  to 
live  in  ease, — or  even  in  safety." — 
Stooping  under  this  iron  yoke  of  hu- 
miliation, we  have  reason  to  wonder 
that  the  Greeks  preserved  sufficient 
nobility  of  mind  to  raise  so  much  as 
their  wishes  in  the  direction  of  inde- 
pendence. In  a  condition  of  abase- 
ment, from  which  a  simple  act  of 
apostasy  was  at  once  sufficient  to 
raise  them  to  honour  and  wealth, 
"and  from  the  meanest  serfs  gather- 
ed them  to  the  caste  of  oppressors," 
— we  ought  not  to  wonder  that  some 
of  the  Greeks  should  be  mean,  per- 
fidious, and  dissembling,  but  rather 
that  any  (as  Mr  Gordon  says)  "  had 
courage  to  adhere  to  their  religion, 
and  to  eat  the  bread  of  affliction." 
But  noble  aspirations  are  fortunate- 
ly indestructible  in  human  nature. 
And  in  Greece  the  lamp  of  indepen- 
dence of  spirit  had  been  partially 
kept  alive  by  the  existence  of  a  na- 
tive militia,  to  whom  the  Ottoman, 
government,  out  of  mere  neces- 
sity, had  committed  the  local  de- 
fence. These  were  called  Armatoles 
(or  Gendarmerie);  their  available 
strength  was  reckoned  by  Pouque- 
ville  (for  the  year  1814)  at  ten  thou- 
sand men  ;  and  as  they  were  a  very 
effectual  little  host  for  maintaining, 
from  age  to  age,  the  "  true  faith 
militant"  of  Greece — viz.  that  a  tem- 
porary and  a  disturbed  occupation 
of  the  best  lands  in  the  country  did 
not  constitute  an  absolute  conquest 


,The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


[April, 


on  the  part  of  the  Moslems,  most  of 
whom  flocked  for  security  with  their 
families  into  the  stronger  towns;  and 
as  their  own  martial  appearance  with 
arms  in  their  hands,  lent  a  very  plau- 
sible countenance  to  their  insinua- 
tions that  they,  the  Christian  Arma- 
toles, were  the  true  bond  fide  gover- 
nors and  possessors  of  the  land  under 
a  Moslem  Suzerain;  and  as  the  general 
spirit  of  hatred  to  Turkish  insolence 
was  not  merely  maintained  in  their 
own  local  stations,*  but  also  propagat- 
ed thence  with  activity  to  every  part 
of  Greece ; — it  may  be  interesting  to 
hear  Mr  Gordon's  account  of  their 
peculiar  composition  and  habits. 

"  The  Turks,"  says  he,  "  from  the 
epoch  of  Mahommed  the  Second, 
did  not  (unlessin  Thessaly)generally 
settle  there.  Beyond  Mount  (Eta, 
although  they  seized  the  best  lands, 
the  Mussulman  inhabitants  were 
chiefly  composed  of  the  garrisons  of 
towns  with  their  families.  Finding 
it  impossible  to  keep  in  subjection 
with  a  small  force  so  many  rugged 
cantons,  peopled  by  d  poor  and  hardy 
race,  and  to  hold  in  check  the  rob- 
bers of  Albania,  the  Sultans  embraced 
the  same  policy  which  has  induced 
them  to  court  the  Greek  hierarchy, 
and  respect  ecclesiastical  property, 
— by  enlisting  in  their  service  the 
armed  bands  that  they  could  not  de- 
stroy. When  wronged  or  insulted, 
these  Armatoles  threw  off  their  alle- 
giance, infested  the  roads,  and  pil- 
laged the  country ;  while  such  of  the 
peasants  as  were  driven  to  despair 
by  acts  of  oppression,  joined  their 
standard :  the  term  Armatole  was 
then  exchanged  for  that  of  Klefthis 
[vLXtn-1*;]  or  "Thief,  a  profession  es- 
teemed highly  honourable,  when  it 
was  exercised  sword  in  hand  at  the 
expense  of  the  Moslems  f  Even  in 
their  quietest  mood,  these  soldiers 


*  Originally,  it  seems,  there  were  14  companies  (or  capitanerias)  settled  by  im- 
perial diplomas  in  the  mountains  of  Olympus,  Othryx,  Pindus,  and  (Eta ;  and  dr- 
tinct  appropriations  were  made  by  the  Divan  for  their  support.  Within  the  Morea, 
the  institution  of  the  Armatoles  was  never  tolerated;  but  there  the  same  spirit  wns 
kept  alive  by  tribes,  such  as  the  Mainatts,  whose  insurmountable  advantages  of  na- 
tural position  enabled  them  eternally  to  baffle  the  most  powerful  enemy. 

•f  And  apparently,  we  may  add,  when  exercised  at  the  expense  of  whomsoever  at 
sea.  The  old  Grecian  instinct,  which  Thucydides  states  so  frankly,  under  which 
all  seafarers  were  dedicated  to  spoil  as  people  who  courted  attack,  seems  never  to 
have  been  fully  rooted  out  from  the  little  creeks  and  naval  fastnesses  of  the  Morca, 
and  of  some  of  the  Egean  islands.  Not  perhaps  the  mere  spirit  of  wrong  and  ngrcr- 
sion,  hut  some  old  traditionary  conceits  and  maxims,  brought  on  the  great  crisis  of 
piracy,  which  fell  under  no  less  terrors  than  of  the  triple  thunders  of  the  great  Allies. 


1838.]                                  The  Revolution  of  Gi  tece.  485 

curbed  Turkish  tyranny ;  for  the  cap-  nary  activity,  and  endurance  of  hard- 
tains  and  Christian  primates  of  dis-  ships  and  fatigue,  made  them  for- 
tricts  understanding  each  other, —  midable  light  troops  in  their  native 
the  former  by  giving  to  some  of  their  fastnesses;  wrapped  in  shaggy  cloaks, 
men  a  hint  to  desert  and  turn  Klefts,  they  slept  on  the  ground,  defying  the 
could  easily  circumvent  Mahome-  elements;  and  the  pure  mountain  air 
dans  who  came  on  a  mission  dis-  gave  them  robust  health.  Such  were 
agreeable  to  the  latter.  The  habits  the  warriors,  that,  in  the  very  worst 
and  manners  of  the  Armatoles,  li-  times,  kept  alive  a  remnant  of  Gre- 
ying among  forests  and  in  mountain  cian  spirit." 

passes,  were  necessarily  rude  and  But  all  these  facts  of  history,  or 

simple :  their  magnificence  consist-  institutions  of  policy,  nay,  even  the 

ed  in  adorning  with  silver  their  guns,  more  violent  appeals  to  the  national 

pistols,  and  daggers;  their  amuse-  pride  in  such  memorable  transac- 

ments  in  shooting  at  a  mark,  dan-  tions  as  the  expatriation  of  the  illus- 

cing,  and  singing  the  exploits  of  the  trious   Suliotes,*  (as  also  of  some 

most  celebrated  chiefs.    Extraordi-  eminent  predatory  chieftains  from 


*  The  sole  oversight  in  Mr  Gordon's  work,  considered  as  a  comprehen- 
sive history  of  the  Greek  struggle  from  its  earliest  grounds  or  excitements, 
is  in  what  regards  the  Suliotes.  Their  name  continually  crosses  the  reader; 
Mid  the  reference  to  their  expatriation  by  AH  Pacha  is  incessant.  Yet  no 
i  ccount  is  anywhere  given  of  their  quarrel  with  this  perfidious  enemy — 
<  ither  in  its  grounds  or  its  final  results.  On  this  account  we  have  thought 
that  we  should  do  an  acceptable  service  to  the  reader  by  presenting  him 
with  a  sketch  of  the  Suliotes,  and  the  most  memorable  points  in  their  his- 
tory. We  have  derived  it  (as  to  the  facts)  from  a  little  work  originally 
composed  by  an  Albanian  in  modern  Greek,  and  printed  at  Venice  in  1815. 
This  work  was  immediately  translated  into  Italian,  by  Gherardini,  an  Ita- 
lian officer  of  Milan ;  and  ten  years  ago,  with  some  few  omissions,  it  was 
r  3produced  in  an  English  version ;  but  in  this  country  it  seems  never  to 
have  attracted  public  notice,  and  is  probably  now  forgotten. 

With  respect  to  the  name  of  Suli,  the  Suliotes  themselves  trace  it  to  an 
accident : — "  Some  old  men,"  says  the  Albanian  author,  reciting  his  own 
p  irsonal  investigations  amongst  the  oldest  of  the  Suliotes,  "  replied,  that 
tl  ey  did  not  remember  having  any  information  from  their  ancestors  con- 
cerning the  first  inhabitants  of  Suli,  except  this  only :  that  some  goat  and 
swine  herds  used  to  lead  their  flocks  to  graze  on  the  mountains  where  Suli 
and  Ghiafa  now  stand ;  that  these  mountains  were  not  only  steep  and  al- 
most inaccessible,  but  clothed  with  thickets  of  wood,  and  infested  by  wild 
boars;  that  these  herdsmen,  being  oppressed  by  the  tyranny  of  the  Turks 
oi  a  village  called  to  this  day  Gardichi,  took  the  resolution  of  flying  for  a 
distance  of  six  hours'  journey  to  this  silvan  and  inaccessible  position,  of 
sharing  in  common  the  few  animals  which  they  had,  and  of  suffering  volun- 
ta  ily  every  physical  privation,  rather  than  submit  to  the  slightest  wrong 
fivm  their  foreign  tyrants.  This  resolution,  they  added,  must  be  presumed 
to  have  been  executed  with  success ;  because  we  find  that,  in  the  lapse  of 
fiv3  or  six  years,  these  original  occupants  of  the  fastness  were  joined  by 
thirty  other  families.  Somewhere  about  that  time  it  was  that  they  began 
to  awaken  the  jealousy  of  the  Turks ;  and  a  certain  Turk,  named  Suli,  went 
in  high  scorn  and  defiance,  with  many  other  associates,  to  expel  them  from 
thU  strong  position ;  but  our  stout  forefathers  met  them  with  arms  in  their 
ha  ids.  Suli,  the  leader  and  inciter  of  the  Turks,  was  killed  outright  upon 
th(  ground ;  and,  on  the  very  spot  where  he  fell,  at  this  day  stands  the 
centre  of  our  modern  Suli,  which  took  its  name  therefore  from  that  same 
si  a  ightered  Turk,  who  was  the  first  insolent  and  malicious  enemy  with, 
wh  ^m  our  country  in  its  days  of  infancy  had  to  contend  for  its  existence." 

i  uch  is  the  most  plausible  account  which  can  now  be  obtained  of  the 
inc,',nabula  of  this  most  indomitable  little  community,  and  of  the  circum- 
stances under  which  it  acquired  its  since  illustrious  name,  It  was  perhaps 


486  The  Revolution  of  Greece.  [April, 

the  Morea,)  were,  after  all,  no  more  should  arise  for  combiningthe  Greeks 

than  indirect  excitements  of  the  in-  iu  one  great  movement  of  resistance, 

gurrectionary  spirit.    If  it  were  pos-  such  continued  irritations  must  have 

gible   that  any  adequate    occasion  the  highest  value,  as  keeping  alive 


natural  that  a  little  town,  in  the  centre  of  insolent  and  bitter  enemies, 
should  assume  a  name  which  would  long  convey  to  their  whole  neighbour- 
hood a  stinging  lesson  of  mortification  and  of  prudential  warning  against 
similar  molestations.  As  to  the  chronology  of  this  little  state,  the  Albanian 
author  assures  us,  upon  the  testimony  of  the  same  old  Suliotes,  that  "  seven- 
ty years  before?  there  were  barely  one  hundred  men  fit  for  the  active  duties 
of  war,  which,  in  ordinary  states  of  society,  would  imply  a  total  population 
of  400  souls.  That  may  be  taken,  therefore,  as  the  extreme  limit  of  the 
Suliote  population  at  a  period  of  seventy  years  antecedently  to  the  date  of 
the  conversation  on  which  he  founds  his  information.  But,  as  he  has  un- 
fortunately omitted  to  fix  the  exact  era  of  these  conversations,  the  whole 
value^of  his  accuracy  is  neutralized  by  his  own  carelessness.  However,  it 
is  probable,  from  the  internal  evidence  of  his  book,  which  brings  down 
affairs  below  the  year  1812,  that  his  information  was  collected  somewhere 
about  1810.  We  must  carry  back  the  epoch,  therefore,  at  which  Suli  had 
risen  to  a  population  of  400,  pretty  nearly  to  the  year  1740;  and  since,  by 
the  same  traditionary  evidence,  Suli  had  then  accomplished  an  independent 
existence  through  a  space  of  eighty  years,  we  have  reason  to  conclude  that 
the  very  first  gatherings  of  poor  Christian  herdsmen  to  this  sylvan  sanctu- 
ary, when  stung  to  madness  by  Turkish  insolence  and  persecution,  would 
take  place  about  the  era  of  the  Restoration,  (of  our  Charles  II.)  that  is, 
in  1660. 

In  more  modern  times,  the  Suliotes  had  expanded  into  four  separate  little 
towns,  peopled  by  560  families,  from  which  they  were  able  to  draw  one 
thousand  first-rate  soldiers.  But,  by  a  very  politic  arrangement,  they  had 
colonized  with  sixty-six  other  families  seven  neighbouring  towns,  over  which 
from  situation  they  had  long  been  able  to  exercise  a  military  preponde- 
rance. The  benefits  were  incalculable  which  they  obtained  by  this  con- 
nexion. At  the  first  alarm  of  war  the  fighting  men  retreated  with  no  in- 
cumbrances  but  their  arms,  ammunition,  and  a  few  days'  provision,  into  the 
four  towns  of  Suli  proper,  which  all  lay  within  that  ring  fence  of  impreg- 
nable position  from  which  no  armies  could  ever  dislodge  them;  meantime, 
they  secretly  drew  supplies  from  the  seven  associate  towns,  which  were  bet- 
ter situated  than  themselves  for  agriculture,  and  which  (apparently  taking 
no  part  in  the  war)  pursued  their  ordinary  labours  unmolested.  Their  tac- 
tics were  simple  but  judicious;  if  they  saw  a  body  of  five  or  six  thousand 
advancing  against  their  position,  knowing  that  it  was  idle  for  them  to  meet 
such  a  force  in  the  open  field,  they  contented  themselves  with  detaching 
150  or  200  men  to  skirmish  on  their  flanks,  and  to  harass  them  according  to 
the  advantages  of  the  ground  ;  but  if  they  saw  no  more  than  500  or  1000  in 
the  hostile  column,  they  then  issued  in  equal  or  superior  numbers,  in  the 
certainty  of  beating  them,  striking  an  effectual  panic  into  their  hearts,  and 
also  of  profiting  largely  by  plunder  and  by  ransom. 

In  so  small  and  select  a  community,  where  so  much  must  continually 
depend  upon  individual  qualities  and  personal  heroism,  it  may  readily  be 
supposed  that  the  women  would  play  an  important  part;  in  fact,  "the 
women  carry  arms  and  fight  bravely.  When  the  men  go  to  war,  the  women 
bring  them  food  and  provisions  ;  when  they  see  their  strength  declining  in 
combat,  they  run  to  their  assistance,  and  fight  along  with  them  ;  but,  if  by 
any  chance  their  husbands  behave  with  cowardice,  they  snatch  their  arms 
from  them,  and  abuse  them,  calling  them  mean,  and  unworthy  of  having  a 
wife."  Upon  these  feelings  there  has  even  been  built  a  law  in  Suli,  which 
must  deeply  interest  the  pride  of  women  in  the  martial  honour  of  their 
husbands ;  agreeably  to  this  law,  any  woman  whose  husband  has  distin- 
guished himself  in  battle,  upon  going  to  a  fountain  to  draw  water,  has  the 


1 80,0.]  The  Revolution  of  Greece.  487 

the  national  spirit  which  must  finally  irritations  could  ever  of  themselves 

be  relied  on,  to  improve  it  and  to  avail  to  create  an  occasion  of  suffi- 

turn  it  to  account;  but  it  was  not  cient  magnitude  for  imposing  silence 

to  be  expected  that  any  such  local  on  petty  dissensions,  and  for  orga- 


liberty  to  drive  away  another  woman  whose  husband  is  tainted  with  the 
reproach  of  cowardice  ;  and  all  who  succeed  her,  "  from  dawn  to  dewy  eve," 
unless  under  the  ban  of  the  same  withering  stigma,  have  the  same  privilege 
of  taunting  her  with  her  husband's  baseness,  and  of  stepping  between  her 
or  her  cattle  until  their  own  wants  are  fully  supplied. 

This  social  consideration  of  the  female  sex,  in  right  of  their  husbands' 
military  honours,  is  made  available  for  no  trifling  purposes  :  on  one  occa- 
sion it  proved  the  absolute  salvation  of  the  tribe.  In  one  of  the  most  des- 
perate assaults  made  by  Ali  Pacha  upon  Suli,  when  that  tyrant  was  himself 
present  at  the  head  of  8000  picked  men,  animated  with  the  promise  of  500 
piastres  a-man,  to  as  many  as  should  enter  Suli,  after  ten  hours*  fighting 
under  an  enfeebling  sun,  and  many  of  the  Suliote  muskets  being  rendered 
useless  by  continual  discharges,  a  large  body  of  the  enemy  had  actually 
succeeded  in  occupying  the  sacred  interior  of  Suli  itself.  At  that  critical 
moment,  when  Ali  was  in  the  very  paroxysms  of  frantic  exultation,  the 
Suliote  women  seeing  that  the  general  fate  hinged  upon  the  next  five 
minutes,  turned  upon  the  Turks  en  masse,  and  with  such  a  rapture  of  sudden 
fury,  that  the  conquering  army  was  instantly  broken  —  thrown  into  panic  — 
pursued  —  and  in  that  state  of  ruinous  disorder,  was  met  and  flanked  by  the 
men  who  were  now  recovering  from  their  defeat.  The  consequences,  from 
the  nature  of  the  ground,  were  fatal  to  the  Turkish  army  and  enterprise  ; 
the  whole  camp  equipage  was  captured;  none  saved  their  lives  but  by 
throwing  away  their  arms  ;  one-third  of  the  Turks  (one-half  by  some 
accounts)  perished  on  the  retreat;  the  rest  returned  at  intervals  as  an 
unarmed  mob  ;  and  the  bloody,  perfidious  Pacha  himself,  saved  his  life 
only  by  killing  two  horses  in  his  haste.  So  total  was  the  rout,  and  so  bitter 
the  mortification  of  Ali,  who  had  seen  a  small  band  of  heroic  women  snatch 
the  long-sought  prize  out  of  his  very  grasp,  that  for  some  weeks  he  shut 
himself  up  in  his  palace  at  Yannina,  would  receive  no  visits,  and  issued  a 
proclamation  imposing  instant  death  upon  any  man  detected  in  looking  out 
lit  a  window  or  other  aperture  —  as  being  presumably  engaged  in  noticing 
the  various  expressions  of  his  defeat  which  were  continually  returning  to 
Yannina. 
The  wars,  in  which  the  adventurous  courage  of  the  Suliotes  (together 

ivith  their  menacing  position)  could  not  fail  to  involve  them,  were  in  all 
eleven.  The  first  eight  of  these  occurred  in  times  before  the  French  Revo- 
'  ution,  and  with  Pachas,  who  have  left  no  memorials  behind  them  of  the 

errific  energy  or  hellish  perfidy  which  marked  the  character  of  Ali  Pacha. 
These  Pachas,  who  brought  armies  at  the  lowest  of  5000,  and  at  the  most 
<>f  12,000  men,  were  uniformly  beaten  ;  and  apparently  were  content  to  be 
beaten.  Sometimes  a  Pacha  was  even  made  prisoner  ;  *  but,  as  the  simple 
Suliotes  little  understood  the  art  of  improving  advantages,  the  ransom  was 
Ftire  to  be  proportioned  to  the  value  of  the  said  Pacha's  sword-arm  in 
battle,  rather  than  to  his  rank  and  ability  to  pay;  so  that  the  terms  of  liber- 
5  tion  were  made  ludicrously  easy  to  the  Turkish  chiefs. 

These  eight  wars  naturally  had  no  other  ultimate  effect,  than  to  extend 
the  military  power,  experience,  and  renown,  of  the  Suliotes.    But  their 

i..:iL  Jjaii5»iJ«  -u^iij  990  Y-.  -i,  |  DOB  £>ooi  ra9ri.t 


*  On  the  same  occasion  the  Pacha's  son,  and  sixty  officers  of  the  rank  of  Agat 
Tv'ere  also  made  prisoners  by  a  truly  rustic  mode  of  assault.  The  Turks  had  shut 
themselves  up  in  a  church  ;  into  this,  by  night,  the  Suliotes  threw  a  number  of  hives, 
full  of  bees,  whose  insufferable  stings  soon  brought  the  haughty  Moslems  into  the 
proper  surrendering  mood.  The  whole  body  were  afterwards  ransomed  for  SQ 
trifling  a  sum  as  1000  sequins.  IrtaasigB  ;  abmufeuii 


48&  The  Revolution  of  Greece.  [April, 

iiizing  into  any  unity  of  effort  a  scending  the  strength  (as  might  seem) 

country  so  splintered  and  naturally  of  any  real  agencies  or  powers  then 

cut  into  independent  chambers  as  existing  in  Greece,  was  assumed  by 

that  of  Greece.       That  task,  tran-  a  mysterious,*  and,  in  some  sense,  a 


ninth  war  placed  them  in  collision  with  a  new  and  far  more  perilous  enemy 
than  any  they  had  yet  tried  ;  above  all,  he  was  so  obstinate  and  unrelenting 
an  enemy — that,  excepting  the  all-conquering  mace  of  death,  it  was  certain 
that  no  obstacles  born  of  man,  ever  availed  to  turn  him  aside  from  an  object 
once  resolved  on.  The  reader  will  understand,  of  course,  that  this  enemy 
was  Ali  Pacha.  Their  ninth  war  was  with  him ;  and  he,  like  all  before 
him,  was  beaten  ;  but,  not  like  all  before  him,  did  Ali  sit  down  in  resigna- 
tion under  his  defeat.  His  hatred  was  now  become  fiendish;  no  other 
prosperity  or  success  had  any  grace  in  his  eyes,  so  long  as  Suli  stood,  by 
which  he  had  been  overthrown — trampled  on — and  signally  humbled.  Life 
itself  was  odious  to  him,  if  he  must  continue  to  witness  the  triumphant 
existence  of  the  abhorred  little  mountain  village  which  had  wrung  laugh- 
ter at  his  expense  from  every  nook  of  Epirus.  Delenda  est  Carthago  ! 
tSuli  must  be  exterminated  I  became,  therefore,  from  this  time,  the  master 
watchword  of  his  secret  policy.  And  on  the  1st  of  June,  in  the  year  1792, 
he  commenced  his  second  war  against  the  Suliotes  at  the  head  of  22,000 
men.  This  was  the  second  war  of  Suli  with  Ali  Pacha;  but  it  was  the 
tenth  war  on  their  annals;  and,  as  far  as  their  own  exertions  were  concerned, 
it  had  the  same  result  as  all  the  rest.  But,  about  the  sixth  year  of  the  war, 
in  an  indirect  way,  Ali  made  one  step  towards  his  final  purpose,  which  first 
manifested  its  disastrous  tendency  in  the  new  circumstances  which  suc- 
ceeding years  brought  forward.  In  1797,  the  French  made  a  lodgement  in 
Corfu ;  and,  agreeably  to  their  general  spirit  of  intrigue,  they  had  made 
advances  to  Ali  Pacha,  and  to  all  other  independent  powers  in  or  about 
Epirus.  Amongst  other  states,  in  an  evil  hour  for  that  ill-fated  city,  they 
wormed  themselves  into  an  alliance  with  Prevesa ;  and  in  the  following  year 
their  own  quarrel  with  Ali  Pacha  gave  that  crafty  robber  a  pretence,  which 
he  had  long  courted  in  vain,  for  attacking  the  place  with  his  overwhelming 
cavalry,  before  they  could  agree  upon  the  mode  of  defence,  and  long  before 
any  mode  could  have  been  tolerably  matured.  The  result  was  one  uni- 
versal massacre,  which  raged  for  three  days,  and  involved  every  living 
Prevesan,  excepting  some  few  who  had  wisely  made  their  escape  in  time, 
and  excepting  those  who  were  reserved  to  be  tortured  for  All's  special 
gratification,  or  to  be  sold  for  slaves  in  the  shambles.  This  dreadful  catas- 
trophe, which  in  a  few  hours  rooted  from  the  earth  an  old  and  flourishing 
community,  was  due  in  about  equal  degrees  to  the  fatal  intriguing  of  the 
interloping  French,  and  to  the  rankest  treachery  in  a  quarter  where  it  could 
least  have  been  held  possible — viz.  in  a  Suliote,  and  a  very  distinguished 
Suliote,  Captain  George  Botzari ;  but  the*miserable  man  yielded  up  his 
honour  and  his  patriotism  to  Ali's  bribe  of  100  purses,  (perhaps  at  that 


*  Epirus  and  Acarnania,  £c.  to  the  north-west;  Roumelia,  Thebes,  Attica,  to  the 
east ;  the  Morea,  or  Peloponnesus,  to  the  south-west ;  and  the  islands  so  widely  dis- 
persed in  the  Egean,  had  from  position  a  separate  interest  over  and  above  their  com- 
mon interest  as  members  of  a  Christian  confederacy.  And  in  the  absence  of  some 
great  representative  society,  there  was  no  voice  commanding  enough  to  merge  the 
local  interest  in  the  universal  one  of  Greece.  The  original  (or  Philomuse  society) 
which  adopted  literature  for  its  ostensible  object,  as  a  mask  to  its  political  designs, 
expired  at  Munich  in  1807  ;  but  not  before  it  had  founded  a  successor  more  directly 
political.  Hence  arose  a  confusion,  under  which  many  of  the  crowned  heads  in 
Europe  were  judged  uncharitably  as  dissemblers  or  as  traitors  to  their  engagements. 
They  had  subscribed  to  the  first  society ;  but  they  reasonably  held  that  this  did  not 
pledge  them  to  another,  which,  though  inheriting  the  secret  purposes  of  the  first,  no 
longer  masked  or  disavowed  them. 

91*  \\  IjUflii 


1833.]  Me  Revolution  of  Greece.  489 

fictitious  society  of  corresponding  ried  on  to  their  accomplishment  by 

members,  styling  itself  the  HetcBria  small  means,  magnifying  their  oxvn 

('Er«/?/«).     A  more  astonishing  case  extent  through  great  zeal  and  infinite 

of  mighty  effects  prepared  and  car-  concealment,  and  artifices  the  most 


time  equal  to  L.2500  sterling).  The  way  in  which  this  catastrophe  opera- 
ted upon  AH's  final  views,  was  obvious  to  every  body  in  that  neighbour- 
hood. Parga,  on  the  sea-coast,  was  an  indispensable  ally  to  Suli ;  now 
Prevesa  stood  in  the  same  relation  to  Parga,  as  an  almost  indispensable  ally, 
that  Parga  occupied  towards  Suli. 

This  shocking  tragedy  had  been  perpetrated  in  the  October  of  1798; 
and  in  less  than  two  years  from  that  date,  viz.  on  the  2d  of  June,  1800, 
commenced  the  eleventh  war  of  the  Suliotes — being  their  third  with  Ali,  and 
•  he  last  which,  from  their  own  guileless  simplicity,  meeting  with  the  craft 
of  the  most  perfidious  amongst  princes,  they  were  ever  destined  to  wage. 
:<\>r  two  years,  that  is  until  the  middle  of  1802,  the  war,  as  managed  by  the 
Suliotes,  rather  resembles  a  romance,  or  some  legend  of  the  acts  of  Pala- 
dins, than  any  grave  chapter  in  modern  history.  Amongst  the  earliest  vic- 
tims, it  is  satisfactory  to  mention  the  traitor,  George  Botzari,  who,  being  in 
the  power  of  the  Pacha,  was  absolutely  compelled  to  march  with  about  200 
c  f  his  kinsmen,  whom  he  had  seduced  from  Suli,  against  his  own  country- 
men, under  whose  avenging  swords  the  majority  of  them  fell,  whilst  the 
arch-traitor  himself  soon  died  of  grief  and  mortification.  After  this,  Ali 
Limself  led  a  great  and  well-appointed  army  in  various  Hues  of  assault 
against  Suli.  But  so  furious  was  the  reception  given  to  the  Turks,  so  deadly 
aid  so  uniform  their  defeat,  that  panic  seized  on  the  whole  army,  who  de- 
clared unanimously  to  Ali  that  they  would  no  more  attempt  to  contend  with 
the  Suliotes — "  Who,"  said  they,  "  neither  sit  nor  sleep,  but  are  born  only 
for  the  destruction  of  men."  AH  was  actually  obliged  to  submit  to  this 
s  range  resolution  of  his  army :  but,  by  way  of  compromise,  he  built  a  chain 

0  '  forts  pretty  nearly  encircling  Suli — and  simply  exacted  of  his  troops  that, 
b  >ing  for  ever  released  from  the  dangers  of  the  open  field,  they  should 
henceforward  shut  themselves  up  in  these  forts,  and  constitute  themselves 
a  permanent  blockading  force  for  the  purpose  of  bridling  the  marauding 
excursions  of  the  Suliotes.     It  was  hoped,  that  from  the  close  succession 

01  these  forts,  the  Suliotes  would  find  it  impossible  to  slip  between  the  cross 
fires  of  the  Turkish  musketry, — and  that,  being  thus  absolutely  cut  off  from 
their  common  resources  of  plunder,  they  must  at  length  be  reduced  by 
mere  starvation.     That  termination  of  the  contest  was  in  fact  repeatedly 
within  a  trifle  of  being  accomplished;  the  poor  Suliotes  were  reduced  to  a 
diet  of  acorns;  and  even  of  this  food  had  so  slender  a  quantity  that  many 
dbd,  and  the  rest  wore  the  appearance  of  blackened  skeletons.     All  this 
m  sery,  however,  had  no  effect  tp  abate  one  jot  of  their  zeal  and  their  un- 
dj  ing  hatred  to  the  perfidious  enemy  who  was  bending  every  sinew  to  their 
d(  struction.  It  is  melancholy  to  record  that  such  perfect  heroes,  from  whom 
fo  -ce  the  most  disproportioned,  nor  misery  the  most  absolute,  had  ever 
wrung  the  slightest  concession  or  advantage,  were  at  length  entrapped  by 
tin  craft  of  their  enemy — and  by  their  own  foolish  confidence  in  the  oaths 
of  one  who  had  never  been  known  to  keep  any  engagement  which  he  had 
a  loomentary  interest  in  breaking.     Ali  contrived  first  of  all  to  trepan  the 
m;  tchless  leader  of  the  Suliotes — Captain  Foto  Giavella,  who  was  a  hero 
after  the  most  exquisite  model  of  ancient  Greece,  Epaminondas,  or  Timo- 
leon,  and  whose  counsels  were  uniformly  wise  and  honest.  After  that  loss, 
all  harmony  of  plan  went  to  wreck  amongst  the  Suliotes;  and  at  length, 
about  the  middle  of  December  1803,  this  immortal  little  independent  state 
of  Suli  solemnly  renounced  by  treaty  to  Ali  Pacha  its  sacred  territory,  its 
thrice  famous  little  towns,  and  those  unconquerable  positions  among  the 
en  sts  of  wooded  inaccessible  mountains  which  had  baffled  all  the  armies 
of  :he  Crescent,  led  by  the  most  eminent  of  the  Ottoman  Pachas,  and  not 
sel  lorn  amounting  to  twenty,  twenty-five,  and  in  one  instance  even  to  more 
thf  a  thirty  thousand  men,  The  articles  of  a  treaty,  which  on  one  side  there 


490  The  Revolution  of  Greece.  [April, 

subtle,  is  not  to  be  found  in  history,  combinations,  or  for  the  impenetra- 

The  secret  tribunal  of  the  middle  bility  of  its  masque.    Nor  is  there  in 

ages  is  not  to  be  compared  with  it  the  whole  annals  of  man  a  manoeuvre 

for  the  depth  and  expansion  of  its  BO  admirable  as  that,  by  which  this 

never  was  an  intention  of  executing,  are  scarcely  worth  repeating :  the 
amount  was — that  the  Suliotes  had  perfect  liberty  to  go  whither  they  chose, 
retaining  the  whole  of  their  arms  and  property,  and  with  a  title  to  payment 
in  cash  for  every  sort  of  warlike  store  which  could  not  be  carried  oif.     In 
excuse  for  the  poor  Suliotes  in  trusting  to  treaties  of  any  kind  with  an 
enemy  whom  no  oaths  could  bind  for  an  hour,  it  is  but  fair  to  mention,  that 
they  were  now  absolutely  without  supplies  either  of  ammunition  or  pro- 
visions ;  and  that,  for  seven  days,  they  had  suffered  under  a  total  depri- 
vation of  water,  the  sources  of  which  were  now  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy, 
and  turned  into  new  channels.     The  winding  up  of  the  memorable  tale  is 
soon  told :— the  main  body  of  the  fighting  Suliotes,  agreeably  to  the  treaty, 
immediately  took  the  route  to  Parga,  where  they  were  sure  of  a  hospitable 
reception — that  city  having  all  along  made  common  cause  with  Suli  against 
their  common  enemy,  Ali.     The  son  of  Ali,  who  had  concluded  the  treaty, 
and  who  inherited  all  his  father's  treachery,  as  fast  as  possible  despatched 
4000  Turks  in  pursuit,  with  orders  to  massacre  the  whole.     But  in  this  in- 
stance, through  the  gallant  assistance  of  the  Parghiotes,  and  the  energetic 
haste  of  the  Suliotes,  the  accursed  wretch  was  disappointed  of  his  prey.  As 
to  all  the  other  detachments  of  the  Suliotes,  who  were  scattered  at  differ- 
ent points,  and  were  necessarily  thrown    everywhere   upon  their    own 
resources  without  warning  or  preparation  of  any  kind, — they,  by  the  terms 
of  the  treaty,  had  liberty  to  go  away  or  to  reside  peaceably  in  any  part  of 
Ali's  dominions.    But  as  these  were  mere  windy  words,  it  being  well  un- 
derstood that  Ali's  fixed  attention  was  to  cut  every  throat  among  the 
Suliotes,  whether  of  man,  woman,  or  child,  nay,  as  he  thought  himself 
dismally  ill-used  by  every  hour's  delay  which  interfered  with  the  execu- 
tion of  that  purpose, — what  rational  plan  awaited  the  choice  of  the  poor 
Suliotes,  finding  themselves  in  the  centre  of  a  whole  hostile  nation,  and 
their  own  slender  divisions  cut  off  from  communication  with  each  other  ? 
"What  could  people  so  circumstanced  propose  to  themselves  as  a  suitable 
resolution  for  their  situation  ?  Hope  there  was  none;  sublime  despair  was 
all  that  their  case  allowed :  and  considering  the  unrivalled  splendours  of 
their  past  history  for  more  than  ICO  years,  perhaps  most  readers  would 
reply  in  the  famous  words  of  Corneille —  Quails  mourussent.    That  was 
their  own  reply  to  the  question  now  so  imperatively  forced  upon  them ; 
and  die  they  all  did.     It  is  an  argument  ot  some  great  original  nobility 
in  the  minds  of  these  poor  people,  that  none  disgraced  themselves  by 
useless  submissions,  and  that  all  alike — women  as  well  as  men — devo- 
ted themselves  in  the  "  high  Roman  fashion"  to  the  now  expiring  cause  of 
their  country.     The  first  case  which  occurred,  exhibits  the  very  perfection 
of  nonchalance  in  circumstances  the  most  appalling.     Samuel,  a  Suliote 
monk,  of  somewhat  mixed  and  capricious  character,  and  at  times  even  lia- 
ble to  much  suspicion  amongst  his  countrymen,  but  of  great  name,  and  of 
unquestionable  merit  in  his  military  character,  was  in  the  act  of  delivering 
over  to  authorized  Turkish  agents  a  small  outpost,  which  had  greatly  an- 
noyed the  forces  of  Ali,  together  with  such  military  stores  as  it  still  con- 
tained.   By  the  treaty,  Samuel  was  perfectly  free,  and  under  the  solemn 
protection  of  Ali ;  but  the  Turks,  with  the  utter  shamelessness  to  which  they 
had  been  brought  by  daily  familiarity  with  treachery  the  most  barefaced, 
were  openly  descanting  to  Samuel,  upon  the  unheard-of  tortures  which  must 
"be  looked  for  at  the  hands  of  Ali,  by  a  soldier  who  had  given  so  much  trou- 
ble to  that  Pacha  as  himself.     Samuel  listened  coolly;  he  was  then  seated 
on  a  chest  of  gunpowder ;  and  powder  was  scattered  about  in  all  directions. 
He  watched  in  a  careless  way  until  he  observed  that  all  the  Turks,  exult- 
ing in  their  own  damnable  perfidies,  were  assembled  under  the  roof  of  the 
building.    He  then  coolly  took  the  burning  snuff  of  a  candle,  and  threw  it 


)333.j  The  Revolution  of  Greece.  491 

society,   silently   effecting  its   own  by  mere  force  of  seasonable  silence, 

transfiguration,  and  recasting  as  in  a  or  by  the  very  pomp  of  mystery,  to 

crucible  its  own  form,  organs,  and  carry  over  from  the  first  or  innoxi- 

most  essential  functions,  contrived,  ous  model  of  the  Hetscria  to  its  new 


into  a  heap  of  combustibles,  still  keeping  his  seat  upon  the  chest  of  pow- 
der. It  is  unnecessary  to  add,  that  the  little  fort,  and  all  whom  it  contain- 
ed, were  blown  to  atoms.  And  with  respect  to  Samuel  in  particular,  no 
fragment  of  his  skeleton  could  ever  be  discovered.*  After  this  followed 
as  many  separate  tragedies  as  there  were  separate  parties  of  Suliotes ;  when 
all  hope  and  all  retreat  were  clearly  cut  off,  then  the  women  led  the  great 
scene  of  self-immolation,  by  throwing  their  children  headlong  from  the 
summit  of  precipices  ;  which  done,  they  and  their  husbands,  their  fathers 
and  their  sons,  hand  in  hand,  ran  up  to  the  brink  of  the  declivity,  and 
followed  those  whom  they  had  sent  before.  In  other  situations,  where  there 
was  a  possibility  of  fighting  with  effect,  they  made  a  long  and  bloody  resist- 
ance, until  the  Turkish  cavalry,  finding  an  opening  for  their  operations,  made 
all  further  union  impossible  ;  upon  which  they  ail  plunged  into  the  nearest 
river,  without  distinction  of  age  or  sex,  and  were  swallowed  up  by  the  mer- 
ciful waters.  Thus,  in  a  few  days,  from  the  signing  of  that  treaty/which  no- 
minally secured  to  them  peaceable  possession  of  their  property,  and  pater- 
nal treatment  from  the  perfidious  Pacha,  none  remained  to  claim  his  pro- 
mises or  to  experience  his  abominable  cruelties.  In  their  native  mountains 
of  Epirus,  the  name  of  Suliote  was  now  blotted  from  the  books  of  life,  and 
was  heard  no  more  in  those  wild  silvan  haunts  where  once  it  had  filled  every 
echo  with  the  breath  of  panic  to  the  quailing  hearts  of  the  Moslems.  In  the 
most  "palmy"  days  of  SulS,  she  never  had  counted  more  than  2500  fighting 
men ;  and  of  these  no  considerable  body  escaped,  excepting  the  corps  who 
hastily  fought  their  way  to  Parga.  From  that  city  they  gradually  transport- 
ed themselves  to  Corfu,  then  occupied  by  the  Russians.  Into  the  service  of 
the  Russian  Czar,  as  the  sole  means  left  to  a  perishing  corps  of  soldiers  for 
earning  daily  bread,  they  naturally  entered ;  and  when  Corfu  afterwards 
passed  from  Russian  to  English  masters,  it  was  equally  inevitable  that  for 
the  same  urgent  purposes  they  should  enter  the  military  service  of  Eng- 
land. In  that  service  they  received  the  usual  honourable  treatment,  and 
such  attention  as  circumstances  would  allow  to  their  national  habits  and 
prejudices.  They  were  placed  also,  we  believe,  under  the  popular  command 
of  Sir  R.  Church,  who,  though  unfortunate  as  a  supreme  leader,  made  him- 
self beloved  in  a  lower  station  by  all  the  foreigners  under  his  authority. 
These  Suliotes  have  since  then  returned  to  Epirus  and  to  Greece,  the  peace 
of  181 5  having  perhaps  dissolved  their  connexion  with  England,  and  they 
were  even  persuaded  to  enter  the  service  of  their  arch-enemy,  AH  Pacha. 
Since  his  death,  their  diminished  numbers,  and  the  altered  circumstances 
of  their  situation,  should  naturally  have  led  to  the  extinction  of  their  poli- 
tical importance.  Yet  we  find  them  in  1832  still  attracting  (or  rather  con- 
centrating) the  wrath  of  the  Turkish  Sultan,  made  the  object  of  a  separate 
war,  and  valued  (as  in  all  former  cases)  on  the  footing  of  a  distinct  and  in- 
dependent nation.  On  the  winding  up  of  this  war,  we  find  part  of  them  at 
least  an  object  of  indulgent  solicitude  to  the  British  government,  and  under 
their  protection  transferred  to  Cephalonia.  Yet  again,  others  of  their  scanty 
clan  meet  us  at  different  points  of  the  war  in  Greece ;  especially  at  the  first 
decisive  action  with  Ibrahim,  when,  in  the  rescue  of  Costa  Botzaris,  every 
Suliote  of  his  blood  perished  on  the  spot ;  and  again,  in  the  fatal  battle  of 
Athens,  (May  6,  1827,)  Mr  Gordon  assures  us  that  "  almost  all  the  Suliotes 
were  exterminated."  We  understand  him  to  speak  not  generally  of  the 
Suliotes,  as  of  the  total  clan  who  bear  that  name,  but  of  those  only  who 

u<  fJbgifh  1U  m  tuodfj  kyw-  ;>wonairn.lo  iaoJa  n  t 

ii.  £9  Jbffi*0  deposition  of  two  Suliote  sentinels  at  the  door,  and  of  a  third  person  who 
^scaped  with  a  dreadful  scorching,  sufficiently  established  the  facts]  otherwise  thQ 
•\vhole  would  have  lieen  ascribed  to  the  treachery  of  All  or  his  son. 


402 

organization,  all  tliose  weighty  names 
of  kings  or  princes  who  would  not 
have  given  their  sanction  to  any  as- 
sociation having  political  objects, 
however  artfully  veiled.  The  early 
history  of  the  Hetaeiia  is  shrouded 
in  the  same  mystery  as  the  whole 
course  of  its  political  movements. 
Some  suppose  that  Alexander  Mau- 
rocordato,  ex-hospodar  of  Wallachia, 
during  his  long  exile  in  Russia, 
founded  it  for  the  promotion  of  edu- 
cation, about  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century.  Others  ascribe  it 
originally  to  Riga.  At  all  events,  its 
purposes  were  purely  intellectual  in 
its  earliest  form.  In  1815,  in  conse- 
quence chiefly  of  the  disappoint- 
ment which  the  Greeks  met  with  in 
their  dearest  hopes  from  the  Con- 
gress of  Vienna,  the  Hetseria  first 
assumed  a  political  character  under 
the  secret  influence  of  Count  Capo- 
distria  of  Corfu,  who,  having  entered 
the  Russian  service  as  mere  private 
secretary  to  Admiral  Tchitchagoff, 
in  1812,  had  in  a  space  of  three  years 
insinuated  himself  into  the  favour  of 
the  Czar,  so  far  as  to  have  become 
his  private  secretary,  and  a  cabinet 
minister  of  Russia.  He,  however, 
still  masked  his  final  objects  under 
plans  of  literature  and  scientific  im- 
provement. In  deep  shades,  he  or- 
ganized a  vast  apparatus  of  agents 
and  apostles;  and  then  retired  be- 
hind the  curtain  to  watch  or  to  di- 
rect the  working  of  his  blind  ma- 
chine. It  is  an  evidence  of  some 
latent  nobility  in  the  Greek  charac- 
ter, in  the  midst  of  that  levity  with 
which  all  Europe  taxes  it — that 
never,  except  once,  were  the  secrets 
of  the  society  betrayed;  nor  was 
there  the  least  ground  for  jealousy 
offered  either  to  the  stupid  Moslems, 
in  the  very  centre  of  whom,  and 
round  about  them,  the  conspiracy 
was  daily  advancing,  or  even  to  the 
rigorous  police  of  Moscow,  where 
the  Hetseria  had  its  headquarters. 
In  the  single  instance  of  treachery 
which  occurred,  it  happened  that  the 
Zantiote,  who  made  the  discovery  to 


The  Revolution  'of  Greece. 


[April, 


Ali  Pacha  on  a  motion  of  revengo, 
was  himself  too  slenderly  and  too 
vaguely  acquainted  with  the  final 
purposes  of  the  HetEeria  for  effectual 
mischief,  having  been  fortunately 
admitted  only  to  its  lowest  degree  of 
initiation ;  so  that  all  passed  off  with- 
out injury  to  the  cause,  or  even  per- 
sonally to  any  of  its  supporters. 
There  were,  in  fact,  five  degrees  in 
the  Het£eria.  A  candidate  of  the 
lowest  class,  (styled  Adelphoi,  or 
brothers,)  after  a  minute  examina- 
tion of  his  past  life  and  connexions, 
and  after  taking  a  dreadful  oath  un- 
der impressive  circumstances,  to  be 
faithful  in  all  respects  to  the  society 
and  his  afflicted  country,  and  even 
to  assassinate  his  nearest  and  dear- 
est relation,  if  detected  in  treachery, 
was  instructed  only  in  the  general 
fact,  that  a  design  was  on  foot  to 
ameliorate  the  condition  of  Greece. 
The  next  degree  of  Systirnenoi,  or 
bachelors,  who  were  selected  with 
more  anxious  discrimination,  were 
informed  that  this  design  was  to 
move  towards  its  object  by  means  of 
a  revolution.  The  third  class,  called 
Priests  of  Eleusis,  were  chosen  from 
the  aristocracy;  and  to  them  it  was 
made  known,  that  this  revolution  was 
near  at  hand ;  and,  also,  that  there 
were  in  the  society  higher  ranks 
than  their  own.  The  fourth  class 
was  that  of  the  prelates;  and  to  this 
order,  which  never  exceeded  the 
number  of  1 16,  and  comprehended 
the  leading  men  of  the  nation,  the 
most  unreserved  information  was 
given  upon  all  the  secrets  of  the 
Heteeria ;  after  which  they  were  se- 
verally appointed  to  a  particular  dis- 
trict, as  superintendent  of  its  inte- 
rests, and  as  manager  of  the  whole 
correspondence  on  its  concerns  with 
the  Grand  Arch.  This,  the  crown- 
ing order  and  key-stone  of  the  socie- 
ty, was  reputed  to  comprehend  six- 
teen "  mysterious  and  illustrious 
names,"  amongst  which  were  ob- 
scurely whispered  those  of  the  Czar, 
the  Crown  Prince  of  Bavaria  and  of 
Wurtemburg,  of  the  Hospodar  of 


happened  to  be  present  at  that  dire  catastrophe.  Still,  even  with  this  limi- 
tation, such  a  long  succession  of  heavy  losses  descending  upon  a  people 
who  never  numbered  above  2500  fighting  men,  and  who  had  passed  through 
the  furnace,  seven  times  heated,  of  Ali  Pacha's  wrath,  and  suffered  those 
many  and  dismal  tragedies  which  we  have  just  recorded,  cannot  but  have 
brought  them  latterly  to  the  brink  of  utter  extinction. 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


4D3 


\7allachia,  of  Count  Capodistria,  and 
s)me  others.  The  orders  of  the 
Grand  Arch  were  written  in  cipher, 
c;id  bore  a  seal  having  in  sixteen 
compartments  the  same  number  of 
initial  letters.  The  revenue,  which 
i  commanded,  must  have  been  con- 
siderable; for  the  lowest  member, 
en  his  noviciate,  was  expected  to 
give  at  least  fifty  piastres,  (at  this 
t  me  about  L.2  sterling ;)  and  those 
cf  the  higher  degrees  gave  from  300 
t3  1000  each.  The  members  com- 
r  mnicated  with  each  other,  in  mixed 
society,  by  masonic  signs. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  a  secret 
society,  with  the  grand  and  almost 
awful  purposes  of  the  Hetseria,  spite 
cf  some  taint  which  it  had  received 
ri  its  early  stages  from  the  spirit  of 
German  mummery,  is  fitted  to  fill 
tie  imagination,  and  to  command 
Lomage  from  the  coldest.  Whispers 
circulating  from  mouth  to  mouth  of 
s  }me  vast  conspiracy  mining  subter- 
rmeously  beneath  the  very  feet  of 
t  leir  accursed  oppressors ;  whispers 
cf  a  great  deliverer  at  hand,  whose 
r  mysterious  Labarum,  or  mighty  ban- 
ror  of  the  Cross,  was  already  dimly 
descried  through  northern  mists, 
and  whose  eagles  were  already 
s  renting  the  carnage  and  "  savour  of 
ceath"  from  innumerable  hosts  of 
Moslems;  whispers  of  a  revolution 
vhich  was  again  to  call,  as  with  the 
t  umpet  of  resurrection  from  the 
grave,  the  land  of  Timoleon  and 
Ilpaminondas;  such  were  the  pre- 
1  idings,  low  and  deep,  to  the  tem- 
I  estuous  overture  of  revolt  and  pa- 
t  -iotic  battle  which  now  ran  through 
every  nook  of  Greece,  and  caused 
every  ear  to  tingle. 

The  knowledge  that  this  mighty 
cause  must  be  sowed  in  dishonour, 
propagated  that  is,  in  respect  to  the 
It  nowledge  of  its  plans,  by  redoubled 
cringings  to  their  brutal  masters,  in 
crder  to  shield  it  from  suspicion, — 
tut  that  it  would  probably  be  reaped 
i  i  honour ;  the  belief  that  the  poor 
Grecian,  so  abject  and  trampled 
i  nder  foot,  would  soon  reappear 
a  mongst  the  nations  who  had  a  name, 
i  i  something  of  his  original  beauty 

.    .:. 


and  power ;— .these  dim  but  eleva- 
ting perceptions,  and  these  anticipa- 
tions, gave  to  every  man  the  sense 
of  an  ennobling  secret  confided  to 
his  individual  honour,  and,  at  the 
eame  time,  thrilled  his  heart  with  • 
sympathetic  joy,  from  approaching 
glories  that  were  to  prove  a  personal 
inheritance  to  his  children.  Over 
all  Greece  a  sense  of  power,  dim  and 
vast,  brooded  for  years;  and  a  mighty 
phantom,  under  the  mysterious  name 
of  Arch,  in  whose  cloudy  equipage 
were  descried,  gleaming  at  intervals, 
the  crowns  and  sceptres  of  great  po- 
tentates, sustained,  whilst  it  agitated 
their  hearts.  London  was  one  of  the 
secret  watchwords  in  their  impene- 
trable cipher ;  Moscow  was  a  coun- 
tersign ;  Bavaria  and  Austria  bore 
mysterious  parts  in  the  drama ;  and, 
though  no  sound  was  heard,  nor  voice 
given  to  the  powers  that  were  work- 
ing, yet,  as  if  by  mere  force  of  secret 
sympathy,  all  mankind  who  were 
worthy  to  participate  in  the  enter- 
prise, seemed  to  be  linked  in  brother- 
hood with  Greece.  These  notions 
were,  much  of  them,  mere  phantasms 
and  delusions ;  but  they  were  delu- 
sions of  mighty  efficacy  for  arming 
the  hearts  of  this  oppressed  country 
against  the  terrors  that  must  be 
faced;  and  for  the  whole  of  them 
Greece  was  indebted  to  the  Hetse- 
ria,  and  to  its  organized  agency  of 
apostles,  (as  they  were  technically 
called,)  who  compassed  land  and 
sea  as  pioneers  for  the  coming  cru- 
sade.* 

By  1820  Greece  was  thoroughly 
inoculated  with  the  spirit  of  resist- 
ance ;  all  things  were  ready,  so  far 
perhaps  as  it  was  possible  that  they 
should  ever  be  made  ready  under  the 
eyes  and  scimitars  of  the  enemy. 
Now  came  the  question  of  time,  when 
was  the  revolt  to  begin  ?  Some  con- 
tend, says  Mr  Gordon,  that  the  He- 
tseria  should  have  waited  for  a  cen- 
tury, by  which  time  they  suppose 
that  the  growth  of  means  in  favour 
of  Greece  would  have  concurred  with 
a  more  than  corresponding  decay  in 
her  enemy.  But,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  extreme  uncertainty  which  at- 


*  Considering  how  very  much  the  contest  did  finally  assume  a  religious  character, 
(  5ven  Franks  being  attached,  not  as  friends  of  Greece,  but  simply  as  Christians,)  one 
c  mnot  but  wonder  that  this  romantic  term  has  not  been  applied  to  th«  Greek  war  in 
Veatern  Europe, 


494 

tends  such  remote  speculation,  and 
the  utter  impossibility  of  training 
men  with  no  personal  hopes  to  labour 
for  the  benefit  of  distant  generations, 
there  was  one  political  argument 
against  that  course,  which  Mr  Gordon 
justly  considers  unanswerable.  It  is 
this :  Turkey  in  Europe  has  been 
long  tottering  on  its  basis.  Now, 
were  the  attempt  delayed  until  Rus- 
sia had  displaced  her  and  occupied 
her  seat,  Greece  would  then  have 
received  her  liberty  as  a  boon  from 
the  conqueror ;  and  the  construction 
would  have  been  that  she  held  it  by 
sufferance,  and  under  a  Russian  war- 
rant. This  argument  is  conclusive. 
But  others  there  were  who  fancied 
that  1825  was  the  year  at  which  all 
the  preparations  for  a  successful  re- 
volt could  have  been  matured.  Pro- 
bably some  gain  in  such  a  case  would 
have  been  balanced  against  some 
loss.  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  dis- 
cuss that  question.  Accident,  it  was 
clear,  might  bring  on  the  first  hostile 
movement  at  any  hour,  when  the 
minds  of  all  men  were  prepared,  let 
the  means  in  other  respects  be  as 
deficient  as  they  might.  Already, 
in  1820,  circumstances  made  it  evi- 
dent that  the  outbreak  of  the  insur- 
rection could  not  long  be  delayed. 
And,  accordingly,  in  the  following 
year  all  Greece  was  in  flames. 

This  affair  of  1820  has  a  separate 
interest  of  its  own,  connected  with 
the  character  of  the  very  celebrated 
person  to  whom  it  chiefly  relates; 
but  we  notice  it  chiefly  as  the  real  oc- 
casion, the  momentary  spark,  which 
alighting  upon  the  combustibles,  by 
this  time  accumulated  everywhere 
in  Greece,  caused  a  general  explo- 
sion of  the  long-hoarded  insurrec- 
tionary fury.  Ali  Pacha,  the  far- 
famed  vizier  of  Yannina,  had  long 
been  hated  profoundly  by  the  Sultan, 
who  in  the  same  proportion  loved 
and  admired  his  treasures.  However, 
he  was  persuaded  to  wait  for  his 
death,  which  could  not  (as  it  seem- 
ed) be  far  distant,  rather  than  risk 
any  thing  upon  the  chances  of  war. 
And  in  this  prudent  resolution  he 
would  have  persevered,  but  for  an 
affront  which  he  could  not  overlook. 
An  Albanian,  named  Ismael  Pasho 
Bey,  once  a  member  of  Ali's  house- 
hold, had  incurred  his  master's 
deadly  hatred  ;  and,  flying  from  his 
wrath  to  various  places  under  va- 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


rious  disguises,  had  at  length  taken 
refuge  in  Constantinople,  and  there 
sharpened  the  malice  of  Ali  by  at- 
taching himself  to  his  enemies.  Ali 
was  still  farther  provoked  by  finding 
that  Ismael  had  won  the  Sultan's 
favour,  and  obtained  an  appointment 
in  the  palace.  Mastered  by  his  fury, 
Ali  hired  assassinsto  shoot  his  enemy 
in  the  very  midst  of  Constantinople, 
and  under  the  very  eyes  of  imperial 
protection.  The  assassins  failed, 
having  only  wounded  him ;  they 
were  arrested,  and  disclosed  the 
name  of  their  employer. 

Here  was  an  insult  which  could 
not  be  forgiven :  Ali  Pacha  was  de- 
clared a  rebel  and  a  traitor ;  and  so- 
lemnly excommunicated  by  the  head 
of  the  Mussulman  law.  The  Pachas 
of  Europe  received  orders  to  march 
against  him ;  and  a  squadron  was 
fitted  out  to  attack  him  by  sea. 

In  March  1820  Ali  became  ac- 
quainted with  these  strong  mea- 
sures ;  which  at  first  he  endeavoured 
to  parry  by  artifice  and  bribery.  But 
finding  that  mode  of  proceeding  ab- 
solutely without  hope,  he  took  the 
bold  resolution  of  throwing  himself, 
in  utter  defiance,  upon  the  native 
energies  of  his  own  ferocious  heart. 
Having,  however,  but  small  reliance 
on  his  Mahomedan  troops  in  a  cri- 
sis of  this  magnitude,  he  applied  for 
Christian  succours,  and  set  himself  to 
court  the  Christians  generally.  As  a 
first  step,  he  restored  the  Armatoles 
— that  very  body  whose  suppression 
had  been  so  favourite  a  measure  of 
his  policy,  and  pursued  so  long,  so 
earnestly,  and  so  injuriously  to  his 
credit  amongst  the  Christian  part  of 
the  population.  It  happened,  at  the 
first  opening  of  the  campaign,  that 
the  Christians  were  equally  courted 
by  the  Sultan's  generalissimo,  Soly- 
man,  the  Pacha  of  Thessaly.  For 
this,  however,  that  Pacha  was  re- 
moved and  decapitated;  and  anew 
leader  was  now  appointed  in  the  per- 
son of  that  very  enemy,  Ismael  Pasho, 
whose  attempted  murder  had  brough  t 
the  present  storm  upon  Ali.  Ismael 
was  raised  to  the  rank  of  Serasker 
(or  generalissimo,)  and  was  also 
made  Pacha  of  Yannina  and  Delvino. 
Three  other  armies,  besides  a  fleet 
under  the  Capitari  Bey,  advanced 
upon  Ali's  territories  simultaneously 
from  different  quarters.  But  at  that 
time,  in  defiance  of  th^se  formidable 


]  833.] 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


r.nd  overwhelming  preparations,  bets 
were  strongly  iu  All's  favour  amongst 
Jill  who  were  acquainted  with  his 
resources :  for  he  had  vast  treasures, 
fortresses  of  great  strength,  inex- 
haustible supplies  of  artillery  and 
ammunition,  a  country  almost  inac- 
cessible, and  15,000  light  troops, 
whom  Mr  Gordon,  upon  personal 
knowledge,  pronounces  "  excellent." 
Scarcely  had  the  war  commenced , 
when  Ali  was  abandoned  by  almost 
the  whole  of  his  partisans,  in  mere 
hatred  of  his  execrable  cruelty  and 
tyrannical  government.  To  Ali,  how- 
over,  this  defection  brought  no  des- 
pondency; and  with  unabated  cour- 
age he  prepared  to  defend  himself  to 
the  last,  in  three  castles,  with  a  gar- 
rison of  3000  men.  That  he  might 
do  so  with  entire  effect,  he  began  by 
destroying  his  own  capital  of  Yan- 
nina,  lest  it  should  afford  shelter  to 
the  enemy.  Still  his  situation  would 
have  been  most  critical,  but  for  the 
state  of  affairs  in  the  enemy's  camp. 
The  Serasker  was  attended  by  more 
than  twenty  other  Pashas.  But  they 
were  all  at  enmity  with  each  other. 
One  of  them,  and  the  bravest,  was 
<jven  poisoned  by  the  Serasker.  Pro- 
visions were  running  short,  in  con- 
sequence of  their  own  dissensions. 
Winter  was  fast  approaching;  the 
cannonading  had  produced  no  con- 
spicuous effect;  and  the  soldiers 
were  disbanding.  In  this  situation, 
the  Sultan's  lieutenants  again  saw 
the  necessity  of  courting  aid  from 
the  Christian  population  of  the  coun- 
try. Ali,  on  his  part,  never  scrupled 
i;o  bid  against  them  at  any  price ;  and 
:it  length,  irritated  by  the  ill-usage  of 
the  Turks  on  their  first  entrance,  and 
disgusted  with  the  obvious  insince- 
rity of  their  reluctant  and  momen- 
tary kindness,  some  of  the  bravest 
Christian  tribes  (especially  the  cele- 
brated Suliotes)  consented  to  take 
All's  bribes,  forgot  his  past  outrages 
and  unnumbered  perfidies,  and  read- 
ng  his  sincerity  in  the  extremity  of 
lis  peril,  these  bravest  of  the  brave 
ranged  themselves  amongst  the  Sul- 
'an's  enemies.  During  the  winter 
i  hey  gained  some  splendid  successes ; 
>ther  alienated  friends  came  back  to 
Ali ;  and  even  some  Mahomedan 
Beys  were  persuaded  to  take  up 
:irms  in  his  behalf.  Upon  the  whole, 
"  he  Turkish  Divan  was  very  seriously 
ilarmed  j  and  so  much  so,  that  it  su- 


495 

perseded  the  Serasker  Ismael,  repla- 
cing him  with  the  famous  Kourshid 
Pacha,  at  that  time  viceroy  of  the 
Morea.  And  so  ended  the  year  1820. 
This  state  of  affairs  could  not 
escape  the  attention  of  the  vigil, 
ant  HeUeria.  Here  was  Ali  Pacha, 
hitherto  regarded  as  an  insurmount- 
able obstacle  in  their  path,  abso- 
lutely compelled  by  circumstances 
to  be  their  warmest  friend.  The 
Turks  again,  whom  no  circumstan- 
ces could  entirely  disarm,  were  yet 
crippled  for  the  time,  and  their 
whole  attention  preoccupied  by  an- 
other enemy — most  alarming  to  their 
policy,  and  most  tempting  to  their 
cupidity.  Such  an  opportunity  it 
seemed  unpardonable  to  neglect. 
Accordingly,  it  was  resolved  to  be- 
gin the  insurrection.  At  its  head 
was  placed  Prince  Alexander  Ypsi- 
lanti,  a  son  of  that  Hospodar  of  YVal- 
lachia,  whose  deposition  by  the 
Porte  had  produced  the  Russian  war 
of  1806.  This  prince's  qualifications 
consisted  in  his  high  birth,  in  his 
connexion  with  Russia,  (for  he  had 
risen  to  the  rank  of  Major- General 
in  that  service,)  and,  finally,  (if  such 
things  can  deserve  a  mention,)  in  an 
agreeable  person  and  manners.  For 
all  other  and  higher  qualifications 
he  was  wholly  below  the  situation 
and  the  urgency  of  the  crisis.  His 
first  error  was  in  the  choice  of  his 
ground.  Forborne  reasons,  which  are 
not  sufficiently  explained,  possibly 
on  account  of  his  family  connexion 
with  those  provinces,  he  chose  to 
open  the  war  in  Moldavia  and  Wal- 
lachia.  This  resolution  he  took  in 
spite  of  every  warning,  and  the  most 
intelligent  expositions  of  the  abso- 
lute necessity — that,  to  be  at  all  effec- 
tual, the  first  stand  should  be  made 
in  Greece.  He  thought  otherwise ; 
and,  managing  the  campaign  after 
his  own  ideas,  he  speedily  involved 
himself  in  quarrels,  and  his  army, 
through  the  perfidy  of  a  considerable 
officer,  in  ruinous  embarrassments. 
This  unhappy  campaign  is  circum- 
stantially narrated  by  Mr  Gordon  in 
his  first  book ;  but,  as  it  never  cross- 
ed the  Danube,  and  had  no  con- 
nexion with  Greece  except  by  its 
purposes — we  shall  simply  rehearse 
the  great  outline  of  its  course.  The 
signal  for  insurrection  was  given  in 
January  1821 ;  and  Prince  Ypsilanti 
took  the  field,  by  crossing  the  Prntha 


490 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


[April, 


in  March.  Early  in  April,  he  recei- 
ved a  communication  from  the  Em- 
peror of  Russia  which  at  once  pros- 
trated his  hopes  before  an  enemy 
was  seen.  He  was  formally  dis- 
avowed by  that  prince,  erased  from 
his  army-list,  and  severely  reproved 
for  his  "folly  and  ingratitude"  in 
letters  from  two  members  of  the 
Russian  Cabinet;  and  on  the  9th  of 
April,  this  fact  was  publicly  notified 
in  Yassy,  the  capital  of  Moldavia,  by 
the  Russian  Consul-General.  His 
army  at  this  time  consisted  of  3000 
men,  which  however  was  afterwards 
reinforced,  but  with  no  gunpowder, 
except  what  was  casually  intercept- 
ed, and  no  lead  except  some  that 
had  been  stripped  from  the  roof  of 
an  ancient  cathedral. 

On  the  12th  of  May  the  Pacha  of 
Ibrail  opened  the  campaign.  A  few 
days  after  the  Turkish  troops  began 
to  appear  in  considerable  force ;  and 
on  the  8th  of  June  an  alarm  was 
suddenly  given  "  that  the  white  tur- 
bans were  upon  them."  In  the  en- 
gagement which  followed,  the  insur- 
gent army  gave  way;  and,  though 
their  loss  was  much  smaller  than 
that  of  the  Turks,  yet  from  the  many 
blunders  committed,  the  consequen- 
ces were  disastrous;  and,  had  the 
Turks  pursued,  there  would  on  that 
day  have  been  an  end  of  the  insur- 
rection. But  far  worse  and  more 
decisive  was  the  subsequent  disaster 
of  the  17th.  Ypsilanti  had  been  again 
reinforced ;  and  his  advanced  guard 
had  surprised  a  Turkish  detachment 
of  cavalry  in  such  a  situation  that 
their  escape  seemed  impossible.  Yet 
all  was  ruined  by  one  officer  of  rank 
who  got  drunk,  and  advanced  with  an 
air  of  bravado — followed,  on  a  prin- 
ciple of  honour,  by  a  sacred  batta- 
lion, [h ieros  lochos,]  composed  of  500 
Greek  volunteers,  of  birth  and  edu- 
cation, the  very  elite  of  the  insurgent 
infantry.  The  Turks  gave  themselves 
up  for  lost;  but  happening  to  observe 
that  this  drunkard  seemed  unsupport- 
ed by  other  parts  of  the  army,  they 
suddenly  mounted,  came  down  upon 
the  noble  young  volunteers  before 
they  could  even  form  in  square ;  and 
nearly  the  whole,  disdaining  to  fly, 
were  cut  to  pieces  on  the  ground.  An 
officer  of  rank,  and  a  brave  man,  appal- 
led by  this  hideous  disaster,  the  affair 
of  a  few  moments,  rode  up  to  the  spot, 
and  did  all  he  could  to  repair  it.  But 


the  cowardly  drunkard  had  fled  at 
the  first  onset  with  all  his  Arnauts ; 
panic  spread  rapidly ;  and  the  whole 
force  of  5000  men"  fled  before  800 
Turks,  leaving  400  men  dead  on  the 
field,  of  whom  350  belonged  to  the 
sacred  battalion. 

The  Turks,  occupied  with  gather- 
ing a  trophy  of  heads,  neglected  to 
pursue.  But  the  work  was  done. 
The  defeated  advance  fell  back  up- 
on the  main  body;  and  that  same 
night  the  whole  army,  panic-struck, 
ashamed,  and  bewildered,  commen- 
ced a  precipitate  retreat.  From  this 
moment  Prince  Ypsilanti  thought 
only  of  saving  himself.  This  purpose 
he  effected  in  a  few  days,  by  retreat- 
ing into  Austria,  from  which  terri- 
tory he  issued  his  final  order  of  the 
day— taxing  his  army,  in  violent 
and  unmeasured  terms,  with  cowar- 
dice and  disobedience.  This  was  in 
a  limited  sense  true;  many  distinc- 
tions, however,  were  called  for  in 
mere  justice ;  and  the  capital  defects 
after  all  were  in  himself.  His  plan 
was  originally  bad;  and,  had  it  been 
better,  he  was  quite  unequal  to  the 
execution  of  it.  The  results  were 
unfortunate  to  all  concerned  in  it. 
Ypsilanti  himself  was  arrested  by 
Austria,  and  thrown  into  the  un- 
wholesome prison  of  Mongatz,  where, 
after  languishing  for  six  years,  he 
perished  miserably.  Some  of  the 
subordinate  officers  prolonged  the 
struggle  in  a  guerilla  style  for  some 
little  time;  but  all  were  finally  sup- 
pressed. Many  were  put  to  death ; 
many  escaped  into  neutral  ground  ; 
and  it  is  gratifying  to  add,  that  of  two 
traitors  amongst  the  higher  officers, 
one  was  detected  and  despatched  iu 
a  summary  way  of  vengeance  by  his 
own  associates;  the  other,  for  some 
unexplained  reason,  was  beheaded 
by  his  Turkish  friends  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  had  put  himself 
into  their  power,  in  fearless  obedience 
to  their  own  summons  to  come  and 
receive  his  well-merited  reward,  and 
under  an  express  assurance  from  the 
Pacha  of  Silistria,  that  he  was  impa- 
tiently waiting  to  invest  him  with 
a  pelisse  of  honour.  Such  faith  is 
kept  with  traitors ;  such  faith  be  ever 
kept  with  the  betrayers  of  nations 
and  their  holiest  hopes  !  Though  in 
this  instance  the  particular  motives 
of  the  Porte  are  still  buried  in 
tery. 


The  Revolution  of  Greece.  4$ 

Turks    were   defeated  everywhere 
terprise  which  resulted  from  the  too 


1833.] 

Thus  terminated  the  first  rash  en- 


tempting  invitation  held  out  in  the 
rebellion  then  agitating  Epirus,  lock- 
ing up,  as  it  did,  and  neutralizing  so 
large  a  part  of  the  disposable  Turk- 
ish forces.  To  this  we  return.  Kour- 
shid  Pacha  quitted  the  Morea  with 
a  large  body  of  troops,  in  the  first 
days  of  January  1821,  and  took  the 
command  of  the  army  already  before 
Yannina.  But,  with  all  his  great 
numerical  superiority  to  the  enemy 
with  whom  he  contended,  and  now 
enjoying  undisturbed  union  in  his 
own  camp,  he  found  it  impossible 
to  make  his  advances  rapidly. 
Though  in  hostility  to  the  Porte, 
and  though  now  connected  with 
Christian  allies,  Ali  Pacha  was  yet 
nominally  a  Mahomedan.  Hence 
it  had  been  found  impossible  as 
yet  to  give  any  colour  of  an  anti- 
Christian  character  to  the  war ;  and 
the  native  Mahomedan  chieftains 
had  therefore  no  scruple  in  coales- 
cing with  the  Christians  of  Epirus, 
and  making  joint  cause  with  Ali. 
Gradually,  from  the  inevitable  vexa- 
tions incident  to  the  march  and  resi- 
dence of  a  large  army,  the  whole  po- 
pulation became  hostile  to  Kourshid; 
and  their  remembrance  of  All's  for- 
mer oppressions,  if  not  effaced,  was 
yet  suspended  in  the  presence  of  a 
:iuisance  so  immediate  and  so  gene- 
rally diffused ;  and  most  of  the  Epi- 
•ots  turned  their,  arms  against  the 
Porte.  The  same  feelings,  which 
governed  them,  soon  spread  to  the 
provinces  of  Etolia  and  Acarnania ; 
3r  rather,  perhaps,  being  previously 
ripe  for  revolt,  these  provinces  re- 
soh'ed  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
same  occasion.  Missolonghi  now  be- 
came the  centre  of  rebellion;  and 
Xourshid's  difficulties  were  daily 
augmenting.  In  July  of  this  year 
1821)  these  various  insurgents,  ac- 
lively  co-operating,  defeated  the  Se- 
•asker  in  several  actions,  and  com- 
pelled a  Pacha  to  lay  down  his  arms 
m  the  road  between  Yannina  and 
Souli.  It  was  even  proposed  by  the 
gallant  partisan,  Mark  Bozzaris, 
hat  all  should  unite  to  hem  in  the 
?erasker ;  but  a  wound,  received  in 
a  skirmish,  defeated  this  plan.  la 
i>eptember  following,  however,  the 
same  Mark  intercepted  and  routed 
Hassan  Pacha  in  a  defile  on  his 
narch  to  Yannina;  and  in  general  the 


except  at  the  headquarters  of  the 
Serasker  ;  and  with  losses  in  men 
enormously  disproportioned  to  the 
occasions.  This  arose  partly  from  the 
necessity  under  which  they  lay  of 
attacking  expert  musketeers  under 
cover  of  breastworks,  and  partly 
from  their  own  precipitance  arid  de- 
termination to  carry  every  thing  by 
summary  force  ;  "  whereas,"  says 
Mr  Gordon,  "  a  little  patience  would 
surely  have  caused  them  to  succeed, 
and  at  least  saved  them  much  dis- 
honour, and  thousands  of  lives 
thrown  away  in  mere  wantonness." 
But,  in  spite  of  all  blunders,  and 
every  sort  of  failure  elsewhere,  the 
Serasker  was  still  advancing  slowly 
towards  his  main  objects — the  reduc- 
tion of  Ali  Pacha.  And  by  the  end 
of  October,  on  getting  possession 
of  an  important  part  of  All's  works, 
he  announced  to  the  Sultan  that 
he  should  soon  be  able  to  send 
him  the  traitor's  head,  for  that  he 
was  already  reduced  to  600  men.  A 
little  before  this,  however,  the  cele- 
brated Maurocordato,  with  other 
persons  of  influence,  had  arrived  at 
Missolonghi  with  the  view  of  ce- 
menting a  general  union  of  Christian 
and  Mahomedan  forces  against  the 
Turks.  In  this  he  was  so  far  success- 
ful, that  in  November  a  combined 
attack  was  made  upon  Ismael,  the 
old  enemy  of  Ali,  and  three  other 
Pachas,  shut  up  in  the  town  of  Arta. 
This  attack  succeeded  partially  j  but 
it  was  attempted  at  a  moment  drama- 
tically critical,  and  with  an  effect 
ruinous  to  the  whole  campaign  as 
well  as  that  particular  attack.  The 
assailing  party,  about  3400  men, 
were  composed  in  the  proportion  of 
two  Christians  to  one  Mahomedan. 
They  had  captured  one-half  of  the 
town;  and,  Mark  Bozzaris  having 
set  this  on  fire  to  prevent  plundering, 
the  four  Pachas  were  on  the  point  of 
retreating  under  cover  of  the  smoke. 
At  that  moment  arrived  a  Maho- 
medan of  note,  instigated  by  Kour- 
shid, who  was  able  to  persuade  those 
of  his  own  faith  that  the  Christians 
were  not  fighting  with  any  sincere 
views  of  advantage  to  Ali,  but  with 
ulterior  purposes  hostile  to  Maho- 
medanism  itself.  On  this,  the  Chris- 
tian division  of  the  army  found  them- 
selves obligedto  retire  without  noise, 
in  order  to  escape  their  own  allies, 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


498 

now  suddenly  united  with  the  four 
Pachas.  Nor,  perhaps,  would  even 
this  have  been  effected,  but  for  the 
precaution  of  Mark  Bozzaris  in  ta- 
king hostages  from  two  leading  Ma- 
horaedans.  Thus  failed  the  last 
diversion  in  favour  of  Ali  Pacha,  who 
was  henceforward  left  to  his  own 
immediate  resources.  All  the  Ma- 
homedan  tribes  now  ranged  them- 
selves on  the  side  of  Kourshid  ;  and 
the  winter  of  1821-2  passed  away 
without  further  disturbance  in 
Epirus. 

Meantime,  during  the  absence  of 
Kourshid  Pacha  from  the  Morea,  the 
opportunity  had  not  been  lost  for 
raising  the  insurrection  in  that  im- 
portant part  of  Greece.  Kourshid 
had  marched  early  in  January  1821 ; 
and  already  in  February  symptoms 
of  the  coming  troubles  appeared  at 
Patrass,  "  the  most  flourishing  and 
populous  city  of  the  Peloponnesus, 
the  emporium  of  its  trade,  and  resi- 
dence of  the  foreign  consuls  and 
merchants."  Its  population  was 
about  18,000,  of  which  number  two- 
thirds  were  Christian.  In  March, 
when  rumours  had  arrived  of  the 
insurrection  beyond  the  Danube, 
under  Alexander  Ypsilanti,  the  fer- 
mentation became  universal ;  and  the 
Turks  of  Patrass  hastily  prepared  for 
defence.  By  the  25th,  the  Greeks 
had  purchased  all  the  powder  and 
lead  which  could  be  had ;  and  about 
the  2d  of  April  they  raised  the  stan- 
dard of  the  Cross.  Two  days  after 
this,  fighting  began  at  Patrass.  The 
town  having  been  set  on  fire,  "  the 
Turkish  castle  threw  shot  and  shells 
at  random;  the  two  parties  fought 
amongst  the  ruins,  and  massacred 
each  other  without  mercy;  the  only 
prisoners  that  were  spared  owed 
their  lives  to  fanaticism  ;  some 


[April, 


Christian  youths  being  circumcised 
by  the  Mollahs,  and  some  Turkish 
boys  baptized  by  the  priests." 

"  While  the  commencement  of  the 
war,"  says  Mr  Gordon,  "  was  thus 
signalized  by  the  ruin  of  a  flourish- 
ing city,  the  insurrection  gained 
ground  with  wonderful  rapidity;  and 
from  mountain  to  mountain,  and  vil- 
lage to  village,  propagated  itself  to  the 
furthest  corner  of  the  Peloponnesus. 
Everywhere  the  peasants  flew  to 
arms;  and  those  Turks  who  resided 
in  the  open  country  or  unfortified 
towns,  were  either  cut  to  pieces,  or 
forced  to  fly  into  strongholds."  On 
the  2d  of  April,  the  flag  of  indepen- 
dence was  hoisted  in  Achaia.  On 
the  9th,  a  Grecian  senate  met  at 
Calatnata  in  Messenia,  having  for  its 
President  Mavromichalis,  prince  or 
bey  of  Maina,  a  rugged  territory  in 
the  ancient  Sparta,  famous  for  its 
hardy  race  of  robbers  and  pirates.* 

On  the  6th  of  April,  the  insurrec- 
tion had  spread  to  the  narrow  terri- 
tory of  Megaris,  situated  to  the  north 
of  the  Isthmus.  The  Albanian  popu- 
lation of  this  country,  amounting  to 
about  10,000,  and  employed  by  the 
Porte  to  guard  the  defiles  of  the  en- 
trance into  Peloponnesus,  raised  the 
standard  of  revolt,  and  marched  to 
invest  the  Acrocorinthus.  In  the 
Messenian  territory,  the  Bishop  of 
Modon,  having  made  his  guard  of 
Janissaries  drunk,  cut  the  whole  of 
them  to  pieces ;  and  then  encamping 
on  the  heights  of  Navarin,  his  lord- 
ship blockaded  that  fortress.  The 
abruptness  of  these  movements,  and 
their  almost  simultaneous  origin  at 
distances  so  considerable,  sufficient- 
ly prove  how  ripe  the  Greeks  were 
for  this  revolt  as  respected  temper  ; 
and  in  other  modes  of  preparation 
they  never  could  have  been  ripe 


*  These  Mainatts  have  been  supposed  to  be  of  Sclavonian  origin  ;  but  Mr  Gordon, 
upon  the  authority  of  the  Emperor  Constantino  Porphyrogenitos,  asserts  that  they 
are  of  pure  Laconiau  blood,  and  became  Christians  in  the  reign  of  that  emperor's 
grandfather — Basil  the  Macedonian.  They  are,  and  ever  have  been,  robbers  by  pro- 
fession ;  robbers  by  land,  pirates  by  sea  ;  for  which  last  branch  of  their  mixed  occu- 
pation, they  enjoy  singular  advantages  in  their  position  at  the  point  of  junction  be- 
tween the  Ionian  and  Egean  seas.  To  illustrate  their  condition  of  perpetual  warfare, 
Mr  Gordon  mentions,  that  there  were  very  lately  individuals  who  had  lived  for 
twenty  years  in  towers,  not  daring  to  stir  out  lest  their  neighbours  should  Hshoot 
them.  They  were  supplied  with  bread  and  cartridges  by  their  wives;  for  the  per- 
sons of  women  are  sacred  in  Maina.  Two  other  good  features  in  their  character  are 
their  hospitality,  and  their  indisposition  to  bloodshed,  They  are  in  fact  gentle  thieves 
~the  Robin  Hoods  of  Greece, 


1833.] 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


whilst  overlooked  by  Turkish  mas- 
ters. That  haughty  race  now  re- 
treated from  all  parts  of  the  Morea, 
within  the  ramparts  of  Tripolizza. 

In  the  first  action  which  occurred, 
•  he  Arcadian  Greeks  did  not  behave 
•veil ;  they  fled  at  the  very  sound  of 
the  Moslem  tread ;  Colocotroni  com- 
manded ;  and  he  rallied  them  again  ; 
but  again  they  deserted  him  at  the 
s  ight  of  their  oppressors ; "  and  I,"said 
Colocotroni  afterwards,  when  nar- 
rating the  circumstances  of  this  early 
affair,  "having  with  me  only  ten 
companions  including  my  horse,  sat 
down  in  a  bush  and  wept." 

Meantime,  affairs  went  ill  at  Pa- 
trass.  Yussuf  Pacha,  having  been 
detached  from  Epirus  to  Eubosa  by 
the  Serasker,  heard  on  his  route  of 
tie  insurrection  in  Peloponnesus. 
Upon  which,  altering  his  course,  he 
Bciled  to  Patrass,  and  reached  it  on 
tl.  a  15th  of  April.  This  was  Palm 
Sunday,  and  it  dawned  upon  the 
Greeks  with  evil  omens.  First  came 
a  smart  shock  of  earthquake;  next 
a  cannonade  announcing  the  ap- 
proach of  the  Pacha;  and,  lastly,  an 
Ottoman  brig  of  war,  which  saluted 
tli  3  fort  and  cast  anchor  before  the 
town. 

The  immediate  consequences  were 
disastrous.  The  Greeks  retreated; 
and  the  Pacha  detached  Kihaya-Bey, 
a  Tartar  officer  of  distinguished  en- 
ergy, with  near  3000  men,  to  the  most 
important  points  of  the  revolt.  On 
the  5th  of  May,  the  Tartar  reached 
Corinth,  but  found  the  siege  already 
raised.  Thence  he  marched  to  Ar- 
gos, sending  before  him  a  requisition 
i'or  bread.  He  was  answered  by  the 
men  of  Argos,  that  they  had  no 
bread,  but  only  powder  and  ball  at 
his  service.  This  threat,  however, 
proved  a  gasconade  ;  the  Kihaya  ad- 
vanced in  three  columns ;  cavalry  on 
each  wing,  and  infantry  in  the  centre; 
on  which,  after  a  single  discharge, 
the  Argives  fled.*  Their  general, 
fighting  bravely,  was  killed,  together 
with  700  others,  and  1500  women 
captured.  The  Turks,  having  sack- 
ed and  burned  Argos,  then  laid  siege 
to  a  monastery,  which  surrendered 


— 


499 

upon  terms  ;  and  it  is  honourable  to 
the  memory  of  this  Tartar  general, 
that,  according  to  the  testimony  of 
Mr  Gordon,  at  a  time  when  the  war 
was  managed  with  merciless  fury 
and  continual  perfidies  on  both  sides, 
he  observed  the  terms  with  rigorous 
fidelity,  treated  all  his  captives  with 
the  utmost  humanity,  and  even  libe- 
rated the  women. 

Thus  far  the  tide  had  turned  against 
the  Greeks;  but  now  came  a  deci- 
sive reaction  in  their  favour;  and, 
as  if  for  ever  to  proclaim  the  folly  of 
despair,  just  at  the  very  crisis  when 
it'  was  least  to  have  been  expected, 
the  Kihaya  was  at  this  point  joined 
by  the  Turks  of  Tripolizza,  and  was 
now  reputed  to  be  14,000  strong. 
This  proved  to  be  an  exaggeration  ; 
but  the  subsequent  battle  is  the  more 
honourable  to  those  who  believed  it. 
At  a  council  of  war,  in  the  Greek 
camp,  the  prevailing  opinion  was, 
that  an  action  could  not  prudently 
be  risked.  One  man  thought  other- 
wise; this  was  Anagnostoras;  he,  by 
urging  the  desolations  which  would 
follow  a  retreat,  brought  over  the 
rest  to  his  opinion  ;  and  it  was  re- 
solved to  take  up  a  position  at  Val- 
tezza,  a  village  three  hours'  march 
from  Tripolizza.  Thither,  on  the 
27th  of  May,  the  Kihaya  arrived  with 
5000  men,  in  three  columns,  having 
left  Tripolizza  at  dawn;  and  imme- 
diately raised  redoubts  opposite  to 
those  of  the  Greeks,  and  placed  three 
heavy  pieces  of  cannon  in  battery. 
He  hoped  to  storm  the  position  ;  but, 
if  he  should  fail,  he  had  a  reason  for 
still  anticipating  a  victory,  and  that 
was  the  situation  of  the  fountains, 
which  must  soon  have  drawn  the 
Greeks  out  of  their  position,  as  they 
had  water  only  for  twenty-four 
hours'  consumption. 

The  battle  commenced:  and  the 
first  failure  of  the  Kihaya  was  in  the 
cannonade  ;  for  his  balls  passing  over 
the  Greeks,  fell  amongst  a^corps  of 
his  own  troops.  These  now  made 
three  assaults  ;  but  were  repulsed  in 
all.  Both  sides  kept  up  a  fire  till 
night  ;  and  each  expected  that  his 
enemy  would  retire  in  the  darkness. 

" 


:     '•,.    «      Y  .•••••'•  ' 

*  [tbas  a  sublime  effect  in  the  record  of  this  action  to  hear,  that  the  Argives  were 
drawn  up  behind  a  wall  originally  raised  as  fi  defence  against  the  ileluge  of  Inac/nts*  «oo« 
V  H,  XXXIJJ,  NO.  CGf^i  2.R 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


500 

The  28tli,  however,  found  the  two 
armies  still  in  the  same  positions. 
The  battle  was  renewed  for  five 
hours  ;  and  then  the  Kihaya,  finding 
his  troops  fatigued,  and  that  his  re- 
treat was  likely  to  be  intercepted  by 
Nikitas,  (a  brave  partisan  officer 
bred  to  arms  in  the  service  of  Eng- 
land,) who  was  coming  up  by  forced 
marches  from  Argos  with  800  men, 
gave  the  signal  for  retreat.  This  soon 
became  a  total  rout :  the  Kihaya  lost 
his  horse ;  and  the  Greeks,  besides 
taking  two  pieces  of  cannon,  raised 
a  trophy  of  400  Moslem  heads. 

Such  was  the  battle  of  Valtezza, 
the  inaugural  performance  of  the  in- 
surrection ;  and  we  have  told  it  thus 
circumstantially,  because  Mr  Gordon 
characterises  it  as  "  remarkable  for 
the  moral  effect  it  produced ;"  and 
he  does  not  scruple  to  add,  that  it 
"  certainly  decided  the  campaign  in 
Peloponnesus,  and  perhaps  even  the 
fate  of  the  Revolution:' 

Three  days  after,  that  is,  on  the  last 
day  of  May  1821,  followed  the  vic- 
tory of  Doliana,  in  which  the  Kihaya, 
anxious  to  recover  his  lost  ground, 
was  encountered  by  Nikitas.  The 
circumstances  were  peculiarly  bril- 
liant. For  the  Turkish  general  had 
between  two  and  three  thousand  men, 
besides  artillery ;  whereas  Nikitas  at 
first  sustained  the  attack  in  thirteen 
barricaded  houses,  with  no  more  than 
ninety-six  soldiers  and  thirty  armed 
peasants.  After  a  resistance  of 
eleven  hours,  he  waa  supported  by 
700  men ;  and  in  the  end  he  defeat- 
ed the  Kihaya  with  a  very  consider- 
able loss. 

These  actions  raised  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  Morea  to  a  high  point; 
and  in  the  meantime  other  parts  of 
Greece  had  joined  in  the  revolt.  In 
the  first  week  of  April,  an  insurrec- 
tion burst  out  in  the  eastern  pro- 
vinces of  Greece,  Attica,  Bceotia,  and 
Phocis.  The  insurgents  first  appear- 
ed near  Livadia,  one  of  the  best  cities 
in  northern  Greece.  On  the  13th, 
they  occupied  Thebes  without  oppo* 
sition.  Immediately  after,  Odysseus 
propagated  the  revolt  in  Phocis, 
where  he  had  formerly  commanded 
as  a  lieutenant  of  Ali  Pacha's.  Next 
arose  the  Albanian  peasantry  of  At- 
tica, gathering  in  armed  bodies  to 
the  west  of  Athens.  Towards  the 
end  of  April,  the  Turks,  who  compo- 


[April, 


sed  one-fifth  of  the  Athenian  popula- 
tion, (then  rated  at  10,000,)  became 
greatly  agitated;  and  twice  propo- 
sed a  massacre   of  the  Christians. 
This  was  resisted  by  the  humane 
Khadi;  and  the   Turks,  contenting 
themselves    with    pillaging    absent 
proprietors,  began  to  lay  up  stores 
in  the  Acropolis.     With  ultra  Turk- 
ish stupidity,  however,  out  of  pure 
laziness,  at  this  critical  moment,  they 
confided  the  night  duty  on  the  ram- 
parts of  the  city  to   Greeks.     The 
consequence  may  be  supposed.    On 
the  8th  of  May,  the  Ottoman  standard 
had  been  raised  and  blessed  by  an 
Tman.     On  the  following  night,  a 
rapid    discharge  of  musketry,   and 
the  shouts  of  Christ  has  risen  !  Li- 
berty !  Liberty  !  proclaimed  the  cap- 
ture of  Athens.     Nearly  2000  pea- 
sants, generally  armed  with  clubs, 
had  scaled  the  walls  and  forced  the 
gates.     The    prisoners   taken  were 
treated  with  humanity.    But  unfor- 
tunately  this  current   of   Christian 
sentiment  was  immediately  arrested 
by  the  conduct  of  the  Turks  in  the 
A  cropolis,  in  killing  nine  hostages, 
and  throwing  over  the  walls  some 
naked  and  headless  bodies. 

The  insurrection  next  spread  to 
Thessaly;  and  at  last  even  to  Mace- 
donia, from  the  premature  and  atro- 
cious violence  of  the  Pacha  of  Salo- 
nika. Apprehending  a  revolt,  he 
himself  drew  it  on,  by  cutting  off  the 
heads  of  the  Christian  merchants 
and  clergy,  (simply  as  a  measure 
of  precaution,)  and  enforcing  his 
measures  on  the  peasantry  by  mili- 
tary execution.  Unfortunately,  from 
its  extensive  plains,  this  country 
is  peculiarly  favourable  to  the  evo- 
lutions of  the  Turkish  cavalry  : — the 
insurgents  were  therefore  defeat- 
ed in  several  actions;  and  ultimate- 
ly took  refuge  in  great  numbers 
amongst  the  convents  on  Mount 
Athos,  which  also  were  driven  into 
revolt  by  the  severity  of  the  Pacha. 
Here  the  fugitives  were  safe  from 
the  sabres  of  their  merciless  pur- 
suers; but,  unless  succoured  by  sea, 
ran  a  great  risk  of  perishing  by 
famine. 

But  a  more  important  accession  to 
the  cause  of  independence,  within 
one  month  from  its  first  outbreak  in 
the  Morea,  occurred  in  the  Islands 
of  the  Archipelago.  The  three  prin- 


1833.] 


The  Revolution  of  Greece, 


501 


cipal  of  these  in  modern  times,  are 
Hydra,  Spezzia,  and  Psarra.*  They 
had  been  colonized  in  the  preceding 
century,  by  some  poor  families  from 
Peloponnesus  and  Ionia.  At  that 
time  they  had  gained  a  scanty  sub- 
sistence as  fishermen.  Gradually 
they  became  merchants  and  seamen. 
Being  the  best  sailors  in  the  Sultan's 
c  ominions,  they  had  obtained  some 
valuable  privileges,  amongst  which 
was  that  of  exemption  from  Turkish 
magistrates;  so  that,  if  they  could 
not  boast  of  autonomy,  they  had  at 
loast  the  advantage  of  executing  the 
bad  laws  of  Turkish  imposition,  by 
c  liefs  of  their  own  blood.  And  they 
h  id  the  farther  advantage  of  paying 
brit  a  moderate  tribute  to  the  Sultan. 
Si  favoured,  their  commerce  had 
flourished  beyond  all  precedent. 
And  latterly,  when  the  vast  extension 
of  European  warfare  had  created 
first-rate  markets  for  grain,  selecting 
ol  course  those  which  were  highest 
at  the  moment,  they  sometimes 
doubled  their  capitals  in  two  voy- 
ages ;  and  seven  or  eight  such  trips 
in  a  year,  were  not  an  unusual  instance 
of  good  fortune.  What  had  been 
tha  result,  may  be  collected  from 
th  3  following  description,  which  Mr 
Gordon  gives  us,  of  Hydra : — "  Built 
on  a  sterile  rock,  which  does  not 
bfler,  at  any  season,  the  least  trace 
of  vegetation,  it  is  one  of  the  best 
cities  in  the  Levant,  and  infinitely 
superior  to  any  other  in  Greece:  the 
ho  ises  are  all  constructed  of  white 
stone;  and  those  of  the  aristocracy, 
— -orected  at  an  immense  expense, 
floored  with  costly  marbles,  and 
splendidly  furnished, — might  pass 
for  palaces  even  in  the  capitals  of 
'Ita7y.  Before  the  Revolution,  poverty 
was  unknown :  all  classes  being 
comfortably  lodged,  clothed,  and  fed. 
Its  inhabitants  at  this  epoch,  exceed- 
ed 20,000,  of  whom  4000  were  able- 
bodied  seamen." 

The  other  islands  were,  with  few 
ex(  options,  arid  rocks ;  and  most  of 
them  had  the  inestimable  advantage 


of  being  unplagued  with  a  Turkish 
population.  Enjoying  that  precious 
immunity,  it  may  be  wondered  why 
they  should  have  entered  into  the 
revolt.  But  for  this  there  were  two 
great  reasons :  they  were  ardent 
Christians  in  the  first  place,  and 
disinterested  haters  of  Mahomed- 
anism  on  its  own  merits;  secondly, 
as  the  most  powerfulf  nautical  con- 
federacy in  the  Levant,  they  antici- 
pated a  large  booty  from  captures  at 
sea.  In  that  expectation,  at  first 
they  were  not  disappointed.  But  it 
was  a  source  of  wealth  soon  ex- 
hausted: for  naturally,  as  soon  as 
their  ravages  became  known,  the 
Mussulmans  ceased  to  navigate. 
Spezzia  was  the  first  to  hoist  the 
independent  flag:  this  was  on  the 
9th  of  April,  1821.  Psarra  imme- 
diately followed  her  example.  Hy- 
dra hesitated;  and  at  first  even 
declined  to  do  so;  but  at  last,  on 
the  28th  of  April,  this  island  also 
issued  a  manifesto  of  adherence  to 
the  patriotic  cause.  On  the  3d  of 
May,  a  squadron  of  eleven  Hydriot 
and  seven  Spezzia  vessels  sailed  from 
Hydra,  having  on  the  mainmast,  "  an 
address  to  the  people  of  the  Egean 
sea,  inviting  them  to  rally  round  the 
national  standard:  an  address  that 
was  received  with  enthusiasm  in 
every  quarter  of  the  Archipelago, 
where  the  Turks  were  not  numerous 
enough  to  restrain  popular  feeling." 
"  The  success  of  the  Greek  ma- 
rine, in  this  its  first  expedition,"  says 
Mr  Gordon,  "was  not  confined  to 
merely  spreading  the  insurrection^ 
throughout  the  Archipelago;  a  swarm 
of  swift  armed  ships  swept  the  sea 
from  the  Hellespont,  to  the  waters  of 
Crete  and  Cyprus ;  captured  every 
Ottoman  trader  they  met  with,  and 
put  to  the  sword,  or  flung  overboard, 
the  Mahomedan  crews  and  passen- 
gers; for  the  contest  already  as- 
sumed a  character  of  terrible  fero- 
city. It  would  be  vain  to  deny  that 
they  were  guilty  of  shocking  barba- 
rities ;  at  the  little  island  of  Castel 


*  Their  insignificance  in  ancient  [times,  is  proclaimed  by  the  obscurity  of  their 
ancient  names — Aperopia,  Tiparenus,  and  Psyra. 

f  Mr  Gordon  says,  that  "  they  .could  without  difficulty,  fit  out  a]  hundred  sail  of 
ship  ?,  brigs,  and  schooners,  armed  with  from  12  to  24  guns  each,  and  manned  by  7000 
stou  and  able  sailors."  Pouqueville  ascribes  to  them,  in  1813,  a  force  considerably 
grea  er.  But  the,  peace  of  Paris  (one  year  after  Pouqueville's  estimates)  naturally 
reduced  their  power,  as  their  extraordinary  gains  were  altogether,  dependent  on  war 
and  naval  blockades. 


502 


The  Revolution  of  Greece. 


[April, 


Rosso,  on  the  Karamanian  shore, 
they  butchered,  in  cold  blood,  seve- 
ral beautiful  Turkish  females  ;  and  a 
greatnumber  of  defenceless  pilgrims, 
(mostly  old  men,)  who,  returning 
from  Mecka,  fell  into  their  power  off 
Cyprus,  were  slain  without  mercy, 
because  they  would  not  renounce 
their  faith."  Many  such  cases  of 
hideous  barbarity  had  already  occur- 
red, and  did  afterwards  occur,  on 
the  mainland.  But  this  is  the  eter- 
nal law,  and  providential  retribution 
of  oppression.  The  tyrant  teaches  to 
his  slave  the  crimes  and  the  cruelties 
which  he  Inflicts;  blood  will  have 
blood ;  andjhe  ferocious  oppressor  is 
involved  in  the  natural  reaction  of 
his  own  wickedness,  by  the  frenzied 
retaliation  of  the  oppressed.  Now 
was  indeed  beheld  the  realization  of 
the  sublime  imprecation  in  Shak- 
speare  :  "  one  spirit  of  the  first-born 
Cain"  did  indeed  reign  in  the  hearts 
of  men ;  and  now,  if  ever  upon  this 
earth,  it  seemed  likely,  from  the 
dreadful  acharnement  which  marked 
the  war  on  both  sides — the  acharne- 
ment of  long-hoarded  vengeance  and 
maddening  remembrances  in  the  Gre- 
cian, of  towering  disdain  in  the 
alarmed  oppressor, — that  in  very 
simplicity  of  truth, "  Darkness  would 
be  the  burier  of  the  dead." 

Such  was  the  opening  scene  in  the 
astonishing  drama  of  the  Greek  in- 
surrection, which,  through  all  its 
stages,  was  destined  to  move  by  fire 
and  blood,  and  beyond  any  war  in 
human  annals,  to  command  the  inte- 
rest of  mankind  through  their  stern- 
er affections.  We  have  said  that  it 
was  eminently  a  romantic  war ;  but 
not  in  the  meaning  with  which  we 
apply  that  epithet  to  the  semi-fabu- 
lous wars  of  Charlemagne  and  his 
Paladins,  or  even  to  the  Crusaders. 
Here,  as  the  reader  will  find  in  the 
two  succeeding  Parts  of  the  History, 
are  no  memorable  contests  of  gene- 
rosity; no  triumphs  glorified  by 
mercy ;  no  sacrifices  of  interest,  the 
most  basely  selfish,  to  martial  ho- 
nour ;  no  ear  on  either  side  for  the 
pleadings  of  desolate  affliction;  no 
voice  in  any  quarter  of  commanding 
justice ;  no  acknowledgment  of  a 
common  nature  between  the  bellige- 
rents; nor  sense  of  a  participation 
in  the  same  human  infirmities,  dan- 
gers, or  necessities.  To  the  fugitive 
from  the  field  of  battle  there  was 


scarcely  a  retreat, — to  the  prisoner 
there  was  absolutely  no  hope.  Stern 
retribution  and  the  very  rapture  of 
vengeance,  were  the  passions  which 
presided  on  the  one  side ;  on  the 
other,  fanaticism  and  the  cruelty  of 
fear,  and  hatred  maddened  by  old 
hereditary  scorn.  Wherever  the 
war  raged,  there  followed  upon  the 
face  of  the  land  one  blank  Aceldama. 
A  desert  tracked  the  steps  of  the 
armies,  and  a  desert  in  which  was 
no  oasis ;  and  the  very  atmosphere, 
in  which  men  lived  and  breathed,  was 
a  chaos  of  murderous  passions.  Still 
it  is  true  that  the  war  was  a  great 
romance.  For  it  was  filled  with 
change,  and  with  elastic  rebound 
from  what  seemed  final  extinction ; 
with  the  spirit  of  adventure  carried 
to  the  utmost  limits  of  heroism;  with 
self-devotion  on  the  sublimest  scale, 
and  the  very  frenzy  of  patriotic  mar- 
tyrdom ;  with  resurrection  of  ever- 
lasting hope  upon  ground  seven 
times  blasted  by  the  blighting  pre- 
sence of  the  enemy  ;  and  with  flow- 
ers radiant  in  promise  springing  for 
ever  from  under  the  very  tread  of  the 
accursed  Moslem.  And  in  this  sense, 
and  with  a  particular  reference  to 
the  scenical  shifting  of  circumstances 
in  the  long  succession  of  partisan  ex- 
peditions, or  of  brief  local  campaigns, 
we  style  the  war  romantic.  And  that 
very  character  of  romance  it  is  which 
attaches  to  any  narrative  of  the  war 
a  burden  of  difficulty.  For  with  the 
romantic  and  with  the  apparently 
improbable,  readily  blend  traits  of 
the  really  fabulous— and  idle  legends 
without  number  connected  with 
local  pretensions,  or  with  the  per- 
sonal vanity  of  individuals.  In  such 
a  case,  and  in  the  midst  of  what  is  at 
any  rate  confessedly  marvelous,  to 
winnow  the  spurious  from  the  tine 
— belongs  neither  exclusively  to  ta- 
lents, nor  to  the  highest  advantages 
of  situation ;  but  to  both  in  combina- 
tion. Without  Mr  Gordon's  privi- 
leged position  in  the  confidence  of 
the  Supreme  Government,  no  access 
could  have  been  gained  to  those  in- 
valuable materials  which  he  has  now 
first  brought  forward  from  the  ar- 
chives of  the  Grecian  State.  And,  on 
the  other  hand,  for  any  purpose  of 
historical  composition,  all  such  advan- 
tages of  situation  would  have  been 
thrown  away,  without  Mr  Gordon's 

talent  for  turning  them  to  account. 

0   > 

U   fll 


The  Chief;  or>  the  Gad  and  Sassenach. 

9di  no 

AEL  AND  SASSENACH,  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  GEORGE  iv. 


THE  CHIEF; 

-•>  -)'•• 

A  CARICATURE. 


CHAPTER  L 


There's  some  that  ken  and  some  that  dinnaken 
Tlie  whumpled  meaning  of  this  uaco  tale RAMSAY. 


f  B912 
u    LIo    XlteQCtt) 

•»M  moit 


THE  castle  of  Inverstrone  stands 
on  a  little  promontory  that  abuts  in- 
to the  Western  ocean.  On  the  side 
towards  the  sea,  is  an  abrupt  preci- 
pice, at  the  bottom  of  which  lies  a 
lo;ig  shallow,  dangerous  to  vessels 
bound  for  the  harbour  of  Strone, 
which  is  quite  safe  and  well  shelter- 
ed when  attained.  It  is  the  mouth, 
as  the  name  implies,  of  the  little 
river  Strone,  and  is  altogether  ex- 
ceedingly picturesque  and  roman- 
tic. 

The  castle  is,  or  was,  inhabited  by 
tho  Chief  of  the  Clan-Jamphrey,  Ro- 
derick M'Goul,  a  personage  of  much 
repute  in  those  parts,  and  of  great 
importance  to  himself.  On  the  death 
of  the  late  Chief,  he  succeeded  to  the 
estite  as  next  of  kin;  but  he  was  not 
a  very  near  relation,  his  father  being 
thirteenth  cousin  of  the  third  remove 
of  die  late  chieftain's  mother,  who 
was  cousin-german  of  his  grand- 
fat)  icr,  seventh  brother  of  the  then 
Chief  of  the  clan. 

When  Roderick  came  to  the  pro- 
perty, he  was  rather  low  in  the  world, 
a  quarrier  in  the  Ballyhoolish  slate- 
quarries,  and  learning  had  taken  no 
particular  pains  in  consequence  with 
his  education ;  but  still  he  possess- 
ed many  Highland  virtues.  He  was 
hospitable  to  a  degree  that  would 
have  made  all  the  Lowlands  blush 
for  themselves,  and  he  lived  as  a 
chieftain  should  do,  at  hack  and 
manger,  though  in  wet  weather  the 
rool  of  his  castle  leaked  at  every 
pore,  and  the  owls  in  the  battle- 
ments were  unmolested  denizens. 

His  household  was  numerous  and 
not  very  orderly,  but  Elspeth,  the 
house-keeper,  was  over  all  the  other 
servants,  and  particularly  celebrated 
for  legendary  lore  and  mutton-hams. 
Roderick  himself  was  not  very  ac- 
tive, and  around  the  castle  nature 
was  permitted  to  revel  in  all  the 
rankuess  with  which  she  yet  exer- 
cises dominion  in  some  parts  of  the 
Highlands. 

For  several  days  during  sum- 
mer, in  the  month  of  July,  a  thick 


fog  invested  the  sea  and  the  envi- 
rons of  the  castle  of  Inverstrone. 
The  chief  said  it  was  a  shame  to 
Providence  for  permitting  the  fog 
to  lie  so  long,  and  soon  would  be 
seen  of  it.  Nor  was  he  far  wrong ; 
for,  in  the  afternoon  of  the  firth 
day,  the  wind  began  to  blow  from 
the  south-west,  with  drizzly  showers 
on  the  squalls,  betokening,  as  El- 
speth prognosticated,  a  night  that 
was  not  for  haymaking.  She  was 
brought  from  the  Lowlands,  and 
spoke  the  Christian  tongue  rather 
better  than  her  master. 

The  foggy  blustering  afternoon 
was  succeeded  by  a  gloaming  of 
more  violence;  the  owls  shrieked 
often,  and  Elspeth,  with  many  of  the 
servants,  saw  such  sights  and  heard 
such  lamentations,  that  obliged  her 
to  make  a  communication  on  the 
subject  to  the  Chief. 

He  was  sitting  at  the  time  in  his 
best  parlour,  dozing,  for  lack  of 
something  more  particular  to  do, 
in  an  easy-chair  covered  with  old 
chintz. 

The  wind  roughened  the  sea ;  the 
ominous  mist  was  thinning,  and  the 
dark  waves  were  dashing  themselves 
into  foam  on  the  rocks  that  seaward 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  castle.  Every 
thing  portended  a  tempestuous  night, 
when  Elspeth  came  into  the  room  to 
make  her  communication. 

"  Well  is  it,"  said  she,  "  for  you 
to  be  taking  your  ease  in  a  cozy 
chair,  when  such  signs  of  trouble  are 
abroad." 

"  Ay,  ay,  goot  Eppie,"  said  he, 
"  and  what  are  your  prognostica- 
tions?" 

"  I  have  seen,"  said  she,  "  a  stand- 
ing-out feather  in  the  black  hen's 
wing,  large  and  great."  *{OJB  \ 

"^VVell;  umph!"  said  the  Chief. 

"  I  never  saw,"  she  added,  "  such 
a  symbol  without  a  fulfilment;  be- 
fore the  morn  at  set  of  sun,  a  stranger 
will  be  here." 

"  Very  well,"  was  the  reply,  "  and 
what  have  ye  got  in  the  pantry  ?" 

"  Ah !"  said  she,  "  that  is  ever 


The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  Sassenach. 


504 

your  response  when  I  tell  you  the 
likes  ;  but  the  feather  that  gives  this 
warning  is  big  and  black.  I  wish  it 
may  bode  any  good." 

"  Hoot,  toot,"  cried  the  Chief,  "  to 
be  surely  that  is  always  what  you 
say." 

"  But  there  has  been  other  signs 
of  more  note.  Just  when  we  first  saw 
the  sticking- out  feather,  a  splinter 
leapt  out  of  the  chimney  ribs  of  the 
shape  of  a  living  coffin." 

"  Ay,  a  coffin;  umph!" 

"  And  that  was  not  all,  even  now 
when  we  lighted  the  cruise,  there 
was  news  on  the  wick,  a  red  star ; 
all  things  betoken  hasty  news,  Lord 
preserve  us." 

At  this  moment  the  wind  began  to 
sob  and  sough  without ;  the  sea  grew 
hoarser  below,  and  there  was  less 
mirth  in  the  hall ;  for  the  signals  of 
fate,  which  were  known  there,  were 
duly  reverenced,  and  all  prank  and 
pastime  was  interdicted  till  it  was 
ascertained  what  heed  the  Chief 
would  give  to  the  omens. 

Among  other  things,  which  Ro- 
derick had  thought  necessary  to 
the  rank  of  life  to  which  he  was 
called,  was  an  assumption  of  the 
gentlemanly  quality  of  free-think- 
ing, while  he  stood  in  the  utmost 
awe  of  every  superstitious  dogma. 
In  consequence,  his  general  reply  to 
Elspeth  was  couched  in  no  very 
ceremonious  terms  for  her  attempt 
to  terrify  him  with  her  "  phusions," 
while  at  the  same  time  he  felt  a 
thrill  of  dread  vibrate  through  every 
limb  at  her  recital.  But  nothing 
more  remarkable  Avithin  the  castle 
passed  that  night ;  the  storm  without 
was  as  if  destruction  were  fetching 
his  .breath,  and  the  roaring  of  the 
sea  as  an  oracle  that  prophesied  dis- 
asters ;  few  or  none  went  to  sleep, 
and  all  were  afoot  by  break  of  day, 
for  in  the  pauses  of  the  gale  some 
heard  the  tolling  of  a  bell,  and  the 
shrieks  of  mariners  in  jeopardy ;  nor 
were  their  fears  ill-founded,  when 
daylight  appeared,  the  wreck  of  a 
vessel  was  discovered  on  the  rocks. 

Roderick  himself  at  this  spectacle 
seemed  to  leap  out  of  his  natural 
indolence,  and  for  the  time  to  be  a 


[April, 


new  man.  He  ordered  the  hall  fire 
to  be  heaped  with  peats,  and  the 
coals  to  be  lighted  afresh  in  the  par- 
lour; all  was  bustle,  and  he  went 
himself  to  the  shore  to  see  what  as- 
sistance could  be  given  to  the  un- 
fortunate souls  whom  he  beheld 
clinging  to  the  rigging  and  masts, 
amidst  the  showering  spray  of  the 
breaking  sea. 

By  this  time  the  wind  was  abating, 
and  the  tide  ebbing,  so  that  the  rescue 
of  the  ill-fated  crew  did  not  appear 
difficult ;  but  ere  the  bark  could  be 
reached,  it  was  found  that  several  of 
the  persons  who.  had  lashed  them- 
selves to  the  rigging,  were  already 
dead,  particularly  a  lady  and  gentle- 
man ;  their  infant  child,  being  below 
in  the  cabin  with  his  nurse,  was  re- 
deemed alive,  with  the  master  and 
several  of  the  crew. 

To  do  the  Highland  warmth  of  our 
friend  Roderick  justice,  the  best  in 
the  castle  was  not  too  good  for  the 
survivors,  and  in  due  time  the  dead 
were  respectfully  interred  in  the  ad- 
jacent churchyard,  while  the  orphan 
and  nurse  were  committed  to  the 
care  of"  olden" -Elspeth,  and  made 
as  much  of  as  their  melancholy  cir- 
cumstances could  draw  from  kind 
hearts  accustomed  to  set  no  bounds 
to  their  hospitality. 

When  the  Chieftain  had  ascertain- 
ed from  the  master  of  the  vessel, 
that  the  father  and  mother  of  the 
child  were  English  voyagers  of  great 
wealth,  and  were  sailing  on  that 
wild  part  of  the  coast  for  pleasure, 
he  thought  it  was  expedient  to  take 
some  early  mode  of  conveying  to 
their  friends  an  account  of  the  cala- 
mity. How  to  do  this  properly  was 
perplexing,  for  he  was  not  very  good 
at  the  writing,  and  as  for  spelling, 
he  never  could  meet  with  a  pen  that 
was  fit  for  the  office;  a  whole  after- 
noon he  meditated  on  what  should 
be  done,  and  at^  last,  on  the  sugges- 
tion of  the  master  of  the  vessel,  he 
resolved  to  apply  to  the  minister, 
and  to  take  his  advice  on  the  subject, 
saying, — "  If  the  Englishers  be  come, 
as  you  say,  of  a  pedicree,  we  can  do 
no  less  than  make  a  moan  for  them." 


The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  Sassenach. 


505 


CHAPTER  II. 


No  sooner  had  the  Chief  made  up 
his  mind  to  consult  the  minister  of 
Si  rone,  on  the  communication  he 
si  ould  make  to  the  world  about  the 
E  iglishers,  than  he  seized  his  staff 
acd  went  towards  the  manse. 

This  staff,  we  should  by  the  way 
nc  tice,  was  an  Indian  cane,  virled 
with  gold,  and  with  an  ivory  top, 
such  as  became  the  palm  of  a  Chief- 
ta  n,  and  which  our  friend  never 
made  use  of  but  with  a  flourish,  that 
bespoke  consciousness  of  his  own 
consequence.  With  bonnet  slightly 
doffed,  contracted  eyes,  and  lips 
apart  displaying  his  grinders,  he 
faced  the  blast  with  an  upward  look, 
daunting  the  northern  wind  that 
scowled  in  the  black  and  wintry 
clouds  which  hovered  in  that  airt. 

The  path  down  the  hill  from  the 
castle  was  not  exceedingly  well 
smoothed;  the  torrents  of  rain  had 
in  many  places  trenched  it  across ; 
here  and  there  huge  stones  lay  on 
it,  as  if  they  had  fallen  from  the 
skies,  and  its  margin  exhibited  the 
freedom  of  nature.  Nevertheless, 
thf  Chief  descended  with  rapid 
strides,  and  his  shadow  in  the  set- 
ting sun  against  the  side  of  the  hill, 
was  like  the  giant  with  the  seven- 
league  boots,  only  his  steps  were 
gn  atly  disproportioned. 

When  about  half-way  down  to  the 
manse,  he  met  Pharick  M'Gowl,  his 
piper,  and  a  proud  man  was  Pharick, 
for  he  had  been  at  the  ferry-house, 
drinking  with  Monsieur  Caprier,  a 
da? icing-master,  who  had  been  for 
sometime  professionally  engaged  in 
attempting  to  teach  the  young  High- 
landers of  the  neighbourhood  to 
dai  ice  cotillions,  instead  of  "  the  bar- 
bare  reels,"  as  he  said  that  they  were 
taught  by  the  goats,  greatly  to  the 
writh  and  indignation  of  the  old 
wa-riors.  With  him,  as  we  have 
bee  n  saying,  Pharick  the  piper  had 
be<  n  drinking  at  the  ferry-house ; 
and  the  early  part  of  the  day  being 
raiuy,  they  somehow  got  into  an 
arg  ument,  in  which  Pharick,  being 
a  fi  ttle  bleezy  with  the  liquor,  had 
held  out  loud  and  long  on  the  supe- 
rio  ity  of  Highland  civilisation  above 
tha:  of  France ;  and  the  more  he  ar- 
gutd  on  this  head,  Monsieur  grew 


the  less  and  less  able  to  refute  him. 
At  last  he  fell  under  the  table,  and 
Pharick,  making  the  mountains  echo 
to  his  drone  and  chanter,  was  co- 
ming up  the  hill,  when  Roderick  was 
descending. 

He  looked  at  his  Chief  and  master, 
to  be  sure  that  it  was  him,  and  wheel- 
ing round  like  the  cock  that,  Milton 
says, 

"  Stately  struts  his  dames  before," 

blew  out  his  bag  till  the  echoes  ap- 
plauded again,  and  turning  round, 
marched  with  a  red  face  to  the  mi- 
nister's. 

Roderick  was  not  displeased  at 
this  encounter  j  he  had  that  delicious 
glow  upon  his  spirit,  which  arises 
from  the  consciousness  of  having 
done  his  duty.  So  accordingly  he 
flourished  his  cane,  and  shouldering 
it  like  a  sword,  stepped  out  after  his 
piper  whistling  defiance,  and  really 
looked  like  a  Chief. 

In  this  guise  the  procession  of  the 
two  proceeded  to  the  manse,  where 
learning  from  a  breechless  boy,  that 
met  them  at  a  rude  gate,  that  Dr 
Dozle  was  within,  the  piper  paused, 
silence  fell  upon  the  hills,  and  the 
reverend  gentleman  was  seen  to  look 
from  the  manse  door  with  his  old 
shoes  down  in  the  heels,  his  black 
breeches  unbuttoned  at  the  knees, 
and  wearing  a  wrapper  of  his  lady, 
that  served  him  as  well  for  a  dress- 
ing-gown. But  before  the  Chieftain 
reached  the  door,  his  reverence  had 
retired  within,  and  was  ready  to  re- 
ceive him  a  little  more  as  became 
the  patron  of  the  parish. 

Their  mutual  greeting  was  very 
cordial ;  the  minister  made  an  apolo- 
gy for  his  dishabille,  having,  as  he 
said,  got  wet  in  attending  the  fune- 
ral. 

"  Ou  aye,"  said  the  Chief,  "  but 
we  come  on  an  instrumental  our  ain- 
self  to  accuse  it  with  you,  for  Elspeth 
has  co  wpit  the  ink-pottle,  and  there's 
not  a  pen  in  the  house  that  can  spell 
a  mouthful  of  sense,  petter  than 
Nebuchadnezzar  when  he  crunched 
grass  with  the  cow." 

Dr  Dozle,  who  knew  how  many 
blue  beans  it  takes  to  make  five,  as 
well  as  most  people  of  the  ecclesias- 


The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  Sassenach. 


£06 

tical  calling,  joined  very  heartily  in 
the  facetious  humour  of  the  Chief, 
partly  because  he  did  not  well  un- 
derstand what  he  said,  and  because 
he  was  a  Highland  patron,  above 
whose  stubborn  humour  he  had  long 
in  vain  struggled  for  masterdom; 
however  he  said — 

"  Come  into  the  fire,  M'Goul,  and 
we'll  discuss  that." 

"  Discuss  that,  aye,  aye,  that  was 
the  word ;  but  you  know,  Dr  Tozle, 
that  my  parts  were  never  brought  out 
with  a  college  learning  like  yours  ; 
now  what  do  you  tink,  Dr  Tozle,  if 
we  were  to  put  twa  lines  in  the  news- 
paper, and  they  would  gang  from 
Dan  to  Beersheeba,  telling  of  this  me- 
lancholy,— don't  you  tink,  Dr  Tozle, 
it  would  be  a  very  much  to  the  pur- 
pose, umph  ?" 

The  reverend  doctor  saw  a  little 
more  into  the  Chief's  meaning  by  this 
sentence,  and  said  that  he  was  just 
in  the  act  of  writing  to  the  Editor  of 
the  Greenock  Advertiser  a  letter, 
narrating  all  the  sad  circumstances 
of  the  wreck. 

"Aye,"  said  the  chief,  "you  are  a 
prophetess,  and  kest  what  I  would 
be  awanting  when  I  came  to  my  com- 
mon sense  concerning  this  molifica- 
tion ;  but,  Dr  Tozle,  you'll  can  read 
the  scrapes  of  your  pen,  which  is 
jnair  than  ever  I  could  do,  our  pens 
are  so  devillish ;  read,  Dr  Tozle." 

The  doctor  went  into  his  study 
and  brought  forth  the  letter  which 
he  was  in  the  act  of  writing,  with 
the  particulars  of  the  calamity,  to  the 
Editor  of  the  Greenock  Advertiser, 
and  read  it  to  the  Chief,  who  listened 
with  open  mouth  to  the  whole  story, 
giving  at  every  pause  a  judicious 
hotch  from  the  one  side  to  the  other, 
which  showed  that  he  understood  it, 
and  when  the  minister  paused,  he 
said,  stretching  out  his  hand,  "  Very 
well,Dr  Tozle,  very  well  indeed;  you 
are  a  restinct  man,  al  true,  al  true ; 
but  you  might  have  said  a  little  more 
of  the  civilities  to  the  dead  corpses, 
that  we  had  to  cut  out  of  the  rigging, 
and  how  Elspeth  has  made  a  dauty 
of  the  bairn  that  we  eschewed  in  the 
cabin." 

"  Oh,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  I  had 
not  finished ;  all  that  was  to  come, 
and  I  could  never  have  forgot  the 
rescue  of  the  unhappy  child  ;  all  we 
have  now  left  ia  to  find  out  its  pa- 
rentage." 


[April, 


"  Aye,  Dr  Tozle,  and  you  should 
have  precluded  with  a  smalloch  hone, 
just  by  way  of  an  edification." 

"  You  are  very  right,"  said  the 
doctor,  "  it  is  much  to  be  lamented, 
M'Goul,  that  you  were  not  brought 
sooner  to  the  estate ;  talents  such  as 
yours  ought  not  to  be  hid  under  a 
bushel." 

"  What  you  say,  Dr  Tozle,"  replied 
the  Chieftain,  "  is  very  true ;  I  had  a 
spunk  within  me,  but  it  has  gone  out 
like  the  snuff  of  a  cruizie  ;  put  as  I 
am  here,  and  came  on  purpose,  I 
would  just  like  to  hear  the  preclu- 
sion of  your  letter,  for  by  all  ac- 
counts the  Englishers  were  grantees, 
and  I  would  have  all  the  particulars 
set  down." 

"  They  need  long  spoons  that  sup 
with  the  deil,"  replied  the  minister 
jocularly;  "there's  not  the  like  of 
you,  M'Goul,  with  parts  so  like  a  na- 
tural, in  three  counties.  I'll  just  step 
into  my  study,  and  conclude  the  let- 
ter, for  Rob  Walker,  that  carries  the 
post,  will  be  here  soon." 

The  Chief,  highly  pleased  with  him- 
self, and  the  commendations  which 
his  parts  had  received,  sat  in  the  par- 
lour while  the  minister  stepped  out 
to  finish  the  letter.  In  the  meantime 
the  mistress  came  into  the  room,  and 
essayed  to  entertain  M'Goul,  saying— 

"  Hech,  sirs,  but  the  hand  of  the 
Lord  was  in  it." 

"  Aye,"  said  he,  "  and  so  was  the 
hand  of  M'Goul,  for  it  would  have 
been  a  plack  story  an  he  had  na  peen 
there." 

"  Deed,"  said  she,  "  the  minister 
has  been  telling  me  that  at  the  break 
of  day,  ye  came  forth  like  an  angel 
of  darkness,  and  great  help  ye  were 
of  to  the  dead." 

"  Matam,  mem,  we  did  put  our 
duty;  och  hone,  it  was  a  sore  sight ; 
but  you  know,  my  goot  matam,  that 
the  heavens  delight  in  calamities,  and 
we  must  pend  the  head  and  opey." 

At  this  crisis  the  reverend  doctor 
came  from  his  study  with  his  letter 
completed,  and  read  to  the  chief 
what  he  had  added,  which  was  quite 
agreeable  to  his  delicate  taste,  for  it 
bestowed  high  seasoned  praise  on 
his  hospitable  humanity  to  the  sur- 
vivors. 

"  Now,"  said  M'Goul,  "that's  what 
I  call  to  the  crisis  of  the  pisiness ; 
and  we  shall  hear  by  and  by  of  this, 
for  if  it  be  as  the  skipper  of  the  park 


1833.] 


The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  Sassenach. 


507 


cognosces,  there  will  be  an  inquest, 
and  me  and  you  will  get  our  adjudi- 
cations for  it,  and  now  that  I  have 
got  the  letter  ready,  I  will  measure 
my  way  up  the  hill  to  my  own  castle, 
which  is  not  out  of  the  way  for  re- 
paration ;  three  sclates  from  the  west 
towersock  were  blown  off  in  the  gale, 
and  a  steep  of  wet  comes  in  where 
they  were,  and  has  made  my  bed 
just  all  a  sappy  middin,  and  I  am  like 
a  grumphy.  Mistress  Tozle,  hae  ye 
ony  thing  in  your  pottle,  for  I  have 
a  doubt  that  some  thing  o'er  cauld  is 
meddling  with  my  inside  ?" 

"  Oh !"  cried  the  lady,  "  what  have 
Ibeen  about,not  tooffer  you,  M'Goul, 
something  before  ?  the  best  I  have  is 
at  your  command." 

"  Aye,  put  dinna  give  me  your 
-j'^mrnt  arfJ  iisHqoi  •  '<h9b  s<&  ifiiw 
)  9>iil  mil  JOST  eVia&t  **  ;  vjTBlj/ooj;  'afwii 

CHAPTER  III. 


plue  mould  biscuits,  nor  your  loafs 
of  theauld  warldfrom  Inverary;  I'll 
just  take  a  scrap  of  cake,  and  I  like 
the  crown  of  the  farle." 

The  minister's  wife  was  not  long 
of  fetching  the  whisky  gardevin, 
with  a  glass  and  piece  of  bread,  with 
which  MfGoul  helped  himself,  sha- 
king his  head  and  spluttering  with 
his  lips  as  he  drank  the  whisky,  say- 
ing, with  a  droll  look, 

"  Ech,  Mrs  Tozle,  but  that  water 
of  yours  is  cauld,  but  it's  no  ill  to 
take." 

With  that  he  rose,  and  giving  a 
wave  with  his  staff  to  the  piper,  who 
waited  for  him  at  the  gate,  he  went 
back  in  order  as  befitted  the  honour 
of  Inverstrone. 


WHEN  the  paper  trumpet  of  Green- 
ock,  yclept  the  Advertiser,  had  con- 
veyed to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
kingdom  the  sad  intelligence  which 
Dr  Dozle's  letter  communicated, 
there  was,  of  course,  great  sorrow 
awakened  in  many  places,  but  that 
which  it  occasioned  in  the  mansion 
of  Richard  Stukeley,  Esq.,  of  Fenny 
Park,  heretofore  sheriff  of  the  coun- 
ty of  Wessex,  we  may  be  excused 
from  attempting  to  describe.  The 
old  gentleman  was  the  father  of  the 
unfortunate  victim  of  the  shipwreck, 
and  had,  with  reluctance,  consented 
to  his  son  and  family  undertaking 
that  voyage  to  the  north-west  of 
Scotland,  which  had  terminated  so 
iatally ;  but  the  infirm  state  of  the 
lady's  health,  and  the  exhortations 
of  the  doctors,  had  prevailed  in  spite 
of  the  presentiment  with  which  he 
was  affected,  and  he  saw  them  set 
out  with  a  heaviness  of  heart  that 
persuaded  him  they  would  never  re- 
turn. 

When  he  received  the  sad  news, 
lie  despatched  an  old  confidential 
sarvant  to  bring  the  child  and  nurse 
from  Scotland,  and  to  present  the 
best  expressions  of  his  gratitude  to 
tiie  Lord  of  Inverstrone,  all  which 
was  executed  in  order;  but  the 
M'Goul  was  taught  to  expect  some 
more  substantial  testimony  of  the 
service  he  had  rendered.  Not  that 
the  idea  of  reward  bad  entered,  of 


its  own  accord,  into  his  head,  for  he 
had  too  much  of  the  Celtic  blood  in 
his  body  to  be  guilty  of  so  sordid  a 
thought;  but  the  visitors  whom  the 
calamity  drew  to  his  castle,  when 
they  heard  of  the  opulent  family 
with  which  the  deceased  were  con- 
nected, had  so  congratulated  our 
friend  Roderick  on  his  good  luck, 
that  he  began  to  say, — 

"  To  be  surely,  there  would  be  a 
penefit  in  meal  or  malt  to  him  in  the 
goot  time." 

When  the  servant  sent  for  the  or- 
phan appeared  at  the^castle,  he  soon 
learned  that  something  better  than 
thanks  was  expected  by  the  retain- 
ers, and  foreseen  in  the  dreams  of 
Elspeth.  Thus  it  happened,  that 
Richard  Woodstock,  the  servant, 
when  he  returned  to  his  master,  with 
the  child  and  its  nurse,  reported 
among  other  things  this  expectation, 
and  old  Mr  Stukeley,  still  under  the 
sorrow  of  the  event,  was  not  obtuse 
in  receiving  the  hint.  As  soon, 
therefore,  as  he  had  embraced  the 
child,  he  wrote  himself  to  the  M'Goul, 
not  only  a  repetition  of  his  thanks, 
but  lamented  that  distance  and  age 
prevented  him  from  cultivating  that 
personal  friendship,  which  sorrow 
and  misfortune  had  hallowed  to  him 
for  the  remainder  of  his  life. 

To  this  letter  he  received  a  most 
becoming  answer  from  the  Chief:  it 
is  not  necessary  to^conjecture  whe* 


508 


The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  SassenacJi. 


[April, 


ther  it  was  penned  by  Dr  Dozle  or 
the  parish  schoolmaster,  but  it  bore 
in  large,  legible,  permanent,  and  con- 
spicuous characters,  the  subscription 
of  Inverstrone  himself,  in  words  at 
length,  and  concluded  with — that,  in 
the  fall  of  the  year,  he  proposed  to 
visit  England,  and  would  do  himself 
the  particular  pleasure  of  paying  his 
respects,  as  was  familiarly  said,  "  to 
old  Fenny  Park." 

Mr  Stukeley,  who,  in  his  younger 
years,  had  been  bred  in  London,  and 
had  there  made  his  affluent  fortune 
as  a  draper,  was  rather  surprised  at 
the  style  of  condescension  and  free- 
dom which  pervaded  this  epistle  ;  but 
he  ascribed  it  to  the  manners  of  the 
Highlanders,  of  whose  peculiarities 
he  had  heard  something  when  in 
business,  and  took  it  kind  to  be  so 
suddenly  recognised  as  an  intimate 
friend  by  any  chieftain  of  a  race  whom 
he  had  been  taught  to  regard  as 
among  the  lordliest  of  mankind. 

The  letter  from  the  M'Goul  was  in 
consequence  received  as  something 
of  an  honour,  that  tended  to  lessen 
the  greatness  of  the  calamity  that  led 
to  it.  The  death  of  the  son  and  his 
wife  was  in  consequence  mitigated, 
by  the  expected  visitation  of  the 
Highland  Chief.  We  are  bound  by 
the  insight  vouchsafed  to  us  of  hu- 
man nature,  to  let  this  much  be 
known ;  for  Providence  so  variously 
turns  the  ills  of  life,  that  out  of  trifles 
light  as  air,  sweet  consolation  is  often 
distilled. 

An  answer  to  the  Chieftain's  epistle 
was  sent  in  course  of  post,  expressing 
Mr  Stukeley's  mournful  pleasure  in 
the  prospect  of  so  soon  shaking 
hands  with  one  to  whose  feeling 
heart  he  was  so  much  obliged,  and 
entreating  that  he  would  spend  the 
winter  at  Fenny  Park. 

*'  I  cannot  offer  you  now,"  said  he, 
"such  a  cheerful  home  as  it  once 
was,  but  all  that  is  in  my  power  to 
give  will  be  freely  bestowed." 

There  was,  to  be  sure,  a  little  of  the 
inflation  of  a  prosperous  Londoner 
in  the  style  of  his  reply ;  but  at  In- 
verstrone it  diffused  universal  satis- 
faction: old  Elspeth  saw  in  it  the 
realization  of  her  wishes ;  the  chief 
said  he  would  not  take  afive  thousand 
pounds  in  Perth  pank  notes  for  the 
gift  in  store  ;  and  Dr  Dozle,  who  was 
sent  for  to  read  the  letter  more  dis- 


tinctly, in  order  that  there  might  be 
no  mistake,  told  the  M'Goul  it  was  a 
plain  assurance  that  his  fortune  was 
now  made. 

Elspeth  was  instructed  to  prepare 
the  Chieftain's  necessaries  for  the 
journey.  It  was,  however,  late  in  the 
evening  when  she  received  her  or- 
ders, and  therefore  it  was  not  asking 
too  much  time  for  consideration, that 
the  old  woman  did  nothing  in  the 
business  of  packing  that  night,  but  in 
the  morning  she  began  at  an  early 
hour,  and  selected  two  large  chests 
for  the  occasion — one  to  hold  pro- 
visions for  the  journey,  and  the  other 
as  a  receptacle  for  the  paraphernauls 
— and  inasmuch  as  food  is  more  es- 
sential than  raiment,  she  determined 
on  filling  the  former  first. 

But  the  ploy  was  too  precious  to 
be  executed  without  the  superinten- 
dence of  M'Goul  himself;  and  ac- 
cordingly, after  breakfast,  he  came 
into  the  apartment  where  the  old 
woman  was  busy. 

"  Hoot  toot,"  cried  he,  as  he  en- 
tered, seeing  her  labouring  on  her 
knees,  amidst  mutton-hams,  white 
puddings,  salt  fish,  and  half  a  cheese, 
with  smoking  bannocks  baked  that 
morning  for  the  occasion,  "  this  is  not 
the  ceremony  at  all,"  said  he ;  "  we 
must  have  the  utensil  with  hair,  for 
we're  a  gentleman,  and  puddings  of 
cows,  and  legs  of  sheep,  are  not  re- 
lishing atall — hoot, toot, toot;  all  you 
have  to  do,  my  goot  woman,  is  to 
have  a  needful  to  serve  till  we  get  to 
Glasgow,  and  then  the  M'Goul  will 
go  as  the  M'Goul  should."  The 
hairy  utensil  was  a  trunk,  which,  on 
being  declared  heir  to  the  estate,  our 
friend  Roderick  had  bought  second- 
hand at  Fort- William,  and  thought  it 
a  grand  thing,  and  would  mark  his 
degree  among  the  Englishers.  How- 
ever, after  some  altercation,  half 
Gaelic,  half  English, — for  Elspeth,  by 
her  long  residence  in  the  Lowlands, 
had  forgotten  her  native  language, — 
matters  were  put  to  rights ;  and  in 
due  time,  with  a  bundle  tied  in  a 
handkerchief,  and  the  trunk  on  the 
shoulder  of  a  stout  Highlander,  the 
Chief,  on  a  sheltie,  took  his  departure 
for  the  south;  Pharick  the  piper, 
strutting  in  advance,  making  the 
mountains  doleful  with  "  Lochaber 
no  more."  Dr  Dozle,  and  his  wife 
holding  him  by  the  arm,  were  out  at 


1833.] 


The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  Sassenach. 


the  gate  of  tlie  manse  to  view  the 
procession,  and  many  were  the  bene- 
dictions with  which  they  saluted  the 
proud  chieftain  as  he  passed. 

Of  the  M'Goul's  progress  to  Glas- 
gow we  forbear  to  speak  :  it  was 
worthy  of  him,  and  of  the  civilized 
portion  of  the  region  through  which 
it  was  made.  As  far  as  Balloch  ferry, 
the  transit  of  Venus  over  the  sun,  as 
beheld  by  the  French  philosophers, 
was  a  dim  unnoticed  spot,  compared 
to  the  cometic  luminary  of  his  ad- 
vance. It  was,  however,  late  in  the 
evening  before  he  reached  the  Tron- 
gate  of  Glasgow;  the  lamps  and 
shops  were  lighted  up,  and  he  re- 
marked to  the  gillie  with  the  trunk 
on  his  shoulder,  who  was  also  his 
servant,  and  had^been  a  soldier  in  a 


509 

Highland  regiment,  "  that  he  had 
never  seen  so  big  a  toun  in  al  his 
life,  with  such  a  confabulation  of 
candles  and  cruisies  that  were  a  plea- 
santry to  see." 

Donald,  who  was  more  rogue  than 
fool,  told  him  that  the  illuminations 
were  all  on  account  of  the  chief  of 
the  Clan- Jam phrey,  and  it  behoved 
him  to  take  some  notice  of  the  com- 
pliment; whereupon  Pharick  the  pi- 
per was  ordered  to  put  his  drone  in 
order,  and  play  up  "  The  garb  of 
Old  Gaul;"  the  Chief  himself  bore 
his  bonnet  aloft,  and  in  this  order 
they  proceeded  along  Argyle  Street, 
towards  the  Black  Bull  Inn,  startling 
the  natives  with 

"  The  outrageous  insolence  of  pipes." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THIS  was  not  only  the  first  time 
that  the  Chief  of  the  Clan- Jamphrey 
had  been  in  Glasgow,  but  the  first 
time  he  had  entered  an  inn,  in  which 
(he  smell  of  peat-reek  and  train-oil 
lid  not  predominate.  We  may, 
herefore,  conceive  his  amazement 
at  the  splendour  which  broke  upon 
his  vision  when  he  entered  the  Black 
Bull ;  a  house  which  he  often  after- 
•^vards  said  was  as  pretty  a  kingdom 
of  heaven  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  as 
;i  man  could  take  half  a  mutchkin  in 
upon  a  drop-on-the-nose  day. 

He  trusted  a  good  deal  to  the  ex- 
perience of  Donald  his  servant,  who 
1  ad  seen,  as  he  said,  the  outer  side 
( f  the  world,  and  who  was  his  guide 
en  this  occasion  to  the  regions  of  the 
£outb.  Donald,  as  we  have  already 
nentioned,  more  rogue  than  fool, 
t  lough  hired  for  the  occasion,  saw 
t  irough  the  Chief's  peculiarities,  and 
had  some  enjoyment  in  bringing 
tiem  out;  but,  like  a  true  Highland- 
e  •>  his  master's  pride  could  be  in  no 
more  jealous  custody;  no  man  in  his 
h  taring  durst  say  aught  in  disparage- 
n  ent  of  his  redoubtable  Chieftain, 
a  id  if  he  now  and  then  laughed  in 
h  s  sleeve  at  his  odd  conceits  and 
extravagant  self-importance,  it  was 
b  it  a  custom  he  had  learned  from 
tie  Southrons  in  the  army. 

Donald  told  the  waiter  on  their 
arrival  that  the  best  room  in  the 
h«  -use  was  not  too  good  for  the  M'- 
Gatil,  and  ordered  a  savoury  supper 


to  be  set  out  for  him  immediately, 
as  he  had  come  from  Luss  that  day, 
and  stood  in  need  of  refreshment. 
Accordingly,  without  having  occa- 
sion to  utter  more  than  a  grunt  of 
approbation,  they  were  shown  into 
a  parlour,  where  presently  the  wait- 
er began  to  lay  the  cloth  for  supper, 
Roderick  walking  about  the  room 
in  the  meantime,  flourishing  his  stick, 
and  affecting  to  be  as  much  at  gen- 
tlemanly ease  as  the  Dean  of  Guild 
of  a  borough  town  in  the  presence 
of  King  George  the  Fourth,  at  his 
ever  memorable  reception  in  Holy- 
rood  House. 

Supper  consisted  of  the  usual  de- 
licacies of  the  season ;  among  other 
things  was  a  plate  of  eggs  in  cups  of 
mahogany,  with  a  radiance  of  bone 
or  ivory  spoons  surrounding  the  dish 
in  which  they  were  served. 

The  moment  that  the  Chief  saw  this 
phenomenon,  he  made  a  dead  point 
at  it,  but  a  certain  mauvaise  honte 
prevented  him  from  asking  the  wait- 
er to  explain.  He  had  heard,  how- 
ever, of  the  usages  of  inns,  and  call- 
ing aloud  for  a  bottle  of  Port,  (mean- 
ing porter,)  Mr  Towel-under-arm 
skipped  out  of  the  room  as  a  High- 
land deer  would  from  his  lair  on  the 
mountains,  and  Donald  the  servant 
being  left  alone  in  attendance,  the 
amazed  chieftain  said  to  him, — 

"  Well,  Tonald,  what  can  thay 
round  wee  white  things  be,  in  the 
tawny  dram  glasses  of  timber  ?" 


510 


The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  Sasscnacfi. 


[April, 


Donald  looked  at  them  carefully, 
and  said,  "  That  surely  they  were 
shell-fish." 

"  You  may  say  so,  Donald,but  they 
are  neither  lampets  nor  clockidoos, 
though  I  must  say  that  they  have  a 
look  for  whiteness,  of  cockles;  ou 
aye,  they're  just  cockles  of  a  Low- 
land breed." 

Donald  said  that  M'Goul  might  try 
them,  but  he  was  sure  they  were  not 
cockles. 

The  chief  stretched  forth  his  hand, 
and  seizing  one  of  the  egg  cups, 
drew  it  towards  him,  gave  the  egg  a 
great  blow  with  the  butt  of  a  knife, 
which  caused  it  to  splash  up  in  his 
face. 

"  Goot  Got,  Tonald,"  cried  he, 
"  it's  a  caller  egg,  tamn  it,  whether  or 
no." 

But  further  colloquy  was  spare^ ; 
for  while  he  was  wiping  his  face,  the 
waiter  came  in  with  the  wine  in  a 
decanter. 

"  My  Got,"  cried  the  laird,  "  if 
that's  no  Port  o'  Port,  or  a  dark  bruist 
very  like  it." 

In  the  meantime,  Donald  had  en- 
quired aside,  about  the  coach  to 
Edinburgh,  and  learnt  from  the  wait- 
er, that  it  set  off  that  same  evening  at 
ten  o'clock.  This  news,  after  the 
waiter  had  withdrawn  the  cloth,  he 
communicated  to  his  master ;  and  it 
was  agreed  that  they,  piper  and  all, 
instead  of  staying  for  the  night  in 
Glasgow,  should  set  off  at  once  for 
Edinburgh  by  the  mail,  and  Donald 
was  ordered  to  summon  the  waiter, 
to  tell  him  of  M'Goul's  determina- 
tion. 

The  waiter  received  the  order  with 
great  complacency,  and  enquired 
what  number  of  seats  he  would  be 
pleased  to  secure  in  the  coach. 

"  Oh !  the  whole  tot  of  them," 
cried  the  M'Goul;  "it's  no  every 
tay  the  M'Goul  goes  to  the  Low- 
lands." 

The  waiter,  without  shewing  any 
particular  mutation  of  physiognomy, 
went  to  the  office,  and  ordered,  as 
directed,  the  whole  inside  to  be  se- 
cured for  the  Highland  gentleman 
and  his  tail;  which  was  scarcely 
done,  when  Mr  Faction  the  writer 
came  into  the  office,  and  besought 
a  place,  as  he  was  summoned  to  at- 
tend a  meeting  of  counsel  next  morn- 
ing, but  the  clerk  declined  to  receive 
bis  money,  without  the  consent  of 


the  chief,  who,  when  the  waiter  went 
to  him  to  solicit  permission  for  Mr 
Faction,  assumed  a  very  bluff  and 
indignant  visage. 

"  No,  py  Got,  he  shall  not  offer  for 
to  go  with  the  M'Goul — umph !  a  bit 
s  watcher  of  a  writer — umph !  set  him 
up  to  go  with  the  M'Goul  in  a  coach 
— umph  !  tell  him  to  go,  and  be  tam- 
ned  too,  in  the  bottom  of  the  Red 
Sea." 

The  waiter,  however,  none  daunt- 
ed, returned  to  the  office,  and  told 
Mr  Faction  he  might  still  go  with 
the  coach  as  an  outside  passenger,  for 
the  Highland  gentleman  had  said  no- 
thing about  that. 

"  Oh  I  very  well,"  said  Mr  Faction, 
"  I  will  take  the  outside,  and  trust  to 
being  permitted  before  the  journey 
is  half  over,  to  take  an  inside  place." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass,  that  at  the 
hour  when  the  coach  started,  M'Goul, 
Pharick,and  Donald  his  man,  stepped 
into  the  inside  of  the  mail,  and  Mr 
Faction,  with  a  good  comforter  about 
his  neck,  and  his  great-coat  well 
buttoned,  mounted  on  the  roof,  j^ 

The  guard  happened  to  belong  to 
the  Clan  Jamphrey,  and  exulting  that 
he  had  his  chieftain  on  board,  fired  his 
pistols,  as  in  days  of  yore,  and  blew 
a  blast  both  loud  and  shrill,  as  the 
coach  hurled  down  the  Gallowgate. 

"  What's  that  ?"  cried  the  chief  to 
Donald,  when  he  heard  the  pistols 
crack. 

"  Oh,"  said  Donald,  «  it's  Hector 
Macgregor,  the  guard :  he  was  a  sol- 
dier in  our's,  and  me  and  him  had  a 
caulker  together  for  auld  lang  syne, 
and  for  your  honour's  journey  to 
London." 

"  Umph,"  said  the  chief. 

Then  the  bugle  took  up  the  admo- 
nitory strain,  and  the  chief  said, 
"  Tonald,  what'na  too  tooing's  that  ?" 

"  Oh  I"  said  the  man  knavishly, 
"  it's  to  let  the  peoples  know  who  is 
going  to  Edinburgh." 

"  Umph,"  cried  the  chief;  adding, 
"  well,  there's  some  jocose  flirtation 
in  a  great  man  like  me  travelling 
over  the  hills  and  far  awa  in  these 
brutalised  places." 

At  this  crisis,  a  shower,  which  had 
been  all  the  evening  lurking  in  a 
lowering  cloud,  began  to  spit  out  a 
little,  rendering  Mr  Faction  on  the 
outside  rather  uncomfortable ;  and 
the  chieftain  within,  who,  with  his 
attendants,  being  little  acquainted 


1833.] 


The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  Sassenach. 


with  pulling  up  the  windows,  was 
no  better.  In  this  dilemma  he  applied 
to  Donald. 

"  Have  you  preath  of  life,  Tonald, 
for  the  ill-pred  weather  is  spitting  in 
my  face.  Good  Got !  Tonald,  its 
raining  like  a  watering  can,  and 
treating  me  no  better  than  if  I  was  a 
hesp  of  yarn  pleaching  for  old  El- 
speth." 

Donald  told  him,  however,  that 
there  was  a  way  of  closing  the  win- 
dows, if  he  only  knew  how;  and 
proposed  that  they  should  stop  the 
coach,  andrequest  Hector  Macgregor 
to  do  it. 

"  Whist,  whist,"  cried  the  M'Goul, 
"  that  would  be  .to  tmake  a  peach- 
ment  of  ourselves,  telling  them  we 
did  not  know  how  to  close  a  coach- 
window,  never  having  been  in  a  mail 
before." 

The  rain,  however,  was  a  hard- 
hearted shower,  and  the  chief  was  no 
better,  in  consequence  of  the  open 
windows,  than  Mr  Faction  on  the 
outside,  which  very  much  surprised 
the  piper,  who,  with  Donald,  sitting 
with  their  backs  to  the  horses,  felt 
not  the  weather. 

At  last  the  coach  stopped,  the  door 
opened,  and  Mr  Faction,  dreeping 
wet,  attempted  to  jump  in,  at  which 
che  M'Goul  stretched  forth  both  his 
hands,  and  with  a  desperate  push, 
drove  the  writer  on  the  broad  of  his 
back  on  the  road,  and  cried, — 

"  Umph,  my  Cot,  he  is  a  robber- 
man  ;  put  I'll  crack  the  sowl  out  of 
his  body." 

And  to  all  the  intercessions  of  the 
<juard  and  coachman, he  was  resolved 
ihat  "  No  writer,  py  Cot — umph, 
should  put  his  claw  in  a  box  with  a 
Chief." 

So  Mr  Faction  was  obliged  again 
lo  mount  on  the  outside,  and  pro- 
reed,  exposed  to  all  the  contumely 
'of  the  inclement  weather,  till  they 

bnB  gi 

«'    BO^i 


511 

arrived  at  the  next  stage;  here  he 
jumped  down — was  as  quickly  at  the 
fire-side — and  ordered  as  abruptly  a 
dram ;  the  chief,  too,  with  his  tail, 
alighted,  and  went  also  to  partake 
the  blandishments  of  the  kitchen- 
fire,  which  the  boisterous  night,  and 
the  lateness  of  the  hour,  kindly  com- 
mended. 

Mr  Faction,  very  little  appeased 
with  the  treatment  he  had  received, 
drank  his  dram  without  noticing  the 
M'Goul  at  all. 

The  chief,  equally  regardless, 
placed  himself  by  the  fire  in  an  arm- 
chair, and  taking  off  his  shoes,  deli- 
berately placed  them  within  the  fen- 
der, and  began  to  warm  his  toes,  but 
scarcely  had  he  done  this  when  the 
guard  sounded  his  horn,  and  gave 
note  that  all  was  ready.  Mr  Faction 
mounted  aloft,  as  before,  and  the 
Laird  and  his  tail  were  obliged  to 
run  as  fast  as  possible,  he  huddling  up 
his  kilt,  and  Pharick  the  piper  car- 
rying the  shoes  which  he  had  not 
time  to  replace. 

Thus  he  was  compelled  to  sit  out 
the  remainder  of  the  journey  with 
wet  feet,  for  the  road  between  the 
door  and  the  coach  was,  as  he  said,— 

"  All  crawling  with  mires." 

Nothing  happened  worthy  of  no- 
tice till  they  were  near  Edinburgh. 
Looking  out,  he  said  to  Donald  that 
they  would  go  at  once  to  the  ship, 
for  he  was  as  cold  as  a  salmon,  and 
it  was  overly-early  to  expect  Chris- 
tianity in  any  tavern  in  Edinburgh. 

Accordingly,  when  the  coach  stop- 
ped at  the  Black  Bull,  at  the  head  of 
Leith-walk,  Mr  Faction  had  the  feli- 
city of  seeing  the  chieftain,  with  his 
piper  and  his  man  Donald,  walk 
away  with  their  hairy  utensil,  in  the 
showery  morning,  to  the  pier  of 
Leith,  where  the  smack  they  intend- 
ed to  go  by  to  London  was  lying, 

'  -woJ 


. 
ftsiifo  sdl  bs 


SIM 


-9?  9d  oi 


cfhriul  gaiii979  ed- 


bif 

r   ?lifij  eld  ba& 


-aimaS 


rfiiw  fodw 


9.HLJ  flOLIDBci 

ia&  tfK>rho  erfl  oini  eaun 

trw  sri  e&  t 
.iiioalogii: 

,dj  iwd  #fii 

9ib 


512 


Scottish  Landscape. 


[April, 


SCOTTISH  LANDSCAPE. 


VARIOUS  have  been  the  treatises 
on  the  art  of  Landscape  Gardening, 
an  art  which  our  neighbours  the 
English  seem  to  consider  exclusive- 
ly their  own,  and  which  they  have 
certainly  carried  to  a  very  consider- 
able degree  of  perfection.  That  a 
country  so  rich  as  England,  blessed 
as  it  is  with  a  more  fertile  soil,  a 
more  genial  climate,  distinguished 
for  a  much  longer  period  for  wealth, 
industry,  and  accumulated  capital, 
should  have  taken  the  lead  of  Scot- 
land in  this  species  of  luxury,  is  so 
far  from  surprising,  that  it  seems  an 
inevitable  consequence  of  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  the  two  coun- 
tries have  been  placed.  Neither  is 
it  wonderful  that  in  our  first  attempts 
to  improve  the  style  of  our  country 
residences,  we  should  endeavour  to 
copy  England,  and  to  decorate  our 
parks  and  pleasure-grounds  after  the 
English  fashion.  But  various  consi- 
derations induce  us  to  think  that  in 
doing  so  we  have  erred.  The  cir- 
cumstances of  the  two  countries  in 
point  of  soil,  climate,  and  scenery, 
are  so  essentially  distinct,  that  the 
same  style  of  decoration  cannot  be 
adapted  for  both,  and  instead  of  at- 
tempting to  introduce  beauties  fo- 
reign to  our  soil,  and  of  which  we 
can  never  produce  more  than  a  very 
imperfect  imitation,  we  should  ra- 
ther endeavour  to  make  the  most  of 
those  features  of  landscape  which 
are  truly  our  own,  and  which  in 
their  own  way  are  perfectly  unique 
and  inimitable. 

Scotland  is  the  "  land  of  the  moun- 
tain and  the  flood ;"  her  plains  are 
few,  and  her  vales  comparatively 
narrow.  The  natural  features  of  the 
country,  over  by  far  the  greater  part 
of  its  surface,  are  those  of  rugged 
steeps  and  swelling  hills; — rivers, 
rapid  and  winding,  with  precipitous 
banks,  only  opening  into  valleys  of 
any  extent  as  they  approach  the  sea. 
Even  in  what  are  called  the  Low- 
lands,  we  cannot  boast  of  a  level 
above  a  very  few  miles  in  compass. 
In  the  flattest  districts,  the  horizon 
is  invariably  bounded  by  ranges  of 
mountains;  and  extensive  tracts  of 


champaign  country,  such  as  are  com- 
mon in  England,  like  those  seen 
from  Richmond  and  Windsor,  are 
among  us  altogether  unknown. 

England  is,  on  the  contrary,  com- 
paratively flat  and  level.  We  are 
not  absurd  enough  to  say,  that  Eng- 
land has  not  her  mountains  and  pre- 
cipices, her  rocks  and  waterfalls. 
Derbyshire  and  Cumberland,  and 
the  whole  principality  of  Wales,  can 
testify  the  contrary ;  but  the  general 
character  of  English  scenery  is  flat, 
and  what  we  northern  mountaineers 
might  rather  consider  tame.  But 
far  DC  it  from  us  to  undervalue  this 
tameness.  Though  fondly  attached 
to  our  own  native  hills,  we  love  the 
rich  vales  and  fertile  plains  of  merry 
England  —  her  prospects  studded 
with  splendid  seats  and  smiling  cot- 
tages, where,  from  one  moderate 
eminence,  we  are  able  to  distinguish 
forty  or  fifty  village  spires,  inter- 
mixed with  hedge-rows,  gardens,  and 
interminable  corn-fields  and  pastures, 
till  the  whole  gorgeous  scene  loses 
itself  in  the  undistinguishing  haze  of 
blue  distance.  Such,  in  many  parts, 
is  the  common  country  scenery  of 
England ;  but  when,  deviating  from 
the  high-road,  we  enter  the  private 
domains  of  her  more  wealthy  noble- 
men and  gentlemen,  and  view  art 
contending  with  nature,  which  shall 
exhibit  most  to  excite  our  admira- 
tion, and  impress  us  with  delight, 
we  do  not  wonder  that  those  whose 
circumstances  admit  of  the  expense, 
should  be  anxious  to  transfer  such 
scenes  to  their  own  country,  and 
imitate  at  home  those  effects  which 
they  see  to  have  succeeded  so  splen- 
didly with  our  southern  neighbours. 

The  wish  is  natural,  but  a  little 
reflection  and  experience  may  teach 
us  that  it  is  vain.  With  the  inferior 
soil  and  climate  of  Scotland,  and 
those  constant  characteristic  differ- 
ences  in  the  aspect  of  the  country, 
it  would  be  impossible,  by  means  of 
all  the  wealth  of  all  the  sovereigns 
of  Europe,  to  produce  such  scenes 
in  this  part  of  the  island,  as  are  to  be 
seen  in  many  gentlemen's  parks  in 
England.  We  cannot  transport  to 


1833.]  Scottish 

our  stern  and  rugged  country  the 
smooth  velvet  turf,*  the  splendid 
lawns,  the  stately  groves  of  Blen- 
heim or  Hagley;  if  we  could,  we 
cannot  people  these  groves  with 
nightingales,  nor  illuminate  them 
with  an  English  sun.  We  cannot 
command  the  distant  scenery,  the 
rich  and  varied  prospects  which  form 
the  background  to  the  picture ;  we 
cannot,  in  many  instances,  rear  the 
delicate  plants  and  shrubs  which 
delight  our  senses  in  the  home 
scenes. 

Much  ridicule  has  been  bestowed 
upon  the  stiff  formal  style  of  garden- 
ing, which  has  been  designated  the 
Dutch  style,  and  which  was  intro- 
duced among  us  about  the  time  of 
•  he  Revolution.  The  ridicule  would 
have  been  better  directed  against 
those  who  adopted  a  style  unsuitable 
lo  the  nature  of  English  scenery, 
than  against  the  style  in  itself,  which 
is  admirably  suited  to  the  circum- 
stances of  the  country  where  it  took 
its  rise.  It  is  not  solely  from  want 
( f  imagination,  that  a  Dutchman  de- 
lights in  straight  lined  walks  and 
clipped  hedges.  In  a  country  so 
l3vel  as  Holland,  it  is  natural  that 
every  thing  should  be  straight,  pre- 
cisely because  there  is  no  reason 
why  it  should  be  otherwise.  If  we 
have  to  go  from  one  point  to  an- 
other, the  straightest  line  is  always, 
c  -tens  paribus,  the  best,  because  it 
i^  the  easiest  and  least  expensive  to 
make,  and  the  shortest  to  travel. 
I  ence,  in  Holland,  where  there  are 
n)  hills  or  rising  grounds,  canals 
and  roads  are  made  as  straight  as  an 
a  TOW;  and  to  have  made  an  excep- 
tion of  garden  walks,  would  have 
a  gued  a  degree  of  caprice  and  fri- 
volity quite  unworthy  of  so  steady, 
itdustdous,and  sensible  a  people  as 
the  Dutch,  who  never  do  any  thing 
without  a  good  reason.  Again,  in  a 
c<  untry  where  the  soil  is  so  rich,  it 
is  necessary  that  hedges  should  be 
cl  pped,  otherwise  they  would  grow 
sc  high  as  to  exclude  all  view  of 
surrounding  objects.  The  transition 
is  lot  very  great,  from  clipped  hedges 
to  clipped  shrubs  and  trees;  and 
where  no  natural  features  ever  in- 


Landscape.  513 

trude  to  contradict  the  prevailing 
regularity,  this  sort  of  restraint  upon 
Nature's  productions,  in  place  of 
being  absurd  and  ungraceful,  is  only 
in  character  with  that  universal  neat- 
ness, the  effect  of  art  and  industry, 
which  meets  the  eye  in  every  quar- 
ter. Dutch  gardening,  we  therefore 
conceive,  is  exactly  suited  to  the 
circumstances  of  Holland,  and  to  the 
scenery,  or  rather  the  no  scenery, 
which  is  to  be  found  in  that  country. 
It  was  absurd  to  introduce  it  in 
England,  as  was  attempted  to  be 
done  by  William  the  Third ;  but  that 
sovereign  was  distinguished  by  high- 
er qualities  than  his  taste  for  orna- 
mental gardening. 

It  were  needless  to  trace  the  gra- 
dations of  taste  in  England  from  the 
formal  style  of  the  17th  century, 
through  the  successive  schools  of 
Kent,  Brown,  White,  Price,  Knight, 
Repton,  and  Gilpin.  All  of  them 
had,  or  have,  their  peculiar  merits. 
All  of  them  contributed  to  explode 
certain  errors  which  had  prevailed 
before  their  own  time  ;  and  both  by 
their  success  and  their  failures,  aid- 
ed the  formation  of  that  rational 
taste  which  is  now  pretty  generally 
diffused  among  all  the  educated 
classes  of  society.  Some  of  them, 
in  wishing  to  avoid  one  error,  fell 
occasionally  into  the  opposite.  The 
ornate  artificial  style  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan age,— the  terraces,  fountains, 
statues,  and  arbours,  which  delight- 
ed our  great-great-grandfathers  and 
grandmothers,  were  in  some  cases 
discarded  too  unceremoniously  for 
the  naked  lawn,  the  dull  melan- 
choly belt,  and  the  formal  clump. 
But  such  errors  have  been  visited 
with  their  full  measure  of  reproba- 
tion— and,  in  the  midst  of  conflicting 
systems  and  opposite  styles,  some- 
thing like  true  taste  has  at  last  been 
elicited,  and  some  principles  have 
been  established,  which  are  not  like- 
ly to  be  violated  again  in  any  very 
grievous  or  intolerable  degree. 

Into  the  merits  and  demerits  of 
these  respective  schools,  their  con- 
troversies and  opposing  theories,  we 
do  not  mean  to  enter,  as  we  have 
no  intention  to  write  a  treatise 


gr<  en. 


has  often  been  observed,  with  some  truth,  that  the  grass  in  Scotland  is  not 


514 

on  English  gardening.  What  we 
mean  to  treat  of  is  the  landscape — 
not  of  England,  but  of  Scotland ;  and 
the  art  of  improving  to  the  utmost 
the  natural  capabilities  of  Scottish 
scenery,  particularly  where  such  im- 
provement is  most  desirable,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  a  residence. 

Some  have  disputed  the  propriety 
of  the  term  gardening,  as  applicable 
to  this  art.  We  shall  not  dispute 
about  a  name ;  but  if  the  term  gar- 
dening is  to  be  retained,  we  must  be 
allowed  to  consider  the  whole  coun- 
try as  a  garden.  The  materials  of 
the  art  of  improving  landscape,  are 
co-extensive  with  landscape  itself, 
and  include  every  visible  terrestrial 
object,  from  the  distant  mountain 
towering  to  the  clouds,  down  to  the 
minutest  wild-flower  that  is  pressed 
beneath  our  feet. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  when  we 
talk  of  improving,  that  we  are  so  wild 
as  to  imagine  there  is  any  possibility, 
or  that  there  would  be  any  propriety, 
in  altering  the  shape  of  a  hill,  or  the 
course  of  a  river,  or  disturbing  in  any 
degree  the  larger  and  more  unma- 
nageable features  of  a  country.  The 
execution  of  such  freaks  as  these  is 
luckily  impossible,  and,  if  they  were 
possible,  would  be  absurd.  Some 
persons  have  no  idea  of  improving, 
but  by  altering;  but  the  lover  of 
landscape  knows,  that  the  prospect 
of  a  hill,  a  river,  or  any  large  object, 
may  be  improved  in  various  ways, 
without  any  alterations  in  the  object 
itself,  by  a  proper  choice  of  the  point 
of  view  from  which  it  is  seen,  or  by 
a  proper  selection  and  treatment  of 
those  more  manageable  objects  in  the 
foreground,  which  it  is  within  our 
power  to  alter,  remove,  or  supply,  as 
taste  or  propriety  may  dictate. 

This  leads  us  to  the  first  point  to 
be  considered,  in  regard  to  a  resi- 
dence, namely,  the  choice  of  a  situa- 
tion. 

Three  things  are  necessary  to  be 
considered  in  this  choice:  1st, The 
appearance  of  the  place  itself  as  an 
object  in  the  landscape;  2d,  The 
views  from  the  place,  particularly 
from  the  windows  of  the  house  when 
built;  and,  3d,  What  is  perhaps  of 
more  importance  than  either,  (it  be- 
ing always  remembered  that  we  speak 
exclusively  of  Scotland,)  shelter. 

The  banks  of  rivers  or  rivulets, 
natural  lakes,  or  arms  of  the  sea, 


Scottish  Landscape.  [April, 

afford  almost-  the  only  situations 
where  all  these  advantages  can  be 
enjoyed.  Accordingly,  almost  all  the 
gentlemen's  seats  in  this  country  are 
placed  upon  rivers,  friths,  lochs,  (or 
land-locked  arms  of  the  sea,)  or  on 
some  of  the  beautiful  lakes  which 
abound  in  all  mountainous  countries. 

This  universal  choice  of  the  vici- 
nity of  water,  does  not  proceed  sole- 
ly, or  even  principally,  from  the  no- 
tion that  water  is  a  necessary  ingre- 
dient to  the  formation  of  a  fine  resi- 
dence. That  water,  in  some  of  its 
forms,  is  a  highly  desirable  adjunct 
to  a  residence,  cannot  be  disputed ; 
but  in  Scotland,  its  vicinity  is  desi- 
rable from  other  causes.  It  is  only 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  sea,  or 
on  the  banks  of  rivers  or  lakes,  that 
the  necessary  circumstances  of  shel- 
ter, warmth,  and  level,  can  be  obtain- 
ed ;  it  is  such  situations  which  are 
favoured  with  the  richest  soil,  and 
the  most  interesting  scenery. 

The  banks  of  streams  or  rivers  af- 
ford, with  us,  by  far  the  greater  num- 
ber and  variety  of  situations  for 
building.  In  choosing  the  site  and 
aspect  of  a  house,  every  thing  of 
course  depends  on  local  circum- 
stances, which  can  only  be  studied 
and  determined  on  upon  the  spot ; 
but  some  hints  may  be  given  which 
may  not  be  altogether  useless.  The 
course  of  all  rivers  is  naturally  wind- 
ing, leaving  one  side  of  the  valley  at 
one  point,  and  returning  to  it  at  an- 
other ;  or  the  valley  itself  may  wind, 
or  at  least  deviate  considerably  from 
one  uniform  straight  direction.  From 
these  causes  combined,  the  river  must 
necessarily  be  divided  into  re'aches, 
and  the  banks  on  each  side  will  offer 
alternate  salient  and  retiring  points. 
One  observation  occurs  here  as  to 
this,  that  the  salient  bank,  with  the 
river  bounding  it  on  two  sides,  or 
sweeping  round  it  so  as  to  form  a 
peninsula,  affords  the  best  situation 
for  a  house  as  a  prominent  object  in 
the  surrounding  scenery,  but  the  re- 
tiring bank,  or  concave  left  by  the 
river  on  the  opposite  side,  will  ge- 
nerally afford  the  best  views  from 
the  house  itself.  A  house  situated 
on  the  salient  angle,  or  on  a  flat 
surrounded  by  a  river,  only  looks 
across  it  at  one  or  more  points ;  or, 
if  the  sweep  be  uniform,  the  banks 
moderately  high,  and  the  house  at 
some  distance,  may  be  deprived  of  a 


1833.] 


Scottish  Landscape. 


view  of  the  water  altogether,  except 
at  times  of  flood ;  while  the  house  in 
the  retiring  nook  may  be  so  placed 
as  to  have  views  of  two  reaches  of 
the  water,  one  as  it  advances  to  the 
house,  and  the  other  as  it  retires 
from  it.  The  banks  are  also  seen  in 
this  way  foreshortened,  with  all  their 
accidents  of  points,  turns,  creeks, 
;md  promontories,  until  the  next  bend 
of  the  river  shuts  them  from  the 
view.  The  retiring  angle  has  also 
greatly  the  advantage  in  point  of 
shelter,  as  being  removed  out  of  the 
nweep  of  those  blasts,  that  at  some 
reason  or  other  are  felt  so  severely 
5  a  the  centre  or  exposed  parts  of  a 
Scottish  strath. 

If  the  river  runs  nearly  east  and 
west,  one  side  differs  much  from  the 
other  in  regard  to  exposure.  The 
i  orth  bank,  having  probably  a  hill  or 
rising  ground  behind  it,  has  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  southern  aspect,  which 
i:i  of  great  consequence  in  Scotland, 
particularly  in  the  winter  months; 
and  therefore  should  be  preferred 
wherever  it  can  be  attained,  if  the 
place  is  intended  for  a  winter  resi- 
dence. The  south  bank,  however, 
or  situation  on  the  dark  side  of  the 
hill,  may  be  pleasant  in  summer  for 
the  opposite  reason,  and  as  it  looks 
over  the  gay  and  sunny  region  oppo- 
site, may  enjoy  the  advantage  of 
finer  views,  and  hence  may  be  pre- 
ferred as  a  residence  during  summer. 

Though  fine  views  are  doubtless 
d  isirable,  we  cannot  always  place  a 
house  exactly  where  the  finest  views 
cun  be  commanded.  Objections  may 
or-cur  to  situations  that  at  first  sight 
appear  the  most  unexceptionable, 
and  which  can  only  be  known  to  one 
thoroughly  acquainted  with  all  the 
local  circumstances.  A  spot  of  un- 
e(  ualled  beauty  or  capability  may  be 
sc  placed  as  to  be  exposed  to  the  in- 
tolerable blasts  of  winter,  without 
th  9  possibility  of  obtaining  adequate 
shelter ;  or  it  may  be  exposed  to  oc- 
casional or  periodical  floods;  or  it 
miy  be  close  upon  the  extreme 
boundary  of  the  property,  and  over- 
looked by  the  residence  of  a  neigh- 
be  ur ;  or  there  may  be  extreme  diffi- 
culty  in  procuring  a  good  access  ;  or 
it  may  be  impossible  to  procure, 
what  is  of  the  first  necessity  to  the 
comfort  of  any  house,  a  command  of 
good  water.  In  all  these  and  various 
otl  ter  cases,  we  must  be  content  often 

VOL.  XXXIIX,  NO.  CCH. 


515 

to  sacrifice  some  portion  of  beauty 
and  ornament  to  comfort  and  utility. 
We  cannot  always  have  what  is  ab- 
solutely the  best,  but  must  often  be 
satisfied  with  what  is  the  best  upon 
the  whole,  or  the  best  that  we  are 
able  to  obtain  under  all  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case. 

In  cases  where  an  old  house  has 
stood,  which  is  to  be  taken  down,  it 
is  often  better  to  build  at  or  near  the 
same  spot,  than  to  go  in  search  of  a 
new  one,  though  possessing  greater 
advantages  of  view.  In  such  places 
there  is  generally  some  old  wood; 
and  in  a  country  where  old  wood  is 
rare,  and  where  wood  of  all  kinds  is 
slow  of  growth,  even  a  very  few  good 
old  trees  may  afford  a  reason  for 
building  in  their  vicinity,  although 
the  situation  in  other  respects  may 
not  be  the  best. 

The  remarks  that  have  been  made 
on  situations  by  the  banks  of  rivers, 
may  apply  to  almost  every  other  in 
this  northern  part  of  the  kingdom. 
What  has  been  said  of  the  banks  of  a 
river,  is  equally  true  of  the  sides  of 
a  glen  or  strath,  or  the  shores  of  a 
loch  of  fresh  or  salt  water,  or  of  afirth, 
or  even  of  the  ocean  itself.  The  rules 
for  placing  a  house  in  all  cases  are  the 
same — raise  your  house  sufficiently 
above  the  floods,  and  shelter  it  suffi- 
ciently from  the  storm.  If  you  do 
these,  you  cannot  go  wrong.  At- 
tending to  these  two  cardinal  rules, 
you  may  look  out  for  such  spots,  as 
shall  both  fulfil  these  requisites,  and 
at  the  same  time  afford  the  happiest 
combinations  of  hill  and  plain,  of 
rock,  wood,  and  water,  which  every- 
where abound  in  the  winding  vales 
of  Scotland;  and  when  you  have 
found  such  a  spot,  and  unalterably 
fixed  your  locality  by  building  your 
house,  then  study  the  capabilities 
and  accidents  of  the  situation  so  as 
to  improve  them  to  the  utmost,  and 
display  them  to  the  best  advantage. 

We  have  mentioned,  the  points  in 
which  the  scenery  of  Scotland,  gene- 
rally speaking,  differs  from  that  of 
England.  These  differences  are  such 
as  to  make  it  often  an  entirely  differ- 
ent operation  to  form  a  residence 
here,  from  what  it  is  in  the  southern 
parts  of  the  island.  We  may  men- 
tion as  an  instance  of  this,  what  all 
writers  on  English  gardening  seem 
to  consider  of  primary  importance, 
namely,  the  formation  of  a  lawn.  It  is 
2  L 


Scottish  Landscape. 


516 

properly  so  with  them,  for  in  a  flat 
country,  the  lawn  or  ground  imme- 
diately surrounding  a  house,  is  that 
which  most  directly  strikes  the  eye, 
and  the  improvement  or  decoration 
of  which  should  necessarily  occupy 
our  first  attention.  Where  all  is 
smooth  and  level,  and  no  prominent 
objects  appear  to  arrest  the  eye,  the 
sweep  or  turn  of  a  road,  the  position 
of  a  bridge  or  ornamental  summer- 
house,  the  disposition  and  grouping 
of  a  few  scattered  trees,  the  arrange- 
ment of  a  few  beds  of  exotics  or 
evergreens,  the  management  of  an 
enclosure  wall,  or  the  proper  placing 
of  a  few  vases  and  statues,  form  all 
the  variety  which  it  is  possible  to 
bring  within  our  view,  and  comprise 
the  whole  materiel  upon  which  the 
landscape  gardener  can  display  his 
art.  It  is  very  different  in  the  straths 
and  vales  of  Scotland,  where  we  are 
surrounded  on  all  sides  with  objects 
of  striking  and  enduring  magnitude ; 
where  nature  herself  has  furnished 
us  with  objects  which  make  the  puny 
inventions  of  man  dwindle  into  insig- 
nificance. Who  thinks  of  the  ac- 
companiments of  a  lawn,  by  the  banks 
of  the  Clyde  or  the  Tay,  or  amidst 
the  magnificence  of  the  Grampians  ? 
Even  among  hills  of  moderate  alti- 
tude, and  by  streams  of  far  inferior 
note,  our  attention  is  exclusively  at- 
tracted by  the  prominent  natural  fea- 
tures that  present  themselves,  and 
all  the  work  of  the  gardener,  all  the 
smoothing,  shaving,  levelling  and  roll- 
ing, which  have  been  bestowed  to 
clear  a  few  yards  of  flat  ground  oppo- 
site the  door,  dignified  by  the  name 
of  a  lawn,  goes  for  nothing,  is  never 
looked  at,  or  thought  of  but  as  so 
much  labour  thrown  away. 

For  this  reason,  we  shall  say  little 
or  nothing  of  lawns.  In  situations 
that  admit  of  lawns,  they  form  an 
agreeable  adjunct,  and  ought  to  be 
treated  accordingly ;  but  let  it  be  un- 
derstood, that  a  lawn  of  any  extent 
is  not  a  necessary  appendage  to  a  re- 
sidence in  Scotland.  In  many  hilly 
districts,  and  in  places  commanding 
the  finest  views,  and  the  best  adapted 
for  the  situation  of  a  mansion,  there 
is  not  to  be  found  much  more  level 
ground  than  is  necessary  for  a  site 
for  the  house  and  offices.  A  place  for 
a  kitchen  garden  may  sometimes  be 
found  with  difficulty,  but  a  lawn  is, 
in  such,  situations,  out  of  the  ques- 


[April, 


tion.  Where  this  is  the  case,  we 
would  seriously  recommend  it  as 
worthy  of  consideration,  whether  it 
would  not  be  advisable,  where  the 
form  of  the  ground  is  favourable  for 
it,  to  recur  to  the  old  style  of  deco- 
ration,by  means  of  terraces  and  steps. 
It  occurs  to  us,  that  in  many  situa- 
tions, where  a  mansion  has  to  be 
placed  on  the  declivity  of  a  hill,  this 
is  the  most  appropriate,  and  by  far 
the  handsomest  and  most  graceful 
mode  of  disposing  the  ground  in 
front  of  the  house.  So  far  are  we 
from  thinking  that  its  stiff  and  artifi- 
cial appearance  would  be  offensive, 
— on  the  contrary,  it  occurs  to  us  that 
this  very  stiffness  is  a  recommenda- 
tion, being  at  once  in  harmony  with 
the  buildings,  and  contrasting  well 
with  the  ruder  and  more  striking  fea- 
tures of  the  surrounding  country. 

We  would  also  be  disposed  to  leave 
out  an  entire  chapter,  which  forms  a 
very  considerable  one  in  the  works 
on  English  gardening.  We  allude  to 
the  formation  of  artificial  lakes  and 
ponds.  Whatever  may  be  the  case 
in  some  rare  instances,  as  at  Blen- 
heim, where  a  great  improvement 
has  certainly  been  effected,  by  dam- 
ming up  the  waters  of  a  rivulet,  we 
would  be  disposed  to  say,  in  general, 
that  attempts  of  this  kind  very  sel- 
dom succeed;  and  that  the  effects 
produced  are  not  likely  to  repay  the 
vast  labour,  expense,  and  sacrifices 
of  various  kinds,  which  must  be  made 
in  order  to  obtain  them.  In  Scotland, 
there  are  objections  to  such  attempts 
peculiar  to  the  country  itself;  for  as 
Scotland  possesses  so  many  splendid 
natural  lakes,  surrounded  with  every 
variety  of  romantic  scenery, — many 
of  which  have  been  chosen  as  sites 
of  residences, — from  the  humblest 
ornamented  cottage  or  villa,  up  to 
the  most  splendid  ducal  palace — 
every  attempt  at  forming  a  lake  in 
such  a  country,  where  such  objects 
are  familiar,  must  appear  an  absurd- 
ity. When  a  great  pond  or  sheet  of 
water  is  to  be  formed,  at  any  rate,  for 
some  useful  purpose, — as,  for  in- 
stance, to  supply  a  canal,  or  to  form 
a  compensation  to  mills  or  the  like, 
it  may  be  taken  advantage  of,  and, 
if  the  adjoining  scenery  harmonizes 
with  it,  may  be  adopted  as  an  orna- 
mental feature  in  the  landscape,  or, 
at  any  rate,  may  be  prevented  from 
being  offensive.  The  utility  of  the 


[833.] 


Scottish  Landscape. 


purpose  in  such  cases  removes  any 
idea  of  the  preposterousness  or  folly 
of  such  an  undertaking;  but  in  no 
rase  whatever,  even  under  the  most 
favourable  circumstances,  would  we 
i  dvise  any  improver  of  grounds  to 
attempt  the  formation  of  an  artificial 
like,  for  the  sake  of  ornament  alone. 
We  have  never  seen  any  thing  of  the 
kind  in  Scotland  that  has  appeared 
t«>  us  at  all  tolerable  ;  and  we  would 
almost  as  soon  advise,  as  an  improve- 
ment of  Scottish  landscape,  the  in- 
troduction of  an  artificial  mountain 
a:*  an  artificial  lake. 

Holding,  then,  as  we  are  disposed 
tc  do,  the  two  great  elements  of  land 
and  water,  in  all  their  forms  of  hill 
01-  mountain,  valley  or  strath,  river 
or  lake,  to  be  in  themselves  unalter- 
able— at  least,  that  they  are  to  be 
considered  so  when  speaking  of  Scot- 
tis  h  scenery — it  follows,  that  the  art 
of  improving  landscapes  in  this  part 
of  the  world  must  be  almost  entirely 
limited  to  the  management  of  wood. 
And  let  it  not  be  supposed,  that  even 
when  so  limited,  the  art  is  either  in- 
significant in  itself,  or  of  small  con- 
sequence in  regard  to  its  effects.  As 
a  tree  is,  beyond  all  comparison,  the 
greatest  and  noblest  production  of 
tho  vegetable  kingdom,  the  study  of 
its  nature,  and  of  all  that  is  neces- 
sary for  its  successful  cultivation,  is 
on  3  of  the  most  interesting  branches 
of  knowledge,  and  none  can  be  better 
suited  to  employ  the  leisure  of  an 
active  and  intelligent  country  gentle- 
man. We  can  hardly,  indeed,  con- 
ceive any  object  better  deserving  at- 
tention, or  more  fitted  to  furnish  at 
all  times  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
ent  ertainment  and  delight. 

We  do  not  mean  here  to  enter  into 
the  subject  of  planting  for  profit, 
tho3gh  this  is  a  matter  which  cannot 
we  I  be  overlooked  by  any  one  who 
pla  its  at  all.  We  speak  of  woods 
chi  ;fly  as  matter  of  ornament ;  but 
it  iortunately  happens,  that  those 
modes  of  cultivation  which  are  cal- 
culated to  render  wood  most  profit- 
abl< ,  are  in  general  precisely  those 
which  render  it  most  ornamental. 
Every  tree,  in  order  to  attain  to  its 
grei  test  size  and  perfection,  should 
be  }  lanted  in  a  soil  and  in  a  situation 
congenial  to  its  nature  and  habits. 
It  is  by  this  means  only  that  it  be- 
comss  valuable  as  an  article  of  com- 
mer  ;e ;  and  it  is  needless  to  say,  it 


517 

is  thus  that  it  attains  its  greatest 
splendour  and  beauty. 

It  might  be  thought,  that  in  a  coun- 
try of  mountains  and  vallies,  the  ma- 
nagement of  wood  would  be  more 
difficult,  and  that  its  effect,  in  an  or- 
namental point  of  view,  would  be 
less  than  in  a  plain,  where  there  are 
fewer  grand  and  distinctive  features 
of  landscape;  but  the  fact  is  precisely 
the  reverse.  In  hilly  and  rugged 
countries,  the  effect  of  judicious 
planting  is  incomparably  greater  than 
in  one  that  is  flat  and  level.  One 
great  advantage  in  the  former  case 
is,  that  the  effect  of  planting  is  here 
almost  immediate.  In  a  plain  coun- 
try, wood  does  not  become  an  object 
of  consequence  till  the  trees  have 
attained  a  considerable  size;  but  a 
hanging  wood  on  the  steep  side  of  a 
mountain  produces  an  effect  within 
a  very  few  years  after  it  is  planted. 
In  the  course  of  five  or  six  seasons, 
or  as  soon  as  the  plants  come  to  a 
size  sufficient  to  cover  the  ground, 
the  new  plantation  is  already  an  im- 
portant object,  not  merely  in  its  own 
immediate  vicinity,  but  highly  orna- 
mental to  the  district  in  every  point 
from  which  it  can  be  seen. 

In  level  countries,  it  is  often  mat- 
ter of  great  difficulty  to  determine 
the  sweep  and  outline  of  plantations 
— there  being  no  natural  features  to 
guide  the  eye,  or  direct  our  endea- 
vours to  throw  the  plantations  into 
natural  and  picturesque  forms.  But 
among  the  hills,  there  is  scarcely  a 
possibility  of  going  wrong  in  this  re- 
spect. We  have  only  to  plant  such 
ground  as  is  suited  for  wood,  and 
not  so  well  suited  for  any  thing  else; 
and  if  we  follow  this  rule,  we  shall 
find  that  our  plantations  naturally 
assume  those  forms  which  are  most 
picturesque,  and  that  all  formality  is 
effectually  excluded.  For  instance, 
where,  as  in  many  hilly  tracts,  the 
mountains  are  rocky  in  their  sides 
and  summits,  with  a  considerable 
depth  of  soil  towards  the  bottoms, 
washed  down  by  rains  from  the  su- 
perior parts,  and  with  here  and  there 
gutters  formed  by  the  action  of  moun- 
tain streams, — it  is  here  almost  im- 
possible to  follow  any  rule  but  one. 
Beginning  at  the  line  where  the 
mountainmeets  the  valley, and  where 
the  soil,  though  steep,  is  sure  to  be 
well  adapted  for  wood,  plant  up- 
wards, as  far  as  you  can  go,  with  fo- 


Scottish  Landscape. 


[April, 


rest  trees.  Beyond  that,  in  the  cre- 
vices of  the  rocks,  plant  brushwood 
and  low-growing  trees  of  the  hardier 
kinds,  for  copse  and  scattered  bushes ; 
and  even  among  the  rocks  themselves, 
ivy  and  other  creepers  may  be  intro- 
duced. Plant  your  gullies  on  both 
sides — you  will  there  sometimes  find 
an  extraordinary  depth  of  soil,  well 
fitted  for  rearing  all  kinds  of  wood. 
If,  as  is  commonly  the  case,  some 
level  grounds  are  found  at  the  base 
of  the  hills,  such  as  are  in  Scotland 
called  haughs,  skirting  the  margin  of 
a  river,  these  ought  not  to  be  planted, 
but  reserved  for  cultivation  or  pas- 
ture. 

If  the  hills  ascend  more  gradually, 
and  present  a  succession  of  gentle 
swells  and  eminences,  a  little  more 
variety  may  be  introduced.  The 
steeper  parts  may  be  planted  as  before, 
and  such  as  are  most  fitted  for  it  may 
be  entirely  covered  with  wood.  In 
cases  where  a  low  round  hill  occurs 
among  others  that  are  high  and  rocky, 
we  have  seen  it  have  a  good  effect 
to  plant  the  low  eminence  entirely 
with  wood,  as  it  forms  a  fine  contrast 
with  the  bare  and  rocky  summits 
towering  above  it.  In  other  cases, 
it  may  have  a  good  effect  to  leave 
the  sloping  sides  of  an  eminence  in 
pasture,  or  laid  out  in  corn-fields, 
and  cover  its  top  with  a  crown  of 
firs,  which,  by  its  dark  and  sombre 
hue,  contrasts  well  with  the  more 
cheerful  colours  of  the  slopes  below. 
In  a  third  case,  an  eminence  may  be 
surrounded  by  a  belt  suited  to  the 
elope  of  the  ground,  and  the  flat  top 
left  open,  or  it  may  have  a  good  ef- 
fect to  leave  two  or  three  green 
knolls  covered  only  with  the  verdant 
turf,  and  merely  divided  by  planting 
up  the  hollows  between  them. 

In  most  valleys,  the  ground  next  to 
the  river  consists  of  alluvial  soil,  form- 
ed by  the  gradual  deposition  of  floods. 
This  is  in  general  the  richest  and 
most  productive  land  in  the  country, 
and  is  too  valuable  to  be  planted; 
and  it  is  fortunate  that  it  is  so,  in  an 
ornamental  point  of  view,  as  it  is 
highly  desirable,  for  the  sake  of 
beauty,  that  these  richbottoms  should 
be  kept  comparatively  open.  This, 
however,  does  not  prevent,  when  the 
breadth  of  the  valley  admits,  the 
planting  of  hedge-rows,  or  detached 
timber,  in  proper  situations,  which 
both  gives  variety  to  the  views,  and 


helps  to  break  the  force  of  the  winds, 
which,  as  we  formerly  mentioned, 
often  sweep  with  great  violence  along 
the  hollow  of  a  Scottish  strath.  In 
the  case  of  some  of  the  larger  rivers, 
where  the  adjacent  grounds  are  suf- 
ficiently raised  to  be  beyond  the  reach 
of  floods,  it  may  be  desirable  to  plant 
the  steep  margins  of  the  river  with 
fringes  of  wood,  which,  from  the 
windings  and  natural  bends  they  af- 
ford, cannot  fail  to  furnish  many 
beautiful  effects.  In  other  cases, 
where  the  haughs  or  grounds  next 
the  river  are  annually  overflowed, 
the  sides  of  the  valley  often  present 
a  kind  of  natural  terrace — a  short  but 
steep  ascent  or  bank,  of  nearly  uni- 
form heightjSometimes  continued  for 
miles.  It  has  an  exceedingly  good 
effect,  in  all  cases,  to  plant  these  steep 
banks,  leaving  the  level  ground  be- 
low, and  the  gentler  slopes  above 
them,  open,  or  divided  into  fields  by 
hedge-rows.  The  banks  we  allude 
to  are  not  fit  for  any  thing  but  plant- 
ing ;  and  in  this  way  laud  otherwise 
useless  can  be  made  to  produce  a 
most  profitable  crop,  while  in  no  si- 
tuation is  it  possible  to  produce  so 
great  an  effect  with  wood  at  so  small 
an  expense.  Economy  and  taste 
therefore  join  in  recommending  the 
practice. 

It  is  obvious,  that  by  following  the 
course  that  is  here  pointed  out,  it  is 
easily  possible,  without  sacrificing  a 
single  acre  of  really  good  andcultiva- 
bleland,to  introduce  an  extraordinary 
improvementnotmerely  into  detach- 
ed spots,  but  whole  districts  of  coun- 
try. Indeed,  in  a  great  many  parts  of 
Scotland,  this  has  already  been  done ; 
need  I  do  more  than  allude  to  the 
valleys  of  the  Nith,  the  Clyde,  and 
the  Tweed,  and  some  of  their  tribu- 
tary streams  ?  In  some,  the  planta- 
tions upon  their  banks  have  been 
made  at  so  remote  a  period,  that  we 
hardly  think  of  the  time  when  they 
did  not  exist,  and  look  upon  the 
beautiful  scenery  which  we  see,  as 
naturally  belonging  to  the  country 
through  which  we  are  travelling; 
instead  of  what  is  really  the  case, 
that  it  is  the  effect  of  many  successive 
improvements,  continued  through  a 
great  length  of  time,  and  by  succes- 
sive generations.  In  other  cases, 
we  find  such  improvements  actually 
in  a  state  of  progress.  In  some  rare 
cases,  we  find  the  most  splendid 


1833.] 


Scottish  Landscape. 


610 


scenes  created,  as  by  art  magic,  in 
the  course  of  our  own  recollection, 
indby  the  efforts  of  one  enterprising 
individual. 

Hardly  in  any  case  whatever  has 
.he  utmost  been  done  that  might  be 
done;  and  what  has  been  ever  ac- 
complished in  one  case,  might,  with 
;i  little  immediate  trouble  and  ex- 
pense— but  ultimately  with  great 
$;ain — be  accomplished  in  all.  Give 
us  any  sort  of  a  river,  with  banks  of 
i .uy  description  you  please,  whether 
rocky  or  level,  steep  or  gently  slo- 
ping, and  give  us  the  necessary  com- 
iiand  of  land  and  funds,  and  we 
vould  undertake,  by  means  of  wood, 
j  idiciously  and  economically  plant- 
ed, to  produce,  in  no  very  long 
period  of  years,  a  series  of  scenes  of 
s  jrpassing  beauty. 

It  will  be  seen  from  this,  that  our 
o  )ject  is  much  more  extensive  and 
v  ist,  than  the  mere  decoration  of  the 
g ••ounds  of  one  individual  residence, 
or  to  bring  out  the  beauties  of  a  single 
spot,  from  which  the  public  at  large 
a  e  to  be  carefully  excluded.  We 
leave  this  to  the  'capability  men, 
whose  profession  it  is,  and  we  wish 
tl  em  all  sort  of  success  in  their 
labours,  which,  as  far  as  they  go,  are 
highly  useful  and  meritorious.  We, 
on  the  contrary,  aim  at  nothing  less 
than  the  general  improvement  and 
dc  coration  of  the  whole  country;  we 
w'.sh  to  bring  out  the  capabilities  of 
tli3  whole  of  Scotland — to  exhibit 
lur  beauties,  not  to  the  rich  and 
gr  aat  only,  but  to  the  poorest  peasant 
w"io  treads  her  soil — to  delight  the 
eyes  and  gratify  the  feelings,  the 
se  ises,  and  the  understandings  of  the 
humblest  traveller  who  plods  his 
weary  way  along  our  high-roads, 
ov3r  our  trackless  mountains,  or 
through  our  devious  glens. 

vVe  wish  that  we  were  endowed 
wi  h  the  persuasive  genius  of  our 
na  ive  bard,  who,  by  the  petition 
ad  Iressed  by  him,  in  name  of  Bruar 
Water,  to  his  Grace  of  Athol,  induced 
th£  t  revered  and  patriotic  nobleman 
to  :lothe  its  waste  and  sterile  banks 
wit 'a  a  graceful  covering  of  wood. 
W<  would  address  to  all  who  have 
the  power — to  every  proprietor  of 
soil  throughout  broad  Scotland,  from 
the  humblest  portioner  of  the  hum- 
ble >t  village,  up  to  the  lord  of  mil- 
MOLS,  whose  possessions  extend  from 
sea  to  sea,  this  exhortation— plant ! 


plant!  plant!  If  you  would  improve 
and  beautify  your  estate,  plant !  If 
you  would  improve  and  beautify 
your  country,  plant !  If  you  would 
enjoy  the  greatest  and  the  purest  of 
all  pleasures,  plant !  If  you  would 
increase  the  comfort,  the  wealth, 
and  the  happiness  of  your  children's 
children,  plant  !  In  short,  our  advice 
would  be  that  of  old  Dumbiedykes 
What  he  said  on  his  death-bed  to  his 
son  Jock,  we  would  say  to  one  and 
all :  "  Whenever  you  have  naething 
else  to  do,  aye  be  sticking  in  a  tree : 
it  will  |,be  growing  when  ye  are 
sleeping." 

This  subject  is  one  of  the  utmost 
importance ;  and  we  might  enforce 
our  doctrine  by  more  and  greater 
arguments  than  we  have  time  or 
space  to  introduce  in  this  slight 
essay.  Let  us  not  lay  the  flatter- 
ing unction  to  our  souls,  because 
Scotland  is  not  now  in  the  condition, 
in  which  it  was  in  the  days  of  Dr 
Johnson;  because  we  have,  though 
exceedingly  angry  at  his  sarcasms, 
wisely  profited  by  them,  and  planted 
much  within  the  last  half  century, 
that  therefore  we  have  done  enough 
and  planted  enough;  and  that  we 
may  now  rest  from  this  species  of 
labour.  We  say,  not  the  half—not 
the  tenth  part  has  been  done,  that 
the  country  would  require,  either  in 
point  of  ornament  or  shelter,  or  for 
the  purposes  of  commerce.  Is  it  not 
strange,  that  with  so  much  land,  fitted 
exclusively  for  the  growth  of  wood, 
as  Scotland  possesses,  she  does  not 
possess  as  much  oak  at  this  moment 
as  would  serve  our  dockyards  for  a 
single  year;  and  that  all  the  wood 
used  within  the  kingdom,  in  the  con- 
struction of  any  dwelling  above  the 
poorest  cottage,  must  necessarily  be 
brought  from  a  foreign  country  ? 

But  to  return  from  this  digression 
— next  to  planting,  the  next  neces- 
sary part  of  the  management  and 
rearing  of  woods,  both  with  a  view 
to  ornament  and  utility,  is  thinning. 
If  our  exhortation  to  proprietors  is 
toplant,  our  exhortation  to  those  who 
have  planted,  or  who  have  woods 
left  to  their  care,  which  have  been, 
planted  by  others,  is — cut,  cut,  cut! 
If  we  have  erred  in  not  sufficiently 
planting,  we  have  equally,  perhaps 
even  more  atrociously  erred,  in  not 
sufficiently  thinning.  In  order  to 
understand  the  benefits,  or  rather 


520  Scottish  Landscape.  [April, 

tlie  necessity  of  thinning,  it  is  quite    attained  a  greater  age  and  large  size, 


unnecessary  to  go  very  deep  into  the 
study  of  the  physiology  of  plants, 
the  doctrine  of  the  ascent  of  the  sap 
in  trees,  its  elaboration  by  the  leaves, 
which  are  the  lungs  of  the  plant,  or 
its  descent  to  lay  a  deposit  of  woody 
fibre.  It  is  enough  to  know,  that  no 
tree  can  thrive  without  having  room 
to  spread  its  roots  below  and  its 
branches  above.  The  one  is  neces- 
sary for  collecting  its  appropriate 
food  from  the  juices  of  the  soil  j  the 
other  for  converting  that  food  into 
nourishment,  for  the  promotion  of 
its  growth.  Neither  of  these  objects 
can  be  attained,  if  the  tree  is  cramped 
and  confined  by  other  trees  in  its 
neighbourhood.  The  proper  rule  in 
all  cases  is— look  at  the  branches, 
and  see  that  they  do  not  touch,  or 
press  upon  the  other  trees  around. 
If  they  do  not,  then  there  is  reason 
to  believe  that  the  tree  has  room  to 
spread  its  roots;  for  the  roots  in 
general  spread  below,  nearly  in  the 
same  extent  as  the  branches  above. 
But  if  the  branches  are  pressed  above, 
then  we  may  be  satisfied  that  it  is 
necessary  to  thin. 

Many  people  think  it  necessary 
that  woods  should  be  more  close 
and  thick  in  exposed  than  in  shelter- 
ed situations ;  but  the  very  reverse 
of  this  is  the  case.  In  exposed  and 
high  situations,  the  trees  require 
more  head  room  than  in  those  which 
are  low  and  sheltered,  being  not  only 
hurt  by  touching  and  pressing  on 
each  other,  but  also  by  their  lashing 
one  another  with  their  branches  du- 
ring violent  winds.  In  such  places, 
therefore,  they  require  more  than  in 
any  other  to  stand  in  "  open  order," 
not  merely  that  they  may  not  touch, 
but  that  they  may  have  room  to  play 
without  injury,  during  the  prevalence 
of  tempests. 


the  cutting  of  every  tree  is  a  matter 
of  some  importance,  and  there  is 
often  occasion  of  doubt  which  of  two 
trees,  standing  too  near  each  other, 
ought  to  be  cut,  and  which  ought  to 
be  left.  In  ornamental  wood  near  a 
residence,  this  is  a  matter  upon 
which  a  proprietor  alone  can  pro- 
perly decide.  The  office  is  too  re- 
sponsible to  be  committed  to  a  coun- 
try carpenter  or  overseer. 

No  rules  can  be  given  for  the  thin- 
ning of  ornamental  wood.  Every 
thing  depends  on  the  circumstances, 
the  situation,  the  object  in  view. 
Let  a  plan  be  formed,  and  let  it  be 
considered  whether  we  wish  to  have 
a  wood  as  close  as  the  trees  will 
grow,  or  an  open  grove  with  glades 
and  vistas,  and  the  trees  thrown  into 
groups,  or  merely  detached  trees 
and  open  dispositions  to  afford  va- 
riety to  a  lawn.  We  must  consider 
before  we  make  an  opening,  what 
will  be  its  form  and  effect,  and  what 
objects  will  be  seen  through  and  be- 
hind it.  A  wood  before  it  is  thinned 
is  like  a  block  of  marble,  from  which 
a  vast  variety  of  figures  may  be  cut ; 
and  we  are  to  consider  ourselves  as 
artists,  working  not  with  the  insigni- 
ficant tools  of  man's  invention,  but 
with  the  mighty  materials  of  nature. 
The  art  is  not  to  be  practised  with 
advantage  without  a  knowledge  of 
landscape  painting,  and  a  familiarity 
with  the  effects  exhibited  in  the 
works  of  the  best  masters  in  that 
department.  It  even  affords  room 
for  the  exercise  of  genius,  or  that 
species  of  taste  which  is  akin  to  ge- 
nius, not  less  so  perhaps  than  the 


kindred  art  of  the  painter.  In  prac- 
tice, it  requires  no  little  study  and 
no  small  degree  of  consideration.  In 
cases  where  it  is  practised  with  suc- 
cess, it  affords  the  highest  degree 

The  operation  of  thinning  is  a  la-    of  delight.    When  a  plan  has  been 
borious  one,  and  where  woods  are    carefully  formed,  and  is  steadily  car- 
extensive  requires  constant,  assidu- 
ous, persevering  exertion,  year  after 
year.  It  also  requires  judgment,  and, 
where  ornament  and  beauty  are  ob- 


jects to  be  attended  to,  no  small  por- 
tion of  taste.  Among  younger  woods, 
the  choice  of  plants  to  be  left  and  to 
be  cut,  is  comparatively  easy,  the 
object  being  to  cut  the  feeble,  the 
sickly,  the  ill-grown,  the  deformed, 
and  leave  the  healthy  and  more  per- 
fect plants.  But  when  the  wood  has 


ried  into  execution,  we  have  our- 
selves (for  we  have  been  amateurs 
in  the  art  in  a  small  way)  experien- 
ced the  satisfaction,  the  surprise,  al- 
most the  ecstasy,  which  attend  its 
successful  evolution—  when  one  after 
another  of  the  obstructions  is  re- 
moved, and  one  after  another  of  our 
favourite  objects  is  seen  for  the 
first  time  in  its  proper  point  of  view, 
until  the  whole  scene  which  had 
been  preconceived  by  the  prophetic 


1833.]  Scottish 

eye  of  taste,  is  made  to  stand  forth 
entire  in  all  its  completeness  and  all 
its  loveliness. 

Besides  the  other  qualities  which 
the  successful  performance  of  thin- 
ning requires,  no  one  is  more  neces- 
sary than  a  certain  species  of  cour- 
age and  firmness.  In  order  to  carry 
into  execution  a  plan  of  uniform 
character,  such  as  every  plan  for  the 
improvement  of  landscape  scenery 
ought  to  be,  it  will  often  be  neces- 
sary to  doom  to  the  axe  many  a 
beautiful  and  promising  plant ;  and 
misgivings  may  sometimes  come  over 
the  mind  of  the  sternest  improver, 
whether  he  is  really  pursuing  the 
proper  course — whether  another  and 
a  more  beautiful  picture  might  not 
be  formed,  by  leaving  another  class 
of  objects,  and  by  cutting  out  some 
that  he  has  determined  to  spare.  He 
nay  have  many  doubts,  whether  he 
;hould  leave  in  one  spot  a  handsome 
oeech  or  plane,  or  a  promising  and 
•  hriving  oak.  He  may  even  be  sorely 
v.ried  by  the  petitions  and  solicita- 
lioiis  of  the  young  and  the  fair,  to 
(pare  this  or  that  favourite  which  he 
lias  doomed  to  destruction,  and  of 
^vhich  his  plan  demands  the  entire 
i  emoval.  But  after  all,  the  decision 
must  be  made;  the  resolution,  once 
cautiously  formed,  must  be  adhered 
to;  the  directing  mind  must  throw 
i  side  all  these  weak  compunctious 
^isitings;  and  his  commands,  once 
i  ssued,  must  be  absolute  and  despo- 
tic. 

In  cutting,  we  are  not  merely  to 
c  onsider  the  immediate  effect.  We 
are  to  consider  that  a  tree  never 
s  ;ands  still.  We  must  not  limit  our 
v  lew  to/the  present,  but  look  forward 
ft)  what  is  to  be  the  result  of  future 
growth.  Keeping  this  in  view,  an 
experienced  woodman  will  often 
find  it  necessary  or  expedient  to 
c  irry  the  thinning  operation  farther 
tl  an  the  mere  landscape  amateur, 
ji  dgingfrom  immediate  effect,  would 
d  jsire.  He  is  not  alarmed,  in  thin- 
n  ng  a  young  and  thriving  wood, 
^n  hen  he  finds  that  the  removal  of  a 
p  irticular  tree  or  trees  has  left  rather 
a  larger  gap  than  he  had  anticipated, 
o:  that  some  of  his  newly  thinned 
tiaes  are  rather  more  bare  of 
bi  anches  than  a  lover  of  beauty 
WDuld  desire.  He  knows  that  in  a 
fe  w  years  at  the  most  these  apparent 
d<  fects  will  disappear,  that  the 


Landscape. 


521 


growth  of  one  or  two  seasons  will 
be  sufficient  to  remove  much  of  this 
bareness,  fill  up  the  unsightly  gaps, 
give  a  fulness  and  roundness  to  the 
forms,  take  away  the  hard  and  raw 
effect  of  recent  cutting,  and  restore 
the  rich  and  harmonious  appearance 
of  old  and  natural  wood. 

One  important  matter  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  a  country  residence, 
must  always  be  the  walks.  The 
formation  of  these  must  go  hand  and 
hand  with  every  thing  else.  It  is  al- 
ways desirable,  in  laying  out  new- 
plantations,  to  leave  walks  or  drives 
through  them,  by  which  they  may 
be  accessible  at  all  times,  so  that 
their  state  and  progress  may  be  more 
easily  ascertained,  and  so  as  shelter- 
ed walks  may  be  had  as  soon  as  they 
come  to  increase  in  growth.  Some- 
times, when  this  has  been  neglected, 
or  when  the  original  walks  are  found 
insufficient,  it  is  necessary  to  cut 
new  ones.  In  all  cases  the  object  is 
the  same,  to  obtain  an  easy  access 
through  the  most  beautiful  parts  of 
the  grounds,  and  particularly  to  those 
points  where  the  best  and  most  ex- 
tensive views  are  to  be  had,  or  where 
any  particular  scene  or  object  exists 
that  may  deserve  the  attention  of  a 
visitor.  With  this  view,  paths  should 
be  cut  in  a  winding  manner,  and 
with  an  easy  ascent,  so  as  to  afford 
access  to  the  highest  wooded  pro- 
minences in  the  hills.  It  will  gene- 
rally be  desirable  to  have  these  ter- 
minated by  a  seat,  where  an  opening 
may  be  made  in  the  wood  to  afford  a 
view ;  and  seats  may  be  disposed  at 
various  points,  so  as  to  afford  at  the 
same  time  rest  to  the  weary,  and  va- 
riety of  prospect  to  lovers  of  the  pic- 
turesque. The  banks  of  a  river 
ought  in  all  cases  to  be  made  acces- 
sible by  some  kind  of  walk  or  road ; 
and  every  steep  bank,  or  hanging 
wood,  should  be  intersected  with 
walks  in  all  directions.  These  paths 
through  the  woods  should  not  be 
made  like  garden  walks,  covered 
with  gravel,  and  kept  trim  by  the 
hoe  and  the  roller.  The  expense  of 
keeping  walks  in  this  style,  if  they 
are  as  extensive  as  we  would  wish 
them  to  be,  is  quite  enormous ;  and 
putting  expense  out  of  the  question, 
they  are  not  in  character  with  wood- 
land scenery,  which  ought  to  be  na- 
tural and  easy,  not  associated  with 
the  idea  of  any  great  labour  in  the 


SS9 


keeping.  We  \vould  have  them,  both 
on  the  score  of  economy  and  taste, 
to  resemble  as  much  as  possible  the 
ordinary*  footpaths,  formed  by  the 
passage  of  the  country  people  and 
labourers ;  and  the  only  way  we 
know  of  making  them  look  like  this, 
is  that  they  should  actually  be  so. 
We  have  no  idea  of  that  dull  aristo- 
cratic and  selfish  spirit  which  would 
exclude  servants  and  labourers  from 
the  grounds  of  a  gentleman  or  noble- 
man's place.  On  the  contrary,  if  we 
had  a  place  of  our  own,  the  greater 
and  more  splendid  it  might  be,  we 
would  think  it  the  more  desirable 
that  its  beauties  should  be  seen  and 
appreciated  by  all  and  sundry.  We 
would  think  that  our  lawns  and 
walks  acquired  an  accession  of 
cheerfulness  by  the  occasional  ap- 
pearance of  human  figures  gliding 
among  the  trees,  or  appearing 
through  the  openings.  We  would 
have  no  objection,  and  would  even 
enjoy,  to  hear  amidst  these  scenes 

"  The  ploughman's  whistle,  or  the  milk- 
maid's song ;" 

and  hard  would  be  his  heart  who 
would  refuse  the  accommodation  of 
a  rustic  seat  to  "  talking  age  or  whis- 
pering lovers."  We  would  delight  to 
see  the  sons  and  daughters  of  labour, 
upon  the  morning  or  afternoon  of 
their  weekly  holydays,  coming  in 
little  parties  and  in  their  best  array, 
with  content  in  their  looks  and  re- 
spect in  their  demeanour,  to  survey 
the  beauties  which  nature  has  spread, 
and  which  should  be  enjoyed  alike 
by  all. 

By  allowing  your  walks  and  foot- 
paths through  the  woods  to  be  used 
by  the  labourers,  in  going  to  and  re- 
turning from  their  work,  they  will 
be  kept  plain  and  beaten,  and  just  in 
that  state  that  is  desirable  for  a  foot- 
path. If  not  used  in  this  way,  they 
will  soon  become  overgrown  with 
grass  and  weeds,  and  will  require  to 
be  cleaned  two  or  three  times  a-year 
by  hand  labour,  an  expense  which 
will  be  almost  entirely  saved  by  fol- 
lowing the  simple  plan  we  have 
mentioned.  Nothing  more  will  be 
necessary  than  to  go  over  them  once 
a-year,  and  repair  any  little  damage 
that  accident  may  have  occasioned, 
by  removing  stones  and  other  rub- 
bish which  may  have  fallen  down 
upon  them ;  for  this  a  very  little  at- 


Scottisfi  Landscape.  [April, 

tention  will  suffice,after  the  paths  are 
once  brought  into  a  proper  state. 

There  is  one  feature  in  scenery, 
which  has  received  little  or  no  atten- 
tion from  our  professed  landscape 
improvers,  but  which  it  would  be 
unpardonable  to  omit  in  any  account 
professing  to  treat  of  the  scenery 
and  landscape  of  Scotland.  We  al- 
lude to  the  glens  and  ravines,  with 
which  almost  every  part  of  the  coun- 
try abounds,  both  in  the  Highlands 
and  Lowlands,  formed  by  the  narrow 
beds  and  more  or  less  precipitous 
banks  of  those  innumerable  rivulets 
and  mountain  streams,  by  which  the 
hilly  grounds  are  everywhere  in- 
dented and  intersected.  The  charac- 
ters of  these  glens  are  as  diverse  as 
that  of  the  countries  they  intersect, 


varying  from  the  mildest  and  richest 
beauty,  up  to  the  sublime  of  savage 
horror.  Rock,  wood,  and  water, 
form  the  materials  of  them  all,  but 
these  are  combined  in  a  variety  that 
may  well  be  called  infinite.  In  Glen- 
coe,  we  see  every  variety  of  rugged 
and  precipitous  rocks,  frowning 
around  in  terrific  majesty.  In  the 
ravine  of  the  Foyers,  this  is  combined 
with  the  rush  and  roar  of  mighty 
cataracts.  Less  terrific  than  these, 
are  the  ravine  and  falls  already  men- 
tioned of  Bruar,  the  Cauldron  Linn 
upon  the  Devon,  and  various  parts  of 
Glen  Tilt,  where  the  scenes  formed 
by  precipitous  rocks  and  foaming 
waterfalls,  are  softened  and  shaded 
by  overhanging  woods  and  vocal 
groves.  From  these  we  pass  to  the 
fairy  bowers  of  Moness,  the  far-fa- 
med Birks  of  Aberfeldy,  the  descrip- 
tion of  which  by  our  rustic  bard  is 
not  more  poetical  than  literally  cor- 
rect. 

••Jj&iq  vfrqo  :>iiaiiitoiq 

«  The  braes  ascend  like  lofty  wa'*  aJf 
The  foaming  stream  deep  roaring  fa's, 
O'erhung  wi'  fragrant  spreading  shaws, 
The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy.       Jud 

'isu&rf  IG  ; 

"  The  hoary  cliffs  arecrown'd  \vi'  flowers, 
White  o'er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 
And  rising  weets  wi'  misty  showers 
The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy." 

From  these  scenes,  in  which  the 
sublime  and  the  picturesque  are 
blended  in  happiest  union  with  the 
beautiful,  we  may  descend,  without 
much  feeling  of  regret,  to  those 
quieter  scenes  of  gentle  beauty  to 
be  found  so  often  in  the  deep  wind- 


1833.] 


Scottish  Landscape. 


ings  of  our  lowland  valleys.    Need 
we  do  more  than  mention  the  classic 
retreats   of  lloslin  and  Hawthorn- 
den?     These  are  well  known,  and 
generally  visited  by  all  strangers  of 
taste;  but  they  are  merely  a  speci- 
men, a  favourable  one  perhaps,  of  a 
kind  of  scenery  which,  to  one  who 
is  fond  of  exploring  nature's  secret 
haunts,  may  be  found  in  hundreds 
and  thousands  of  places  in  the  Scot- 
tish lowlands,  many  of  which  are 
little  known  or  heard  of  e^en  among 
those  who  live  within  a  few  miles 
of  them.  One  such  we  know,  which, 
without  any  pretensions  to  grandeur 
of  character,  or  greatness  of  dimen- 
sion, contains  within  a  very  narrow 
space,  almost  every  variety  of  pic- 
turesque beauty.    In  one  turn  of  the 
valley,  the  rivulet  winds  round  a 
mass  of  rock,  forming  a  peninsula, 
on  which  grows  and  flourishes  a  vi- 
gorous oak,  fed  by  the  scanty  soil 
with  which  the  rock  is  covered ; 
while   other  aged   trees,  spreading 
;heir    branches    over    the    rushing 
stream,  form  a  grateful  shade  imper- 
vious even  at  noon- day.    In  another 
npot,  a  space  of  level  ground  affords 
room  for  two  or  three  smiling  cot- 
tages, whose    whitened  walls  and 
wnokiug  chimneys  give  this  part  of 
llie  valley  a  look  of  cheerfulness  and 
Jiappy  retirement.    Behind  this,  but 
quite  out  of  sight  of  the  cottages,  the 
i  ivulet  precipitates  itself  into  a  dark- 
some den,  forming  a  cascade  of  no 
£  reat  height,  but  the  sound  of  which 
is  reverberated  from  the   opposite 
rocks,  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  it  the 
effect  of  a  much  larger  fall.     The 
opposite  bank,  above  the  rocks,  is 
steep  and  high,  covered  with  hazels 
and  other  brushwood,  while  a  few 
picturesque  firs,  happily  placed,  vary 
its  outline,  and  offer  good  objects 
fat  the  pencil.    Farther  up,  the  ri- 
vulet works  its  way  over  a  rocky 
but  not  a  steep  bed,  round  another 
field  or  haugh  overhung  with  woods, 
chiefly  oak,  growing  upon  the  sur- 
rounding banks.    From  this  we  pass 
to  another  narrow  den,  where  a  rus- 
tic bridge  has  been  thrown  across, 
just  below  another  little  fall  entirely 
shaded  with  oaks  and  hazels.  Above 
this,  on  one  side,  we  have  a  small 
bat  neat  picturesque  plat  of  green- 
sward, girt  round  with  magnificent 
oaks,   through    which   we  see  the 
rivulet  brawling   down  its    rocky 


6-23 

course;  and  beyond  it  a  fine  hang- 
ing bank  of  wood  of  considerable 
height,  almost  excluding  the  light  of 
the  sun.  The  wood  on  the  other 
side  is  thinner,  and  of  no  great 
depth,  but  the  trees  are  of  consider- 
able age  and  dimensions.  This  green 
plat,  with  its  accompaniments,  have 
struck  more  than  one,  as  suited  to 
the  performance  of  the  play  in  the 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Passing  from  this  scene,  we  have 
on  the  left  a  frowning  rock  of  consi- 
derable height.  Part  of  this  is  bare 
and  overhanging;  on  either  side  is  a 
continuation  of  the  same  rock,  par- 
tially covered  with  soil  and  shaded 
by  trees,  some  of  them  bent  and 
hanging  over  in  picturesque  and  va- 
ried forms  ;  the  peeps  and  views 
through  which  at  various  points, 
might  afford  endless  studies  to  the 
young  painter. 

Above  this,  we  have  another  glade 
or  opening,  the  steep  banks  opposite 
covered  with  wood,  and  shewing  oc- 
casional points  of  rock  and  trees,  in 
conspicuous  and  picturesque  posi- 
tions. Another  turn  of  the  glen 
brings  us  just  over  a  third  fall,  or 
rather  rapid,  which  we  hear  only, 
but  do  not  perfectly  see,  owing  to 
the  steepness  of  the  bank  and  the 
thickness  of  the  underwood.  The 
effect  of  the  rushing  water  here,  join- 
ed with  the  shade  of  the  trees,  is  re- 
freshing, and  invites  to  rest  on  one 
of  the  numerous  seats.  Farther  on, 
we  have  another  den,  still  narrower 
and  darker  than  any  of  the  preceding, 
at  the  head  of  which  we  have  a 
fourth  fall  entirely  closed  in  with 
rocks,  trees,  and  undergrowth.  No-i 
thing  can  exceed  the  coolness  and 
the  sense  of  entire  seclusion  inspired 
by  this  scene,  when  we  descend  to 
the  surface  of  the  water  in  a  panting 
summer's  day.  Above  this  point,  the 
country  opens,  the  glen  loses  its  cha- 
racter of  seclusion,  and  the  rivulet 
appears  to  wind  through  fields  of  a 
tame  and  ordinary  cast.  In  return- 
ing, however,  we  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  vie  wing  the  same  objects  from 
above,  in  totally  different  points  of 
view,  from  which  they  sometimes 
appear  in  such  a  way  as  to  produce 
the  happiest  effects ;  every  step  we 
take  affording  a  different  combina- 
tion. 
Our  readers  may  perhaps  be  tired 

of  the  minuteness  of  this  descrip* 
\  man;  noqu* 


524 


Scottish  Landscape. 


[April, 


tiou,  which  has  been  given  only  to 
afford  a  specimen  of  the  kind  of 
scenery  we  allude  to,  and  to  direct 
the  attention  of  the  public  to  a  kind 
of  beauty,  which  we  think  deserves 
more  to  be  cultivated  than  it  has 
been.  There  are  few  estates  of  any 
extent  in  the  south  of  Scotland,  in 
which  more  than  one  scene  of  this 
description  may  not  be  found ;  some 
of  them  entirely  neglected — some 
worse  than  neglected,  and  all  of  them 
capable,  by  a  little  care,  of  being 
converted  into  scenes  of  very  consi- 
derable beauty. 

In  the  treatment  of  such  scenes, 
we  would  advise  strenuously  against 
one  error  which  we  shall  now  pro- 
ceed to  point  out.  Some  proprie- 
tors, finding  a  glen  to  be  bare  and  na- 
ked, have  thought  that  the  only  thing 
necessary  to  improve  it  is  to  plant 
it  up  entirely  with  woodj  the  con- 
sequence of  which  has  been,  to  con- 
vert it  into  an  impenetrable  thicket, 
through  which  the  rays  of  the  sun 
cannot  pierce ;  and  where  no  view, 
either  of  rock,  wood,  or  water,  can 
by  any  possibility  be  seen  at  any  one 
point.  One  instance  of  this  we 
knew,  in  the  case  of  a  scene  of  sur- 
passing beauty,  which,  in  our  young- 
er days,  used  to  be  our  resort  and 
our  delight.  It  was  wooded  just 
sufficiently  for  ornament.  Its  steep 
banks  were  hung  with  birches  and 
hazles,  where  giddy  paths  afforded 
the  shepherd-boys  access  to  the  nut 
bushes.  The  haughs  and  gentler 
slopes  were  covered  with  the  most 
beautiful  greensward,affording  a  rich 
pasturage  for  the  cows  of  the  neigh- 
bouring farm.  Trees  of  lofty  growth 
crowned  several  of  the  heights,  stand- 
ing out  as  giants  to  guard  the  fairy 
scenes  below ;  while  the  rivulet 
winded,  murmured,  and  sported  in 
all  the  varieties  so  well  described  by 
Burns—. 

"  Whiles  o'er  a  linn  the  burnie  played, 

As  through  the  glen  it  wimpled  ; 
Whiles  round  a  rocky  scaur  it  strayed, 

Whiles  in  a  wheel  it  dimpled. 
Whiles  glittered  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi*  bickering  dancing  dazzle ; 
Whiles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel, 

Unseen  that  nicht." 


Such  was,  when  we  first  recollect 
it,  that  beautiful  glen ;  whose  wind- 
ings discovered  scenes,  such  as  no 
lordly  park,  dressed  by  the  art  of  the 
gardener,  could  ever  boast.  It  was 
the  haunt  of  youthful  genius,*  and 
its  memory  came  over  the  "  spirit  of 
his  dream,"  in  far  distant  and  less 
genial  climes.  But  in  an  evil  hour  it 
attracted  the  notice  of  an  improving 
proprietor.  Orders  were  given  to 
enclose  and  plant  it.  It  was  enclosed 
and  planted  accordingly :  walks  were 
formed,  and  an  ornamental  cot- 
tage built,  all  according  to  rule. 
But  nature  abhors  all  such  violent 
measures — all  such  sweeping  re- 
forms. She  has  had  her  revenge — 
the  glen  is  shut  up,  and  the  public 
excluded.  They  need  not  regret 
the  exclusion — its  beauty  is  utterly 
destroyed. 

Wherever  scenes  of  this  kind  exist, 
they  should  be  dealt  with  tenderly. 
Nature  may  be  assisted  and  led  j  and 
even  in  her  wildest  haunts,  she  may 
be  wooed  to  display  some  of  her 
most  magical  graces ;  but  if  we  try 
to  compel  her  by  force,  or  to  em- 
brace her  too  closely,  she  is  sure  to 
give  us  the  slip,  and  the  result  will 
be  disappointment.  Such  a  glen  as 
we  have  described,  ought  on  no 
account  to  be  enclosed.  It  can  only 
be  kept  in  its  proper  state,  by  being 
pastured  with  cattle.  The  scythe 
and  the  hoe  never  ought  to  enter  it. 
In  summer,  cattle  find  a  profusion  of 
food  in  the  sides  and  bottoms  of  the 
glens,  when  the  other  pastures  are 
burnt  up  or  exhausted.  By  being 
pastured,  their  vegetation  is  prevent- 
ed from  degenerating  into  rankness, 
and  prevents  the  necessity  of  arti- 
ficial cutting,  which  would  both  be 
intolerably  troublesome,  and  after 
all,  would  not  answer  the  purpose. 

Sheep,  which  are  the  proper  inha- 
bitants of  a  lawn,  are  not  so  proper 
in  a  glen,  as  they  tear  their  woolly 
coats  among  the  rocks  and  bushes. 
The  objection  generally  made  to  cat- 
tle is,  that  they  destroy  the  walks  ,* 
but  if  these  are  formed  in  the  way 
we  have  mentioned,  this  objection 
vanishes.  The  walks  should  be  mere 
footpaths  ,•  and  if  they  are  constantly 
used  as  such,  they  will  soon  become 
so  hard,  that  the  cattle  cannot  injure 


keyden. 


1833.] 

•hem.     In  a  picturesque 

view,  we  know  nothing  that  looks 

1  >etter  than  cattle  browsing  quietly 

in  a  glen,  or  retiring  from  the  heat  of 

i    burning  sun,  standing  in   a  pool 

under  a  canopy  of  overshading  trees 

— a  favourite  subject  in  the  pictures 

c-f  Claude — affording  one  of  the  most 

j  erfect  images  of  refreshing  repose 

and  rural  quiet. 

If  our  glen  is  bare  of  wood,  it 
ought  by  no  means  to  be  planted  up 
eatirely.  The  proper  character  of  a 
glen  is  variety,  which  it  affords  in  a 
greater  degree  than  any  other  de- 
scription of  scenery;  and  our  object 
should  be  to  preserve,  and,  if  possi- 
ble, improve  this  character,  by  intro- 
ducing glades  and  openings,  through 
tthich  the  rocks  and  wooded  parts 
ir  ay  be  seen  to  advantage.  In  gener- 
al, the  rule  is,  to  plant  the  steep 
bunks,  and  leave  every  level  spot 
open  for  pasture  and  for  view.  If 
the  banks  are  too  steep  for  large- 
si  ^ed  wood,  let  them  be  planted  with 
h;  zel,  birch,  mountain-ash,  and  other 
shrubby  trees,  suited  to  the  soil  and 
si  uation.  Introduce  occasionally 
hollies,  hawthorns,  sloes,  (the  foliage 
of  which  exceedingly  resembles  the 
myrtle,)  dog-roses,  blackberries,  and 
brambles.  On  no  account  introduce 
la  irels,  or  any  exotic  plant  or  shrub, 
as  this  destroys  the  feeling  ofnatural- 
neis;  and  suggests  the  idea  which 
we;  have  all  along  endeavoured  to 
av  aid,  that  here  we  are  indebted  to 
th -.  j  art  of  the  gardener.  If  the  rocks 
ar<j  bold  and  prominent,  let  them  be 
seoii  in  all  their  nakedness.  If  of  a 
tamer  description,  and  not  remark- 
ab'e  in  their  contour,  they  may  be 
hung  with  some  common  creepers. 
Le  t  an  old  stump  here  and  there  be 
de  ;orated  with  Irish  ivy.  In  some 
wi  d  part  of  the  glen,  leave  a  part  of 
th(  bank  covered  with  ferns,  or 
sh;  gged  with  thorns,  briars,  and 
fui  ze ;  and  it  may  not  be  amiss,  if  in 
narshy  spot  the  edges  of  your 


br<  ok  are  ornamented  with  queen  of 
the  meadow,  (meadow-sweet,)  and 
thst  most  magnificent  and  pictu- 
resque of  weeds,  tussilago. 

la  regard  to  the  sort  of  wood 
prc  per  for  a  glen,  much  may  depend 
up<  »n  the  nature  of  the  soil,  or  what 
is  f  >und  already  in  possession  of  the 
ground.  If  any  old  or  natural  wood 
exi  its,  it  ought  by  all  means  to  be 
pre  served-— any  thing  that  is  planted 


Scottish  Landscape.  525 

point  of  should  be  made  to  harmonize  with 
it.  But  if  we  had  our  choice,  we 
confess  we  would  prefer  the  oak  as 
the  predominating  tree,  and  as  more 
suitable  to  glen  scenery  than  any 
other.  The  rounder  and  softer  leaf- 
age of  the  ash  is  less  in  character 
with  rugged  banks  and  steep  preci- 
pices, and  nothing  agrees  with  these 
better  than  the  oak.  The  larch  ought 
to  be  introduced  sparingly;  some- 
times the  dark  and  taper  cones  of 
the  spruce,  produce  a  happy  effect 
among  other  wood ;  but  by  far  the 
most  picturesque  of  the  pine  tribe  is 
the  Scotch  fir,  when  it  can  be  brought 
to  a  sufficient  age  and  stature,  raising 
its  thick  and  broad  pyramidal  top 
over  the  heads  of  other  trees. 

The  variety  and  beauty  of  a  glen 
is  not  confined  to  a  single  season  of 
the  year ;  but  almost  every  succes- 
sive month  shews  it  in  a  different 
aspect.  Even  in  winter,  it  is  not 
without  its  peculiar  beauties,  when 
the  trees,  deprived  of  their  leafy 
covering,  shew,  more  distinctly  than 
at  any  other  season,  their  infinitely 
varied  ramifications,  and  exhibit  a 
degree  of  intricacy  of  form  that  has 
hardly  attracted  the  attention  it  de- 
serves, as  one  of  the  modes  of  natural 
beauty. 

This  is  never  so  striking  as  after  a 
fall  of  snow,  or  hoar-frost,  when 
every  branch  and  twig  appears  like 
a  piece  of  coral,  or  like  the  most 
beautiful  cuttings  of  paper.  At  this 
time,  also,  the  icicles  formed  on  the 
rocks  and  sides  of  the  overhanging 
steeps,  assume  the  most  fantastic 
forms,  like  those  of  stalactites,  or 
the  roots  of  enormous  trees.  In 
spring,  before  the  trees  have  assum- 
ed their  full  foliage,  the  glens  put  on 
another  form  of  beauty.  'We  have 
seen,  at  this  season,  every  bank  in  a 
perfect  blow  with  primroses  and 
daisies ;  the  rocks  hung  with  gerani- 
ums, blue  bells,  and  other  wild  flow- 
ers ;  the  hawthorn  covered  with  its 
rich  blossom,  and  the  furze  shining 
as  bedropped  with  gold.  This  is  the 
season  of  blossoms  and  flowers ;  and 
in  no  situation  can  these  be  seen  in 
such  profusion  as  in  our  glens.— 

"  which  not  nice  art 
In  beds  and  curious  knots  j  but  nature 

boon, 

Pours  forth  profuse— 
Both  where  the  morning  sun  first  warmly 
smites 


Scottish  Landscape. 


The  open  field,  and  where  the  unpierced 

shade 
Embrowns  the  noon-tide  bovvers." 

In  those  fortunate  seasons  when 
Scotland  happens  to  be  favoured 
witha  summer — which,  not  with  stand- 
ing the  sarcasms  of  our  southern 
neighbours,  does  no  wand  then  occur, 
—and  when  the  brooks  are  evapor- 
ated to  a  mere  thread,  or  reduced  to 
a  succession  of  shallow  pools,  with 
hardly  the  vestige  of  running  water, 
the  glen  presents  a  different  scene 
to  those  who  will  take  the  trouble  to 
scramble  alongthe  bed  of  the  stream, 
and  explore  all  its  wildest  nooks  and 
recesses.  The  j  utting  rocks  and  pro- 
jecting roots  of  the  trees  and  bushes 
overhanging  the  banks,  bared  of  their 
soil,  and  twisted  into  a  thousand 
antic  shapes, exhibit  an  endless  series 
of  picturesque  combinations.  The 
dark  dens  at  this  time  afford  delight- 
ful retreats  by  their  refreshing  shade, 
rendered  more  gratifying  by  some 
portion  of  the  sunbeams  struggling 
through  the  branches  of  the  trees 
above,  and  reflected  on  the  trembling 
surface  of  the  water. 

We  need  say  nothing  of  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  woods  in  that  season 
when  vegetation  is  in  all  its  glory ; 
but  we  cannot  omit  the  splendid 
effect  of  those  variegated  colours 
which  precede  the  fall  of  the  leaf, 
and  which  are  seen  nowhere  in  such 
perfection  as  in  the  hanging  banks 
of  a  glen. 


garwcforw  ?Ji  miw  rfoxroJ  ?ud 


[April, 

We  have  still  another  change  to 
mark,  during  the  prevalence  of  our 
autumnal  and  wintry  floods,  when 
every  brook  is  swelled  to  the  size  of 
a  river,  every  petty  rill  has  become 
a  considerable  brook,  and  every  little 
fall  a  cataract.  At  these  times,  not 
only  is  the  bed  of  the  rivulet  filled 
from  bank  to  brae,  but  every  rock 
and  precipitous  bank  along  the  sides 
of  the  glen,  sends  down  a  multitude 
of  streams,  tumbling  in  a  succession 
of  tiny  cascades,  performing  with 
their  tinkling  treble,  a  pleasing  ac- 
companiment to  the  deep  roaring 
bass  of  the  torrent  below.  Things 
are  always  considered  great  or  little 
by  comparison ;  and  it  would  be  ab- 
surd to  talk  in  very  magniloquent 
terms  about  an  ordinary  flood  in  a 
little  nameless  stream;  but  there  can 
be  as  little  doubt  that  the  appearance 
even  of  such  a  stream  in  a  state  of 
raging  flood,  rushing  over  the  linns, 
and  struggling  through  the  rocky 
defiles  of  a  narrow  glen,  is  an  inte- 
resting spectacle,  and  one  which  ex- 
cites some  degree  of  that  feeling 
which  is  always  attendant  on  any 
exhibition  of  a  power  which  no  exer- 
tion or  contrivance  of  man  is  able  to 
resist. 

We  shall  here  close  our  lucubra- 
tions for  the  present.  We  may  per- 
haps return  to  the  subject  at  some 
future  time,  if  we  find  that  our  mode 
of  treating  it  meets  with  the  appro- 
bation of  our  readers. 


A 


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PlVDAR     01     OdpXTITI 

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HOR.  Lib.  1.  Ode  4-. 

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PART  I. 
,H  ;rii[  griJ  •  i9vo  §n  j  if  «irr  ,  booft  ^ai  .  'itldy'aitei  •ri»fiJ^«'f  ?$& 

DID  you  ever  hear  tell  of  Wind-whistle  Lodge, 

Where  the  blasts  do  howl  so  mournfully, 
'i  ifodl  .jfiind  ghosts  through  the  broken  casements  dodge, 

And  chase  each  other  most  dismally, 
And  at  dead  o'  nights  though  calm  and  still, 
There  only  the  winds  are  whistling  shrill  ? 

The  Owl  flits  by  with  his  eyes  askaunt, 

For  'tis  no  place  where  he  may  preach, 
And  to  shivering  sinners  his  homilies  chaunt, 

He  passes  it  by  with  a  death-like  screech  ; 
For  woe  betide,  if  the  whirling  dust 
A  feather  but  touch  with  its  withering  rust. 

Full  ten  long  months  that  Owl  would  moan, 

And  utter  no  speech  nor  even  prayer, 
And  the  feathers  would  fall  from  his  sunk  breast-bone, 

And  his  owlet  children  creep  round  and  stare  ; 
And  his  goodwife-owl  make  sad  ado, 
As  he  should  droop  —  to-whit  to-who-whoo. 

O  Wind-whistle  Lodge  is  an  awful  place, 

And  yet  it  was  not  always  so  ; 
But  wore  a  sunny  and  smiling  face, 

Though  now  a  ghastly  look  of  woe. 
Then  listen,  fair  maidens,  and  I  will  tell, 
How  this  so  wondrous  change  befell. 

O  to  think  thereon  it  paineth  me  sore, 

And  therefore  would  I  pause  awhile  ; 
And,  maidens,  my  spirit  to  cheer  the  more, 

One  gracious  look  and  a  sunny  smile  ; 
For  needs  it  were  the  heart  be  light, 
That  would  dream  of  visions  both  rare  and  bright. 


The  Graces.  [April, 

PART  II. 

There  was  a  time  on  this  merry  earth, 

If  merry  it  we  still  may  call, 
When  beings  of  an  immortal  birth 

Here  dwelt  in  mansion,  and  park,  and  hall ; 
And  the  Chronicles  tell  in  many  a  page, 
How  that  was  the  real  golden  age. 

Then  Justice  lived  with  her  open  gate, 

For  open  house  she  kept  alway  ; 
And  there  nor  bailiff  nor  constable  sate, 

Nor  prowl'd  about  the  gardens  gay : 
For  pleasant  was  her  look  to  see, 
And  all  came  willing  to  her  levee. 

Then  Wood-nymphs  lived  in  their  silvan  nooks, 

And  Water-nymphs  by  every  stream, 
That  their  pearly  arms  from  the  glassy  brooks 

Lifted  above  to  the  yellow  gleam, 
Or  folded  them  round  their  marble  urns, 
And  sang  like  Mermaids  all  by  turns. 

Then  Dian  walk'd  over  the  saffron  hills, 

And  Bacchus,  girt  with  his  skin  of  pard  ; 
And  Pan,  merry  Pan,  at  the  mountain  rills, 

Went  piping  away  like  a  Savoyard. 
Then  harmless  Satyrs  and  playful  Fauns, 
Went  frisking  it  over  meads  and  lawns. 

Aurora,  with  fingers  of  rosy  hue, 

Went  forth  to  paint  the  mountain  tops, 
And  shook  from  the  folds  of  her  vesture  blue, 

On  the  waking  flowers  the  bright  dewdrops  ; 
And  the  Hours  came  after  and  brush'd  them  away, 
As  ever  they  danced  their  own  Ballet. 

Then  Sol,  not  as  now  in  an  amber  mist, 

But  with  vest  of  white  satin  and  diamond  brooch, 

Went  visibly  round,  and  his  hands  he  kiss'd, 

As  he  gallop'd  his  steeds,  from  his  painted  coach, 

Like  a  Gentleman-Tory,  when  chairing,  sent 

To  England's  good  Old  Parliament. 

Then  Sirens  sang  from  night  till  morn. 

While  Proteus  watch'd  by  his  sleeping  flocks, 

And  Triton  sounded  his  wreathed  horn, 
To  summon  the  Naiads  among  the  rocks ; 

And  the  dolphins  made  the  blue  waves  curl, 

As  they  wafted  the  cars  of  mother-of-pearl. 

Neptune  gave  feasts  in  his  coral  halls, 

And  ranged  over  earth  on  his  Hippogriff; 
And  Nymphs  of  the  caves  came  to  Amphitrite's  balls, 

And  return'd  as  they  came  in  her  sea-green  skiff. 
For  in  earth,  and  in  sky,  and  the  dancing  sea, 

xxrn«s  Timidit  Hut  nr»A  Inner  . 


1833.]  The  Graces, 


PART  III. 

But  all  are  now  gone,  alas,  alas  ! 

All  have  left  this  earth  ;  alas,  therefore  ! 
And  the  world  it  is  brought  to  a  sorry  pass. — 

Oh,  'tis  well  the  Sirens  have  left  the  shore, 
Or  they  fain  would  stop  their  own  sweet  ears, 
Not  to  hear  our  daring  gibes  and  jeers. 

They're  gone,  how  or  wherefore  the  Chronicles  fail 
To  tell ;  but  the  wisest  folk  still  say, 

They  were  wafted  away  by  a  comet's  tail, 

And  their  route  is  still  mark'd  by  the  milky  way ; 

And  that  all  have  been  whirl'd  above,  afar, 

Far  from  our  ken  to  a  brighter  star. 

That  when  upon  earth  our  human  race 
Grew  many,  and  from  Pandora's  box 

Flew  evils  abroad  through  every  place, 

And  none  could  live  without  bars  and  locks  ; 

Then  upwards  these  purer  beings  flew, 

And  Justice  reluctant  and  last  withdrew. 

But  it  were  vain  on  the  change  to  dwell, 

Regrets  are  not  for  gentle  rhyme  ; 
In  sooth,  the  tale  I  have  to  tell, 

Refers  me  back  to  that  golden  time. 
You  have  all  perhaps  heard  of  the  Graces  Three, 
More  shall  you  know  if  you  listen  to  me. 


PART  IV. 

There  was  a  spot  on  this  green  land, 

More  fair  more  beauteous  none  might  be, 

By  nature  e'er  form'd,  or  art  e'er  plann'd, 
Where  dwelt  the  sister  Graces  Three ; 

So  beauteous  were  they,  oh,  who  could  dare, 

To  paint  how  wond'rous  bright  and  fair  I 

But  had  I  the  skill  of  Praxiteles, 

Or  Lawrence,  or  could  enamel  like  Bone, 
Like  Phidias,  or  like  Chantrey  please, 

By  chisseling  life  and  breath  from  stone, 
Their  beautiful  forms  would  defy  e'en  then 
Both  chissel  and  pencil,  as  now  my  pen. 

The  Medici  Venus  I  might  compare, 
Or  perfectest  forms  from  ancient  gem  ; 

Or  Canova's  Venus  of  Frenchified  air ; 
None  fit  to  be  serving  maids  to  them. 

And  the  soul  of  love  was  in  form  and  face, 

And  it  made  each  one  a  perfect  Grace. 


680  The  Graces.  [A.pri], 

Their  mansion  was  built  of  wond'rous  art, 
Embower'd  in  odorous  woods  it  shone, 
With  columns  of  verd-antique  apart, 

And  between  them  onyx  and  jasper  stone  ; 
Unlike  our  piles  of  cumbrous  bricks, 
There  was  sapphire  and  ruby  and  sardonyx. 

The  windows  were  each  like  the  full-orb'd  moon, 

Excepting  they  were  of  various  hue  ; 
There  was  boudoir  and  rich  saloon, 

With  floors  inlaid  with  ormolu. 
And  silver  bells  of  many  a  sound, 
Sent  music  ever  sweetly  round. 

Hard  by  delicious  gardens  lay, 

And  slopes  and  lakes  and  waterfalls, 
And  silver  fountains,  at  whose  play 

The  sweet  birds  sang  their  madrigals  ; 
And  spotted  leopards  fawn'd  around 
The  gentle  deer  with  harmless  bound. 

There  trees  did  grow  of  every  kind, 

And  every  colour,  and  young  and  old, 
With  sweeping  boughs,  and  silken  rind, 

And  leaves  of  brightest  green  and  gold  ; 
And  they  bow'd  their  tops  all  link'd  above, 
As  if  instinct  with  life  and  love. 

There  was  the  wonderful  Talking  Bird, 

There  chanted  the  glorious  Singing  Tree, 
A  sprig  whereof,  so  it  is  averr'd, 

Was  planted  in  garden  of  Araby  ; 
There  ever  the  Yellow  Water  play'd, 
In  jets  of  topaz  light  array 'd. 

And  whenever  within  the  enchanted  ground 

The  Sisters  laid  their  beauteous  feet, 
The  fountain  threw  its  amber  round, 

And  the  boughs  threw  off  their  concert  sweet ; 
And  the  Talking  Bird  'gan  tales  to  tell, 
Whereof  each  word  was  a  fastening  spell. 

The  Water,  the  Bird,  and  the  Singing  Tree, 

Wafted  their  spells  to  earth  and  to  air, 
That  it  seem'd  the  pure  Spirit  of  Chastity 

Alone  stood  guardian  angel  there  ; 
And  Love  himself,  if  thither  he  came, 
First  laid  by  his  quiver  and  darts  of  flame. 

No  boisterous  Satyrs  there  were  found, 

To  frighten  Nymphs  in  wanton  freak ; 
But  Cupid  and  Psyche  went  round  and  round, 

Link'd  hand  in  hand — or,  cheek  to  cheek, 
Lay  painted  in  mirror  of  placid  stream, 
The  white  swans  lingering  round  their  dream, 


18-33.]  The  Graces.  531 

Over  their  heads  the  ring-doves  coo'd 

With  necks  uprais'd  ;  and  in  mid  bound 
The  playful  fawn  admiring  stood  ; 

And  the  leopard  lay  stretch'd  on  the  sunny  ground, 
And  show'd  his  white  breast  to  the  lucid  air, 
Before  that  gentle  sleeping  pair. 

Venus  came  there  with  her  team  of  Doves, 

Whenever  she  would  her  charms  renew 
In  the  golden  lymph — and  bands  of  Loves 

Sported  about  in  the  sparkling  dew 
That  flew  from  the  Yellow  Fountain's  spray, 
And  dipp'd  their  bright  wings  therein  alway. 

And  thither  the  Muses  came  full  oft, 

And  hand  in  hand  with  the  Graces  Three, 
Blended  their  voices  clear  and  soft, 

And  danced  around  the  Singing  Tree ; 
And  the  Fountain  sent  forth  its  silver  tone, 
As  ever  they  danced  their  cotillon. 

O,  it  was  the  very  "  Bower  of  Bliss ;" 

Nor  was  ever  yet  so  fair  domain, 
That  might  upon  earth  be  compared  to  this, 

Of  Potentate,  Prince,  or  Sovereign — 
And  visitants  went  and  visitants  came, 
And  some  there  are  I  yet  must  name.    . 

PART  V. 

O,  had  you  seen  the  glorious  fete 

The  Graces  gave — the  month  was  May ; 
And  open  flew  the  ivory  gate, 

And  Beauty  walk'd  therein  alway ; 
For  never  on  earth  may  you  hope  to  see 
Since  then  so  fair  a  company. 

But  thither  nor  Naiad  nor  Nymph  repaired, 

Nor  Goddess,  howe'er  of  high  degree, 
That  with  the  sweet  Zephyrs  might  be  compar'd ; 

For  likest  were  they  to  the  Graces  Three, — 
So  like,  that  in  record  of  ancient  book, 
They're  put  for  each  other— as  authors  mistook. 

I  know  there  are  some,  and  of  early  date, 

That  strangely  (both  Latin  and  Greek)  perplex 

And  mislead  the  world,  as  they  boldly  state 
The  Zephyrs  were  of  the  ruder  sex. 

And  the  blunder  goes  on  from  year  to  year, 

And  from  scholar  to  scholar  thro'  classic  Lempriere. 

That  error  this  tale  must  now  correct, 

'Tis  obtain'd  from  surest  chronicle  ; 
But  authors  should  be  more  circumspect, 

Put  together,  not  be  content  to  spell. 
The  tale  I  tell  is  most  sure,  and  writ 
In  Arabic,  Hebrew,  and  choice  Sanscrit, 


532  The  Graces.  [April, 

They  were  softest  and  gentlest,  most  feminine, 

And  groups  of  Loves  about  them  Hew, 
And  play'd  with  their  vestures  gauzy  and  fine, 

Of  the  rose  and  the  pearl  and  the  sapphire  blue, 
That  floated  all- free,  and  crisping  bright, 
In  the  flickering  beams  of  the  golden  light. 

Oh,  the  Graces  and  Zephyrs  !  were  never  seen 

Sisters  more  fondly  link'd  than  they, 
In  silken  saloon,  or  on  flowery  green, 

Ever  together  by  night  and  by  day. 
A  stronger  love  there  never  might  be, 
Than  between  the  fair  Zephyrs  and  Graces  Three. 

Through  the  flowery  gardens  breathed  soft  air, 
The  Zephyrs  walk'd  round  each  loveliest  spot, 

And  planted  anemonies  everywhere, 

For  the  flower  was  their  "  Forget  me  not."       >$ 

And  the  Graces  said — "  This  place  shall  take 

The  Zephyrs'  soft  name  for  friendship's  sake. 

"  Your  names  be  carved  on  every  tree, 

Yours  be  these  gardens,  grove,  and  wood ; 
Our  mansion  be  Zephyr  Lodge,  and  we 

Will  form  but  one  gentle  sisterhood." 
But,  alas  !  how  wishes  oft  come  to  nought, 
Though  Love  and  Friendship  breathe  the  thought. 

The  Zephyrs,  the  truth  must  be  confess'd, 
As  the  Graces  themselves,  though  gentle,  yet 

Had  a  trifle  too  much,  though  scarcely  express'd— - 
Of  the  wanton  air — O  no,  the  coquette  I 

And  their  eyes  gave  a  look,  as  eyes  sometimes  do 

That  have  often  glanced  over  a  billet-doux. 

Indeed  it  was  said,  and  perchance  with  truth, 

That  often  flirtations  had  taken  place 
Between  more  than  one,  and  a  curly  youth 

Of  ^Eolus'  blustering  noisy  race  : 
Another  proof,  if  the  fact  be  so, 
That  Beauty  oft  worketh  a  world  of  woe. 

PART  VI. 

King  ^olus,  he  was  a  surly  crone, 

And  he  lived  by  the  sea  in  a  windy  cave, 
'Mid  the  comfortless  blast,  and  the  dreary  moan, 

That  ever  came  off  the  roaring  wave — 
'Twas  in  charge  of  him  and  his  burly  sons 
To  keep  the  winds  pent  in  bags  and  tuns. 

But  though  they  kept  them  in  barrels  and  bags, 
So  careless  were  they  of  their  mighty  charge, 

That  they  often  leak'd,  and  were  split  to  rags 
By  the  winds  rushing  out,  and  thus  set  at  large. 

And  their  vessels  at  best  they  seldom  kept  tight, 

And  in  quarrels  oft  turned  the  spigots  for  spite. 


1833.]  The  Graces.  533 

For  quarrelsome  they  as  the  sea's  wild  foam, 

Both  father  and  sons  a  turbulent  race  ; 
And  oft  drove  each  other  from  house  and  home, 

And  their  sport  was  to  fly  in  each  other's  face. 
But  their  greatest  joy  was  in  stall  and  steed, 
For  their  mares  were  all  of  the  whirlwind  breed. 

Oft  they  piled  up  their  bags  as  a  fancy  car, 
And  away  they  swept  over  the  stormy  cliff— 

Each  shot  from  the  goal  like  a  shooting  star, 
Whether  mare,  or  proud  griffin,  or  hippogriff ; 

Thus  the  sons  of  old  ^Eolus  carried  the  bags 

All  over  the  world,  with  their  fleetest  nags. 

Now  it  chanced  one  day,  in  the  midst  of  a  race, 
That  Boreas,  nearing  these  beauteous  grounds, 

Drew  up  his  reins,  and  slacken'd  his  pace, 
To  listen  awhile  to  the  wafted  sounds 

That  came  from  the  voices  of  that  sweet  choir 

That  sang  in  the  Graces'  own  boudoir. 

The  Muses  were  singing  alternate  rhyme — 

Hermes  lean'd  over  Apollo's  chair, 
And  pointed  the  notes,  and  beat  the  time, 

And  oft  with  new  energy  humm'd  the  air: 
For  he  had  both  given  the  lyre,  and  skill 
To  play  it,  and  was  the  best  master  still. 

But  the  Zephyrs  and  Graces  to  verdant  shade, 

To  tell  their  sweet  tales,  had  wander'd  away, 
And  then  by  a  crystal  stream  were  laid, 

While  on  the  green  herbage  their  vestures  lay ; 
And  their  beautiful  limbs  were  half  in  the  -stream, 
Half  above,  and  lit  by  the  leafy  gleam. 

O  Titian,  bright  was  the  splendid  glow, 
And  the  pearly  tints  thy  pencil  threw, 
When  Dian's  nymphs  did  their  soft  limbs  throw 
-    By  the  stream  that  kiss'd  celestial  hue, — 
But  little  beseemeth  it  even  to  think 
Of  the  beauty  that  lay  by  that  water's  brink. 

Now  Boreas  he  had  been  searching  round 

The  thick  plantations,  both  far  and  near, 
If  entrance  therein  there  might  be  found ; 

And  finding  none, — -like  a  pioneer, 
He  broke  his  rude  way,  and  in  luckless  hour, 
Came  in  full  gaze  of  the  secret  bower. 

O  it  forceth  me  even  with  tears  to  weep, 

That  ever  there  should  intruders  be 
Where  Beauty  rests — awake  or  in  sleep, 

That  innocence  is  not  safe  and  free — 
So  rudely  rough  Boreas  burst  his  way 
To  the  spot  where  the  Zephyrs  and  Graces  lay. 


534  The  Graces.  [April, 

Up  started  the  Graces,  and  hastily  drew 

Their  vestures  around  them,  and  bounded  away  ; 
Up  started  the  Zephyrs  —  but  none  of  them  flew 

So  fast,  as  if  half  inclin'd  to  stay  : 

And  the  youngest  lost  time  at  her  toilet,  through  fright, 
By  Boreas  caught  at  the  moment  of  flight. 

So  Boreas  bore  her  away  in  his  arms  :  — 

What  Ladies  should  do  in  a  case  like  this, 
Little  know  I  ;  —  but  cries  and  alarms 

Are  smother'd  sometimes  by  a  gentle  kiss, 
And  cries  are  not  always  meant  to  be  heard, 
When  the  suit  and  the  scheme  have  been  first  preferr'd. 

It  was  hinted  before,  that  Favonia's  eye 

Might  perhaps  have  glanced  at  a  billet-doux  ; 

And  had  Boreas  not  been  a  lover  —  pray,  why 
Did  he  stop  in  mid  race  ?  —  but,  as  lovers  do, 

He  seized  on  his  prey,  not  unwilling,  and  bore 

The  young  Zephyr  away  in  a  whirlwind  and  four. 

You  Maidens,  that  may  hereafter  mean 

To  fly  with  sweet  youths,  —  O,  fear  not  how  fast  ; 

For  what  is  a  trip  to  Gretna  Green, 

To  a  fly  in  a  whirlwind,  a  ride  with  the  blast  ? 

Would  you  leave  your  pursuers  far,  far  behind, 

For  the  old  wings  of  love,  take  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

PART  VII. 

Now  I've  search'd  every  record  through  and  through, 

And  never  have  yet  been  able  to  learn, 
Whither  these  sister  Zephyrs  flew  : 

To  the  Graces  alone  must  I  therefore  turn  ; 
And  strange  is  the  sequel  I  have  to  tell, 
And  I'll  vouch  for  the  truth  of  the  Chronicle. 

They  shut  themselves  up  long  years  and  years, 

Long  years  was  fast  closed  the  ivory  gate  ; 
And  in  closed  boudoir,  with  sighs  and  tears, 

They  bewail'd  their  shame,  both  earjy  and  late  ; 
And  the  Singing  Tree,  and  the  Talking  Bird, 
If  they  sang  and  still  talk'd,  were  no  longer  heard. 

Dark  sorrow  consumeth  beauty  fast, 

As  the  canker  eats  into  the  fairest  rose  ; 
And  Beauty,  how  bright  soe'er,  to  last 

Must  be  fed  with  joy  and  sweet  repose*og  jgtj 
Like  a  flower  that  gentlest  maidens  raise,    .  ?00  y9fflP 
And  feed  with  soft  looks  and  tender  gaze. 


Now,  half  a  long  century  had  pass'd  away,;ij9Q  &({*i 

Nor  yet  had  they  their  grief  forsook  ! 
It  was  a  fresh  sunny  morn  of  May, 

When  they  chanced  in  a  mirror  awhile  to  look  ; 
And  they  startled  to  view  their  own  wretched  plights, 
And  for  once  they  thought  themselves  perfect  frights. 


18.33.]  The  Graces.  53 

Their  cheeks  they  were  furrow'd,  their  eyes  were  red, 
And  their  shapes  were  not  what  once  they  were ; 

And  the  tints  of  rose  and  pearl  were  fled, 
And  the  gloss,  it  had  left  their  golden  hair ; 

And  the  Talking  Bird,  when  they  ventured  out, 

Instead  of  sweet  praise  began  to  flout. 

How  few  there  be  of  the  gentler  sex, 

Could  bear  in  themselves  such  change  to  feel ; 

Who  take  an  alarm  at  the  smallest  specks, 
That  over  the  face  of  their  beauty  steal : — 

Nor  wonder — for  beauty  is  woman's  best  dower, 

And  gives  her  dominion,  and  strength,  and  power. 

The  Graces  they  ponder'd  deep  and  long, 

For  fain  their  beauty  they  would  restore, 
For  the  present  loss  was  the  greater  wrong, 

More  than  all  their  sorrow  and  shame  before  ; 
And  at  length  they  resolved  for  ever  to  go 
From  scenes  that  had  witness'd  their  bliss  arid  woe. 

To  the  Bird,  as  they  saunter' d  by,  one  day 

The  drooping  sisters  their  case  preferr'd  ; 
"  Since  here  we  may  not,  we  cannot  stay, 

Where  shall  we  fly  to?  say,  sweet  Bird." 
"  To  the  City  of  Fashion,  go  fly,"  quoth  he, 
And  the  strain  was  ta'eri  up  by  the  Singing  Tree. 

PART  VIII. 

About  this  very  time  the  race  of  mankind, 

That  had  long  left  the  woods,  and  against  the  rough  oak 

Had  rubb'd  off  their  tails  that  dangled  behind, 

And  had  learn'd  to  walk  upright,  and  language  spoke, 

Had  wondrously  thriven,  built  cities  arid  towns, 

And  hid  where  their  tails  grew  with  coats  and  gowns. 

They  had  reach'd  such  high  fame,  that  the  jealous  strange  god 
That  govern'd  Olympus,  sent  Phrebus,  and  Pan, 

And  Hermes,  with  pipe  and  with  lyre  and  rod, 
To  amuse,  and  spy  out  the  proceedings  of  man  ; 

But  small  their  reward,  for  their  Godships  divine 

Were  sent  to  look  after  their  cattle  and  swine. 

Fine  temples  they  built,  but  shook  off  the  yoke 
Of  Olympus  ;  and  though  for  decency's  sake 

They  worshipp'd  the  Gods,  'twas  with  smell  and  with  smoke, 
That  soon  made  the  old  jovial  Dynasty  shake. 

They  out-did  his  thunder,  and  vices  by  scores, 

Excepting  they  had  not  so  many  amours. 

The  Deities  soon  left  the  earth,  one  by  one  ; 

To  his  course  in  the  Zodiac,  Phoebus  up-flew, 
And  his  new- furnished  chariot  put  up  in  the  Sun, 

And  was  never  more  seen.     Even  Bacchus  withdrew, 
But  men  seized  on  his  grapes — away  flew  with  a  scowl 
The  old  Goddess  of  Wisdom,  but  left  her  owl. 


536  The  Graces.  [April, 

There  was  one  vast  City  above  the  rest, 

Where  Fashion  was  Queen,  and  set  up  her  large  school, 
Where  Intellect  march'd  upon  stilts  from  the  nest, 

And  Nature  was  held  but  a  dolt  and  fool. 
And  Fashion  made  laws  for  the  brains  and  shapes, 
To  re-form  men  once  more  to  the  image  of  apes. 

PART  IX. 

The  Graces  look'd  over  their  Cabinet, 

And  made  up  a  casket  of  things  most  rare, 

Pearl,  diamond,  and  amethyst,  ruby,  and  jet. 

Such  things  they  were  wont  to  admire,  not  wear ; 

For  their  beauty  was  perfect,  all  excellent, 

Nor  needed  the  aid  of  ornament. 

In  the  City  of  Fashion  'twas  otherwise  thought, 

And  the  Graces  had  learn'd  that  sea-kings  and  queens 

Were  welcome  the  more  the  more  they  brought, 

And  that  few  could  live  there  without  ways  and  means. 

They  had  heard  too  the  saying,  "  If  hither  you  come, 

'Twere  best  you  had  something  under  your  thumb." 

Now  the  Graces  arrived,  though  how  they  went 

We  are  nowhere  told,  at  their  new  abode 
In  the  City  of  Fashion — and  instantly  sent 

For  a  jeweller  first,  then  a  marchand  de  modes, 
And,  as  plenty  of  gold  they  lodged  in  the  Bank, 
They  were  visited  shortly  by  persons  of  rank. 

But  it  must  be  confessed  their  journey,  fresh  air, 
And  new  hopes  excited  by  all  they  had  learn'd, 

Restored  their  lost  beauty,  e'en  made  them  more  fair, 
And  the  tints  of  rose,  pearl,  and  vermilion  return'd  ; 

And,  as  they  had  servants  and  equipage, 

Who  but  the  Graces  were  all  the  rage  ? 

O  Fashion  is  but  a  wayward  queen, 

O  Praise,  it  soon  turns  to  scorn  and  scoff ! 

Some  envious  Dowagers  soon,  I  ween, 
Discover'd  their  daughters  didn't  go  off, 

And  envied  the  Graces,  for  youth  and  man, 

Wherever  they  went,  still  after  them  ran. 

Their  complexions,  'twas  whisper'd,  were  but  paste, 
Their  gentle  movement  an  awkward  swing  ; 

They  were  thick  in  the  ankles,  and  wide  in  the  waist ; 
And  that  bend  in  their  backs  was  a  horrid  thing. 

The  nose  was  too  straight,  and  a  squint  was  well  hid 

By  a  down-looking  eye,  and  a  drooping  lid. 

Then,  O  the  poor  Graces,  what  change  ensued ! 

There  was  buckram  and  tiffany,  steel  and  bone, 
They  were  padded  and  laced,  and  patch'd  and  glued, 

Till  they  hadn't  one  limb  they  could  call  their  own ; 
And  Dowagers  form'd  a  Committee  of  taste, 
To  straighten  their  backs,  and  wasp  in  their  waist. 


1833.]  The  Graces.  537 

With  your  Hour-glass  shapes,  sweet  maidens,  beware 

Of  the  parasol,  and  balloons  of  gymp  ; 
Remember  how  Vestris  was  lifted  in  air, 

And  one-half  of  her  went  to  her  own  Olymp, 
And  the  other  came  pirouetting  down, 
And  since  then  her  legs  only  have  walk'd  the  town. 

Tbei  r  tender  feet  in  stocks  were  set, 

And  twisted,  until  with  great  eclat, 
They  accomplish'd  the  spinning  pirouette, 

And  twirl'd  the  demi  queue  de  chat, 
And  the  Maitre  d'Ecole,  of  his  ancient  race, 
Retained  half  the  tail?  and  the  whole  grimace. 

Their  bosoms  were  flatten'd  like  boards,  to  swell 

No  longer  with  pity  and  love — because 
The  scraggy  old  Dowagers  knew  very  well 

Their  own  were  like  gridirons  cover'd  with  gauze. 
O  Phidias,  but  for  that  chissel  of  thine, 
Who  would  know  that  the  Graces  were  ever  divine  ! 

Thus  living  'mong  mortals,  and  living  as  they, 

Though  sprung  of  a  pure  immortal  birth, 
They  could  not  die — yet  a  sort  of  decay 

Came  over  their  forms  as  things  of  earth. 
Their  cheeks  grew  pale,  and  lovers  look'd  shy, 
And  their  beauty,  alas !  it  was  passing  by. 

Sad  objects  of  pity  were  now  the  three — 

One  was  laid  up  with  a  twisted  spine, 
One  lay  on  a  couch  from  sheer  ennui, 

And  one  it  was  thought  was  in  a  decline  ; 
And  they  all  were  under  the  hands  of  quacks, 
Who  rubb'd  them  most  dreadfully  sore  on  the  backs. 

But  they  could  not  die, — and  'twas  lucky  for  them, — 
But  Jupiter,  hearing  the  state  of  their  case, 

Sent  Iris  from  Heaven — she  touch'd  but  the  hem 

Of  their  robes — and  away  flew  flounce,  bustle,  and  brace ; 

Then  breathing  more  free,  an  ambrosial  air 

They  inhaled,  and  that  moment  invisible  were. 

Iris's  bow  was  one  end  in  a  cloud, 

The  other  stretch'd  over  the  skirts  of  the  town  ; 

So  thither  they  hasten'd  unseen  by  the  crowd, 
And  mounting  the  bow,  threw  their  finery  down, 

Fresh  beauty  assumed,  no,  never  to  wane, 

And  quitting  this  earth,  never  reach' d  it  again  ; 

Though  some  say  the  Graces  are  faintly  seen 

Sporting  e'en  now  on  a  summer's  day, 
Twisting  the  pink,  and  blue,  and  green, 

In  Iris's  bow,  with  the  golden  ray  ; 
That  they  shoot  to  and  fro,  and  sometimes  light 
On  earth  for  a  moment,  and  leave  it  bright. 


The  Graces.  (April, 


PART  X. 

Centuries  more  have  passed  away, — 

What  has  become  of  that  fair  domain, 
Where  the  Graces'  mansion  of  beauty  lay  ? 

All  was  deserted,  both  grove  and  plain  ; 
And  forests  grew  round,  so  dark  a  skreen, 
That  long  was  the  spot  unknown,  unseen. 

Was  the  Golden  Fountain  playing  there, 

Throwing  its  amber  jets  around  ? 
Talk'd  the  sweet  Bird  to  the  desert  air  ? 

Wafted  the  Tree  vain  music  round  ? 
All  may  conjecture — but  none  relate, 
For  none  ever  pass'd  the  ivory  gate. 

•'••'•>  •<   i-.'i  «n:{v     ••)eii>'i:>  ft;  ;:-*i'»-l-    ^ii 
Centuries  more  have  been  passing  by — 

The  sheltering  forests  are  cut  away, 
The  mansion  exposed  to  the  wond'ring  eye, 

The  Garden,  Bird,  Tree,  and  Fountain's  play : 
Then  Avarice  entered — The  groves  must  fall — 
A  miserly  churl  became  lord  of  all. 

',..  ,,if,  ;4  7^?',  a  ftO  i«?BT$  -}rfj  Ot  flWOb 

And  the  Talking  Bird  ?  he  twisted  his  neck, 

He  pick'd  him  and  roasted — nay,  twirl'd  the  spit ; 

But  the  Singing  Tree  was  a  better  spec, 
For  he  cut  it  and  sold  it  bit  by  bit. 

Its  virtue  he  found — it  went  to  the  Trade, 

And  musical  boxes  thereof  were  made. 

And  the  Yellow  Water — where  went  it  away  ? 

It  went  to  the  shops  all  the  country  round, 
By  gallons  and  quarts, — and  to  this  very  day 

Is  the  Birmingham  lacquer  so  much  renowned, 
And  so  fond  are  mankind  of  what  looks  like  gold, 
But  really  is  not,  that  it  readily  sold. 

A  century  more — and  the  Churl's  cold  Ghost 

Came  to  the  fountain,  and  found  it  dry-j^n  « 
And  with  him  there  came  a  Demon  host. 

O  they  howl  with  the  blasts,  as  around  they  fly  ! 
Foul  Demons  and  Ghosts  each  other  dodge, 
Through  the  casements  and  hollows  of  Wind- whistle  Lodge. 

O  !  Wind-whistle  Lodge  is  an  awful  place — 

When  the  Graces  lived  there  'twas  not  so, 
But  wore  a  sunny  and  smiling  face — 

But  the  Zephyrs  came  and  brought  it  woe. 
Then  Boreas  after  the  Zephyrs  came, 
And  now  the  wild  Winds  their  Inheritance  claim. 


1833.] 


Characteristics  of  Women,    No  IV 


539 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN.* 

No.  IV. 

CHARACTERS  OF  INTELLECT. 


SIIAKSPEARE. 


WEPT  have  we — or  in  thoughts 
that  lay  "  too  deep  for  tears" — gazed 
pale  on  Juliet,  and  Ophelia,  and 
Cordelia,  and  Desderaona — as  we 
saw  them  in  suffering  and  in  sorrow 
— like  fair  creatures  going  to  sacri- 
fice— led  on — slowly,  step  by  step — 
or  sometimes  with  a  hurried  motion 
— to  death.  And,  one  after  another, 
we  saw  them  die.  Juliet  in  distrac- 
tion, vainly  draining  the  dregs  of 
that  fatal  cup  that  had  frozen  the 
heart-blood  of  Romeo — by  sharper 
death  expiring  on  his  bosom— and, 
with  her  husband,  buried  in  one 
tomb  !  Ophelia,  her  poor  wits  gone, 
even  like  the  flowers  she  scattered, 
down  to  the  grave  on  a  clear  stream- 
let, floating  like  a  Swan !  Cordelia, 
with  "  holy  water  from  her  heavenly 
eyes,"  bathing  the  brow  of  her  mad 
father,  till,  like  dew  through  a  smil- 
IL£  calm  shed  by  Mercy,  it  sank 
with  healing  into  his  brain,  and  Lear 
almost  "became  whole."  And  we  saw 
him  bearing  in  his  daughter  from 
their  prison-cell  in  his  arms  ;  and  we 
heard  "  And  my  poor  Fool  is  hang- 
ed !"  his  heart-strings  crack  as  he 
gave  up  the  ghost.  Desdemona,  the 
Gentle,  the  Immaculate,  she  who 
was 

"  Woo'd,  won,  and  wed,  and  murder'd 
by  the  M     «!" 

Immortal  is  the  memory  of  the 
Mirtyrs.  Nor  call  them  beings  of 
an  imaginary  world.  Phantoms  are 
thvjy  of  this  our  human  life.  Knovv- 
est  thou  not  that  such  trials  have 
been  undergone  by  many  creatures 
ck  thed  in  the  robes  of  dust — by 
Christian  women  purified  by  the 
firrs  of  affliction  that  consumed 
the  ir  bodies  but  to  let  their  spirits 
esc  ape  to  heaven  ?  Embodyings  in 
ideal  forms,  by  genius  inspired  by 
a  haly  faith  in  the  revelation  of  na- 


ture, were  those  loveliest  creations, 
of  virtues  that  have  their  empire  be- 
neath the  "  common  light  of  day," 
and  are  enthroned  in  many  a  loveli- 
est bosom  alive  in  the  chaste  warmth 
of  innocence !  'Tis  thus  that  poetry 
ministers  to  religion.  The  saints  in 
her  calendar, are  they  not  holy  ?  And 
may  they  not  be  blamelessly  wor- 
shipped in  spirit  and  in  truth? 

Hermione  —  Imogen — Miranda—- 
ye too  are  Phantoms  whose  features 
seem  to  darken  or  to  brighten  with 
shadow  or  sunshine  of  our  own 
clime !  How  many  a  widowed  and 
unchilded  mother — even  some  hum- 
ble Hermione  —  in  dim  seclusion 
wears  weepingly,  but  uncomplain- 
ingly, away  her  long,  forsaken,  soli- 
tary years  I  Nor  ever  blessed  with 
sight  of  those  she  hath  so  yearned 
once  more  to  see,  been  carried  like 
a  fallen  statue  to  the  tomb — "  palm 
to  palm  upon  its  breast!"  Woful, 
Imogen,  were  thy  wanderings  among 
"  antres  vast  and  deserts  idle  j"  most 
strange  thy  death-like  slumbers  in  the 
cave,  where  those  young  Nobles  of 
Nature  their  fair  Fidele's  corpse  with 
flowers  bestrewed ;  ghastly,  on  the 
bosom  of  what  thou  thoughtest  thy 
murdered  Posthumus,  thy  half-awa- 
kened sleep;  and  much,  ere  closed  thy 
weary  pilgrimage ,  thy  sobbing  heart 
endured  of  this  hard  world's  worst 
grief.  But  wide  over  the  roaring  seas 
our  ships  traverse,  and  many  a  faith- 
ful heart,  as  young  as  thine,  they 
bear  to  journeyings  wild  and  ventu- 
rous— all  in  the  face  of  disease  and 
death — in  the  grim  heart  of  many  an 
uncouth,  barbarous  land.  A  wild 
and  wondrous  lot  was  thine,  O  star- 
eyed  daughter  of  the  Enchanted  Isle ! 
Happiness  wafted  thee  away  on  her 
wings  from  that  stormy  strand,  to  let 
thee  drop  down  among  thy  own 
new-discovered  kind  in  a  far  off  ha- 


*  Characteristics  of  Women,  Moral,  Poetical,  and  Historical  j  with  fifty  vignette 
etch  ngs,     By  Mrs  Jameson,     In  two  volumes,     London ;  Saunders  and  Otley. 


540 

ven,  where  Love  was  to  guard  thy 
life  in  perpetual  peace !  And  doth 
the  earth  hold  no  more  such  children 
of  lonely  Nature,  who,  under  her  be- 
nign provision,  have  grown  up  to 
miraculous  beauty,  and  brought  into 
cities,  like  birds  by  a  wind,  have 
won  to  themselves  the  eyes  of  ad- 
miration all  softened  by  love ! 

But  Shakspeare  rejoiced  some- 
times to  sing  a  lowlier  and  a  livelier 
strain  —  to  shew  our  common  life 
with  its  sunniest  southern  aspect,  all 
teeming  with  blossoms  and  fruitage 
—blossoms  to  be  woven  into  wreaths 
and  garlands  of  joy— fruitage, 

"  not  too  bright  and  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food ;" 

for  fruitage,  say  at  once,  females, 

"  For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,   love,  kisses,   tears,  and 
smiles !" 

We  are  carried  in  among  his — Co- 
medies ;  and  what  Bevies  of  Beauty ! 
We  mingle  with  "  the  gay  creatures 
of  our  element,"   in  parlours,  and 
boudoirs,  and   drawing-rooms,   and 
halls,  and  gardens,  and  beneath  the 
porticoes  of  pillared  palaces,  among 
the  graces,  the  elegancies,  the  orna- 
ments, the  decorations,  the  luxuries, 
the  splendours,  the  magnificencies  of 
life,  all  made  rich  by  the  most  rare 
and  exquisite  culture.  We  breathe  the 
air  of  high  life,  rightly  so  called ;  and 
hear   melodious   noises  attuned  to 
"  fancies  high  and  noble,"  warbling 
from  lilied  throats  that  tower  from 
full-bosom'd  busts,  and  bearing  lofty 
heads  all-glorious  with  thick-cluster- 
ing ringlets,  freely  confined  within 
"  webs  of  woven  air,''  or  fragrant 
wantoning  with  the  enamoured  wind, 
artlessly,    except  that  their  glossy 
blackness  is  bedropt  with  diamonds, 
or  the  pale  pearls  lie  subdued  amid  the 
glittering  auburn.    Daughters  of  gen- 
tlemen—ladies   indeed— duchesses 
with  coronets — princesses—queens 
with  imperial  crowns,  who,  by  their 
native  loveliness  beautify  their  state, 
and  whose  state  dignifies  their  love- 
liness, making  "  it  a  thing  so  majes- 
tical,"  that  the  proudest  lip  would  in 
lowly  reverence  kiss  its  footstool,  or 
the  hem  of  its  garment, — as  the  Ap- 
parition settled   into  stillness,  like 
a  cloud,  or  went  floating  by  in  the 
colour  of  sunset. 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  IV. 


[April, 


But  we  hate  exaggeration ;  and  if 
that  paragraph  be  over  gorgeous,  par- 
don it,  we  pray  you,  for  the  sake  of 
"  Much  ado  about  Nothing." 

But  before  we  get  into  our  critique, 
if  critique  it  may  be  called,  which 
critique  is  none,  what  meaneth  the 
Lady  whose  work  we  use  for  our 
text-book,  or  rather  as  a  well-head 
with  a  perennial  flow,  from  which 
we  deduce,  whenever  the  shallower 
source  of  our  genius  runs  dry,  and  di- 
vert the  "  fragrant -lymph"  into  many 
a  meandering  rill,  till  our  page  smiles 
green  as  a  variegated  meadow  a  week 
afore  merry  hay-time — what  mean- 
eth the  gracious  lady  by  "  Characters 
of  Intellect?"  She  means  that,in  some 
women,   intellect  is  the   dominant 
power — the  most  conspicuous  in  the 
constitution  of  the  character.    You 
would  not  say  it  was  so  in  Ophelia, 
though  that  simple  and  sunny  flower 
loved  to  look  up  to  the  sky;  and  though 
she  utters  things  that  would  appear  to 
be  even  the  product  of  genius.    You 
would  not  say  it  was  so  in  Cordelia, 
whose  character  was  all  affection,  and 
the  loveliest  of  all  affections,  filial  piety 
— her  thoughts  being  sentiments  — 
and  the  performance  of  duty  with  her 
easy  and  sure  as  by  an  instinct.  You 
would  not  say  it  was  so  inDesdemona, 
the  all- accomplished,  for  she  meekly 
made  such  total  surrender  of  her- 
self to  Othello,  with  all  her  feelings 
and    faculties,    as   could  not  have 
been  with  a  woman  of  high  and  com- 
manding intellect,  though  with  such 
there  may  be   total  abandonment; 
but  that  is  very  different  from  sur- 
render.   Juliet,  again,  had  fine  ta- 
lents, but  she  was  a  passion-kindled 
child  of  imagination,  with  flame-co- 
loured thoughts.    But  you  may  say 
so  of  Beatrice  and  Rosalind,  and 
Portia  and  Isabella,  "  of  whom  it  is 
our  hint  to  speak."     In  them,  intel- 
lect is  ever  seen  working  wonders 
in  unison,  more  or  less  beautiful, 
with  the  loveliest  attributes  of  the 
female    character.      Mrs    Jameson 
classes  them  together  by  that  de- 
signation, because,  when  compared 
with  others,  they  are  at  once  dis- 
tinguished by  their  mental  superi- 
ority.   "  Thus,"  she  says  finely,  "  in 
Portia,  it  is  intellect  kindled  into 
exercise  by  a  poetical  imagination — 
in  Isabel,  it  is  intellect  elevated  by 
religious  principle— in  Beatrice,  in- 
tellect overruled  by  spirit— in  Rosa- 


1833.]  Characters 

lind,    intellect    softened    by  sensi- 
bility." 

But  how  like  you  Beatrice  ?  You 
agree  with  us  in  disliking  satirical, 
sarcastic  women.  One  reason  of  our 
joint  dislike  is,  that  their  intellectual 
is  almost  always  as  low  as  their  mo- 
ral character;  so  that  our  dislike, 
you.  perceive,  is  a  mixture  of  con- 
tempt and  disgust.  The  subject  of 
their'supposed  wit  is  the  foibles  and 
frailties  of  their  friends.  But  their 
Jriends  being,  of  course,  common- 
place people,  and  though  vulgar,  no- 
^vays  distinguished,  even  by  their 
^ulgarity,  from  the  other  vulgar  per- 
i.ons  with  whom  they  live,  their 
foibles  and  frailties  cannot  be  such 
?  s  to  furnish  matter  even  for  such 
j.oor  wit  as  theirs ;  and  instead  of  any 
thing  of  the  truly  satirical  sort,  they 
£ive  vent  merely  to  crude  pieces, 
l.irger  or  smaller,  of  stupid  ill-nature, 
tie  odour  of  which  is  exceedingly 
unpleasant  in  itself,  and  more  un- 
bearable from  being,  nine  cases  out 
of  ten,  accompanied  in  utterance 
vith  a  very  bad  breath,  as  if  the 
scoffer  fed  exclusively  on  onions. 

But  Beatrice  is  a  bright,  bold,  joy- 
ous being,  who  lives  in  the  best  so- 
c  ety;  and  we  do  not  find  that  she 
much  abuses  any  but  her  equals — 
we  may  not  say  her  betters,  for  we 
find  none  such  in  the  Play.  She  is 
well-born  and  well-bred,  a  lady  from 
si  ood  to  slipper — the  child,  if  we 
mistake  not,  of  Antonio,  brother  to 
L  ionato,  governor  of  Messina.  True 
that  her  coz,  Hero,  paints  a  sad  pic- 
ture of  her,  while  she  lies  couching 
in  the  "pleached  bower;"  and  per- 
haps there  may  be  too  much  truth 
in  it ;  but  the  limner  lays  it  on  thick 
f o  •  a  special  purpose,  and  it  is  a  most 
ui  favourable  likeness— 

'  Hero.  But  nature  never  fram'd  a  wo- 
man's heart 

Oi  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice  : 

Dndain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her 
eyes, 

Mi  uprising  what  they  look  on;  and  her 
wit 

Va  ues  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 

Al  matter  else  seems  weak :  she  cannot 
love, 

No  •  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 

Sh<  is  so  self-endeared. 

<7rs.  Sure,  I  think  so ; 

An  I  therefore,    certainly,    it   were   not 
good 


of  Intellect. 


541 


She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  at 

it. 
Hero.  Why,  you  speak  truth :    I  never 

yet  saw  man, 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely 

featur'd, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward :  if 

fair-faced, 
She'd  swear,  the  gentleman  should  be  her 

sister ; 
If  black,  why  nature,  drawing  of  au  an- 

tick, 

Made  a  foul  blot :    if  tall,   a  lance  ill- 
headed  : 

If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut : 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all 

winds : 

If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side 

out; 

And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue,  that 

Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Urs.    Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not 

commendable. 
Hero.  No  ;  riot  to  be  so  odd,  and  from 

all  fashions, 

As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable : 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so?   if  I  should 

speak, 
She'd  mock  me  into  air  ;    O,  she  would 

laugh  me 
Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with 

wit." 

On  overhearing  all  this,  Beatrice 
exclaims — 
"  What  fire  is  in  mine  ears  ?   Can  this  be 

true  ? 

Stand  I  for  pride  and  scorn  condemn'd 
so  much?" 

We  feel  at  once,  that  though 
proud  and  scornful  more  than  is 
quite  proper  or  reasonable  in  any 
young  lady,  Beatrice  has  not  been 
aware  of  the  degree  of  her  guilt, 
and  that  she  neither  studied  the  art 
or  science  of  being  disagreeable-^ 
nor  practised  it  according  to  its  theo- 
retical principles.  She  has  all  her 
life  long  been  saying  sharp  things 
from  a  kindly  disposition,  from  de- 
light in  the  ludicrous ;  "  give  and 
take,"  has  still  been  the  spirit  of  her 
bearing,  in  skirmish  or  in  pitch-bat- 
tle ;  it  cannot  be  said  of  her, — 

"  She  laughs  at  soars  who  never  felt  a 
wound  ;" 

for,  though  skilful  of  fence,  no 
sword  s  woman  can  parry  every 
thrust ;  and  she  always  contends  for 
victory  "  selon  les  regies  de  la  guerre" 
Of  all  her  butts,  the  chief  is  Bene- 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  IV. 


April, 


dick.  Now  Benedick,  though  he 
have  generally  the  worst  of  it,  is 
sometimes,  we  think,  the  aggressor; 
and  even  if  he  never  be,  Beatrice 
knows  he  is  still  expecting  her  attack, 
of  course  on  his  guard,  and  ready  for 
the  assault  with  foil  or  rapier. 

It  is  plain  to  the  dullest  eye 
and  meanest  capacity,  that  a  "mu- 
tual inclination  had  commenced  be- 
fore the  opening  of  the  play."  They 
are  not  in  love ;  but  Beatrice  thinks 
him  a  proper  man,  and  he  is  never 
an  hour  out  of  her  head.  "  I  pray 
you,  is  SIGNIOB  MONTANTO  returned 
from  the  wars,  or  no  ?  He  set  up 
his  bills  here  in  Messina  and  chal- 
lenged Cupid  at  the  flight ;  and  my 
uncle's  Fool  reading  the  challenge, 
subscribed  for  Cupid,  and  challenged 
him  at  the  bird-bolt.  I  pray  you, 
how  many  hath  he  killed  and  eaten  in 
these  wars  ?  But  how  many  hath  he 
killed,  for  indeed  I  promised  to  eat 
all  of  his  killing?"  She  knew  he 
was  brave  as  his  sword.  But  the 
witty  witch  would  have  her  will,  and 
must  be  jibing.  Leonato,  fearing  the 
messenger  may  have  light  thoughts 
of  her,  says,  "  You  must  not  be 
mistaken  in  my  niece ;  there  is  a  kind 
of  merry  war  betwixt  Signior  Bene- 
dick and  her ;  they  never  meet,  but 
there  is  a  skirmish  of  wit  between 
them."  He  was  about  to  return  from 
the  wars  after  some  considerable 
absence ;  and  Beatrice  was  breathing 
herself  with  a  little  preparatory 
pastime,  and  keeping  her  hand  in  for 
the  encounter.  "  In  the  unprovoked 
hostility  with  which  she  falls  upon 
him  in  his  absence,  in  the  perti- 
nacity of  her  satire,  there  is  cer- 
tainly," says  Mrs  Jameson,  "  great 
argument  that  he  occupies  more  of 
her  thoughts  than  she  would  have 
been  willing  to  confess,  even  to  her- 
self." In  the  same  manner.  Benedick 
betrays  a  lurking  partiality  for  his 
fascinating  enemy ;  he  shews  that  he 
has  looked  upon  her  with  no  care- 
less eye,  when  he  says,  "  There's 
her  cousin"  (Hero's),  "  an  she  were 
not  possessed  with  a  fury,  excels  her 
as  much  in  beauty  as  the  first  of  May 
does  the  last  of  December."  "  Pos- 
sessed by  a  fury !"  language  scarcely 
consistent  with  the  usages  of  the 
Parliament  of  Love.  The  honourable 
gentleman  ought  to  have  been  called 
to  order ;  he  is,  at  least,  fair  game. 
But  his  praise  of  her  beauty  is  ex- 


quisite, and  proves  that  it  had  thrill- 
ed through  his  heart. 

But  though  Beatrice  had  a  lurking 
liking  for  "  Signior  Montanto,"  we 
do  not  believe  that  she  often— if  at 
all — had  thought  of  him  as  a  hus- 
band. She  enjoyed  her  own  wit  too 
much  to  think  of  such  a  serious 
matter.  And  a  chaster  creature 
never  breathed — not  to  be  cold. 
Wit  was  with  her  a  self-sufficing 
passion.  How  her  fine  features 
must  have  kindled  at  its  flashes  ! 

"  Beat.  Who,  I  pray  you,  is  his  com- 
panion ? 

Mess.  He  is  most  in  the  company  of 
the  right  noble  Claudio. 

Beat.  O  Lord  !  he  will  hang  upon  him 
like  a  disease :  he  is  sooner  caught  than 
the  pestilence,  and  the  taker  runs  present- 
ly mad.  God  help  the  noble  Claudio!  if 
he  have  caught  the  Benedick,  it  will  cost 
him  a  thousand  pound  ere  he  be  cured." 

But  though  Beatrice,  if  you  take 
our  word  for  it,  had  never  thought 
of  marrying  Benedick  some  evening 
or  other,  yet,  like  all  other  young 
ladies,  she  had  considered  the  sub- 
ject of  marriage  in  the  abstract,  and 
ad  come  to  have  a  very  tolerable 
understanding  of  its  various  bear- 
ings. 

"  Leon,  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you 
one  day  fitted  with  a  husband. 

Beat.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some 
other  metal  than  earth.  Would  it  not 
grieve  a  woman  to  be  overmastered  with 
a  piece  of  valiant  dust  ?  to  make  an  ac- 
count of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward 
marl?  No,  uncle,  I'll  none  :  Adam's  sons 
are  my  brethren ;  and  truly,  I  hold  it  a 
sin  to  match  in  my  kindred.  Hear  me, 
Hero ;  wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting, 
is  as  a  Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a 
cinque-pace :  the  first  suit  is  hot  and 
hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as  fan- 
tastical ;  the  wedding,  mannerly-modest, 
is  a  measure  full  of  state  and  ancientry  ; 
and  then  comes  repentance,  and,  with  his 
bad  legs,  falls  into  the  cinque-pace  faster 
and  faster,  till  he  sink  into  his  grave." 

There  is  something  very  kindly  in 
all  this  contempt  of  marriage.  Nor 
did  "  Lady  Disdain"  suppose  that 
any  rational  person  would  credit  her 
antinuptial  asseverations.  What  su- 
perior young  lady  ever  professes  a 
rooted  resolution  to  marry  ?  They 
all  disown  "  the  soft  impeachment," 
and  were  they  believed,  the  old  and 


i; 


833.1 

new  worlds  would  be  catertvauling 
with  old  maids.  Beatrice  knew  that 
t,he  would  have  to  be  married  at 
last,  like  the  rest  of  her  unfortunate 
t;ex,  but  'twas  not  even  like  a  cloud 
her  marriage  day,  but  quite  beyond 
the  visible  horizon.  Of  it  she  had  not 
c  ven  a  dim  idea;  therefore  came  her 
warm  wit  in  jets  and  gushes  from  her 
untamed  heart.  It  is  sincere,  and  in 
*'  measureless  content"  she  enjoys 
1  or  triumphs.  Marry  when  she  may, 
she  will  not  be  forsworn.  She  has 
but  used  her  "  pretty  oath  by  yea 
and  nay,"  and  Cupid  in  two  words 
vill  justify  the  fair  apostate  in  any 
court  of  Hymen. 

But  'tis  different  with  Benedick. 
When  you  hear  a  man  perpetually 
dinning  it  into  your  ears  that  he  is 
determined  to  die  a  bachelor,  you 
S(!t  him  down  at  once  as  a  liar.  You 
then  begin,  if  he  be  not  simply  a 
blockhead,  to  ask  yourself  what  he 
means  by  forcing  on  you  such  un- 
provoked falsehood,  and  you  are 
ready  with  an  answer — "He  is  in 
love."  He  sees  his  danger.  A  wild 
beast,  not  far  off,  is  opening  its  jaws 
to  devour  him ;  and  to  keep  up  his 
courage,  he  jests  about  horns.  Why 
mist  Benedick  be  ever  philosophiz- 
ing against  marriage  ?  The  bare, 
the  naked  idea  of  it  haunts  him  like 
a  ghost.  In  spite  of  all  his  bravado 
he  knows  he  is  a  doomed  man.  "  I 
will  not  be  sworn  but  love  may  trans- 
form me  to  an  oyster ;  but  I'll  take 
my  oath  on  it,  till  he  have  made  an 
oy  *ter  of  me,  he  shall  never  make 
m(  such  a  fool."  He  then  paints  a 
picture  of  imaginary  excellence,  and 
in  the  very  midst  of  his  fancies  he 
is  manifestly  thinking  of  Beatrice — 
"  3V  ild,  or  come  not  near  her."  There 
flat  hed  upon  him  the  face  "  of  one 
pof  sessed  by  a  Fury,"  but  yet "  beau- 
tifi  1  as  the  first  of  May." 

*  I  would  not  marry  her,"  quoth 
Benedick  ("Nobody  axed  you  sir, 
she  said,")  "  though  she  were  en- 
dowed with  all  that  Adam  had  left 
bin,  before  he  transgressed ;  she 
wo  ild  have  made  Hercules  have 
turned  spit;  yea,  and  have  cleft  his 
clul)  to  make  the  fire  too.  Come,  talk 
not  of  her;  "you  shall  find  her  the 
infernal  Ate  in  good  apparel.  I  would 
to  Cod,  some  scholar  would  conjure 
her  ;  for,  certainly,  while  she  is  here, 
a  m  in  may  live  as  quiet  in  hell,  as 
in  a  sanctuary ;  and  people  sin  upon 
bfu?  bfo  dri?  Jj'jvalfoo  y9;J 


Characters  of  Intellect. 


purpose,  because  they  would  go  thi- 
ther ;  so,  indeed,  all  disquiet,  horror, 
and  perturbation  follow  her." 

Poo — poo — poo — what  is  all  this? 
"  She  had  misused  him  past  all  en- 
durance," not  thinking  that  he  had 
been  himself;  yet  really  she  was 
not  so  bitter  bad  upon  him  as  he 
says — he  is  manifestly  more  mortified 
than  any  man  would  have  been,  if 
fairly  out  of  love ;  and  believing  (oh  ! 
the  simpleton,)  that  she  spoke  her 
sincere  sentiments,  he  has  the  folly 
to  say  to  Don  Pedro,  "  I  cannot  en- 
dure  my  Lady  Tongue." 

But  we  admire  Benedick.  "  In 
him,"  says  Stevens,  rightly,  "  the 
wit,  the  humorist,  the  gentleman, 
and  the  soldier  are  combined."  We 
admire  him  so  much,  that  we  are 
delighted  to  laugh  at  him,  when  made 
the  happy  victim  of  that  most  crafty 
and  Christian  plot  upon  his  celibacy, 
which  is  followed  with  such  instant 
and  signal  success.  Benedick  is  a 
modest  man.  He  has  no  suspicion 
that  Beatrice,  beautiful  as  the  First 
of  May,  (the  day  is  often  biting,) 
cares  for  him  but  to  torment  him  ; 
and  the  moment  he  is  led  to  believe 
she  loves  him,  he  is  ready  to  leap 
out  of  his  skin  and  his  vows  of  ce- 
libacy, and  without  ceremony,  even 
in  that  condition,  to  leap  into  her 
arms. 

"  Infinite  skill,"  says  Mrs  Jameson, 
"  as  well  as  humour,  is  shewn  in 
making  this  pair  of  airy  beings  the 
exact  counterpart  of  each  other; 
but  of  the  two  portraits,  that  of  Be- 
nedick is  by  far  the  more  pleasing, 
because  the  independence  and  easy 
indifference  of  temper,  the  laughing 
defiance  of  love  and  marriage,  the 
satirical  freedom  of  expression  com- 
mon to  both,  are  more  becoming  to 
the  masculine  than  to  the  feminine 
character.  Any  woman  might  love 
such  a  cavalier  as  Benedick,  and  be 
proud  of  his  affection ;  his  valour,  his 
wit,  and  his  gaiety,  sit  so  gracefully 
upon  him  ;  and  his  light  scoffs  against 
the  power  of  love  are  biit  just  suffi- 
cient to  render  more  poignant  the 
conquest  of  this  "  heretic  in  dispite 
of  beauty."  But  a  man  might  well 
be  pardoned  who  should  shrink  from 
encountering  such  a  spirit  as  that  of 
Beatrice,  unless,  indeed,  he  had  "  ser- 
ved an  apprenticeship  to  the  taming 
school."  It  is  observable  that  the 
love  is  throughout  on  her  side,  and 


544 

the  sympathy  and  interest  on  his, 
which,  by  reversing  the  usual  or- 
der of  things,  seems  to  excite  us 
against  the  grain,  if  I  may  use  such 
an  expression.  In  all  their  encoun- 
ters, she  constantly  gets  the  better  of 
him,  and  the  gentleman's  wits  go 
off  halting,  if  he  is  not  himself  fairly 
hors  de  combat.  It  is  clear  she  can- 
not tolerate  his  neglect,  and  he  can 
as  little  tolerate  her  scorn.  Nothing 
that  Benedick  addresses  to  Beatrice 
personally,  can  equal  the  malicious 
force  of  some  of  her  assaults  upon 
him ;  he  is  either  restrained  by  a  na- 
tural feeling  of  gallantry,  little  as  she 
deserves  the  consideration  due  to 
her  sex — for  a  female  satirist  ever 
places  herself  beyond  the  pale  of  such 
iforbearance — or  he  is  subdued  by 
her  superior  volubility." 

'Tis  natural,  perhaps,  that  we 
should  more  admire  the  lady — our 
fair  critic  the  gentleman.  If  some 
of  our  playful  observations,  made  a 
few  paragraphs  back,  have  in  them 
some  grains  of  philosophy,  our  ad- 
miration may  not  be  undue.  Any 
woman  might  love  such  a  cavalier  as 
Benedick — not  every  cavalier  might 
dare  to  love  such  a  lady  as  Beatrice. 
But  he  who  did  dare,  would  dare 
nobly ;  and  if  able  to  wear  as  well  as 
win  her,  could  not  fail  to  reap  a  rich 
reward.  True,  as  his  graceful  enco- 
miast says, "  Benedick  revenges  him- 
self in  her  absence,"  and  she  well  un- 
derstands "  this  ludicrous  extrava- 
ganceand  exaggeration  of  his  pent-up 
wrath,"  when  thus  he  pours  it  forth ; 
it  "  betrays  at  once  how  deep  is  his 
mortification,  and  how  unreal  his 
enmity."  Perhaps  the  cavalier's  re- 
venge in  her  absence  is  dispropor- 
tioned — if  not  to  her  sins — to  the 
sometimes  almost  cowed  spirit  with 
which  he  vainly  attempts  to  repel 
the  power  even  of  her  victorious 
presence ;  and  a  gentleman,  "  whose 
wits  have  gone  halting  off,"  and  who 
looks  as  if  he  had  "  not  a  word  to 
throw  to  a  dog,"  with  no  good  grace 
claps  his  wings  and  crows,  as  soon 
as  he  has  got  into  safe  hiding,  wax- 
ing red  about  the  comb  to  a  deep 
degree  of  crimson,  more  becoming 
to  a  game-cock  that  offers  battle  to  a 
rival,  than  to  one  who  has  fairly 
turned  tail  to  a  hen. 

Is  Mrs  Jameson  not  too  severe  on 
Beatrice,  when  she  says, "  little  as  she 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  IV. 


[April, 


deserves  the  consideration  due  to 
her  sex  ?"  Making  all  due  allowance 
for  her  wildness  and  her  wilfulness, 
Beatrice  cannot  be  fairly  said  ever 
to  forget  her  sex — though  she  may 
indeed  urge  its  privileges  a  little 
beyond  the  common  law  of  proprie- 
ty— taking  "  ample  room  and  verge 
enough."  The  daughter  of  Antonio 
was  a  privileged  person — not  on  ac- 
count of  mere  eccentricity  —  no 
rightful  claim  to  license  of  speech — 
but  on  account  of  her  surpassing  ta- 
lents— nay,  her  genius.  They  had 
long  been  friends  too — that  is— ene- 
mies ;  and  Benedick  having  no  doubt 
encouraged  in  his  fair  foe  her  ini- 
mitable and  matchless  powers  of  wit 
and  humour,  it  would  have  been  in- 
excusable— nay,  ungentlemanly,  in 
him  to  snub  her  too  sharply,  when 
she  somewhat  overshot  the  mark; 
yet  she  seldom  fails  to  hit  the  target 
even  at  rovers.  We  question  if  he 
was  entitled  to  cry,  "  down  helm," 
even  when  the  frigate  "  tight  and 
bold,"  having  shot  a-head  to  wind- 
ward, put  about  and  came  down  be- 
fore the  wind,  as  if  meaning  to  run 
him  on  board,  and  sink  him  in  deep 
water.  He  did  wiser  to  strike  his 
flag,  and  lower  his  top-gallant. 

Steevens  says, that  in  the  "  conduct 
of  the  fable,  there  is  an  imperfection 
similar  to  that  which  Dr  Johnson  has 
pointed  out  in  the  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor.  The  second  contrivance 
is  less  ingenious  than  the  first;  or, 
to  speak  more  plainly,  the  same  in- 
cident is  become  stale  by  repetition. 
I  wish  some  other  method  had  been 
contrived  to  entrap  Beatrice  than 
that  very  one  which  had  before  been 
necessarily  practised  on  Benedick." 
A  foolish  wish.  The  success  of  the 
same  contrivance  with  both  parties 
is  infinitely  amusing,  and  as  natural 
as  can  be ;  their  characters  are  in 
much  similar,  their  real  sentiments 
towards  each  other  equally  so,  and 
their  affected  scorn  of  wedlock ;  and 
nothing  could  have  satisfied  the 
schemers  short  of  seeing  the  one 
after  the  other  fall  into  the  same  trap. 
The  second  contrivance  is  not  less 
ingenious  than  the  first ;  and  as  for 
the  same  incident  becoming  stale  by 
repetition,  Mr  Steevens  might  as 
well  have  said  that  a  kiss  becomes 
stale  by  repetition,  though  you  have 
taken  but  two— a  pretty  long  inter* 


1833.] 


Characters  of  Intellect. 


val  of  some  minutes  between-— 
from  the  same  rosy  lips.  The  second 
is  by  much  the  sweeter. 

We  laugh  at  Benedick  "  advancing 
from  the  arbour,"  gulled  by  what  he 
has  there  overheard,  into  the  convic- 
tion that  Beatrice  is  dying  for  him; 
but  at  Beatrice,  who  ran  "  like  a 
lapwing  close  by  the  ground,  to  hear 
he  conference"  that  deceived  her 
with  a  corresponding  belief,  coming 
out  of  the  "  pleached  bower,"  with 
her  face  on  fire,  ("what  fire  is  in  my 
oars  !")  we  do  not  laugh; — we  con- 
dole— we  congratulate — we  love  her 
— for  that  fire  flashes  from  a  gene- 
i  ous  and  ardent  heart.  Why  laugh 
we  at  Benedick?  Chiefly  for  these 
lew  words,  "  they  seem  to  pity  the 
poor  lady."  He  sees  her  in  his 
i  lind's-eye,  "  tearing  the  letter  into 
thousand  half-pence  ;"  he  hears  her 
in  his  mind's  ear,  "railing  at  herself 
tiat  she  should  be  so  immodest  to 
write  to  one  that  she  knew  would 
flout  her."  He  is  distressed  beyond 
measure,  to  picture  the  love-humbled 
Beatrice,  as  "  down  on  her  knees 
she  fall  s,  weeps,  sobs,  beats  her  breast, 
tt  ars  her  hair,  prays,  curses, — *  Oh, 
si  wet  Benedick,  give  me  patience  !'  " 
Vain  as  we  once  were  of  our  per- 
se >nal  charms— to  say  nothing  of  our 
mental — (the  rare  union  used  to  be 
irresistible)  not,  in  our  most  cock-a- 
hoop  exultation,  in  the  unconscious- 
m  ss  of  our  transcendent  powers  of 
ccld-blooded  feminicide,  could  we 
hfcve  given  implicit  credence  to  such 
a  stark-staring  incredibility  (we  do 
net  say  impossibility,)  as  is  involved 
in  the  narrative  which  by  Benedick, 
in  one  wide  gulp  of  faith,  was  swal- 
lo  ved  like  gospel.  It  is  amusing — 
but  for  that  we  do  not  laugh  at  him 
—  ;o  hear  him  admitting,  "  that  the 
w(  rid  must  be  peopled."  Clear  it  is 
thj  t  he  will  be  as  good  as  his  word, 
wl  en  he  says,  "  I  will  be  horribly  in 
lo\  e  with  her."  Yet  the  "  chance  of 
baring  some  odd  quirks  and  rem- 
nants of  wit  broken  on  him,  because 
he  has  railed  so  long  against  mar- 
riage," gives  him  a  pinch— a  twinge. 
Bu ;  he  gets  rid  of  the  uneasy  sensa- 
tion by  reminding  himself,  "  that 
wh  jn  he  said  he  would  die  a  bache- 
lor, he  did  not  think  he  should  live 
till  he  was  married." 

I  eatrice  forgets,  in  her  passion  of 
fire  and  tears,  that  she  had  ever 
rail  >d  at  marriage.  She  bums  and 


545 

melts  to  think  how  she  used  to  rail 
at  Benedick.  She  feels  neither  pity 
nor  pride,  on  overhearing  her  cousin 
say, 

"  Therefore   let  Benedick,  like  covered 

fire, 

Consume  away,  in  sighs  waste  inwardly ; 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with 

mocks." 

"  The  sense  of  wounded  vanity 
even,"  says  Mrs  Jameson  very  finely, 
"  is  lost  in  better  feelings,  and  she  is 
infinitely  more  struck  by  what  is  said 
in  praise  of  Benedick,  and  the  his- 
tory of  his  supposed  love  for  her, 
than  by  the  dispraise  of  herself. 
The  immediate  success  of  the  trick 
is  a  most  natural  consequence  of  the 
self-assurance  and  magnanimity  of 
her  character;  she  is  so,  accustomed 
to  assert  dominion  over  the  spirits  of 
others,  that  she  cannot  suspect  the 
possibility  of  a  plot  laid  against  her- 
self." She  dedicates  her  life  to  con- 
jugal duty — that  is,  love.  Nor  is  there 
the  slightest  doubt  that  she  will 
make  one  of  the  best  wives  in  the 
world.  Never  will  Beatrice  sit  with 
Irer  arms  folded,  and  her  feet  on  the 
fender,  half  asleep  before  the  fire, 
nodding  her  head  like  a  mawsey,  and 
ever  and  anon  threatening  to  break 
out  into  a  snore.  Never  will  Beatrice 
sit  broad  awake,  her  elbow  resting 
on  a  table  misnamed  of  "  work, " 
her  vacant  eyes  fixed,  heaven  knows 
not  why,  on  yours,  and  her  mouth 
that  once  you  thought  small,  opening 
into  a  yawn,  first  with  a  compressed 
whine,  like  that  of  a  puppy-dog  shut 
up  accidentally  in  a  closet,  and  afraid 
fairly  to  bark,  lest  on  being  let  out 
he  be  whipped  to  death,  and  finally 
into  a  dismal  and  interminable  sound, 
like 

"The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's 
shore." 

Never  will  Beatrice,  after  moping 
for  days  or  weeks  in  the  hum-drums 
or  the  sulks,  fall  out  of  them  into 
"  outrageous  spirits,"  which  usually 
follow  in  that  order,  just  as  the 
hooping-cough  crows  from  the  fag- 
end  of  the  measles.  From  all  such 
domestic  diseases,  from  the  sound- 
ness of  her  constitution,  we  prophe- 
sy— nay,  promise  Benedick  immu- 
nity all  his  life  long.  Nor  will  Bea- 
trice prove  a  scold.  She  has  had 
her  swing — she  has  sown  all  her 
wild  words — and  has  none  left  even 


546 

for  a  curtain-lecture.  Nay — her 
voice  will  often  be  "  gentle  and 
low,  an  excellent  thing  in  woman," 
as  on  flaky  feet  she  conies  stealthily 
behind  her  husband  reading  in  his 
easy-chair,  (for  he  goes  no  more  to 
the  wars,)  and  lays  on  his  shoulder 
her  hand  of  light,  or,  as  she  drops  a 
kiss  on  his  cheek,  insinuates  into  his 
ear  a  wicked  whisper.  Then  what  a 
mother!  She  will  whip  the  little 
Spartans  nowhere  but  up  stairs  in  the 
Attic  nursery — and  on  no  account 
or  excuse  whatever  will  permit  a 
single  squall.  Benedick  shall  not 
know  that  there  is  such  a  thing  in 
the  house  as  a  child,  yet  are  there 
half-a-dozen,  and  the  two  last  were 
twins.  For  nature  in  wedlock  goes 
by  the  law  of  contraries.  Your  shy, 
your  silent,  inexpressive  She,  as  sure 
as  a  gun,  turns  into  a  termagant;  and 
Ranting  Moll,  the  madcap,  grows 
"  still  and  patient  as  the  brooding- 
dove  ere  yet  her  golden  couplets 
are  disclosed." 

So  will  it  be  with  Beatrice.  For 
hear  her  vows. 

"  Contempt,   farewell !    and    maiden 

pride,  adieu ! 

No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on,  I  will  requite 

thee; 

Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand ; 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite 

thee 

To  bind  our  love  up  in  a  holy  band  : 
For  others  say  thou  dost  deserve  ;  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly." 

"  A  change  comes  o'er  the  spirit 
of  her  dream"  ere  yet  she  be  so 
much  as  a  Virgin-Bride.  The  mutu- 
al confession,  or  declaration — call  it 
what  you  will — of  their  love,  is  cha- 
racteristic in  its  sprightliness,  but  it 
is  calm,  and  the  smiles  of  Beatrice 
beam  through  her  tears.  In  her  own 
happiness  she  has  been  weeping  for 
Hero.  Her  cousin  has  been  wicked- 
ly lied  against  by  a  villain,  and  that 
lie  has  been  weakly  believed  by  her 
lover  Claudio,  who  has  shamed  and 
flung  her  from  him,  in  presence  of  all 
the  people,  at  the  very  altar.  In  that 
miserable  hour,  when  all  believe  the 
fainting  girl  guilty,  and  insults  are 
showered  upon  her  in  her  swoon, 
Beatrice  alone  believes  her  inno- 
cent, exclaiming,  "  O  !  on  my  soul, 
my  cousin  is  belied!"  Then  it  is, 
when  at  last  these  two  have  left  the 
church,  that  Benedick  says  gently, 


Characteristics  (>f  Women.    Nu.  IV. 


[April, 


"  Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all 
this  while  ?"  And  she  answers  sad- 
ly, "  Yea!  and  I  will  weep  a  while 
longer."  Then  is  mutually  betrayed 
the  secret  of  their  love,  and  Bene- 
dick and  Beatrice — nothing  loth — 
are  betrothed. 

Mrs  Jameson  says  "  in  the  mar- 
riage-scene where  she  has  beheld 
her  gentle-spirited  cousin,  whom  she 
loves  the  more  for  the  very  quali- 
ties which  are  most  unlike  her  own, 
slandered,  deserted,  and  devoted 
to  public  shame,  her  indignation, 
and  the  eagnerness  with  which 
she  hungers  and  thirsts  after  revenge, 
are,  like  the  rest  of  her  character, 
open,ardent,impetuous,  but  notdeep 
or  implacable.  When  she  bursts  in- 
to that  outrageous  speech — 

'  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a 
villain  that  hath  slandered,  scorned,  dis- 
honoured my  kinswoman  ?  O  that  I  were 
a  man  !  What !  bear  her  in  hand  until 
they  come  to  take  hands ;  and  then,  with 
public  accusation,  uncovered  slander,  un- 
mitigated rancour — O  God,  that  I  were 
a  man  !  I  would  eat  his  heart  in  the 
market-place !' 

and  when  she  commands  her  lover, 
as  the  first  proof  of  his  affection, « to 
kill  Claudio,'  the  very  consciousness 
of  the  exaggeration, — of  the  contrast 
between  the  real  good-nature  of 
Beatrice  and  the  fierce  tenor  of  her 
language,  keeps  alive  the  comic  ef- 
fect, mingling  the  ludicrous  with  the 
serious."  This  is  one  of  the  very 
few  views  in  which  we  cannot  go 
along  with  our  guide.  We  do  not 
think  it  an  "  outrageous  speech." 
Never  in  this  world  before  or  since 
had  a  woman  been  so  used  as  Hero. 
A  governor's  daughter  accused  of 
incontinence,  not  with  one  varlet, 
but  with  mankind,  by  her  lover  at 
the  altar  !  Beatrice's  own  Cousin 
told  in  her  hearing,  by  Claudio,  in  a 
church,  that  she  is 
"  More  intemperate  in  her  blood 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pamper'd  animals 
That  rage  in  savage  sensuality?" 

Sweetest  Hero,  she  who  was  once 
so  "lovely  in  his  eyes,"  by  her  own 
father  called  "  smirched  and  mired 
with  infamy!"  Why,  Hero  had  "  this 
twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow," 
and  Beatrice  knew  she  was  chaste  as 
herself — as  they  lay  bosom  to  bosom. 
Her  pride  of  sex,  as  well  as  her  sis- 
terly love,  was  up  in  arms  at  the  base 


1*33.] 


Characters  c.f  Intellect. 


and  brutal  barbarity;  slie  felt  herself 
msulted,  her  own  maidenhood  sub- 
jected to  suspicion,  since  soot  might 
thus  be  scattered  on  the  unsunned 
snow  of  a  virgin's  virtue.  And  who 
was  Claudio  ?  She  had  heard  his 
praises  from  the  messenger  ere  she 
had  seen  his  face.  "  He  hath  borne 
himself  beyond  the  promise  of  his 
age,  doing  in  the  figure  of  a  lamb  the 
feats  of  a  lion;  he  hath,  indeed, 
bettered  expectation  than  you  must 
expect  me  to  tell  you  how."  And 
this  paragon  led  her  Hero  into  the 
cl  urch  to  break  her  heart,  and  "  mire 
he  r  name  with  infamy!"  "Oh, God! 
that  I  were  a  man !  I  could  eat  his 
heart  in  the  market-place,"  is  a  pro- 
per prayer  and  a  just  sentiment. 
We  repeat— it  is  not  "  outrageous." 
Did  he  not  deserve  to  have  his  heart 
eaten  in  the  market-place  ?  And  if 
Beatrice  could  have  changed  her 
sex,  and  into  a  man's  indignant 
he  irt  carried  too  the  outraged  feel- 
ings of  a  woman's,  the  man  of  the 
Corinthian,  or  rather  Composite 
order,  of  whom  the  world  would 
then  have  had  assurance,  would 
have  hungered  and  thirsted  after 
CJsiudio's  heart,  and  eaten  -it  in  the 
market-place,  which  we  presume  is 
only  a  figurative  style  of  speaking, 
and  means  stabbed,  and  stabbed, 
and  stabbed  it,  piercing  it  through, 
and  through,  and  through,  till  the 
blood  bolted  from  breast  and  back, 
and  Claudio  fell  down  a  clod  on  the 
pavement-stone  of  sacrifice. 

In  Beatrice  commanding  Benedick 
to  "  kill  Claudio,"  we  cannot  bring 
ourselves  to  think  that  there  can  be 
any  consciousness  of  exaggeration 
in  t  le  mind  of  any  auditor,  and  least 
of  all  in  that  of  such  a  high-minded 
lady  as  she  who  has  happened  to 
say  so,  or  that  the  effect  is  parti- 
cuh  rly  comic.  Doubt  there  can  be 
none,  that  it  was  a  duty  incumbent 
on  Benedick,  not  only  as  a  gentle- 
man and  a  soldier,  but  as  a  Chris- 
tian, to  challenge  Claudio  to  single, 
and  unless  that  crudest  of  calumnia- 
tors (however  deluded)  licked  the 
dust  and  drenched  it  in  tears,  to 
mortal  combat.  Was  not  Benedick 
the  lover,  the  betrothed  of  Beatrice, 
and  was  not  Claudio  the  betrothed 
and  the  worse  than  murderer  of  her 
dearest  and  nearest  (female)  friend  ? 
She  knew  Hero's  innocence,  and 
so  must  Benedick ;  for  dared  he  to 

VOL,  XXXIII.   NO.  CCVI, 


doubt  the  word  of  his  Beatrice  as 
to  the  honour  bright,  the  stainless 
purity  of  her  whose  head  had  so  long 
lain  beside  hers  on  the  same  pil- 
low ?  If  he  did,  then  was  he  not 
worthy  to  lay  on  the  down  his  rough 
chin  close  to  the  smoothest  that  ever 
hid  or  disclosed  a  dimple  in  balmy 
sleep.  We  cannot  help  feeling  pain- 
ful surprise  that  "  Signior  Montanto" 
had  not  put  his  finger  to  his  lip  with 
an  eye-look  that  Claudio  could  not 
misinterpret,  before  that  redoubted 
warrior  left  the  church. 

"  Here  again,"  says  Mrs  Jameson, 
"  the^  dominion  rests  with  Beatrice, 
and  she  appears  in  a  less  amiable 
light  than  her  lover.  Benedick  sur- 
renders hjs  whole  heart  to  her  and 
to  his  new  passion.  The  revulsion 
of  feeling  even  causes  it  to  overflow 
in  an  excess  of  fondness;  but  with 
Beatrice  temper  lias  still  the  mastery. 
The  affection  of  Benedick  induces  him 
to  challenge  his  intimate  friend  for 
her  sake;  but  the  affection  of  Bea- 
trice does  not  prevent  her  from  risk- 
ing the  life  of  her  lover." 

It  is  not  temper  that  has  the  mas- 
tery with  Beatrice.  She  was  a  high- 
born, high-spirited,  high-honoured, 
high-principled,  pure,  chaste,  and  af- 
fectionate lady,  and  therefore  she 
said,  and  could  say  no  less,  '«  kill 
Claudio."  Benedick  was  bound  to 
challenge  Claudio  for  his  own  sake, 
and  that  of  the  profession  of  arms. 
And  what  was  the  life  of  her  lover  to 
Beatrice  in  comparison  with  his  ho- 
nour? She,  God  wot,  was  no  love- 
sick-girl— but  a  woman  in  her  golden 
prime — and  had  Claudio  killed  Bb 
nedick — why,  she  needed  not  to  have 
broken  her  heart,  nor  would  she, 
though  verily  we  believe  she  might 
have  worn  widow's  weeds  for  a  year 
and  a  day.  But  she  had  no  thought 
of  its  being  within  the  chances  of 
fortune  that  her  beloved  could  be 
vanquished  in  such  a  cause.  That 
would  have  occurred  to  her,  had 
they  gone  out;  but  in  her  indignant 
scorn  of  the  insulter,  she  saw  him 
beaten  on  his  knees,  and  her  own 
knight's  sword  at  his  throat,  that  had 
so  foully  lied. 

However,  "  All's  Well  that  Ends 
Well,"  and  so  is  "  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing."  So,  Beatrice,  (good-by, 
Benedick,)  heaven  bless  thee — fare- 
well. 

But  lo !  One  more  delightful,  more 

2  N 


548  Characteristics  of 

alluring,  more  fascinating,  more  en- 
chanting, more  captivating  than  Bea- 
trice !  In  pure  nature  and  sweet  sim- 
plicity, more  delightful  is  Rosalind; 
in  courteous  coquetry  and  quaint 
disguise,  more  alluring  is  Rosalind ; 
in  feeling  playing  with  fancy,  and  in 
fancy  by  feeling  tempered,  (ah !  shall 
we  call  her  serpent  ?)  more  fascina- 
ting is  Rosalind ;  in  sinless  spells  and 
gracious  glamoury,  (what  a  witch!) 
more  enchanting  is  Rosalind;  and 
when,  to  "  still  musick,"  "  enters 
Hymen,  leading  her  in  woman's 
cloathes,"  and  singing, 

"  Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven, 
When  earthly  things  made  even 

Atone  together. 

Good  duke,  receive  thy  daughter, 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  her ; 

Yea,  brought  her  hither, 
That  thou  might'st  join  her  hand  with 

his, 
Whose  heart  within  her  bosom  is," 

feelest  thou  not,  that  more  capti- 
vating is  Rosalind — a  snow-white  lily 
with  a  wimple  of  dew,  in  bride- 
Jike  joyance  flowering  in  the  fo- 
rest! 

If  these  our  words  seem  cold, 
here  are  beautiful  ones  of  a  warmer 
glow. 

**  To  what  else  shall  we  compare 
her,  all-enchanting  as  she  is  ?  to  the 
silvery  summer  clouds,  which,  even 
while  we  gaze  on  them,  shift  their 
hues  and  forms,  dissolving  into  air 
and  light,  and  rainbow  showers  ?  to 
the  May^morning,  flush  with  opening 
flowers  and  roseate  dews,  and 
*  charm  of  earliest  birds  ?'  to  some 
wild  and  beautiful  melody,  such  as 
some  shepherd-boy  might  pipe  to 
Amarillis  in  the  shade  ?  to  a  mountain 
streamlet,  now  smooth  as  a  mirror 
in  which  the  skies  may  glass  them- 
selves, and  anon  leaping  and  spark- 
ling in  the  sunshine— or  rather  to 
the  very  sunshine  itself?  for  so  her 
genial  spirit  touches  into  life  and 
beauty  whatever  it  shines  on  !" 

At  first  sight,  we,  like  Orlando, 
fall  in  love  with  Rosalind  conversing 
with  cousin  Celia,  on  the  lawn  be- 
fore the  Duke's  palace.  High-born 
and  high-bred,  yet  is  the  talk  of  the 
two  sweet  as  might  have  been  heard 
at  the  hut-door  of  a  peasant.  Rosa- 
lind, though  naturally  the  merriest 
of  God's  creatures,  not  excepting 
any  bird,  is  somewhat  sad,  as  well 
she  may  be,  thinking  on  a  banished 


Women.    No.  IV.  [April, 

father.  But  Celia  now  cheers  her, 
for  "  never  two  ladies  loved  as  they 
do,  being  even  from  the  cradle  bred 
together"."  Our  gentle  coz  says, 
"  my  sweet  Rose,  my  dear  Rose,  be 
merry,"  and  gladdened  by  the  sound 
as  a  lark  by  sunshine,  "  sweet  Rose, 
dear  Rose,"  doth,  like  that  lark  flut- 
tering from  the  furrow  into  the  sky, 
uplift  her  spirit,  and  sing  or  say, 
"  What  think  you  of  falling  in  love  ?" 

"  Cel  Marry,  I  pr'ythee,  do,  to  make 
sport  withal :  but  love  no  man  in  good 
earnest ;  nor  no  further  in  sport  neither, 
than  with  safety  of  a  pure  blush  thou  mayst 
in  honour  come  off  again. 

Ros.   What  shall  be  our  sport  then  ? 

Cel.  Let  us  sit  and  mock  the  good 
housewife,  Fortune,  from  her  wheel,  that 
her  gifts  may  henceforth  be  bestowed 
equally. 

Ros.  I  would,  we  could  do  so ;  for  her 
benefits  are  mightily  misplaced  ;  and  the 
bountiful  blind  woman  doth  most  mis- 
take in  her  gifts  to  women. 

Cel.  'Tis  true  j  for  those,  that  she 
makes  fair,  she  scarce  makes  honest ;  and 
those,  that  she  makes  honest,  she  makes 
very  ill-favour'dly. 

Ros.  Nay,  now  thou  goestfromfortunets 
office  to  natitre's;  fortune  reigns  in  gifts 
of  the  world,  not  in  the  lineaments  of 
nature." 

Our  Lady  Critic  finely  breathes— 
"  the  first  introduction  of  Rosalind 
is  less  striking  than  interesting ;  we 
see  her  a  dependent,  almost  a  captive, 
in  the  court  of  her  usurping  uncle  ; 
her  jovial  spirits  are  subdued  by  her 
situation,  and  the  remembrance  of 
her  banished  father ;  her  playfulness 
is  under  temporary  eclipse. 

'  I  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be 
merry  !' 

is  an  adjuration  which  Rosalind 
needed  not,  when  once  at  liberty, 
and  sporting  «  under  the  greenwood 
tree.'  The  sensibility  and  even  pen- 
siveness  of  her  demeanour  in  the 
first  instance,  render  her  archness 
and  gravity  afterwards  more  grace- 
ful and  more  fascinating." 

Finely  said — "  our  first  introduc- 
tion to  Rosalind  is  less  striking  than 
interesting" — and  nothing  can  be 
more  interesting ;  not  from  her  mere 
condition  only,  but  from  the  glimpses 
it  gives  us  of  the  creature's  charming 
character.  Than  herself  and  Celia, 
young  as  they  are  and  inexperienced 
in  the  ways  of  the  world,  there  are 
few  safer  moralists.  Innocence  is 


1833.] 


-Characters  of  Intellect. 


\vise.  The  promptings  of  a  pure 
iieart  are  as  the  intuitions  of  a  clear  in- 
tellect; and  in  the  bosom  and  brow  of 
Rosalind  emotion  and  thought  come 
and  go  together  with  a  sweet  serious 
smile.  Celia  cautions  her  coz  on 
;he  affair  of  love,  because  her  coz 
had  chosen  very  abruptly  to  intro- 
duce the  subject — a  very  singular 
one,  it  must  be  confessed,  for  retired 
talk  between  two  young  girls.  Not 
that  she  thought  her  coz  stood  in 
need  of  advice  or  warning — oh !  not 
die  indeed— for  they  had  slept  to- 
gether from  childhood,  and  Celia 
knew  that  they  were  both  pure  alike 
f  s  two  dewdrops  quivering  on  one 
leaf.  Rosalind  thinks  it  not  worth 
1  er  while  to  make  any  remark  on 
the  pretty  preacher's  homily— but 
starts  away,  like  a  self-willed  bird 
from  one  bush  to  another,  a  gold- 
f  nch  choosing  a  sunnier  "  spot  of 
greenery,"  for  a  livelier  song.  Her 
fine  thoughts  breathe  themselves 
rito  lovely  language.  Celia  calls 
rich  Fortune  "  the  good  housewife ;" 
but  Rosalind  still  better,  "  the 
bountiful  blind  woman."  She  cor- 
rects coz  too,  like  a  sound  philoso- 
pher as  she  is,  in  that  false  doctrine 
confusing  the  offices  of  Fortune'and 
Mature.  Rosalind  gently  rates  For- 
tune, with  whom  she  has  cause  of 
quarrel,  but  with  Nature  none;  she 
knows  and  feels  in  her  youth,  beauty, 
and  virtue,  that  Nature  has  been 
kind  to  her ;  and  she  vindicates  her 
against  the  charge  of  having  any  thing 
to  do  with  the  "  housewife  and  her 
wheel."  Fortune  did  not  give  her 
tl  at  face,  which  was  to  rule  Fortune. 
"  The  bountiful  blind  woman"  had 
nought  to  do  in  these  «'  lineaments 
05'  Nature."  These  were  the  traces 
ol  a  diviner  touch — and  now,  even  in 
hiT  sadness,  her  own  beauty  glad- 
dims  her  with  gratitude  slightly  co- 
loured with  unconscious  pride. 

While  Rosalind  is  thus  "  shewing 
more  mirth  than  she  is  mistress  of," 
o]  >portunely  enter,  for  her  amuse- 
ment,  Touchstone,  "a  natural  sent  by 
nj.ture  for  their  whetstone,"  and  Le 
B  ;au,  "with  his  mouth  full  of  news." 
Tie  ladies  laugh  with  the  profession- 
al fool,  for  he  is  truly  entertaining 
at  all  times — and  they  laugh  at  the 
amateur  fool— aye,  they  banter  Le 
Boau  till  he"  cries,  "You  amaze  me. 
ladies  I" 

The  wrestling-scene  is  introduced 


veryfortunately— andOrlando  stands 
before  her  at  the  very  nick  of  time. 
She  had  just  been  saying,  you  know, 
"  Let  me  see ;  what  think  you  of 
falling  in  love?"  We  know  Orlando — 
he  has  told  us  that  "  the  spirit  of  my 
father  grows  strong  within  me,"  and 
we  feel  already  that  the  youngest 
son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois  may  be 
no  unworthy  lover  of  the  sole  daugh- 
ter of  the  Duke.  Ought  she  to  have 
remained  to  see  the  wrestling — after 
having  been  told  by  Le  Beau  that 
Charles  had  thrown  the  three  sons 
of  the  old  man,  and  left  them  lying 
on  the  ground  with  broken  ribs  and 
little  hope  of  life  ? 

"  Touchstone.  But 'what  is  the  sport, 
Monsieur,  that  the  ladies  have  lost  ? 

Le  Beau.  Why  this  that  I  speak  of. 

Touchstone.  Thus  men  grow  wiser 
every  day  !  It  is  the  first  time  that  ever 
I  heard  breaking  of  ribs  was  sport  for 
ladies !" 

On  hearing  of  the  rib-breaking, 
Rosalind  only  said,  "  alas  !"  Proba- 
bly she  would  not  have  gone  to  see 
the  wrestling,  for  she  asks  Celia's 
advice ;  but  Celia  replies,  "  Yonder, 
sure,  they  are  coming;  let  us  now  stay 
and  see  it."  And  there  is  Orlando. 
"  Is  yonder  the  man  ?"  asks  Rosalind; 
and  would  you  have  had  her  to  leave 
him,  who,  "  alas !  is  too  young,  but 
looks  successfully,"  in  the  hold  of 
the  Duke's  wrestler,  without  sending 
strength  to  all  his  sinews  from  the 
sympathy  shining  in  her  troubled 
eyes  ?  As  for  the  vulgarity  of  wres- 
tling, 'tis  a  pretty  pastime  ;  and  then 
Orlando  could  do  nothing  vulgar. 
Both  ladies  beseech  him  to  give  up 
this  attempt — but  his  noble  senti- 
ments inspire  silence ;  they  but  wish 
their  little  strengths  were  his — and 
during  the  tussle  Rose  ejaculates, 
"  Oh  !  excellent  young  man  !"  She 
saw  Orlando  had  him  ;  and  'twas  a 
fair  back-fall. 

"  Dead  shepherd!  now  I  find  thy  saw  of 

might ; 
He  never   loved  that  loved  not  at  first 

sight," 

So  said  Kit  Marlow,  whom  Will 
Shakspeare  hath  by  one  line  graci- 
ously made  immortal  And  well 
loveth  the  Swan  of  swans  to  sing  of 
love  at  first  sight ;  therefore  must  it 
be  pleasing  to  the  eyes  of  Nature, and 
agreeable  to  her  holy  laws. 


550  Characteristics  of 

"  Eos.    My  father  loved   Sir  Rowland 

as  his  soul, 
And  all  the  world  was  of   my  father's 

mind : 
Had  I  before  known  this  young  man  his 

son, 

I  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  en- 
treaties, 
Ere  lie  should  thus  have  ventured. 

CeL  Gentle  cousin, 

Let  us  go  thank  him,  and  encourage  him  : 
My  father's  rough  and  envious  disposition 
Sticks  me  at  heart. — Sir,  you  have  well 

deserved  : 

If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love, 
But  justly,  as  you  have  exceeded  promise, 
Your  mistress  shall  be  happy. 

Ros.  Gentleman, 

[  Giving  him  a  chain  from  her  neck. 
Wear  this  for  me  ;  one  out  of  suits  with 

fortune ;  . 

That  could  give  more,  but  that  her  hand 

lacks  means 

Shall  we  go,  coz? 

CeL   Ay  : — Fare  you  well,  fair  gentle- 
man. 
Orl.  Can  I  not  say,  I  thank  you  ?  My 

better  parts 
Are  all  thrown  down  ;  and  that  which 

here  stands  up, 

Is  but  a  quintain,  a  mere  lifeless  block. 
Ros.   He  calls  us  back  :   My  pride  fell 

with  my  fortunes : 
I'll  ask  him  what  he  would  : — Did  you 

call,  sir? — 

Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  over- 
thrown 
More  than  your  enemies. 

CeL  Will  you  go,  coz  ? 

Ho?.    Have  with  you  : — fare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  ROSALIND  and  CEMA. 

Orl.  What  passion  hangs  these  weights 

upon  my  tongue? 

I  cannot  speak  to  her,  yet  she  urged  con- 
ference. " 

Giving  him  a  chain  from  her  neck  ! 
How  much  worthier  of  a  woman 
such  frankness,  not  unaccompanied 
with  reserve,  than  the  pride  that  sat 
in  the  eyes  of  high-born  beauty,  as 
with  half-averted  face  she  let  drop 
glove  or  scarf  to  her  kneeling  knight, 
with  silent  permission  to  dye  it  for 
her  sake  in  his  heart's  blood !  Not 
for  all  the  world  would  Rosalind 
have  sent  her  wrestler  to  the  wars. 
But  believe  us,  she  said  aside  to  Ce- 
lia,  and  in  an  under-tone,  though 
looking  on  Orlando — 

"  8ir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  over- 
thrown 
More  than  your  enemit-s.'' 

She  felt  it  was  so,  and  could  not 


Worsen.    No.  IV.  [April, 

help  saying  it;  but  she  intended  not 
that  Orlando  should  hear  the  words, 
nor  did  he.  All  he  heard  was — 
"  Did  you  call,  sir  ?"  So  far  "  she 
urged  conference,"  and  no  farther ; 
and  'twas  the  guileless  hypocrisy  of 
an  unsuspecting  heart !  For  our  own 
parts,  we  see  no  reason  in  nature, 
had  circumstances  allowed  it,  why 
they  should  not  have  been  married 
on  the  spot. 

Why,  on  this  wrestling-match 
hangs  the  whole  story  of—"  As  You 
Like  it,"  and  «  Do  You  Like  it." 
For  his  brother  Oliver's  hatred  grows 
deadly,  and  he  plans  burning  Orlan- 
do aliv.e  in  his  house.  So  the  brave 
youth  flies  to  the  Forest.  The  Duke, 
too,  generally  incensed,  looks  an- 
grily on  his  niece,  and  fearing  the 
influence  of  her  graces  and  virtues 
on  the  hearts  of  his  discontented  sub- 
jects, can  no  longer  bear  her  pre- 
sence. 

"  Of  late  this  Duke 
Hath  ta'en  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle 

niece ; 

Founded  upon  no  other  argument, 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her 

virtues, 

And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake  ; 
And  on  my  life  his  malice  'gainst  the 

lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth." 

It  does  break  forth.  Duke  Frede- 
rick pronounces  sentence  of  banish- 
ment on  Rosalind ;  and  then  her 
"  eloquent  blood  mounts  to  her 
face,"  and  she  shews  herself  her 
father's  daughter.  True,  that  all  at 
once  she  has  loved  Orlando.  But 
though  to  Celia  she  confesses  her 
love,  and  in  her  sudden  sadness  says 
— "O  how  full  of  briers  is  this  work- 
ing-day world  !"  yet  her  proud  spirit 
is  not  subdued  but  by  Orlando — not 
by  the  usurper  and  tyrant.  There 
it  nobly  rebels. 

"  Ros.   Never  so  much  as  in  a  thought 

unborn, 
Did  I  offend  your  highness. 

Dulie  F.  Thus  do  all  traitors  ; 

If  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words, 
They  arc  as  innocent  as  grace  itself: 
Let  it  suffice  thee,  that  I  trust  thee  not. 
JRos.   Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make 

me  a  traitor  : 

Tell  me  whereon  the  likelihood  depends. 
Duke  F.  Thou  art  thy  father's  daugh- 
ter, there's  enough. 

RGS.   So  was   I,  when  your  highness 
took  his  dukedom; 


1833.J 


Characters  of  Intellect. 


So  was    I  when  your  highness  banish'd 

him: 

Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord  : 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends, 
AV  bat's  that  to  me?  my  father  was  no 

traitor  : 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so 

much, 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous." 

There  was  no  descent  either  from 
cecorum  or  dignity  in  "giving  him 
a  chain  from  her  neck,"  for  Rosa- 
lind saw,  at  a  glance,  that  Orlando 
was  noble— and  he  deserved  the 
chain.  In  the  giving  of  that  gift, 
with  the  tenderness  of  new-born 
love  doubtless  blended  even  the 
pride  of  birth.  She  gave  it  with  a 
beating  heart,  but  with  stately  mea- 
sure of  step,  and  graceful  motion  of 
arm — she  to  whom  state  and  grace 
were  native  as  to  the  lily.  Now  she 
seems  like  the  haughty  blush-rose. 
And  how  beautiful  the  bold  friend- 
ship of  the  cousins — the  sisters!  la 
what  imagery  has  it  pleased  the  de- 
lii;hted  spirit  of  Shakspeare  to  clothe 
its  expression ! 

"  Wheresoo'cr  we  went,   like  Juno's 

swans, 
Still  we  went  coupled  and  inseparable." 

"  For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sor- 
rows pale, 

Say  what  thou  canst,  I'll  go  along  with 
thee." 

For  a  while,  after  the  first  burst  of 
indignation,   Rosalind    remains    al- 


55.1 

most  mute.  But  Celia,  inspired  by 
her  generous  resolution  to  go  with 
her  beloved  friend  into  banishment, 
is  eloquent — is  poetical ;  and  the  ef- 
fect on  our  hearts  of  her  eloquence, 
and  the  poetry  in  which  she  here 
pours  out  her  devoted  affection,  is 
so  touching  and  permanent,  that,  in- 
ferior though  she  be  in  personal  and 
mental  endowments  to  Rosalind,  yet 
walks  she  always  uneclipsed  by  her 
side — Rosalind  the  larger  and  more 
lustrous  star,  but  Celia,  too,  a  lumi- 
nary, both  bathed  in  the  same  dew, 
and  loving  the  same  spot  of  sky. 

The  Cousins  know  they  are  beau- 
tiful. Rosalind,  at  the  thought  of 
seeking  her  father  in  the  Forest  of 
Arden,  says, 

"  Alas,  wh:it  danger  will  it  be  to  us, 
Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far  ? 
Beauty  provoketh    thieves  sooner   than 
gold. " 

And  Celia  will'"  with  a  kind  of  um- 
ber smirch  her  face."  Both  were 
"  beautiful  exceedingly" — and  beau- 
ty went  with  them,  in  spite  of  all 
they  could  do.  In  her  "  poor  and 
mean  attire,"  'twould  have  shewn 
no  bad  taste  to  have  thought  Celia 
the  more  lovely — just  as  Oliver  do 
Bois  did  in  his  contrition.  But  Ro- 
salind, now  Ganymede,  talks  of 

"  A  gallant  curtal-axe  upon  my  thigh  ;" 

and  we  compassionate  the  blushes 
of  old  George  Colman.*  The  wan- 
derers are  away  to  the  Forest,  with 
"  their  wealth  and  jewels,"  and  with 


*  The  Licenser  is  shocked  at  the  worse  than  impropriety  of  the  word — thigh. 
\V;  beg  to  solicit  his  attention  to  the  following  sentences  from  one  of  Walter  Savage 
Landor's  Dialogues  : —  »^v  ,", 

"  Porson Yet  so  it  was.      A  friend  who  happened  to  be  there,  although  I  did 

not  see  him,  asked  me  afterwards  what  I  thought  of  the  naked  necks  of  the  ladies. 

"  '  To  tell  you  the  truth,'  replied  I,  '  the  women  of  all  countries,  and  the  men  in 
most,  have  usually  kept  their  necks  naked.' 

4  *  You  appear  not  to  understand  me,  or  you  quibble,'  said  he;  '  I  moan  their 
bosoms.' 

'  I  then  understood,  for  the  first  time,  that  neck  signifies  bosom  when  we  speak  of 
women,  although  not  so  when  we  speak  of  men  or  other  creature?.  But  If  bosom  is 
ncc  \  what,  according  to  the  same  scale  of  progression,  ought  to  be  bosom  ?  The  usurp- 
ed dominion  of  neck  extends  from  the  ear  downwards  to  where  the  mermaids  become 
fish .  This  conversation  led  me  to  reflect  that  I  was  born  in  the  time  when  people  had 
thighs — long  before  your  memory,  I  imagine,  Mr  Southcy.  At  present  there  is  no- 
thii  g  but  leg  from  the  hip  to  the  instep.  My  friend  Mr  Small  cf  Peterhouse,  a  very 
decent  man,  and  fond  of  fugitive  pieces,  such  as  are  collected  or  written  by  cur  Pratts, 
and  Mavors,  and  Valpys,  read  before  a  lady  and  her  family,  from  under  the  head  of 
des  i-riptive,  some  charming  verses  about  the  spring  arid  the  bees.  Unluckily  the  honied 
thi  g  hs  of  our  European  sugar-slaves  caught  the  attention  of  the  mother,  who  colour- 
ed i  xcessively  at  hearing  the  words,  and  said,  with  much  gravity  of  reproof,  'Indeed, 
M  r  Small,  I  never  could  have  thought  it  of  you)'  and  added,  waving  her  hand  with 
m  atrouly  dignity  toward  the  remainder  of  the  audience,  '  Sir,  I  have  daughters,'  " 


552 

them,  too,  "  the  clownish  Fool,"  to 
be  a  "  comfort  to  their  travel" — 
Touchstone  the  Inimitable — for  Ce- 
]ia  says 
'*  He'll  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  IV. 


[April, 


What  a  bustle  when  they  shall  be 
missed  from  the  Palace  1    The  birds 
are  flown — but  whither,  and  with 
whom  ?  First  Lord  informs  the  flur- 
ried  Duke  that  "  in  the  morning 
early"  her  attendants  "  found  the 
bed  untreasured  of  their   mistress" 
We  like  his  lordship  for  these  words, 
Second  Lord  says, 
"  Hesperia,  the  Princess'  gentlewoman, 
Confesses,  that  she  secretly  o'erheard 
Your   daughter   and   her    cousin    much 

commend 

The  parts  and  graces  of  the  wrestler, 
That    did  but    lately    foil    the    sinewy 

Charles ; 

And  she  believes,  wherever  they  are  gone, 
That  youth  is  surely  in  their  company." 

No  unfitting  conjecture  for  a  se- 
cond lord  and  first  chambermaid;  but 
though  not  wide  amiss  of  the  mark, 
as  it  happened,  yet  vile.  Hesperia 
would  have  left  her  couch,  at  one 
tap  at  the  window,  and  gone  with 
the  Wrestler  whom  she  overheard 
the  young  ladies  most  commend, 
(though  we  suspect,  notwithstand- 
ing his  mishap,  that  she  would 
have  preferred  Charles,)  but  Hes- 
peria did  not  at  all  understand 
their  commendation;  and  had  she 
been  called  on  to  give  a  report  of 
it  for  the  Court  Journal,  would  not 
merely  have  mangled  it  sadly,  but 
imbued  it  with  her  own  notions 
of  "  parts  and  graces."  The  doves 
flew  not  away,  either  with  or  for 
mates — yet,  like  others  of  their  kind, 
they  found  what  they  did  not  seek ; 
and  erelong  there  was  indeed  billing 
and  cooing  in  the  woods. 

Gisborne's  "  Walks  in  a  Forest !" 
—  Gilpin's  "  Forest  Scenery  !"  — 
Strutt's  "  Forest  Scenes !"— Good 
poetry,  painting  and  engraving  all. 
But  all  forests  have"  fled  away  from 
our  imagination — all  but  one — Shak- 
speare's  Forest  of  Arden. 

Henceforth  we  are  all  Foresters — 
"  under  the  shade  of  melancholy 
boughs" — or  near  the  "  cottage,  pas- 
ture and  the  flock," — the  Cottage 
which  Rosalind  and  Celia  buy  from 
the  churl;  and  which  we,  singling 
out  a  picturesque  expression  that 
is  dropped  somewhere  by  some- 
body— we  think  by  Rosalind — in 


the  Romance,  request  may  be  called 
"  The  Tuft  of  Olives."  Far  away 
is  the  noisy  world— but  still  are  we 
in  the  midst  of  human  life.  That 
noble  Recluse  speaks  well  to  his 
"  comrades  and  brothers  in  exile  ;" 
a,nd  well  does  the  melancholy 
Jaques  moralize  each  spectacle. 
Philosophers  are  they  all  in  that 
silvan  court,  and  feel  happy  as  his 
Grace— 

"  Who  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of 

fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style." 

We  are  at  a  loss  to  know — we 
wish  somebody  would  tell  us — how 
long  they  have  been  living  in  the  Fo- 
rest. When  Oliver  asks  Charles  the 
wrestler  "  what's  the  new  news  at 
the  court,"  Charles  replies, "  There's 
no  news  at  the  court,  sir,  but  the 
old  news,  that  is,  the  old  Duke  is 
banished  by  his  younger  brother  the 
Duke." — "  Old  news"  is  an  expres- 
sion that  gives  us  an  indefinite  no- 
tion of  time.  Yet  "  old  news"  are 
still  "news;"  and  an  "old  infant" 
would  be  but  a  young  child.  Duke 
Senior  himself  says  to  his  brothers  in 
exile, 
"  Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more 

sweet, 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp?" 

But  even  "  old  custom"  may  include 
but  a  very  few  months  to  men  who 
have  exchanged  a  luxurious  palace 
for  an  uncomfortable  wood.  One 
winter  they  would  seem  to  have 
braved  among  the  oaks. 

<f  Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  season's  difference;  as  the  icy  pang 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's 

wind, 
Which  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my 

body, 
Even  while  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile 

and  say, 
This  is  no  flattery  ;  these  are  my  coun. 

sellers, 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am." 

It  is  surelysummer  now — else  had 
not  Jaques  laid  himself  down  at  his 
length  under  an  oak,  to  pore  upon 
the  brawling  brook.  The  woods  to 
our  imagination  "  are  green  and 
fresh,  and  breathe  a  summer  feel- 
ing." Each  single  tree  is  a  leafy  tent. 
High  overhead  we  hear  the  hum  of 
bees.  To  the  deep  hollow  murmur 
of  such  accompaniment,  to  my  Lord 
of  Amiens  we  sing  a  second,  as  he 
trolls— 


1833.] 

"  Under  the  greenwood  tree, 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  tune  his  merry  note, 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither, 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather!" 

A  few  touches  give  the  glimmer 
and  gloom  of  old  trees — 

"  Under  an  oak  whose  antique  root  peeps 

out 
Upon  the  hrook  that  brawls  along  the 

wood." 

And  we  see  glimpsing  by,  with 
"  forked  heads,"  the  "  poor  dappled 
fools,"  the  "  native  burghers  of  the 
desert  city,"  that  they  may  hide 
themselves  among  the  little  hills, 
"  whose  hairy  sides  with  thicket 
overgrown,  grotesque  and  wild,  ac- 
cess deny"  to  the  quivered  hunters. 

Yes !  it  is  summer.  The  Board  is 
spread  below  "  a  boundless  contigui- 
ty of  shade."  Nothing  can  be  finer 
than  Orlando's  sudden  and  desperate 
intrusion  on  the  gallant  company  at 
their  fruit-feast  in  "the  desert  inac- 
cessible," and  when  he  re-enters 
with  old  Adam,  the  hospitable  and 
humane  Duke  wins  our  heart  by  a 
few  words— 

"  Welcome !    set  down  your  venerable 

burden, 
And  let  him  feed." 

Contemplation,  meditation,  mirth, 
musing,  melancholy,  wisdom,  and 
benevolence,  are  all  met  tranquilly 
together  in  the  forest's  heart. 

But  its  ruling  spirit  shall  be  Love. 

"  Ros.  O  Jupiter!  how  weary  are  my 
spirits  ! 

Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my 
egs  were  not  weary. 

Ros.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  dis- 
grace my  man's  apparel,  and  to  cry  like 
! .  woman  ;  but  I  must  comfort  the  weaker 
vessel,  as  doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show 
itself  courageous  to  petticoat:  therefore, 
<  oui-age,  good  Aliena. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  bear  with  me ;  I  can 
{/;o  no  farther. 

Touch.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  bear 
v/ith  you,  than  bear  you :  yet  I  should 
I  ear  no  cross,  if  I  did  bear  you;  for,  I 
t  link,  you  have  no  money  in  your  purse. 

Ros.  Well,  this  is  the  Forest  of  Arden. 

Touch.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden  :  the 
more  fool  I ;  when  I  was  at  home,  I  was 
in  a  better  place ;  but  travellers  must  be 
c  mtent. 


Characters  of  Intellect.  553 

Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone:  — 
Look  you,  who  comes  here;  a  young  man, 
and  an  old,  in  solemn  talk." 


No  sooner  have  Rosalind  and  Celia 
entered  within  the  precincts  of  the 
Forest,  than  they  overhear  Sylvius 
saying  to  Conn — 

"  O,  Corin!   that  thou  knew'st  how  I  do 

love  her." 

And,   on  his   confession,  Rosalind 
sighs— 
"  Alas,  poor  shepherd !  searching  of  thy 

wound, 
I  have  by  hard  adventure  found  mine 

own. 

Jove  !  Jove  !  this  shepherd's  passion 
Is  much  upon  my  fashion." 

So  is  it  upon  Touchstone's.  Think 
not  that  he  had  never — like  other 
fools — been  in  love.  Hungry  as  he 
now  is,  he  has  a  pleasure  in  thinking 
of  the  time  when  he  was  the  brave 
slave  of"  la  belle  passion." 

"  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  love,  I 
broke  my  sword  upon  a  stone,  and  bid 
him  take  that  for  coming  a'night  to  Jane 
Smile  :  and  I  remember  the  kissing  of 
her  ballet,  and  the  cow's  dugs  that  her 
pretty  chop'd  hands  had  milk'd ;  and  I 
remember  the  wooing  of  a  peasecod  in- 
stead of  her ;  from  whom  I  took  two 
cods,  and,  giving  her  them  again,  said 
with  weeping  tears,  *  Wear  these  for  my 
sake.'  We,  that  are  true  lovers,  run  into 
strange  capers ;  but  as  all  is  mortal  in 
nature,  so  is  all  nature  in  love  mortal  in 
folly." 

How  fortunate  that  the  prettiest 
cottage  in  or  about  the  Forest  is  on 
sale !  No  occasion  for  a  conveyancer. 
There  shall  be  no  haggling  about 
price — and  it  matters  not  whether 
or  no  there  be  any  title-deeds.  A 
simple  business  as  in  Arcadia  of  old, 
is  buying  and  selling  in  Arden.  True 
that  it  is  not  term- day.  But  term- 
day  is  past,  for  mind  ye  not  that 
it  is  mid-summer  ?  "  The  Tuft  of 
Olives,"is  to  be  sold  just  as  it  stands  ? 
with  all  the  furniture — and  the  pur- 
chaser must  take  too  the  live-stock. 

"  Ros.  I  pr'ythee,  shepherd,  if  that  love, 
or  gold, 

Can  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertain- 
ment, 

Bring  us  where  we  may  rest  ourselves, 
and  feed : 

Here's  a  young  maid  with  travel  much 
oppressed, 

And  faints  for  succour. 

Cor.  Fair  sir,  I  pity  her, 


5<54  Characteristics  of 

And  wish  for  her  sake,   more  than  for 

mine  own, 
My  fortunes  were  more  able  to  relieve 

her  ; 

But  'I  am  shepherd  to  another  man, 
And  do  not  shear  the  fleeces  that  I  graze  ; 
My  master  is  of  churlish  disposition, 
And  little  recks  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality ; 
Beside?,  his  cote,  his  flocks,  and  bounds 

of  feed, 
Are  now  on  sale,  and  at  our  sheepcote 

now, 

By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
Tuat  you  will  feed  on  j  but  what  is,  come 

see, 
And  in  my  voice  most  welcome  shall  you 

be. 
Ros.   What    is  he  that   shall  buy  his 

flock  and  pasture? 
Cor.  That  young  swain  that  you  £a\v 

here  but  erewhile, 

That  little  cares  for  buying  any  thing. 
Ros.  I   pray   thee,    if  it  stand   with 

honesty, 
Buy  thou  the  cottage,  pasture,  and  the 

flock, 

And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 
Cel.  And  \ve  will  mend  thy  wages :  I 

like  this  place, 

And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 
Cor.  Assuredly,  the  thing  is  to  be  sold  ; 
Go  with  me  ;  if  you  like,  upon  report, 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be, 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly. 
[Exeunt." 

And  how  like  they  the  silvan — the 
pastoral  life  ?  Hear  Touchstone. 

"  Touch.  Truly,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is 
a  good  life ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  a 
shepherd's  life,  it  is  naught.  In  respect 
that  it  is  solitary,  I  like  it  very  well ;  but 
in  respect  that  it  is  private,  it  is  a  very 
vile  life.  Now  in  respect  it  is  in  the 
fields,  it  pleaseth  me  well ;  but  in  respect 
it  is  not  in  the  court,  it  is  tedious.  As 
it  is  a  spare  life,  look  you,  it  fits  my  hu- 
mour well ;  but  as  there  is  no  more 
plenty  in  it,  it  goes  much  against  my 
stomach." 

But  Rosalind,  how  likes  she  to  be 
a  shepherd-boy  ?  Poor  Rosalind  ! 
she  is  not  allowed  even  for  a  single 
day  to  forget  her  sex.  The  very 
trees  suspect  and  persecute  her — 
her  doublet  and  hose  are  beginning 
to  sit  easy — but  as  the  wind  comes 
by,  she  shrinks  to  miss  the  rustle  of 
her  petticoats. 

The  very  trees  bear  love-dittieslike 
blossoms,  and  all  in  praise  of  Rosa- 
lind :- 


Women.    No.  IV.  [April, 

"  CcL  Didst  thou  heap,  without  won- 
deriiig  how  thy  name  should  be  hang'd  and 
carved  upon  these  trees? 

Ros.  1  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out 
of  the  wonder,  before  you  came;  for  look 
here  what  I  found  on  a.  palm-tree:  I  was 
never  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythagoras' 
time,  that  I  was  an  Iri^h  rat,  which  I 
can  hardly  remember. 

Cel.  Trow  you,  who  hath  done  this? 

Ros.   Is  it  a  man  ? 

CcL  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore, 
ubout  his  neck  :  Change  you  colour?  ' 

She  does,  but  will  not  understand  ; 
and  playfully  "  dallies  with  the  inno- 
cence of  love,"  till  Celia  pronounces 
the  name  whose  sweet  syllables  have 
all  the  while  been  heard  whispering 
within  her  bosom.  "  It  is  young 
Orlando."  "  He  is  furnished  like  a 
hunter,"  quoth  Celia;— and  the  fair 
fawn  breathes — (a  pretty  pun) — 

"  O,  ominous!  he  comes  to  kill jny  heart." 

Orlando  stands  before  her  in  the 
woods,  and  Rosalind  in  a  moment 
forgets  that  she  is  a  wanderer  and  an 
outcast.  Her  spirit  is  again  borne  up 
into  the  air  of  joy  as  upon  wings.  Its 
native  buoyancy,  a  while  depressed, 
expands  anew ;  and  her  wit  plays 
round  him,  "  like  harmless  lightning 
on  a  summer's  night."  The  theme  is 
love  !  and  she  rallies  him  on  his  pas- 
sion— 

"  There  is  a  man  that  haunts  the  forest, 
that  abuses  our  young  plants  with  car- 
ving Rosalind  on  their  barks  ;  hangs  odes 
upon  hawthorns,  and  elegies  on  brambles; 
all,  forsooth,  deifying  the  name  of  Rosa- 
lind :  if  I  could  meet  that  fancy- monger, 
I  would  give  him  some  good  counsel,  for 
he  seems  to  have  the  quotidian  of  love 
upon  him." 

In  that  joyful  mood  she  dreams 
the  idea  of  being  woo'd  by  him  in 
her  disguise;  and  who  but  "  sweet- 
est Shakspeare,  Fancy's  child,"  could 
so  delicately,  so  ingeniously,  so  na- 
turally, have  carried  on  such  court- 
ship ?  Orlando  slides  into  it— and 
we  with  him — as  pleasantly  as  into 
the  enacting  of  a  lover's  part  at  some 
imaginative  masquerade — 

"  Ros.  I  profess  curing  love  by  coun- 
sel. 

Orl   Did  you  ever  cure  any  so? 

Ros.  Yes,  one;  and  in  this  manner. 
He  was  to  imagine  me  his  love,  his  mis- 
tress j  and  I  set  him  every  day  to  woo 


1833.]  Chtirwlers 

me  .  At  which  time  would  I,  being  but 
a  moonish  youth,  grieve,  be  effeminate, 
changeable,  longing,  and  liking;  proud, 
fantastical,  apish,  shallow,  inconstant,  full 
of  tears,  full  of  smiles  ;  for  every  passion 
something,  and  for  no  passion  truly  any 
thing,  as  boys  and  women  are  fur  the 
most  part  cattle  of  this  colour  :  would 
now  like  him,  now  loathe  him  ;  then  en- 
tertain him,  then  forswear  him;  now 
weep  for  him,  then  spit  at  him  ;  that  I 
drave  my  suitor  from  his  mad  humour  of 
love,  to  a  living  humour  of  madness  ; 
which  was,  to  forswear  the  full  stream  of 
the  world,  and  to  live  in  a  nook  merely 
monastic:  And  thus  I  cured  him." 

Who  could  resist  this?  Not  Or- 
lando ;  for,  though  love-stricken,  he 
is  full  of  the  power  of  life ;  his  pas- 
sion is  a  joy;  his  fear  is  but  slight 
shadow,  his  hope  strong  sunshine; 
and  he  has  just  escaped  from  disho- 
nouring thraldom  into  a  wild  and 
adventurous  liberty  in  the  forest, 
where  by  the  Duke  he  has  been  ta- 
ken into  favour  as  Sir  Rowland's 
son.  There  is  a  mysterious  spell 
breathed  over  his  whole  being  from 
that  silver  speech.  Near  the  happy 
close  of  the  play,  the  Duke  says  to 
him— 

"  I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some   lively   touches   of  my  daughter's 
favour." 

And  Orlando  then  answers — 

"  My  Lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw 

him, 
Methought  he    was    a   brother  to   your 

daughter." 

That  sweet  thought  had  passed 
across  his  mind,  at  their  first  meet- 
ing, although  he  did  not  tell  the 
4 '  shepherd-  boy  ;"  and  it  inclines 
him,  in  a  moment,  when  Rosalind 
says — "  I  would  cure  you,  if  you 
would  but  call  me  Rosalind,  and 
rome  every  day  to  my  cot,  and  woo 
me,"  to  answer,  "  Now,  by  the  faith 
(•f  my  love,  I  will;  tell  me  where  it 
h."  And  is  not  this  shepherd-boy, 
vith  "lively  touches  o"f  my  daughter's 
fivour,"  a  thousand  times  better 
fian  a  dead  picture  ?  It  is  a  living 
fill-length  picture  even  of  Rosalind 
in  a  fancy-dress;  and  'tis  easy  as 
dslightful  to  imagine  it  the  very 
original's  own  self— the  "  slender 
Rosalind" — the  "heavenly  Rosa- 
li'id" — 'tis  "Love's  young  dream!" 
Pray  what  took  Rosalind  to  the 
Forest  of  Ardeu  ?  She  was  bauish- 


of  Intellect.  555 

ed;  but  went  sha  not  there  to  look 
for  her  father  ?  We  think  she  surely 
did ;  but  she  seems  to  care  little 
about  the  good  elderly  gentleman. 
She  seldom  strays  far  from  the  "  Tuft 
of  Olives" — "here  on  the  skirts  of 
the  forest  like  a  fringe  upon  a  petti- 
coat." There  she  abides,  "  like  the 
coney  that  you  see  dwell  where  it  is 
kindled."  Sweet  wretch !  She  is 
sometimes  rather  out  of  spirits. 

"  Ros.  Never  talk  to  me,  I  will  weep. 

Cel.  Do,  I  pr'ythee ;  but  yet  have  the 
grace  to  consider,  that  tears  do  not  become 
a  man. 

Ros.  But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep  ? 

Cel.  As  good  cause  as  one  would  de- 
sire ;  therefore  weep. 

Ros.  His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissem- 
bling colour  ! 

Cel.  Something  browner  than  Ju- 
das's." 

He  it  seems  is  the  deceiver — not  she 
— she,  who  is  one  entire  deceit. "  Nay 
certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in  him." 
Wicked  hypocrite  !  she  knows  he  is 
all  truth — all  passion.  Their  hearts 
and  souls  are  one — and  soon  will 
they  be  one  flesh.  But  only  hear 
how  she  speaks  of  her  own  father ! 

"  Ros.  I  met  the  Duke  yesterday,  and 
had  much  question  with  him.  He  asked 
me,  of  what  parentage  I  was  ;  I  told  him, 
of  as  good  r.s  he  ;  so  he  laughed,  and  let 
me  go.  But  what  talk  ive  of  fathers,  when 
there  is  such  a  man  as  Orlando  ?" 

Ungrateful,  undutiful,  impious  Rosa- 
lind, to  prefer  talking  of  a  lover  of  a 
week's  standing,  to  a  father  of  some 
eighteen  years  !  "  This  is  too  bad." 
Yet  in  spite  of  it  all,  Rosalind  is  a 
dearest  favourite  of  the  lady  who 
knows  "honour  and  virtue"  well. 
Nor  can  we  well  deny  that  after  all  she 
deserves  this  beautiful  eulogium, — 

"  Every  thing  about  Rosalind 
breathes  of  youth's  sweet  prime. 
She  is  fresh  as  the  morning,  sweet 
as  the  dew-awakened  blossoms,  and 
light  as  the  breeze  that  plays  among 
them.  Her  wit  bubbles  up  and  spar- 
kles like  the  living  fountain,  refresh- 
ing all  around.  Her  volubility  is 
like  the  bird's  song;  it  is  the  out- 
pouring of  a  heart  filled  to  overflow- 
ing with  life,  love,  and  joy,  and  all 
sweet  and  affectionate  impulses.  She 
has  as  much  tenderness  as  mirth, 
and  in  her  most  petulant  raillery 
there  is  a  touch  of  softness — '  By  this 
hand  it  will  not  hurt  a  fly !'  As  her 


556 


vivacity  never  lessens  our  impres- 
sion of  her  sensibility,  so  she  wears 
her  masculine  attire  without  the 
slightest  impugnment  of  her  deli- 
cacy. Shakspeare  did  not  make  the 
modesty  of  his  women  depend  on 
their  dress.  Rosalind  has  in  truth 
'  no  doublet  and  hose  in  her  dispo- 
sition.' How  her  heart  seems  to 
throb  and  flutter  under  her  page's 
vest!  What  depth  of  love  in  her 
passion  for  Orlando !  whether  dis- 
guised beneath  a  saucy  playfulness, 
or  breaking  forth  with  a  fond  impa- 
tience, or  half  betrayed  in  that  beau- 
tiful scene  where  she  faints  at  the 
sight  of  the  'kerchief  stained  with 
his  blood !  Here  her  recovery  of  her 
self-possession— her  fears  lest  she 
should  have  revealed  her  sex — her 
presence  of  mind,  and  quick-witted 
excuse— 

'  I  pray  you,  tell  your  brother  how  well 
I  counterfeited,' 

and  the  characteristic  playfulness 
which  seems  to  return  so  naturally 
with  her  recovered  senses, — are  all 
as  amusing  as  consistent.  Then  how 
beautifully  is  the  dialogue  managed 
between  herself  and  Orlando  !  how 
well  she  assumes  the  airs  of  a  saucy 
page,  without  throwing  off  her  femi- 
nine sweetness!  How  her  wit  flutters 
free  as  air  over  every  subject!  With 
what  a  careless  grace,  yet  with  what 
exquisite  propriety ! 
*  'For  innocence  hath  a  privilege  in  her, 
To  dignify  arch  jests  and  laughing  eyes.'  " 

Exquisite  criticism!  Orlando,  in  all 
these  assignations,  enjoys  but  the 
shadow,  so  it  seems  to  him,  of 
his  Rosalind,  but  Rosalind  feeds 
her  innocent  passion  on  the  sub- 
stance of  her  Orlando.  Her  scheme 
answers  its  purpose  to  a  miracle. 
Creative  in  her  happiness  of  plea- 
sant fancies  that  never  flag,  the  re- 
presentative of  Rosalind,  before 
her  lover's  senses,  becomes  more 
and  more  encircled  with  the  lights 
and  shadows,  the  music  and  the 
fragrance,  of  the  charm  that  hangs 
and  breathes  around  "  another  and 
the  same ;"  and  he  never  wearies  of 
such  discourse.  So  faithfully  has  he 
pledged  his  troth  to  that  "  gay  de- 
ceiver," that  he  does  not  forget  the 
supposed  shepherd-boy,  even  when 
wounded  by  the  lioness.  As  to  the 
real  Rosalind,  he  would  have  assured- 
ly sent  the  handkerchief  stained  with 
his  blood,  so  his  love  will  not  be 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  IV.  [April, 

cheated  out  of  the  deep  delight  of 


fond  imagination,  and  he  sends  it  to 
her  shadow.  He  is  indeed  "  of  ima- 
gination all  compact." 

The  impression  left  on  our  hearts 
and  minds  by  the  character  of  Rosa- 
lind, as  it  shines  forth  so  natural,  so 
sincere  and  truthful,  through  the  dis- 
guise that  emboldens  her  to  put  forth 
a  power  of  innocent  enchantment 
which  had  she  been  in  her  sex's  ha- 
bit, her  sex's  native  modesty — "  maid- 
enly shame-facedness" — would  have 
partly  restrained,  "  in  dim  suffusion 
veiled," — "  a  mixture  of  playfulness, 
sensibility,  and  what  the  French 
call  naivete,  is,"  says  Mrs  Jameson, 
with  her  usual  fine  tact,  "  like  a 
delicious  strain  of  music.  There 
is  a  depth  of  delight,  and  a  subtle- 
ty of  words  to  express  that  de- 
light, which  is  enchanting.  Yet 
when  we  call  to  mind  particular  and 
peculiar  passages,  we  find  that  they 
have  a  relative  beauty  and  propriety, 
which  renders  it  difficult  to  separate 
them  from  the  context,  without  in- 
juring the  effect.  She  says  some  of 
the  most  charming  things  in  the 
world,  and  some  of  the  most  hu- 
morous j  but  we  apply  them  as 
phrases  rather  than  as  maxims,  and 
remember  them  rather  for  their 
pointed  felicity  of  expression,  and 
fanciful  application,  than  for  their 
general  truth  and  depth  of  meaning." 
Yet  is  the  stream  of  her  thought — 
it  is  a  stream,  not  a  lake,  for  'tis  ever 
in  motion  and  in  murmur — often 
much  deeper  than  it  seems  to  be — 
like  a  translucent  water-gleam,  that 
you  think  you  can  easily  ford  j  but 
when  you  try,  you  are  surprised  to 
find  you  must  have  recourse  to  swim- 
ming through  the  "  liquid  lapse," 
scarcely  distinguishable  even  then, 
but  by  a  grateful  coolness,  from  the 
air  of  heaven. 

As  to  the  freedom  of  some  of  her 
expressions  (and  of  Beatrice,)  let  it 
be  remembered,  says  the  gentle  lady, 
who  sees  all  feminities  in  their  true 
light,  "  that  this  was  not  the  fault  of 
Shakspeare  or  the  women,  but  gene- 
rally of  the  age.  Portia,  Beatrice, 
and  Rosalind,  and  the  rest,  lived  in 
times  when  more  importance  was 
attached  to  things  than  words ;  now 
we  think  more  of  words  than  of 
things ;  and  happy  are  we  in  these 
late  days  of  super-refinement,  if  we 
are  to  be  saved  by  our  verbal  mora- 
lity." It  would  puzzle  the  best  of 


Characters  of  Intellect. 


"  the  chariest  maids"  of  these  days, 
"  the  '  nicest'  of  them  all,"  to  perso- 
nate a  shepherd -boy  personating 
an  enamoured  full-grown  man  his 
lady-love  in  all  her  moods — even  in 
"  a  more  coming-on  disposition" — 
with  the  tenth  part  of  the  spirit,  and 
twentieth  part  of  the  delicacy  of 
Rosalind.  A  blush'when  no  blush 
should  be — an  awkward  knee-in- 
turning  when  nobody  was  thinking 
about  knees— a  shrinking'awayTrom 
the  male-touch  when  it  should  have 
been  met  with  a  gentle  tremor — a 
face-averting  from  the  cheek-kiss  of 
friendship  mildly  imitative  of  love, 
as  if  a  beard  might  blast  the  blos- 
soms,— these,  and  many  other  con- 
genial errors — guilty  mistakings  of 
innocent  meanings  —  foolish  fears 
without  any  danger — and  "  appre- 
hensions coming  in  clouds,"  when 
all  should  be  serene  as  the  blue  sky 
— would  betray  the  damsel,  during 
the  first  act;  so  in  pity  of  her  failure 
in  the  part  of  Rosalind,  we  let  fall 
the  curtain,  and  call  on  the  orchestra 
to  strike  up  the  "  Auld  Wife  of 
Ochterty re,"  or  of  "Auchtermuchty." 
Love,  we  said,  is  the  spirit  of  the 
Romance.  Old  Corin  comes  upon 
Rosalind  and  Celia  when  conversing 
about  Orlando,  and  says,— 

"  Cor.  Mistress,  and  master,  you  have 

oft  enquired 
After  the  shepherd  that  complain'd  of 

love; 

Who  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf, 
Praising  the  proud  disdainful  shepherdess 
That  was  his  mistress. 

Cel  Well,  and  what  of  him  ? 

Cor.  If  you  will  see  a  pageant  truly 

play'd, 

Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love 
\nd  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  dis- 
dain, 

ITO  hence  a  little,  and  I  shall  conduct  you, 
"i  f  you  will  mark  it. 

Ros.  O,  come,  let  us  remove ; 

'/he  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love: — 
}>ring  us  unto  this  sight,  and  you  shall  say 
I'll  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play." 

The  scenes  with  Sylvius  and 
1  hebe,  how  full  of  nature  !  Scorn 
a  id  disdain  as  livelily  felt  and  shewn 
b  y  a  forest-maid,  the  pride,  the  tri- 
u  tnph,  and  the  tyranny  of  conquest, 
a  s  by  lady  in  a  palace,  at  whose  feet 
k  leel  "  high  lords  and  mighty  earls." 
''  Phebe,"  says  Mrs  Jameson,  truly, 
"  is  quite  an  Arcadian  coquette.  A 
vi  -ry  amusing  effect  is  produced  by 


557 

the  contrast  between  the  port  and 
bearing  of  the  two  princesses  in  dis- 
guise, and  the  scornful  airs  of  the 
real  shepherdess.  In  the  speeches 
of  Phebe,  and  in  the  dialogue  be- 
tween her  and  Sylvius,  Shakspeare 
has  anticipated  all  the  beauties  of 
the  Italian  pastoral,  and  surpassed 
Tasso  and  Guarini.  We  find  two  of 
the  most  poetical  passages  of  the 
play  appropriated  to  Phebe;  the 
taunting  speech  to  Sylvius,  and  the 
description  of  Rosalind  in  her  page's 
costume;  which  last  is  finer  than 
the  portrait  of  Bathyllus  in  Ana- 
creon." 

The  lad  Rosalind  is  irresistible  j  and 
howAeenjoys  the  punishment  he  sau- 
cily inflicts  on  the  .imperious  Acorn- 
gatherer  fallen  head-over-ears  in 
love  I 

"  Why,  what  means  this  ?    Why  do  yott 

look  on  me  ? 

I  see  no  more  in  you  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  nature's  sale- work  : — Od's  my  little 

life! 

I  think,  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too : 
No,  'faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after 

it; 
'Tis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk 

hair, 
Your  bugle  eye-balls,  nor  your  cheek  of 

cream, 

That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  wor- 
ship— 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you 

follow  her, 
Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and 

rain  ? 

You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man, 
Than  she  a  woman :  'Tis  such  fools  as 

you, 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favour'd 

children  ; 
'Tis  not  her  glass,  but  you,  that  flatters 

her; 

And  out  of  you  she  sees  herself  more  pro- 
per, 

Than  any  of  her  lineaments  can  shew  her. 
But,  mistress,  know  yourself;  down  on 

your  knees, 
And  thank  Heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good 

man's  love ; 

For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear, 
Sell  when  you  can  ;  you  are  not  for  all 

markets ; 
Cry  the  man  mercy ;  love  him  ;  take  his 

offer; 

Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoffer. 
So  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd ; — fare  you 

well. 
Phe,  Sweet  youth,  I  pray  you  chide  a 

year  together  j 


CharacUrislic*  of  IFomen.    A'o.  IV. 


[April, 


I  had  rather  hear  you  chide,  than  this 
man  woo. 

Eos.  He's  fallen  in  love  with  her  foul- 
ness, and  she'll  fall  in  love  with  zny  anger  ; 
if  it  be  so,  as  fast  as  she  answers  thee  with 
frowning  looks,  I'll  sauce  her  with  bitter 
words Why  look  you  so  upon  me? 

Phe.   For  no  ill  will  I  bear  you. 

jRos.  I  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love 
with  me." 

Poor  Phebe  !  we  begin  to  pity  her 
—and  for  the  same  reason— almost 
as  much  as  we  do  poor  Sylvius !  Not 
more  humbled  is  she  by  the  "  sweet 
youth,"  whom  "  she  prays  to  chide  a 
year  together,"  than  is  her  swain  by 
her  when  she  employs  him  as  a  go"- 
between,  telling  him  not 
"  To  look  for  farther  recompense, 
Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art 
employed." 

What  could  Rosalind  ask  of  Phebe 
that  she  would  not  do  ?    We  blush 
as  we  pause  for  your  reply.     And 
heard  you  ever  tell  of  so  lowly  a 
swain  as  Sylvius,  who  says, 
"  So  holy  and  so  perfect  is  my  love, 
And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace, 
That  I  should  think  it  a  most  plenteous 

crop, 

To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 
That  the  main  harvest  reaps." 

And  then  he  listens,  unreproach- 
fully,  to  his  savage  mistress,  while 
passionately  and  poetically  she  paints 
to  the  life  the  imagined  man  for  whom 
she  dies.  'Tis  a  pretty  passage  as 
any  in  "  As  You  Like  it ;"  it  shews 
how  by  "  the  flame,"  may  even  the 
commonest — the  meanest  spirit  be 
inspired,  and  we  almost  admire  the 
more  than  voluble,  the  eloquent 
wood-lass,  whom  her  stars  have  des- 
tined, after  no  very  grievous  disap- 
pointment in  her  ewe-love,  in  good 
time  to  be  Mrs  Sylvius  of  "  The  tuft 
of  Olives." 

Celia,  too, the  affectionate,  faithful 
friend,  who  sympathizing  with  her  sis- 
ter's love,  thoughtnot  thatsuch  a  mis- 
fortune was  ever  to  befall  herself— 
Celia,  too,  has  taken  the  forest  fever, 
her  pulse  is  up  to  a  hundred  at  the 
lowest,  and  she  should  go  to  her  bed. 
She  has  caught  the  infection  from  a 
man,  who,  by  his  own  account,  only 
a  few  hours  before  was  "a  wretched 
Dragged  man,  overgrown  with  hair." 

"  Orl.  Is't  possible,  that  on  so  liitle 
acquaintance  you  should  like  her  ?  That 
but  seeing,  you  should  love  her?  and 
loving,  woo  ?  and  wooing,  she  should 


grant?  and  will  you  persevere  to  enjoy 
her? 

OH.  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it 
in  question,  the  poverty  of  her,  the  small 
acquaintance,  my  sudden  wooing,  r»or  her 
sudden  consenting;  but  say  with  me,  I 
love  Aliena;  say  with  her,  that  she  loves 
me ;  consent  with  both,  that  we  may  en- 
joy each  other ;  it  shall  be  to  your  good  ; 
for  my  father's  house,  and  all  the  revenue 
that  was  old  Sir  Rowland's,  will  I  estate 
upon  you,  and  here  live  and  die  a  shep- 
herd. 

Orf.  You  have  my  consent.  Let  your 
wedding  be  to-morrovv.  thither  will  I 
invite  the  Duke,  and  all  his  contented 
followers  :  go  you,  and  prepare  Aliena  ; 
for,  look  you,  here  comes  my  Rosalind. 

Itos.  God  save  you,  brother. 

Orl.  And  you,  fair  sister. 

J?o5.  Oh,  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it 
grieves  me  to  see  thee  wear  thy  heart  in 
a  scarf. 

Orl.  It  is  my  arm. 

Sos.  I  thought,  thy  heart  had  been 
wounded  with  the  claws  of  a  lion. 

Or;.  Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes 
of  a  lady. 

Has.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I 
counterfeited  to  swoon,  when  he  showed 
me  your  handkerchief? 

Orl.  Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 

Eos.  Oh,  I  know  where  you  are : — 
Nay,  'tis  true  ;  there  was  never  any  thing 
so  sudden,  but  the  fight  of  two  rams,  and 
Caesar's  thrasonical  brag  of — I  came,  saw, 
and  overcame .  For  your  brother  and  my 
sister  no  sooner  met,  but  they  looked;  no 
sooner  looked,  but  they  loved ;  no  sooner 
loved,  but  they  sighed  ;  no  sooner  sighed, 
but  they  asked  one  another  the  reason ; 
no  sooner  knew  the  reason,  but  they 
sought  the  remedy:  and  in  tiiese degrees 
have  they  made  a  pair  of  stairs  to  mar- 
riage, which  they  will  climb  incontinent, 
or  else  be  incontinent  before  marriage; 
they  are  in  the  very  wrath  of  love,  and 
they  will  together ;  clubs  cannot  part 
them." 

Dr  SamuelJohnson  eaith,  "of  this 
play  the  fable  is  wild  and  pleasing.  I 
know  not  how  the  ladies  will  ap- 
prove the  facility  with  which  both 
Rosalind  and  Celia  give  away  their 
hearts.  To  Celia  much  may  be  for- 
given for  the  heroism  of  her  friend- 
ship." The  ladies,  we  are  sure,  have 
forgiven  Rosalind.  What  say  they 
to  Celia  ?  They  look  down— blush 
— shake  head — smile — and  say, "  Ce- 
lia knew  Oliver  was  Orlando's  bro- 
ther, and  in  her  friendship  for  Rosa- 
lind, she  felt  how  delightful  it  would 
be  for  them  two  to  be  sisters-in-law 


1833  ] 


C/iaraciti's  f>j  Intellect. 


as  well  as  cousins.  Secondly,  Oliver 
had  made  a  narrow  escape  of  being 
stung  by  a  serpent,  and  devoured  by 
a  lioness— and  *  pity  is  akin  to  love.' 
Thirdly,  he  had  truly  repented  him 
of  his  former  wickedness. 

'  'T\vas  I,  but  'tis  not  I ;  I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  con- 
version 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am.' 

Fourthly,  'twas  religiously  done  by 
him,  that  settlement  of  all  the  re- 
venue that  was  old  Sir  Rowland's 
upon  Orlando.  Fifthly,  what  but 
true  love,  following  true  contrition, 


kind  of  umber  had  smirched  her  face,' 
— '  a  woman  low  and  browner  than 
her  brother?'  Sixthly,  'tell  me  where 
is  fancy  bred  ?'  At  the  eyes."  Thank 
thee — ma  douce  pliilosophe.  There 
is  a  kiss  for  thee,  flung  off  the  rain- 
bow of  our  Flamingo ! 

But  where  all  this  time  hath  been 
Touchstone  ?  Teazing  Jaques  and 
courting  Audrey. 

"  Touch.  To-morrow  is  the  joyful  day, 
Audrey;  to-morrow  will  we  be  married. 

Aud.  I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart ; 
and  I  hope  it  is  no  dishonest  desire,  to 
desire  to  be  a  woman  of  the  world. 

(Another  part  of  the  Forest.) 
Jac.  Here  comes  a  pair  of  very  strange 
beasts,  which  in  all  tongues  are  called 
fools. 

Touch.  Salutation  and  greeting  to  you 
ill!  *  *  *.  I  press  in  here,  sir, 
amongst  the  rest  cf  the  country  copula- 
.  ives,  to  swear,  and  to  forswear  ;  accord- 
ing  as  marriage  binds,  and  blood  breaks  : 
A  poor  virgin,  sir,  an  ill-favoured  thing, 
£ir,  but  mine  own;  a  poor  humour  of 
nine,  sir,  to  take  that  that  no  man  else 
will :  Rich  honesty  dwells  like  a  miser, 
sir,  in  a  poor-house;  as  your  pearl,  in 
jour  foul  oyster." 

All  flows  on  swimmingly  now.  llo- 
silind  is  indeed  the  Forest  Queen. 
She  rules  with  still  but  sovereign 
Svvay,  and  with  what  sweet  dignity 
does  she  administer  the  laws! 

"  Ros.  To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am 
yours.  [  To  Ihe  DUKE. 

TJ  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 

[  To  ORLANDO. 

Duke.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you 
are  my  daughter. 

Or/.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are 
m /  Rosalind. 


P/ie.    If  sight  and  shape  be  true, 
Why  then, — my  love  adieu  ! 

jftos.    I'll  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not 

he  : —  [To  the  DUKE. 

I'll  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he  : — 

[To  ORLANDO. 

Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  riot  she. 
[  To  PHEBE. 

Hym.  Peace,  ho  !  I  bar  confusion  ; 
'Tis  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  events  ; 
Here's  eight  that  must  take  hands, 
To  join  in  Hymen's  bands, 

If  truth  holds  true  contents. 
You  and  you  no  cross  shall  parr. 

[  To  ORLANDO  and  ROSALIND. 
You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart. 

[  To  OLIVER  and  CELIA. 
You  [To  PHEBE]  to  his  love  must  ac- 
cord, 

Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord ; 
You  and  you  are  sure  together, 

[  To  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 
As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 
Whiles  a  wedlock  hymn  we  sing, 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning; 
That  reason  wonder  may  diminish, 
How  thus  we  met,  and  these  things 
finish. 

Song. 
Wedding  is  great  Juno's  crown  ; 

O  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed  ! 
'Tis  Hymen  peoples  every  town  ; 

High  wedlock  then  be  honoured  ; 
Honour,  high  honour  and  renown, 
To  Hymen,  god  of  every  town  ! 

Duke  S.  O  my  dear  niece,  welcome 

thou  art  to  me ; 

Even  daughter,  welcome  in  no  less  de- 
gree. 
Phc.  I  will  not  eat  my  word,  now  thou 

art  mine  j 

Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine. 
[To  SYLVIUS." 

Now,  we  call  "  As  you  Like  it," 
the  only  true  "  Romance  of  the  Fo- 
rest." Touching  as  it  is,  and  some- 
times even  pathetic, 'tis  all  but  beau- 
tiful holyday  amusement,  and  a  quiet 
melancholy  alternates  with  various 
mirth.  The  contrivance  of  the  whole 
is  at  once  simple  and  skilful — art 
and  nature  are  at  one.  We  are  re- 
moved just  so  far  out  of  our  custo- 
mary world  as  to  feel  willing  to  sub- 
mit to  any  spell,  however  strange, 
without  losing  any  of  our  sympathies 
with  all  life's  best  realities.  Orlando, 
the  outlaw,  calls  Arden  "  a  desert 
inaccessible;"  and  it  is  so;  yet,  at 
the  same  time,  Charles  the  King's 
Wrestler's  account  of  it  was  correct 
— "  They  say  he  is  already  in  the 


560 

Forest  of  Arden,  and  a  many  merry 
men  with  him  ;  and  there  they  live 
like  the  old  Robin  Hood  of  England ; 
they  Bay  many  young  gentlemen 
flock  to  him  every  day,  and  fleet  the 
time  carelessly,  as  they  did  in  the 
golden  world."  The  wide  woods 
are  full  of  deer,  and  in  open  places 
are  feeding  sheep.  Yet  in  the  brakes 
"  hiss  green  and  gilded  snakes," 
whose  bite  is  mortal ;  and  "  under 
the  bush's  shade  a  lioness  with  ud- 
ders all  drawn  dry  lies  couching." 
Some  may  think  "  they  have  no 
business  there."  Yet  give  they  not 
something  of  an  imaginative  "  sal- 
vage" character — a  dimness  of  peril 
and  fear  to  the  depths  of  the  forest  ? 
But  it  hath,  or  is  believed  to  have, 
other  and  mysterious  .dwellers. 
"  Duke.  Dost  Uiou  believe,  Orlando, 

that  the  boy 

C      do  all  this  that  he  has  promised  ? 
Orl.  I  sometimes  do  believe,  and  some- 
times not ; 

As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know 
they  fear." 

What  is  it  ?  Why,  don't  you  re- 
member that  when  Orlando  said  to 
the  Boy-Rosalind,  "  I  can  live  no 
longer  by  thinking,"  what  was  her 
reply  ?  Oliver  was  about  to  be  mar- 
ried to  Celia,  and  Orlando  disconso- 
lately and  bitterly  complained — . 

"  They  shall  be  married  to-morrow; 
and  I  will  bid  the  Duke  to  the  nuptial. 
But  O,  how  bitter  a  thing  it  is  to  look 
into  happiness  through  another  man's 
eyes  !  By  so  much  the  more  shall  I  to- 
morrow be  at  the  height  of  heart-heavi- 
ness, by  how  much  I  shall  think  my  bro- 
ther happy,  in  having  what  he  wishes 
for. 

Ros.  Why  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot 
serve  your  turn  for  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 

Ros.  I  will  weary  you  no  longer  then 
with  idle  talking.  Know  of  me  then,  (for 
now  I  speak  to  some  purpose,)  that  I 
know  you  are  a  gentleman  of 'good  con- 
ceit ;  I  speak  not  this,  that  you  should 
bear  a  good  opinion  of  my  knowledge, 
insomuch,  I  say,  I  know  you  are ;  &c. 
Believe  then,  if  you  please,  that  /  can  do 
strange  things ;  /  have,  since  I  ivas  three 


Characteristics  of  Women.    No.  IV. 


[April, 

years  old,  conversed  with  a  mayician,  most 
profound  in  this  art,  and  yet  not  damnable. 
It'  you  do  love  Rosalind  so  near  the  heart 
as  your  gesture  cries  it  out,  when  your 
brother  marries  Aliena,  shall  you  marry 
her: — I  know  into  what  straits  of  for- 
tune she  is  driven;  and  it  is  not  impos- 
sible to  me,  if  it  appear  not  inconvenient 
to  you,  to  set  her  before  your  eyes  to- 
morrow, human  as  she  is,  and  without 
any  danger. 

Orl.  Speakest  thou  in  sober  mean- 
ings ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  I  do  ;  which  I  tender 
dearly,  though  I  say  1  am  a  magician  : 
Therefore,  put  you  in  your  best  array, 
bid  your  friends ;  for  if  you  will  be  mar- 
ried to  morrow,  you  shall  j  and  to  Rosa- 
lind, if  you  will." 

Now  Orlando  believed  in  this  ma- 
gician, and  why  won't  you  ?  There 
was  much  magic  in  the  olden  time, 
and  where  might  magician  find  a 
fitter  cell,  grot,  or  cave,  than  in  the 
Forest  of  Arden  ?  It  had,  too,  its  her- 
mit, for  Jaques  de  Bois  tells  the 
marriage  assemblage, 

"  Duke    Frederick,   hearing   how  tthat 

every  day 

Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  fo- 
rest, 
Address'd  a  mighty  power  j  which  were 

on  foot, 

In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 
His  brother  here,  and  put  him  to  the 

sword ; 
And  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he 

came; 
Where,  meeting  with  an   old  religious 

man, 
After  some  question  with  him,  was  con- 

verted 
Both  from  his  enterprise,  and  from  the 

world : 
His  crown  bequeathing  to  his  banish'd 

brother, 

And  all  their  lands  restored  to  them  again 
That  were  with  him  exil'd." 

But  Rosalind — she  is  the  Star—- 
the Evening  and  the  Morning  Star- 
setting  and  rising  in  that  visionary 
slivan  world — and  we  leave  her— 
unobscured — but  from  our  eyes  hid- 
den—in that  immortal  umbrage. 


Printed  by  Ballantyne  and  Companyt  PauFs  Work,  Edinburgh, 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCVII. 


APRIL,  1833. 
PART  II. 


VOL.  XXXIII, 


IRELAND. 

No.  IV. 

THE  COERCIVE  MEASURES — CHURCH  SPOLIATION — THE  GRAND  JURY  SYSTEM. 


THE  two  great  parties  who  now 
divide  the  world,  pursue  different 
systems  in  regard  to  the  democratic 
tendency  of  the  people,  and  hence 
tliey  are  regarded  with  different  feel- 
irgs  by  the  great  body  of  mankind  at 
different  periods. 

The  system  of  the  Revolutionists, 
in  whose  steps  the  Whigs  have  for 
two  years  past  been  so  invariably 
treading,  is  to  yield  every  thing  to 
the  popular  voice;  and  concede 
whatever  is  demanded  by  a  nume- 
rical majority  of  the  people.  "  Testi- 
monia  numerandasunt,  non  ponder- 
arida,"  is  their  principle  of  govern- 
ment :  when  once  a  thing  is  demand- 
ed by  a  large  proportion  of  the  na- 
tion, they  hold,  that  it  is  not  only 
impossible,  but  inexpedient  to  with- 
hold it.  The  errors  of  policy,  the 
injustice  of  nations,  the  tyranny  of 
ni  ers,  they  maintain  are  all  owing  to 
thn  exclusion  of  the  popular  voice 
from  the  administration  of  affairs : 
when  once  the  people  have  ob- 
tained, either  directly  or  indirectly, 
a  sufficient  share  in  the  conduct  of 
government,  it  is  impossible  that  any 
acts  of  injustice  can  be  committed. 
Lord  Palmerston  openly  avowed  this 
doctrine  in  the  House  of  Commons; 
for  in  vindication  of  the  attack  on 
Holland,  and  the  union  between 
France  and  England,  he  said,  that 
the  other  nations  of  Europe  had  no 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCVII. 


reason  to  fear  this  extraordinary  al- 
liance, because  as  both  these  na- 
tions were  directed  by  representa- 
tive assemblies,  it  was  impossible 
that  they  should  be  actuated  by  any 
ambitious  or  improper  views. 

The  Conservatives,  on  the  other 
hand,  proceed  on  the  principle  that 
theartofgovernmentjlikeevery  other 
difficult  or  intricate  art,  is  to  be 
learned  only  by  a  great  exertion  of 
labour  and  perseverance ;  that  men 
are  not  born  legislators,  any  more 
than  they  are  born  lawyers,  physi- 
cians, or  painters,  and  that  not  less 
study  and  application  is  required  to 
acquire  skill  in  the  one  department 
than  the  other ;  that  least  of  all  are 
the  great  body  of  the  people  quali- 
fied to  form  a  correct  opinion  on  the 
subjects  of  legislation,  because  they 
require  a  minute  and  extensive 
acquaintance  with  many  different 
branches  of  history,  statistics,  politi- 
cal economy,  and  other  subjects  of 
abstruse  science,  which  are  not  to  be 
mastered,  even  by  the  greatest  intel- 
lects, in  less  than  twenty  years  of 
unbroken  study  and  industry,  for 
which  the  mass  of  the  people  are 
totally  unfitted;  that  the  opinion  of 
large  bodies  of  mankind  on  such  sub- 
jects, therefore,  are  either  utterly 
crude  and  unfounded,  or  the  mere 
echo  of  the  doctrines  of  the  dema- 
gogues or  journalists,  who,  for  sej* 
2  o 


564 


Ireland.    No.  IV. 


[April, 


fish  or  ambitious  purposes,  will  con- 
descend to  flatter  their  passions ;  that 
the  influence  of  the  people,  or  their 
direct  representatives,  invaluable 
as  a  check  upon  administration,  and 
an  element  in  the  composition  of  go- 
vernment, is  therefore  utterly  de- 
structive as  the  ruling  power,  and  as 
directing  the  initiative  of  laws  and 
measures,  and  consequently  that  the 
first  and  noblest  duty  of  the  upright 
legislator,  in  periods  of  turbulence 
and  excitement,  is  to  set  himself  to 
counteract  theprevailingdanger,and, 
disregarding  the  obloquy  and  vehe- 
mence of  the  people,  bravely  pursue 
the  course  which  is  finally  to  bless 
them. 

As  the  first  course  is  as  flattering 
as  the  last  is  disagreeable  to  the  am- 
bition and  vanity  of  the  lower  orders, 
itmay  readilybe  conceived  that  there 
is  a  prodigious  difference  between 
the  reception  in  periods  of  excite- 
ment which  the  two  parties  receive. 
The  Revolutionists,  with  their  popu- 
lar adulation,  vulgar  oratory,  and 
mob  excitement,  are  as  popular  as 
the  Conservatives,  with  theircaution, 
distrust,  and  reserve  in  regard  to  all 
measures  of  innovation  and  demo- 
cracy, are  hated.  Hence  the  one  is 
borne  forward  for  a  season  on  the 
gales  of  popular  favour,  and,  when  in 
possession  of  the  helm,  is  for  the 
time  irresistible;  the  other,  driven 
into  obloquy  and  contempt,  is  anxi- 
ous to  regain  the  tranquillity  of  pri- 
vate life,  and  almost  loathes  a  world, 
disfigured  by  so  many  follies,  stained 
by  so  many  crimes. 

But  the  reign  of  passion  is  tran- 
sient, that  of  virtue  and  reason  is 
permanent.  The  laws  of  nature  are 
more  powerful  than  the  arts  of  dema- 
gogues, or  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
people.  After  the  fervour  of  demo- 
cratic triumph  is  over;  after  their 
banners  have  been  displayed  in  every 
village,  and  the  light  of  illumination 
has  shone  in  every  city  of  the  realm, 
come  the  sad,  sad  consequences  of 
popular  licentiousness  ;  broken  cre- 
dit, diminished  employment,  wealth 
without  security,  industry  without 
encouragement;  a  universal  sense 
of  danger  and  disquietude  throughout 
the  realm ;  a  painful  feeling  of  im- 
pending change  or  revolutionary  con- 
vulsion suspending  all  the  vital  action 
of  the  heart  of  the  empire.  The 
f  authority  are  universally 


relaxed;  impunity  is  expected  for 
crime,  from  the  aid  which  has  been 
required  from  its  perpetrators ;  the 
noisy  supporters  of  Government  at 
one  time,  cannot  conceive  that  they 
are  to  become  the  objects  of  prose- 
cution or  punishment  at  another; 
and  amidst  the  universal  paralysis 
and  anarchy,  private  offences  multi- 
ply with  frightful  rapidity.  By  one 
course  or  another  the  nation  is  ra- 
pidly brought  into  the  bloody  path, 
which  leads  through  anarchy  to  mi- 
litary despotism ;  and  even  the  vehe- 
ment supporters  of  popular  rights, 
horrified  at  the  excesses  to  which  the 
country  has  become  a  prey,  are  com- 
pelled tacitly  to  abandon  all  their 
former  principles,  and, in  the  attempt 
to  restore  order,  rivet  round  its  neck 
chains  infinitely  more  galling  than 
those  from  which  their  foolish  pre- 
cipitance strove  to  set  it  free. 

The  career  of  those  statesmen  who 
act  on  Conservative  principles  is  dif- 
ferent. If  the  resistance  which  they 
make  to  the  fervour  of  innovation, 
and  the  encroachments  of  democracy, 
is  successful,  they  are  overwhelmed 
for  a  time  with  popular  odium.  The 
world,  it  is  said,  has  never  beheld 
such  tyrants.  Nero  and  Caligula, 
Pitt  or  Castlereagh,  are  nothing  to 
them ;  their  tyranny  has  checked  the 
growth  of  freedom,  and  established 
a  slavery  worse  than  that  of  Con- 
stantinople. This  rhapsody  lasts  for 
a  time,  and  for  a  few  months,  or  even 
years,  the  Republican  journals  are 
filled  with  invectives  against  the 
bloody  tyrants  whose  deeds  have 
thrown  all  the  efforts  of  former  des- 
potism into  the  shade.  But  amidst 
the  fumes  of  democratic  fervour,  so- 
ciety regains  its  natural  and  orderly 
state — agitators  decline,  from  the  ex- 
perienced impossibility  of  succeed- 
ing in  their  projects — capital,  secure 
of  protection,  resumes  its  underta- 
kings— industry  flourishes  under  the 
shadow  of  a  firm  and  resolute  Go- 
vernment— the  wicked  and  auda- 
cious, deprived  of  hope  in  their  des- 
perate career,  are  gradually  either 
absorbed  into  the  pacific  and  useful 
classes,  or  driven  into  exile — and 
amidst  the  universal  clamour  of  the 
Revolutionists,  prosperity,  affluence, 
and  tranquillity  generally  prevail. 
With  the  advent  of  such  prosperous 
times,  the  necessity  for  rigour  and 
sternness  on  the  part  of  Government 


1833.] 


Ireland.    Ko.  IF. 


ceases— the  precautions  suited  to  the 
stormy  days  of  democratic  ambition, 
are  gradually  relaxed — public  free- 
dom steals  on  apace,  like  the  length- 
ening day  in  spring,  without  any 
one  being  conscious  of  the  transition 
— the  obnoxious  statutes  are,  one  by 
me,  either  repealed,  or  allowed  to 
Irop  into  desuetude — and,  before 
he  generation  whose  vehement  ex- 
cesses had  rendered  the  collision 
necessary,  are  all  gathered  to  their 
lathers,  the  nation  is  basking  in  the 
full  sunshine  of  secure  and  tranquil 
freedom — and  the  sullen  agitators  of 
former  days,  still  rankling  under  their 
( ^appointed  hopes,  are  regarded  as 
political  fanatics  of  the  olden  time, 
t  le  fit  subject  of  historical  research, 
or  romantic  description. 

England  and  France  have  each  of 
them  twice  over,  during  the  last  forty 
years,  exhibited  instances  of  the  truth 
o7  these  principles.  As  if  the  great 
TL  oral  lesson  could  not  be  sufficiently 
inpressed  upon  mankind,  and  the 
sophism  should  for  ever  be  silenced, 
at  least  with  all  men  of  information, 
that  they  are  not  of  universal  appli- 
cation, but  are  true  only  of  an  en- 
si  ived  and  empassioned  people,  the 
governments  of  both  nations  have, 
within  that  short  period,  been  twice 
conducted  on  directly  opposite  prin- 
ciples, and,  on  both  occasions,  the 
same  truths  have  been  written  in  in- 
delible characters. 

In  1789,  France  entered  with  ar- 
dent aspirations,  amidst  universal  ap- 
plause, and  shouts  of  democratic  ex- 
ultation, into  the  boundless  current 
of  innovation.  For  two  years,  its 
leaders,  Neckar  and  Lafayette,  were 
tho  adored  leaders  of  the  multitude, 
and  a  long  life  of  honoured  power 
germed  the  certain  reward  of  their 
pai  riotic  exertions.  But  amidst  these 
democratic  transports,  soon  succeed- 
ed the  rueful  consequences  of  popu- 
lar licentiousness.  Crime  multiplied 
to  such  a  degree,  as  almost  to  obtain 
impunity.  The  devastation  of  the 
chateaux — the  ruin  of  the  fields, 
drove  all  the  nobles  into  exile.  A 
body  of  fierce  and  insolent  leaders 
were  borne  forward  into  the  Legis- 
lature, on  the  shoulders  of  the  po- 
pul.ice — the  monarchy  was  over- 
thrown— the  nobles  decimated — the 
alta:  destroyed — and,  amidst  the 
wreck  of  society,  arose  the  stern  and 
rele  atless  Committee  of  Public  Safe- 


ty, by  whose  iron  grasp  order  was 
restored,  and  a  bloody  yoke  imposed 
upon  the  people.  In  four  years  after 
the  Revolution  had  commenced, 
through  the  vast  addition  made  by 
Neckar  to  the  power  of  the  Com- 
mons, by  the  duplication  of  the  Tiers 
Etat,  a  despotism  the  most  absolute 
and  relentless  on  record  in  modern 
times,  was  firmly  established ;  and 
it  continued  without  interruption 
through  the  tyrannical  rule  of  the 
Directory,  and  the  military  sceptra 
of  Napoleon,  till  the  re-establish- 
ment of  the  Bourbons,  and  the  cap- 
ture of  Paris. 

England,  during  that  critical  time, 
was  governed  on  different  principles, 
and  the  result,  both  in  the  outset  and 
the  termination,  was  accordingly  the 
very  reverse  of  what  had  obtained  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Channel.  There 
were  giants  then  on  the  earth.  Two 
men  of  vast  capacity,  prophetic  wis- 
dom,and  indomitable  resolution,  then 
presided  over  her  councils,  who,alike 
undismayed  by  the  threats,  and  unre- 
duced by  the  flattery  of  the  people, 
steadily  pursued  the  great  Conser- 
vative principles,  on  which  alone,  in 
such  a  crisis,  national  security  caa 
be  founded.  Mr  Pitt  and  Mr  Burke 
stood  forth  alone  to  struggle  witfe 
democracy  where  'twas  strongest, 
and  they  ruled  it  when  'twas  wild- 
est. On  them,  in  consequence,  the 
tempest  of  democratic  nmbitioa  fell 
with  almost  demoniac  fury ;  their  tf- 
ranny  was  represented  as  more  grie- 
vous, their  severity  more  unneces- 
sary, than  those  of  any  despots  w\*& 
had  ever  disgraced  the  eartfe.  But 
amidst  the  bowlings  of  the  tempest, 
they  maintained  their  course  unsha- 
ken— the  Legislature  in  the  crisis  was 
true  to  itself,  and  they  held  on  their 
glorious  way  conquering  and  to  con- 
quer. And  what  was  the  result? 
The  same  which,  in  every  free  state 
and  age  of  the  world,  has  attended 
the  coercion  of  democratic  ambition, 
by  the  wisdom  of  political  foresight 
— the  gradual  re-establishment  of 
tranquillity  and  order — the  calming 
of  democratic  ambition  from  the  hope- 
lessness of  its  struggles — the  growth 
of  industry — the  security  of  capital- 
internal  strength — external  respect. 
As  the  public  security  was  gradually 
secured,  the  necessity  for  the  coer- 
cive measures,  which  its  interrup- 
tion had  rendered  necessary, 


566 


Ireland* 


removed.  Government  became  more 
lenient,  as  domestic  danger  rece- 
ded. The  suspension  of  the  Consti- 
tution ceased,  and  liberty,  founded 
on  the  secure  basis  of  order,  and  a 
general  obedience  to  the  laws,  ex- 
panded to  a  degree  unprecedented 
even  in  the  annals  of  English  free- 
dom. There  is  no  period  in  the  his- 
tory of  England  when  public  liberty 
was  so  general,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
life  and  property  so  completely  pro- 
tected, as  from  1800  to  1830,— the 
very  period  which,  it  was  said,  from 
the  arbitrary  measures  of  Mr  Pitt,  the 
tranquillity  of  despotism  only  could 
be  expected.  And  thus,  at  the  very 
time  when  the  people  of  France,  in 
the  vain  aspirations  after  unattain- 
able license  and  impracticable  demo- 
cracy, had  riveted  about  their  necks 
the  chains  of  Robespierre  and  Na- 
poleon, the  inhabitants  of  England, 
under  the  able  and  resolute  govern- 
ment of  Mr  Pitt,  laid  the  foundations 
of,  and  obtained  the  highest  attain- 
able degree  of  constitutional  free- 
dom :  a  memorable  example  of  the 
basis  on  which  alone  practicable  li- 
berty can  be  reared,  and  of  the 
speedy  destruction  which  the  prin- 
ciples of  democracy  bring  on  the 
public  freedom,  which  they  profess 
to  establish. 

To  all  persons  conversant  with 
historical  facts,  and  capable  of  re- 
flecting with  impartiality  on  public 
affairs,  these  two  examples  were  of 
themselves  decisive.  But  they  were 
not  the  only  ones  which  were  to  be 
presented.  England  and  France 
were  destined  to  change  places  in 
political  conduct;  instead  of  the  cau- 
tious reserve,  the  steadfast  resolu- 
tion, the  conservative  principles  of 
their  predecessors,  the  English  ad- 
ministration were  to  exhibit  the 
frenzy  of  Jacobinical  innovation, 
and  the  experiment  was  to  be  tried, 
Tvhether  a  sober  temperament,  long 
established  habits  of  freedom,  and  a 
general  diffusion  of  property,  could 
render  those  changes  safe  which  had 
torn  freedom  to  shreds  in  the  more 
impassioned  population  of  France. 
At  the  same  time  the  French  Go- 
'  vernment  changed  places  with  their 
rivals;  a  legitimate  and  constitu- 
tional throne  was  there  established, 
and  the  experiment  was  made,  whe- 
ther liberty  can  with  their  people 
flourish  and  increase  on  the  founda- 


No.  IV*  [April, 

tion  of  order  and  the  coercion  of 
democratic  ambition.  This  experi- 
ment has  been  made  on  the  greatest 
scale  in  both  countries;  the  result  of 
experience  is  now  complete  in  all 
its  parts. 

Under  the  constitutional  sceptres 
of  Louis  and  Charles,  France  made 
advances  in  real  freedom  unprece- 
dented since  the  days  of  Clovis. 
That  which  she  sought  for  in  vain 
amidst  the  democratic  fervour  of  the 
Constituent  Assembly,  which  was 
drowned  in  blood  by  Robespierre, 
and  consumed  in  fire  by  Napoleon, 
was  safely  and  securely  obtained  un- 
der the  mild  and  weak  government 
of  the  Bourbons.  Their  rule  was  dis- 
tinguished by  no  extraordinary  abi- 
lity; their  councils  directed  by  no 
remarkable  wisdom;  but  such  was 
the  wonderful  benefit  to  freedom 
which  had  resulted  from  the  extinc- 
tion of  democratic  ambition,  and  the 
re-establishment  of  order  by  the 
power  of  Napoleon,  that  when  his 
weighty  hand  was  removed,  free- 
dom sprung  up  of  itself  unaided  and 
secure.  All  the  follies  of  the  old 
noblesse,  all  the  weakness  of  the 
court,  could  not  obliterate  the  effects 
of  the  mortal  stroke  which  Jacobi- 
nism had  received  from  the  triumph 
of  the  Allies.  For  the  first  time  in 
its  history,  France  enjoyed  fifteen 
years  of  real  freedom  and  unexam- 
pled prosperity.  The  press  was 
free;  personal  liberty  secure;  gene- 
ral industry  protected ;  amidst  the 
execrations  of  the  Jacobins,  and  the 
vituperation  of  the  democracy,  the 
glorious  fabric  of  constitutional  li- 
berty was  securely  reared,  and  its 
smiling  fields  and  swelling  cities 
almost  made  the  traveller  forget  the 
fiery  track  of  revolution  which  had 
so  recently  crossed  the  realm. 

But  the  spirit  of  democratic  ambi- 
tion was  struck  to  the  earth,  notr de- 
stroyed. Stunned  by  the  strokes  of 
Wellington  and  Alexander,  over- 
whelmed in  the  ruins  of  Napoleon's 
throne,  it  recovered  its  strength  with 
the  next  generation  on  both  sides  of 
the  Channel.  The  prospect  of  con- 
stitutional order,  of  the  enjoyment 
of  freedom  by  all  classes,  of  the  pro- 
tection of  property,  life,  and  liberty, 
by  the  just  balance  of  the  aristocra- 
tic and  democratic  bodies,  was  too 
hateful  to  be  endured  by  the  ardent 
aspirants  after  democratic  tyranny. 


1833.] 


Ireland.     No.  IV. 


567 


The  mob  were  not  omnipotent; 
the  industrious  everywhere  enjoyed 
their  property;  personal  freedom 
was  safe  from  Jacobinical  arrest; 
these  facts  alone  were  sufficient  to 
excite  the  indignant  fury  of  the  Re- 
publican faction  throughout  the 
kingdom.  Incessantly  they  labour- 
ed to  poison  and  inflame  the  minds 
of  the  rising  generation ;  vehement- 
ly they  exerted  themselves  to  dis- 
figure  the  fair  fabric  of  constitutional 
Freedom,  which  by  the  overthrow  of 
their  principles  had  arisen  ;  and  at 
length  their  efforts  were  successful. 
The  minds  of  the  people  were  poi- 
soned;  words  prevailed  over  ac- 
tions; a  free  government  was  mis- 
laken  for  a  despotism,  under  the 
thick  darkness  universally  spread  by 
the  press,  the  Reign  of  Terror  was 
forgotten,  and  at  the  very  time  that 
the  republican  spirit  was  prevailing 
in  the  legislature  over  the  throne, 
j.nd  the  undue  prevalence  of  the  de- 
mocratic principle  had  become  ap- 
parent to  the  eye  of  reason,  the 
Government  was  universally  held  out 
as  a  despotism.  The  illusion  pre- 
vailed, the  throne  of  Charles  X.  was 
destroyed,  and  France  again  adven- 
tured on  the  perilous  sea  of  demo- 
cratic revolution. 

Sure  and  swift  came  the  just  and 
necessary  retribution  of  such  mad- 
Bess.  Through  two  years  of  anxiety, 
distress,  and  anarchy,  France  passed 
a^ain  to  the  stern  tranquillity  of  mi- 
litary despotism.  The  glories  of  the 
F-arricades  were  almost  as  short- 
lived as  the  smoke  of  their  fire; 
from  amidst  the  fumes  of  demo- 
cracy, and  the,  exultation  of  the  Re- 
volutionists, the  awful  figure  of  des- 
potic power  was  again  seen  to  arise. 
Ill  vain  the  spirit  of  democracy 
s' rove  against  the  law  of  nature;  ia 
vain  the  starving  multitude  of  Lyons 
fj.ced  the  iron  storm;  in  vain  the 
streets  of  Paris  resounded  with  a 
second  revolt  of  the  Barricades;  an 
a  -my  greater  than  that  which  fought 
a;  Toulouse  conquered  the  first,  a 
n  ightier  host  thau  that  which  glit- 
t<  red  at  Austerlitz  vanquished  the 
Si'cond;  martial  law  was  proclaim- 
el;  the  ordonances  of  Polignac  re- 
enacted  with  'additional  severity; 
fi  teen  hundred  enthusiasts  thrown 
iiito  dungeons  ;  the  press  coerced  by 
innumerable  prosecutions;  and  at 
length  the  nation,  tired  of  such  una- 


vailing efforts,  and  sick  of  democra- 
tic fervour,  relapsed  into  the  tran- 
quillity of  despotism :  even  the  de- 
bates of  the  legislature  have  ceased 
to  be  on  object  of  interest,  and  with 
the  forms  of  a  limited,  France  has 
become  an  absolute,  monarchy. 

Undeterred  by  the  instructive 
spectacle,  the  English  Reformers 
instantly  took  advantage  of  the 
tumult  occasioned  by  the  second 
French  Revolution,  to  revive  their 
long  respited  but  not  extinguished 
pretensions.  The  times  were  chan- 
ged. Pitt  and  Burke  were  no  longer 
at  the  head  of  affairs,  the  new  gene- 
ration was  widely  tinged  by  the 
principles  of  democracy,  a  fanatical 
and  ambitious  administration  was 
placed  at  the  helm,  powerful  to  de- 
stroy, weak  and  powerless  to  save. 
The  decisive  moment  had  arrived ; 
the  last  hour  of  England's  greatness 
had  struck.  Unable  to  govern  the 
realm  on  safe  or  constitutional  prin- 
ciples, threatened  with  dissolution 
by  the  reviving  good  sense  and  spi- 
rit of  the  classes  whose  opinion  had 
hitherto  governed  the  country,  they 
took  the  frantic  and  desperate  reso- 
lution of  leaping  at  once  from  the 
strand,  and  periling  themselves  and 
the  nation  on  the  impetuous  torrent 
of  Revolution.  The  experiment 
for  the  time  had  the  success,  and  in. 
the  end  led  to  the  result,  which,  in 
every  age,  from  the  days  of  Sylla  to 
those  of  Cromwell,  has  attended 
a  similar  experiment.  For  a  few 
months  the  Government  was  the 
most  idolized  which  ever  existed; 
amazed  at  the  spectacle  of  the 
weight  of  the  Executive  being 
thrown  into  the  scale  of  democracy, 
the  people  knew  no  bounds  to  their 
adulation,  and  after  a  desperate 
struggle  of  property  and  education 
against  power  and  numbers,  the  de- 
mocratic measure  was  carried,  and  a 
revolution  effected.  What  the  result 
is  we  have  fifty  times  predicted,  and 
the  most  obdurate  may  now  all  see. 
The  nation  has  been  disorganized  in 
all  its  parts ;  it  has  taken  fire  in  the 
most  inflammable  quarters  from  the 
firebrands  so  profusely  tossed  a- 
bout  by  Administration  during  the 
struggle ;  the  West  Indies  were  first 
involved  in  conflagration,  Bristol  and 
Nottingham  were  next  delivered 
over  to  the  flames;  and  at  length  Ire- 
land, following  faithfully  out  the  in- 


568  Ireland. 

Junctions  of  its  Government— " agi- 
tate, agitate,  agitate" — has  become 
so  convulsed,  that  the  Constitution 
is  about  to  be  suspended,  martial 
law  established,  and  under  the  pres- 
sure of  stern  necessity,  a  military 
despotism  established. 

There  never  was  any  thing,  there- 
fore, comparable  in  the  history  of 
mankind  to  the  political  experience 
of  the  last  forty  years*  Twice  du- 
ring that  period  has  France  yielded 
to  the  voice  of  the  tempter,  and  em- 
barked on  the  ocean  of  innovation, 
and  twice  has  the  speedy  result  been 
an  absolute  and  sanguinary  military 
despotism.  Once  during  that  period 
has  England  steadily  resisted  the  en- 
croachments of  democratic  ambition, 
and  pursued  the  path  of  duty  amidst 
the  execrations  of  the  multitude ;  and 
her  magnanimity  has  been  rewarded 
by  thirty  year*  of  freedom,  tranquil- 
lity, and  glory.  Once  during  the  same 
time  has  France  received  a  govern- 
ment founded  on  the  overthrow  of 
the  Jacobin  power,  and  the  firm  basis 
of  resistance  to  innovation ;  and  she 
received  in  return,  on  the  admission 
of  the  Republicans  themselves,  fifteen 
years  of  unexampled  liberty,  prospe- 
rity, and  happiness.  To  complete  the 
picture, — England  at  the  close  of  the 
«sr*  abandoned  all  her  former  princi- 
ples, and  yielded  to  the  clamours  of 
democratic  ambition ;  but  hardly  had 
the  songs  of  republican  triumph 
ceased,  or  the  lights  of  revolutionary 
illumination  been  extinguished,  when 
From  the  ruins  of  constitutional  free- 
dom, the  stern  and  relentless  spectre 
of  military  despotism  arose.  All  this 
passing  before  their  own  eyes  will 
not  illuminate  the  Revolutionists; 
even  their  own  destruction  will  not 
quench  their  fanaticism;  "  if  they 
hear  not  Moses  and  the  Prophets, 
neither  would  they  be  converted 
though  one  rose  from  the  dead." 

It  is  because  we  are,  and  ever  have 
been,  and  we  trust  ever  shall  be,  the 
firm  friends  of  freedom,  the  un- 
deviating  supporters  of  constitu- 
tional liberty,  the  supporters  of 
the  greatest  possible  license  in 
thought  and  language  which  is  con- 
sistent with  the  existence  of  order 
or  its  own  duration,  that  we  op- 
posed with  such  vigour  the  fatal 


No.  IV.  [April, 

democratic  innovations  which  we 
knew,  from  the  lessons  of  history, 
would  speedily  prove  fatal  to  both. 
We  foresaw  and  clearly  predicted 
this  disastrous  result,  amidst  the  tu- 
mult of  exultation  consequent  on  the 
passing  of  the  Reform  bill.  In  the 
article  on  the  "  Fall  of  the  Constitu- 
tion," published  nine  months  ago,  it 
is  clearly  and  emphatically  foretold.* 

It  is  because  we  foresaw,  amidst 
the  parade  of  tri-color  flags,  and 
the  yells  of  Jacobin  triumph,  the 
court-martial,  the  lictor's  axe,  the 
weeping  family  surrounding  the  car 
of  transportation,  that  we  strained 
every  nerve  to  point  out  the  fatal 
effects  to  freedom,  which  must  re- 
sult from  the  insane  career  which 
was  adopted :  our  efforts  were  un- 
successful ;  the  Jacobin  triumph  was 
complete;  and  the  first  apostles  of 
freedom  are  in  consequence  obliged 
to  introduce  an  invasion  of  the  con- 
stitution, unprecedented  since  the 
days  of  Cromwell. 

The  reign  of  every  administration 
during  the  fervour  of  democratic 
triumph  must  necessarily  be  short, 
because  the  leaders  of  one  party  and 
one  year  soon  become  the  objects  of 
uncontrolled  jealousy  to  the  class 
immediately  below  themselves  in  the 
progress  of  the  movement.  The 
authors  of  the  French  Revolution 
were  swept  away  in  a  few  years  by 
the  ferment  which  they  had  created 
in  the  nation,  and  it  requires  no  great 
stretch  of  political  foresight  to  pre- 
dict that  the  authors  of  the  English 
Revolution  will  not  be  long  in  sha- 
ring  the  same  political  fate.  But  in 
both  cases  the  authors  of  these  Re- 
volutions remained  sufficiently  long 
at  the  head  of  affairs,  to  be  compelled 
to  bring  forward  themselves  the  mea- 
sures of  coercion,  which  their  extra- 
vagant conduct  had  rendered  neces- 
sary, and  hear  their  names  execrated 
by  the  vile  and  changeable  class,  for 
whose  elevation  they  had  overturned 
the  ancient  constitution  of  their  coun- 
try. Bailly,  the  first  president  of 
the  National  Assembly,  the  author  of 
the  "  Tennis  Court  Oath,"  the  first 
great  step  in  the  revolution,  was  com- 
pelled two  years  after  to  hoist  the 
red  flag,  the  ensign  of  martial  law,  at 
the  Hotel  de  Ville ;  and  in  two  years 


*  July  1832. 


]  833.]  Ireland. 

more,  he  was  beheaded,  with  that 
tame  flag  burning  over  his  head,  on 
the  Champs  de  Mars ;  the  scene  of 
his  courageous  resistance,  when  too 
late,  to  democratic  tyranny.  La- 
fayette, the  adored  commander  of 
the  National  Guard,  whose  white 
plume  was  for  years  the  signal  for 
unanimous  shouts  in  the  streets  of 
Paris,  was  forced  himself  to  execute 
martial  law  on  his  former  supporters; 
it  one  discharge  he  brought  down 
rbove  a  hundred  Jacobins  in  the 
Champs  de  Mars,  and  he  was  in  con- 
sequence compelled  to  fly  his  coun- 
try into  the  Austrian  lines,  and  esca- 
ped death  at  the  hands  of  his  vindic- 
tive adulators  only  by  being  shut  up 
for  years  in  the  dungeons  of  Olmutz. 
Lord  Grey  and  Lord  Brougham, 
the  popular  leaders  of  the  Reform 
Hill,  who  so  long  struggled  to  force 
U  upon  a  reluctant  legislature,  and 
wielded  the  whole  power  of  the 
prerogative  to  overthrow  the  old 
constitution,  are  now  compelled  to 
I  ring  forward  a  measure,  as  they 
themselves  admit,  of  surpassing  seve- 
rity and  despotic  character  towards 
It-eland,  the  very  country  whose  re- 
presentatives secured  the  triumph  of 
tie  great  democratic  measure,  and 
to  try  the  agitators,  roused  into  fiend- 
1  ke  activity  by  their  blind  exertions, 
ty  courts-martial.  They  are  in  con- 
sequence classed  by  their  recent 
worshippers  with  Nero  and  Caligula. 
May  Heaven  avert  from  them  and 
t  aeir  country  those  ulterior  and  un- 
Ltterable  calamities,  which  the  career 
of  Bailly  and  Lafayette  brought  on 
t  icmselves  and  on  France,  whose 
f  ite  they  were  so  often  implored  to 


No.  IV. 


569 


remember,  whose  steps  they  BO 
blindly  persevered  in  pursuing  ! 

The  recent  act  for  suspending 
jury  trial,  and  the  Habeas  Corpus  act, 
and  establishing  martial  law  in  Ire- 
Jand,  therefore,  is  no  abandonment  of 
their  political  principles  ;  no  tergi- 
versation or  change  of  measures  en 
the  part  of  Ministers.  It  is,  on  tie 
contrary,  the  natural  and  unavoid- 
able, though  perhaps  not  the  expect- 
ed or  wished  for  result  of  those  mea- 
sures, and  the  agitation  which  they 
kept  up  to  pass  them.  In  the  poli- 
tical, not  less  certainly  than  the  mo- 
ral world,  the  career  of  passion  and 
intemperance  must  lead  to  suffering 
and  agony ;  if  we  would  avoid  the 
last  deeds  of  severity,  we  must  shun 
the  first  seductive  path.  The  martial 
law  of  1833,  followed  as  necessarily 
and  inevitably  from  the  democratic 
transports  of  1831,  as  the  sword  of 
the  Dictator  from  the  fervour  of  the 
Gracchi,  the  rule  of  Cromwell  from 
the  madness  of  1642,  the  despotism 
of  Napoleon  from  the  innovation  of 
1789,  and  the  state  of  siege  of  Mar- 
shal Soult  from  the  triumphs  of  the 
Barricades. 

To  show  how  exactly  and  evident- 
ly the  utter  and  unparalleled  disor- 
ganization of  Ireland  has  arisen  from 
the  system  of  concession  to  demo- 
cratic ambition,  pursued  for  the  last 
five  years  in  that  country,  it  is  suffi- 
cient to  refer  to  the  table  of  the 
crimes  which  have  occurred  in  Ire- 
land, as  given  by  Lord  Althorp  from 
the  official  returns,  accompanying  it 
merely  with  the  running  commen- 
tary of  the  measures  adopted  at  the 
dictation  of  the  democrats  during 
that  eventful  period. 


Serious  Crimes. 

Last  quarter  of  1829,  (Emancipation  Bill  passed  in  March,)  30t> 
Do.  of  1830,  Emancipation  Bill  in  full  operation,  499 
Do.  of  1831,  Reform  Agitation  began,  814 

Do.         of  1 832,  Reform  and  Repeal  Agitation,  1513 


Thus,  since  the  system  of  demo- 

<  ratic  concession  began,  the  number 

<  f  great  crimes,  which  include  only 
burglaries,  arson,  houghing   cattle, 
murders,  and  desperate  assaults,  has 
j  ncreased  fivefold,  and  at    last  be- 
i  ome  so  intolerable  as  to  compel  a 
Vacillating  and  Reforming  Admini- 
stration to  repeal  the  Constitution 
for  a  time,  abolish  trial  by  jury,  and 


establish  the  odious  power  of  martial 
law. 

It  would  be  a  waste  of  time  and 
patience,  after  the  powerful  and 
statesman-like  speech  of  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  and  the  energetic  eloquence  of 
Mr  Stanley,  to  argue  upon  the  ne- 
cessity, the  absolute  and  uncontrol- 
lable necessity  of  this  measure.  It 
is  of  more  importance  for  those  who 


570 


Ireland.    Xo.  IV. 


[April, 


regard  passing  events,  as  we  ever 
endeavour  to  do,  not  as  the  subject 
of  party  contention,  but  as  the  great 
school  of  political  wisdom,  to  im- 
press the  great  and  momentous 
truth,  that  these  atrocities,  and  the 
absolute  necessity  of  the  severe 
measure  which  is  to  repress  them, 
originate  solely  and  exclusively  in 
the  supine  weakness  and  insane 
agitation  which,  for  party  purposes, 
Ministers  maintained  for  years  in 
that  unhappy  country ;  first,  to  force 
on  Catholic  Emancipation,  and  then 
to  carry  them  through  the  desperate 
struggle  of  the  Reform  Bill.  When 
the  great  Agitator  was  allowed  to 
escape  after  having  pleaded  guilty, 
and  rewarded  for  his  exertions  by  a 
patent  of  precedence  at  the  bar; 
wnen  the  mandate  went  forth  from 
the  Castle  of  Dublin,—"  Agitate, 
agitate,  agitate ;"  when  pastoral 
letters  issued  from  the  leader  of  the 
Catholic  priesthood,  hoping — "  that 
the  people's  resistance  to  tithes 
would  be  as  permanent  as  their  love 
of  justice ;"  and  these  official  and 
clerical  exhortations  were  addressed 
to  the  most  impassioned,  desperate, 
and  reckless  population  in  Europe, 
—a  people  who,  as  Sir  Hussey  Vivian 
declares,  never  scruple  to  imbrue 
their  hands  in  the  blood  of  their  fel- 
low-creatures, and  were  totally  and 
universally  incapable  of  distinguish- 
ing  between  legal  and  illegal  agita- 
tion ;  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  if  the 
people  followed  the  directions  of 
their  temporal  and  spiritual  guides, 
and  gave  a  full  vent  to  those  furious 
passions  which  mutual  exasperation 
has  so  long  fostered,  and  the  power- 
ful hand  of  authority  alone  had  re- 
pressed. 

The  learned  and  able  Lord  Chief 
Justice  of  Ireland,  Judge  Bushe,  has 
declared,  in  his  charge  to  the  Grand 
Juries  of  the  Queen's  County  two 
years  ago,  "  that  the  ordinary  and 
regular  laws  have  been  found  suffi- 
cient to  put  down  the  various  White- 
boy  associations  which  have  from 
time  to  time  existed."  This  is  a  most 
important  declaration,  coming  from 
so  high  a  quarter,  and  supported,  as 
every  person  acquainted  with  Ire- 
land knows  it  is,  by  more  than  a  cen- 
tury's experience.  The  Committee, 
however,  who  sat  upon  Irish  affairs 
last  session  of  Parliament,  have  re- 
ported, that  some  additional  safe- 


guards are  now  necessary,  and  they 
accordingly  recommended,  as  we 
shewed  in  our  last  number,  the  es- 
tablishment of  a  fixed  Crown  Solici- 
tor in  each  circuit,  and  other  pre- 
cautionary measures.  Ministers  were 
grievously  puzzled  how  to  answer 
the  powerful  argument  which  O'- 
Connell  founded  on  this  circum- 
stance, and  utterly  unable  to  give 
any  answer  to  the  reiterated  ques- 
tion, why,  before  they  had  recourse 
to  the  ultima  ratio  of  force — martial 
law,  and  the  suspension  of  the  con- 
stitution— they  did  not,  in  the  first 
instance,  try  the  gentler  and  more 
legal  remedy  of  a  permanent  special 
commission,  and  a  vigorous  applica- 
tion of  the  existing  laws.  These  re- 
medies, in  time  past,  have  sufficed 
to  repress  all  former  disorders,  even 
those  which,  in  1821,  as  Mr  Barring- 
ton,  the  Crown  Solicitor  for  Munster, 
declares,  were  as  formidable  as  those 
which,  when  he  spoke  (July  1832), 
existed  in  the  Queen's  County.  It 
is  no  wonder  they  could  give  no  an- 
swer to  this  question,  because  its 
answer  involves  the  severest  con- 
demnation of  their  reckless  and  in- 
flammatory conduct;  but  we  shall 
anticipate  the  sober  voice  of  history 
in  answering  for  them. 

Special  commissions,  and  a  vigor- 
ous application  of  the  common  law, 
were  amply  sufficient,  under  all  for- 
mer Governments,  who  proceeded  on 
Conservative  principles,  who  respect- 
ed order,  and  upheld  the  majesty  of 
the  law,  to  repress  the  predial  or  ru- 
ral disorders  of  Ireland :  those  dis- 
orders which  spring  from  the  un- 
happy relation  of  landlord  and  tenant, 
and  under  various  names,  have  dis- 
turbed Ireland  for  the  last  sixty 
years.  They  were,  accordingly,  as 
the  Chief  Justice  observes,  amply 
sufficient  for  the  establishment  of 
order  under  all  the  former  Tory 
Governments  of  Ireland,  and,  except 
when  actual  rebellion  broke  out  in 
1798,  no  measure  at  all  approaching 
to  the  present  ever  was  thought  oh 
But  they  are  utterly  inadequate  to 
repress  those  far  greater  and  more 
serious  disorders  which  have  arisen 
from  the  fatal  intermixture  of  politi- 
cal with  predial  agitation,  which  have 
sprung  from  the  mandates  to  agitate, 
issuing  from  the  Castle,  and  been 
spread  by  the  universal  injunctions 
to  resist  legal  authority  "  in  the  most 


1823. 


Ireland.     Xo.  1 V. 


571 


peaceable  manner"  which  have  been 
circulated  from  the  Episcopal  palace 
of  Dr  Doyle.  These  new  and  un- 
heard of  elementshavecommunicated 
;in  unparalleled  extent  and  efficiency 
to  Irish  anarchy ;  for  the  first  time 
^ince  the  days  of  James  I.,  they  have 
endered  an  avowed  suspension  of 
i,he  constitution  necessary,  and  com- 
pelled the  great  democratic  leaders  of 
the  country,  those  who  counselled 
Bishops  to  put  their  houses  in  order, 
who  corresponded  with,  and  thank- 
c  d  Political  Unions  for  their  sup- 
port, and  declared  that  the  whisper 
<>f  a  faction  could  not  prevail  over 
the  voice  of  the  English  people,  to 
commence  their  work  of  legislation 
i  i  the  Reformed  Parliament  with 
t-ie  suspension  of  the  Habeas  Corpus 
act,  of  trial  by  jury,  and  the  esta- 
blishment of  courts-martial  in  lieu 
of  the  ordinary  tribunals. 

Well  and  truly  did  Lord  Castle- 
roagh,  in  his  manly  and  admirable 
speech  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
on  the  Irish  Coercion  Bill,*  declare, 
tl  at  if  this  was  the  first  blessing 
which  the  fruit  of  democratic  agita- 
tion, the  Reform  Bill,  had  brought 
upon  the  country,  it  had  already 
outstripped  the  prophecies  of  its 
bitterest  enemies,  and  confounded 
the  expectations  of  its  warmest 
friends.  But  that  matter  is  already 
d(  termined ;  there  is  not  a  man  gift- 
ed with  sound  sense  and  historical 
information  in  the  country,  who  is 
not  now  aware  of  the  effects  which 
th»i  great  healing  measure  must  pro- 
duce; 'of  the  inextricable  confusion 
iu»o  which  it  has  brought  all  the 
great  and  varied,  and  now  totter- 
in;-  interests  of  this  empire. 

And  in  what  light  are  Ministers 
novv  regarded  by  their  former  adu- 
lators, by  the  ardent  Revolutionists 
who  fawned  on  them  during  the 
halcyon  days  of  democratic  excite- 
ment, and  held  them  up  as  the  most 
popular  rulers  who  had  been  placed 
at  the  helm  since  the  days  of  Alfred? 
Wo  shall  give  the  answer  in  the 
words  of  one  of  their  most  devoted 
allies  and  supporters,  whose  praises 
were  formerly  as  loud  as  his  vitupe- 
ration is  now  elegant  and  gentle- 


manlike. MrSteele,"thePacificator," 
is  reported  to  have  said  at  a  meet- 
ing assembled  at  Black  Abbey,  Kil- 
kenny:— "  The  infamous  and  atro- 
cious tyrants  of  the  Government 
have  dared  to  arrest  me — the  mis- 
creant villains  ! — Only  I  was  spee- 
dily liberated,  a  game  might  have 

been  played  that .     /  called 

Brougham  a  miscreant  villain.  He 
is  so.  I  was  intrusted  by  O'Connell 
and  the  Volunteers  of  Ireland  to  ex- 
ecute an  important  mission.  Oh,  I 
know  how  to  say  strong  things  with- 
out going  too  far,  and  my  friend 
King  Dan,  knows  I  can  run  along 
the  edge  of  a  precipice  as  well  as  any 
man  in  existence.  Castlereagh  was 
not  half  so  great  a  miscreant  as  Lord 
Brougham  is.  Lord  Grey  shows  no- 
thing but  stupid  ignorance,  when  he 
sneers  at  the  expression,  that  a 
stormy  agitator  only  could  pacify 
Ireland ;  let  them  remember  the  ex- 
amples of  '98,  and  bloody  Castle- 
reagh.  /  respect  such  men  as  Wel- 
lington, Peel,  and  Boyton,  because 
they  are  fair  and  open  enemies;  but 
the  Whig  Ministers,  who  pretend  to 
be  our  friends,  are  now  character- 
ised (to  make  use  of  an  expression 
in  Tacitus)  by  the  intensity  of  their 
infamy.  (Hear,  hear,  hear.)  lam  an 
agent  of  O'Connell,  and  O'Connell's 
.policy  is  to  regenerate  Ireland,  by 
legal  and  constitutional  means  only, 
and  these  he  will  continue  to  pursue, 
unless,  as  I  said  before,  some  miscre- 
ant Government,  like  bloody  Castle- 
reagh's, — who  first  cut  the  throats  of 
his  countrymen  and  then  his  own—- 
unless such  a  Government  try  to 
force  an  explosion,  my  opinion  is, 
that  every  Whitefoot  is  an  accomplice 
of  Grey  and  Stanley."-^ 

We  need  hardly  say  that  we  quote 
this  language  for  no  other  reason 
but  to  express  our  abhorrence  at  it ; 
and  to  hold  up  to  public  view,  and 
to  the  contemplation  of  posterity, 
which  will  derive  so  many  lessons 
from  our  errors,  what  was  the  cha- 
racter of  those  men,  to  win  whose 
praise,  arid  gratify  whose  ambition, 
the  Government  have  subverted  the 
British  Constitution. 

We  lament  as  sincerely  as  any  of 


*  As  reported  in  that  able  and  consistent  journal,  the  Albion,  to  whose  exertions 
in  critical  times  the  cause  of  England  has  been  so  deeply  indebted, 
f  Belfast  Morning  tetter,  8th  March,  1833. 


£72 

the  Radicals  the  severe  measures 
which  are  to  be  put  in  force  in  Ire- 
land; they  are  abhorrent  to  our  na- 
ture, contrary  to  our  principles,  de- 
testable to  our  feelings.  It  was  to 
save  the  Irish  people  from  them,  to 
save  the  English  people  from  the 
similar  measures  which  await  them 
at  the  hand  of  legal  authority,  or  the 
despots  of  their  own  creation,  that 
we  struggled  so  long  and  resolutely, 
amidst  universal  obloquy  and  abuse, 
against  the  Reform  Bill.  The  pro- 
jects which  we  contemplated  to  ar- 
rest the  evil,  but  which,  from  the 
frightful  rapidity  of  increase  in 
crime,  would  now  be  inadequate, 
are  given  in  our  last  Number.  They 
consist  in  the  establishment  of  per- 
manent courts  in  every  county,  with 
the  power  of  transportation ;  of  a 
public  prosecutor  in  each,  to  take  up 
and  investigate  all  crimes  at  the 
public  expense  ;  of  a  permanent  spe- 
cial commission  in  Dublin,  to  pro- 
ceed to  any  county  the  moment  that 
it  becomes  disturbed;  of  a  power  in 
the  Lord  Lieutenant,  upon  the  report 
of  the  judges  that  conviction  has  be- 
come impossible  from  intimidation, 
to  suspend  jury  trial  for  a  time ;  and 
of  a  permanent  provision  for  the 
protection  of  witnesses  who  have 
given  evidence.*  Such  were  our 
humble  suggestions  for  the  pacifica- 
tion, on  the  most  constitutional  prin- 
ciples, and  with  the  least  possible 
abridgement  of  public  freedom,  of 
this  distracted  island;  but  the  vio- 
lence of  the  Agitators  has  rendered 
all  these  projects  for  the  present  in- 
sufficient, and  they  remain  only  on 
record,  a  memorable  instance  of  the 
difference  between  the  constitution- 
al remedies  which  the  opponents  of 
democratic  ambition  would  adopt, 
and  the  desperate  measures  to  which 
the  supporters  of  it  are  driven. 

But  there  is  one  point  to  which 
the  particular  attention  of  Govern- 
ment should  be  directed,  and  for 
which,  severe  as  it  is,  no  adequate 
provision  appears  to  be  made  in  the 
Bill.  This  is,  the  protection  of  wit- 
nesses who  have  given  evidence  in 
courts  of  justice,  from  the  violence 
of  their  neighbours,  after  the  trial  is 
over.  The  Duke  of  Wellington  j  ust- 
ly  observed  in  the  House  of  Lords, 


Ireland.    No.  IV.  [April, 

that,  unless  some  provision  was  made 
for  the  protection  of  witnesses,  all 
the  machinery  of  the  bill  would  be 
inoperative,  because  courts-martial 
could  not  convict,  any  more  than 
judges  and  juries,  without  evidence. 
By  threatening  to  burn  or  murder 
any  witnesses  who  speak  out,  it  is 
evident  that  the  whole  proceedings 
of  the  court-martial  may  be  stopped, 
just  as  those  of  Marshal  Soult  were 
rendered  nugatory  at  Paris  in  July 
last.  The  provision  in  the  bill  for 
the  transportation  of  all  persons  con- 
victed or  intimidating  a  juror  or 
witness,  is  obviously  insufficient ; 
because,  the  same  difficulty  will  ex- 
ist in  getting  a  witness  to  speak  out 
in  regard  to  that  matter,  as  in  mur- 
ders, burglaries,  or  arsons.  The 
only  way,  it  may  be  relied  on,  of 
combating  the  evil,  is  by  uniformly 
providing  for  the  removal  of  .the 
witness  and  his  family  to  Great 
Britain  or  the  Colonies  at  the  public 
expense,  the  moment  the  trial  on 
which  he  has  appeared  is  concluded, 
if  he  deems  that  change  necessary 
for  his  safety ;  and  a  legislative 
enactment,  that  the  fact  of  such  a 
promise  having  been  made,  shall  be 
HO  objection  to  the  admissibility  of 
the  witness,  but  affect  his  credibility 
only. 

We  earnestly  hope  that  the  harsh 
measures  now  rendered  necessary  for 
Ireland,  may  be  of  short  duration ; 
and  hope  that  the  returning  tranquil- 
lity of  the  country  may  render  their 
repeal  or  expiry  as  desirable,  as  their 
enactment  now  is  unavoidable.  But 
of  this  Government  may  rest  assured, 
it  is  not  by  executing  and  transport- 
ing a  few  hundred  deluded  White- 
feet,  that  the  disorders  which  have 
shaken  Ireland  to  its  centre,  are  to 
be  arrested ;  or  the  agitated  waves 
of  guilt  and  animosity  stilled.  It  is 
the  encouragement  given  to  convul- 
sion in  elevated  quarters ;  the  man- 
dates to  agitate,  issuing  from  the 
highest  temporal  and  spiritual  au- 
thorities in  the  realm,  which  have 
produced  this  terrible ,  effect ;  as  is 
proved  by  the  fact,  that  the  crimes 
of  violence  are  now  five  times  great- 
er, without  any  increase  of  suffering 
or  distress,  than  they  were  during 
the  height  of  the  agitation  which  pre- 


*  See  Ireland,  No,  III.,  March,  1833. 


[833.] 

ceded  Catholic  Emancipation.  If  Go- 
vernment have  recourse  again  to  the 
f  ame  ruinous  excitement  of  public 
]>assion ;  if  they  again  throw  them- 
selves on  the  desires  or  ambition  of 
the  mob  ;  if  they  again  correspond 
with  Political  Unions,  and  use  an  en- 
£>i»e  of  acknowledged  peril,  and  ad- 
nitted  inconsistence  with  regular 
government,  for  their  own  party  pur- 
poses; if,  without  proceeding  to  these 
excesses,  they  still  persist  in  revolu- 
tionary measures,  and  let  the  Jaco- 
bin clubs  see  that  they  still,  by  inti- 
midation, rule  the  realm;  if,  in  a 
word,  they  do  not  become  in  heart 
a  id  soul,  and  good  faith,  a  Conserva- 
tive Government,  they  may  rely  upon 
it,  that  all  their  measures  of  severity 
will  have  no  good  effect;  that  the 
greater  criminals  will  escape  while 
tY  e  lesser  are  destroyed ;  that  their 
punishments  will  render  themselves 
odious,  without  arresting  the  public 
discontents;  that  they  will  irritate 
the  bad,  without  conciliating  the 
good ;  that  the  frame  of  society  will 
be  irrecoverably  shaken,  while  the 
mutual  exasperation  of  its  members 
is  rendered  greater  than  ever. 

And  what  prospect  do  the  other 
measures  of  Administration,  on  which 
they  profess  that  they  are  to  stand 
or  fall  equally  with  the  coercive,  af- 
ford of  such  a  departure  from  their 
evil  ways,  and  such  a  recurrence  to 
the  true  principles  of  government  ? 
Alas!  the  prospect  here  is  worse 
thxrm  ever ;  the  measures  announced 
aro  those  of  the  most  revolutionary 
character;  they  promise  again  to 
ro-  ise  into  fearful  activity  the  desire 
of  spoliation  and  love  of  power,  the 
two  most  ruinous  principles  which 
can  be  called  into  action  in  the  low- 
er orders ;  they  shew  that  Ministers 
have  yet  attained  no  knowledge, 
either  of  the  principles  of  good  go- 
vernment, or  the  real  sources  of  Irish 
sul  'ering;  and  that,  in  their  ignorance, 
they  are  about  to  propose,  as  pallia- 
tivt'S,  what  will  only  prove  aggrava- 
tions of  the  disease. 

la  all  public  measures,  and  more 
especially  in  those  which  are  brought 
forward  during  a  period  of  public 
excitement,  and  the  prevalence  of  a 
vehement  desire  for  movement  in  a 


Ireland.    No.  IV. 


numerous  and  influential  class,  the 
material  thing  to  look  to  is,  what 
principle  does  it  involve;  what  power 
is  it  likely  to  augment  in  influence; 
to  what  will  it  lead  ?  Judging  of  the 
Church  Reform,  the  Corporation  Re- 
form, and  Grand  Jury  changes,  by 
this  standard,  it  is  impossible  to  con- 
demn them  too  strongly.  The  first 
involves  the  three  most  revolution- 
ary principles  which  it  is  possible 
to  figure,  and  which  were  the  very 
first  to  be  proclaimed  by  the  Consti- 
tuent Assembly,  viz.  that  the  property 
of  the  Church  is  public  property, 
and  may  be  converted,  by  legislative 
enactments,  from  its  original  ecclesi- 
astical destination  to  ordinary  secu- 
lar purposes;  that  a  particular  and 
obnoxious  class  may  be  subjected  to 
a  peculiar  and  burdensome  tax,  from 
which  the  rest  of  society  is  relieved ; 
and  that  a  national  ecclesiastical  es- 
tablishment may  be  broken  up,  when 
by  violence,  or  any  other  method, 
the  continuance  of  its  services  in  a 
particular  district  is  rendered  impos- 
sible. 

1.  The  most  dangerous  principle 
in  the  bill,  beyond  all  question,  is 
the  appropriation  of  a  certain  portion 
of  ecclesiastical  property  to  the  ser- 
vice of  the  state ;  a  fatal  example,  the 
beginning  of  the  confiscations  of  the 
French  Revolution  of  1789,  and  the 
Spanish  one  of  1823,  and  which,  from 
the  immediate  relief  to  the  Exche- 
quer which  it  affords,  never  fails  to 
be  rapidly  and  extensively  imitated 
in  troubled  and  revolutionary  times. 
It  was  thus  that  the  Constituent  As- 
sembly began;  they  yielded  to  the 
argument  of  Talleyrand,  "  that  no 
individual  could  claim  any  right  of 
property  in  Church  property;  that  it 
belongs  to  the  state,  who  are  the  un- 
controlled masters  of  its  destination ; 
and  that  if  the  provision  was  made 
for  the  support  of  the  ministers  of 
religion,  there  was  no  legal  or  con- 
stitutional objection  to  the  appropri- 
ation of  the  remainder  to  the  public 
service."  *  It  was  by  such  plau- 
sible sophistries  that  the  spoliation 
of  the  Church  began  in  France,  and 
a  measure  was  passed  which  lighted 
up  the  flames  of  the  Vendean  war, 
exterminated  a  million  of  individuals, 
and  laid  the  foundation  of  the  ulti- 


•  Thiers,  Rev,  Francais,  vol.  I.  273, 


574 


mate  ruin  of  France,  by  the  irreligi- 
ous spirit  which  it  infused  into  the 
most  active  and  influential  part  of  its 
population. 

Lord  Al thorp's  project  of  confis- 
cation is  somewhat  more  disguised. 
He  does  not  at  once  propose  to  lay 
hold  of  the  existing  revenues  of  the 
Church ;  but  he  does  what  is  sub- 
stantially the  same  thing;  he  changes 
the  nature  of  the  right  and  tenure 
of  the  holders  of  leases  on  Church 
lands,  and  the  fund  acquired  by  this 
alteration  he  appropriates  to  the  ser- 
vice of  the  state.  Mr  O'Connell  just- 
ly observed,  that  though  the  bill  in 
his  estimation  did  not  go  nearly  far 
enough,  yet  "  it  involved  principles 
of  the  utmost  value,  and  that,  in  par- 
ticular, the  vesting  Church  property 
in  Parliamentary  Commissioners  was 
a  precedent  of  inestimable  impor- 
tance." It  is  of  inestimable  impor- 
tance to  the  Revolutionists,  because 
it  at  once  affords  a  precedent  and  a 
justification  for  the  utmost  possible 
extent  of  ecclesiastical  or  corpora- 
tion robbery. 

For  if  once  the  public  hand  is  thus 
laid  on  the  property  of  the  Church, 
upon  the  ground  that  no  individual 
can  qualify  a  right  of  property  or  in- 
heritance in  it,  on  what  principle  are 
any  corporate  or  trust-funds  to  be 
maintained,  or  extricated  out  of  the 
jaws  of  the  famishing  Exchequer  ? 
Who  can  claim  a  right  of  property 
in  corporate,  ecclesiastical,  or  chari- 
table trusts  or  corporations?  No 
single  individual  who  can  be  desig- 
nated, but  all  those  who  in  future 
times  shall  arise  qualified  in  terms 
of  the  trust,  or  bequest,  or  founda- 
tion. But  as  they  cannot  be  fixed  on 
with  certainty  at  any  one  time,  it  is 
evident  that  the  uncertainty  pleaded 
by  the  Revolutionists  in  support  of 
such  spoliation  may  be  extended  to 
the  utter  confiscation  of  all  such  cor- 
porate property ;  and  that  by  merely 
providing  for  existing  interests,  the 
argument  will  become  invincible, 
that  no  individual  who  can  be  point- 
ed out  is  injured,  and  thus  the  whole 
corporate  property  of  the  kingdom, 
subject  to  that  transitory  burden, 
may  be  carried  to  the  credit  of  the 
Consolidated  Fund.  The  obvious 
and  invincible  answer  to  this  revo- 
lutionary logic  is, that  the  individuals 
who  are  to  succeed  to  the  benefit  of 
the  corporate  trust,  or  ecclesiastical 
property,  whether  in  Church  or  Cha- 


Ireland.    No.  IF.  [April, 

rities,  are  pointed  out,  just  as  dis- 


tinctly when  they  are  said  to  be  per- 
sons in  a  certain  profession,  or  of  a 
certain  education,  or  a  certain  state 
of  destitution,  in  future  times,  as  if 
they  are  said  to  be  the  heirs  of  a  cer- 
tain family,  or  the  successors  by  a 
certain  deed  of  entail.  Who  these 
will  be  fifty  or  eighty  years  hence,  is 
just  as  uncertain,  as  who  will  then 
be  qualified  to  claim  the  benefit  of 
the  corporate  or  ecclesiastical  funds. 
If  the  one  set  of  future  successors 
may  be  excluded  on  the  ground  of 
their  uncertainty,  so  also  may  the 
other ;  and,  consequently,  the  whole 
right  of  inheritance  may  be  set  aside, 
and  nothing  held  a  vested  interest 
but  what  is  actually  enjoyed  at  the 
time  by  a  living  person.  George  He- 
riot,  two  hundred  years  ago,  well 
explained  this  principle  when  he  said 
that  "  he  would  never  want  heirs  as 
long  as  Edinburgh  had  poor  mer- 
chants' sons  to  provide  for ;"  and  un- 
less the  sacredness  of  this  principle 
is  recognised,  there  is  an  end  not 
only  to  all  corporate  or  trust  pro- 
perty, but  to  all  remote  inheritance 
in  private  life. 

The  veil  under  which  Ministers 
seek  to  hide  this  alarming  precedent 
of  revolutionary  confiscation,  viz. 
that  they  confer  an  extraordinary 
and  unlooked-for  value  upon  eccle- 
siastical property,  by  an  act  of  the 
Legislature,  and  this  surplus  they 
are  entitled  to  appropriate  to  the 
service  of  the  State,  is  too  thin  to 
conceal  its  tendency  even  from  the 
most  obtuse  understanding.  For 
what  does  the  proposed  measure 
amount  to  ?  Nothing  but  this,  that 
by  act  of  Parliament  the  rights  of  the 
tenants  on  the  church  lands  are  to  be 
converted  into  rights  of  property; 
and  the  price  which  it  is  thought 
they  would  give  for  this  change  of 
tenure,  is  to  be  applied  to  the  pur- 
poses of  the  State.  That  is  to  say, 
the  rights  of  farmers  to  the  leases  on 
an  estate  are  to  be  changed  into 
rights  of  property,  and  the  fund  thus 
acquired  from  the  farmer  is  to  be 
applied  to  the  wants  of  the  Treasury. 
What  would  any  proprietor  of  an 
estate  say  to  this?  Is  it  not  a  direct 
and  palpable  invasion  of  property, 
because  it  deprives  the  owner  of  the 
future  and  contingent  benefits  of 
which  under  a  change  of  circum- 
stances or  of  law  it  is  susceptible, 
and  converts  a  right  in  fee-simple, 


Ireland.    No.  IV. 


3833.] 

which  draws  after  it  all  the  future 
and  increasing  emoluments  of  the 
subjects,  into  a  mere  rent  charge  or 
mortgage,  incapable  of  any  such  aug- 
mentation ? 

Take  the  very  view  given  by  Lord 
Al thorp  of  the  operation  of  this  bill, 
and  see  of  what  ruinous  application 
it  is  to  other  and  analogous  cases. 
By  the  bill,  says  his  Lordship,  two 
millions  and  a  half  is  added  to  the 
value  of  Church  property,  by  a  legis- 
lative enactment,  and  therefore  that 
may  be  fairly  appropriated  by  the 
State.     On  this  principle  the  Legis- 
lature pass  an  act  declaring  that  all 
(states  held  under  the  fetters  of  an 
entail,  or  under  marriage  settlements, 
or  under  trust,  shall  be  held  in  fee- 
simple  by  the  heir  of  entail,  or  heir 
in  possession,   or  trustee;  and  for 
this  unlooked-for  change  of  tenure, 
and  unexpected  liberation  from  irk- 
some restraints,  ten  millions  sterling 
may  be  raised  from  the  tenants  in 
entail  in  England.  This  vast  surplus, 
according  to  this  doctrine,  is  the  fair 
subject    of  Treasury    apropriation, 
because  it  is  a  benefit  conferred  upon 
estates  by  act  of  Parliament.      Or 
the  Legislature  pass  an  act  authori- 
zing an  entailed  proprietor  near  a 
great  town  to  grant  building  leases 
on  his  estate,  from  which  he  was  de- 
barred by  marriage  settlement  j  and 
thus  augment  the  value  of  his  pro- 
perty fourfold ;  the  surplus,  on  Lord 
Althorp's   principle,  may  be  fairly 
carried  to  the  credit  of  the  Consoli- 
date Fund.    Or  an  act  of  Parliament 
establishes  a  harbour,  or  brings  a 
canal,  or  a  railroad,  or  a  turnpike 
through  an  estate,  and  the  value  of 
the  property  is  thereby  tripled  ;  this, 
according  to  the  same  principle,  is 
also  fair  gain,  and  a  vast  fund  may 
b(f  raised  for  Exchequer,  by  making 
the  proprietors  to  be  benefited  by 
such  enactments,  pay  so  many  years' 
purchase  at  once  to  Government  by 
such  an  unlooked-for  legislative  boon. 
It  is  evident  that  if  this  principle  is 
01  ce  admitted,    there  is  no  end  to 
the  application  which  it  may  receive, 
arid  that  it  shakes  the  security  of  pro- 
perty of  every  description,  private 
as  well  as  corporate  or  ecclesiasti- 
cal.    Well  may  O'Connell  and  the 
Revolutionists  say,  that  the  Bill  esta- 
.blishes  privileges  of  inestimable  im- 
portance; and  that  it  will  be  their 


575 


fault  if  they  do  not  make  tho  proper 
use  of  the  precedent. 

Either  the  proposed  change  of  te- 
nure confers  a  benefit  on  the  tenants 
on  the  ecclesiastical  estates,  or  it 
does  not.  If  it  does,  it  is  obviously 
a  benefit  obtained  at  the  expense  of 
the  Church  proprietors,  and  which, 
if  they  are  not  to  be  spoliated,  should 
accrue  to  themselves.  If  it  does  not, 
it  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  any  sum 
can  be  realized  for  Exchequer  by 
the  project.  The  tenants  on  the 
Church  lands  will  not  pay  large  sums 
for  the  change  of  tenure,  unless  it 
improves  the  condition  of  their  es- 
tates, or  confers  a  patrimonial  be- 
nefit upon  themselves ;  whatever  is 
gained  to  the  Treasury  by  the  mea- 
sure, is  just  so  much  abstracted  from 
the  present  or  ultimate  value  of  the 
ecclesiastical  estates.  But  to  say 
that  the  interest  of  the  clergy  in 
their  fines  and  rents  is  to  be  main- 
tained inviolate,  and  at  the  same 
time  two  millions  and  a  half  is  to 
be  gained  for  Exchequer,  is  a  per- 
fect absurdity,  put  forward  with 
no  other  view  but  to  conceal  the 
grand  precedent  of  ecclesiastical 
spoliation  which  is  to  be  carried 
through. 

2.  But  in  this  measure,  at  least,  it 
may  be  said,  there  is  no  sacrifice  of 
immediate  or  existing  interests  to 
be  made,  and  it  is  only  the  future 
or  ultimate  value  of  the  property 
which  is  to  be  diminished  for  the 
behoof  of  Government.  As  if,  how- 
ever, to  demonstrate  that  existing 
interests  are  to  be  no  security  against 
confiscation,  and  to  make  this  bill 
embody  precedents  for  every  species 
of  revolutionary  spoliation,  it  at  the 
same  time  contains  clauses  subjecting 
the  holders  of  a  certain  amount  of 
Church  property  to  an  arbitrary  and 
iniquitous  taxation,  from  which  the 
remainder  of  the  community  is  free. 
The  clergy  possessing  incomes,  or 
rather  nominal  incomes,  of  a  certain 
amount,  (for  they  are  all  nominal,) 
are  to  be  subjected  to  an  ascending 
income-tax,  varying  from  5  to  15  per 
cent,  which  is  to  be  applied  by  Go- 
vernment to  other  Church  rjurposes. 
Now,  on  what  principle  of  justice  is 
this  exclusive  and  burdensome  in- 
come-tax fixed  on  a  single  class  of 
society?  Is  it  because  the  Irish 
church  are  so  singularly  wealthy, 


576 


Ireland. 


and  their  tithes  are  so  regularly  paid, 
and  their  situation  in  the  midst  of  an 
attached,  contented,  and  loyal  peo- 
ple, is  so  extremely  enviable  and 
happy?  Is  it  because  the  Irish  ge- 
nerally are  so  extremely  burdened 
with  direct  taxes  that  no  additional 
cues  would  be  productive,  and  there- 
fore the  clergy,  as  the  most  defence- 
less class  in  the  community,  must  be 
subjected  to  partial  taxation  ?  Is  it 
because  the  Irish  landlords  are  so 
uniformly  residents  on  their  estates, 
and  spend  so  large  a  portion  of  their 
time  and  income  in  encouraging  the 
industry  of  their  tenantry,  and  are 
burdened  with  so  overwhelming  a 
poor's  rate,  that  they  are  entitled  to 
exemption  from  any  additional  bur- 
dens ?  If  these  are  the  grounds  on 
which  the  arbitrary  and  partial  tax- 
ation is  to  be  vindicated,  let  them 
be  at  once  stated,  and  the  facts 
brought  forward  which  justify  their 
adoption.  But  if  the  reverse  of  all 
this  is  notoriously  and  avowedly 
the  case;  if  the  Irish  Protestant 
clergy  are  in  a  state  of  unexampled 
destitution ;  if  their  sons  and  daugh- 
ters are  literally  obliged,  in  many 
cases,  to  go  out  to  service  to  ob- 
tain bread  for  their  once  opulent 
and  respected  parents  ;  if  the  stop- 
page of  their  income  has  become 
so  universal,  from  the  combination 
against  tithes,"that  they  were  obliged 
to  be  thrown  upon  the  English  Trea- 
sury, and  L.90,000  issued  from  Exche- 
quer mDublin,to  meettheir  mostpres- 
sing  exigencies;  if  the  Irish  generally 
pay  hardly  any  direct  taxes — if  they 
never  felt  the  income  tax,  and  are 
now  infinitely  less  burdened,  than  the 
corresponding  classes  on  this  side  of 
the  Channel — if  the  landlords  are,  for 
the  most  part,  non-resident,  and  draw 
large  incomes  from  their  estates, 
which  are  spent  in  Paris,  London, 
or  Naples — if  they  pay  no  poor's 
rates,  and  have  hitherto  contrived  to 
throw  their  enormous  load  of  pau- 
pers upon  the  industry  of  England 
and  Scotland — on  what  conceivable 
ground,  either  of  justice  or  expedi- 
ence, are  the  clergy  to  be  selected 
out  as  the' victims  of  present  and 
partial  spoliation,  and  in  addition  to 
their  other  numerous  and  almost 
unbearable  grievances,  a  tax-gatherer 
to  be  imposed,  with  a  demand  for  a 
tenth  or  a  seventh  of  their  wasted  and 


No.  JF.  [April, 

diminished  incomes  ?  Why,  this  is  a 
heavier  tax  than  <m*r  \vas  im<|x*sp<i<m 
British  opulence,  t<»  withstand  the 
power  of  Napolfiau ;  »i=u<l  now  it  is  to 
be  imposed  on  Irish  Protestant  indi- 
gence— to  do  what  ?  To  remove  an 
imaginary  or  exaggerated  complaint 
from  the  Catholic  priesthood.  We 
say  an  imaginary  or  exaggerated ;  for 
it  appears  that  the  church  cess  which 
it  is  intended  to  supply,  is  only 
L.90,000  a-year;  a  burden  which, 
on  a  nation  of  8,000,000  of  souk, 
with  a  rent-roll  of  L.I 4,000,000,  and 
12,000,000  arable  acres,  is  obviously 
nothing. 

But  supposing  the  church  cess  had 
been  as  real  and  substantial,  as  in 
reality  it  is  a  fictitious  and  imaginary 
grievance,  on  what  principle  is  it  to 
be  imposed  on  the  clergy  alone,  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  the  other  classes 
of  the  State  ?  Why  is  the  burden  of 
upholding  or  repairing  churches,  or 
equalizing  livings,  to  be  imposed  ex- 
clusively on  the  clergy  ?  Do  they 
alone  share  in  the  benefits  of  religi- 
ous instruction,  or  spiritual  consola- 
tion ?  Was  Christianity  formed  for 
them  alone  ?  And  on  what  concei- 
vable principle  of  justice  or  equity, 
is  the  expense  of  a  national  establish- 
ment, intended  for  the  benefit  of  all 
classes,  to  be  laid  exclusively  upon 
one  of  the  most  industrious,  merito- 
rious, and  destitute  of  society  ?  The 
thing  is  obviously  indefensible  :  it 
may  be  carried,  and  probably  will, 
by  the  strong  arm  of  legislative 
power ;  but  it  is  untenable  in  the  eye 
of  reason, — unbearable  in  the  scales 
of  Justice ;  and  if  this  is  the  first  spe- 
cimen of  the  equity  of  a  Reformed 
Parliament,  it  will  be  manifest  to  the 
world,  that  Astrsea,  in  forsaking  the 
British  Isles,  left  her  last  footsteps  in 
the  assemblies  of  its  predecessors. 

Do  the  great  proprietors,  whether 
in  land,  stock,  or  money,  not  perceive 
the  immediate  application  which  may 
be  made  of  the  principle  thus  esta- 
blished, to  the  spoliation  of  them- 
selves and  their  children  ?  If,  to  get 
quit  of  a  democratic  clamour  against 
a  particular  tax,  so  small  as  to  be  al- 
together trifling  in  a  national  point 
of  view,  the  example  is  to  be  set  of 
fixing  an  arbitrary  and  peculiar  load 
upon  the  higher  classes  of  the  cler- 
gy, on  what  ground  will  the  great  Le- 
viathans in  the  House  of  Peers,  or  th« 


J  833.] 

Stock  Exchange, be  able  to  withstand 
the  analogous  but  far  more  terrible 
t  utcry  which  will  be  raised  for  the 
exclusive  taxation  of  their  immense 
j  roperties,  to  effect  a  reduction  in 
tie  heavy  and  real  burdens  which 
press  upon  the  people  in  Great  Bri- 
tain ?  The  Radical  papers  announce 
vitli  most  ominous  accuracy,  that  a 
list  of  1500  gentlemen  in  and  round 
London  has  been  framed,  whose  for- 
tunes would  pay  the  national  debt. 
I;  fifteen  per  cent  is  levied  by  the 
a  ithority  of  the  Legislature  on  the 
suffering  and  destitute  Irish  clergy, 
b3cause  the  tithes  of  their  parishes 
n  )minally  exceed  L.1000  a-year,  how 
w  ill  they  be  able  to  resist  the  de- 
nrand  for  twenty-five  per  cent,  or 
fi  ty  per  cent,  out  of  their  ample  rent- 
rolls  ?  The  principle  of  exclusive 
taxation  is  just  as  applicable  to  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire,  the  Duke  of 
B3dford,  the  Marquis  of  Westmin- 
ster, the  Earl  of  Lansdown,  Earl 
Grey,  Earl  Albemarle,  the  Duke  of 
Sutherland,  as  to  the  suffering  and 
persecuted  vicars  and  rectors  of  Ire- 
laid.  There  are  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands in  existence,  who  mark  the 
application  of  the  principle,  who  are 
pieparing  to  follow  it  up  with  un- 
wjaried  zeal,  and  anticipate  with 
dt  light  the  irresistible  application  of 
th  3  present  precedent  to  the  greater 
and  far  more  popular  spoliation 
which  they  have  in  view.  When 
th  Mr  turn  comes,  as  come  it  will,  if 
th^  march  of  the  movement  is  not  by 
so  ne  unforeseen  event  arrested, they 
will  meet  with  no  commiseration: 
th<;  nation  will  turn  to  their  record- 
ed votes  against  the  Irish  clergy,  and 
deil  out  to  them  the  justice  which 
they  have  dealt  to  others. 

;$.  As  if  the  present  bill  had  been 
pu  -posely  intended  (which,  however, 
we  do  not  believe)  to  involve  and 
re<  ognise  every  revolutionary  prin- 
ciple, it  contains  a  clause  providing 
als  >  for  the  gradual  and  certain  ex- 
tinction of  the  Protestant  Church  in 
Ireland.  We  do  not  say,  that  the 
cla  ise  in  question  was  framed  with 
this  view,  but  unquestionably  it  has 
tlii  tendency.  It  is  declared,  that  if 
for  a  certain  period  the  discharge  of 
pai  ochial  duty  has  been  suspended 
in  i  parish,  it  shall  cease  to  be  a 
Pn  testant  living,  and  the  tithes  shall 
be>  ested  in  the  Parliamentary  Com- 
missioners, la  this  way  a  certain 


Ireland.    No.  IV. 


577 


and  infallible  method  of  extinguish- 
ing the  Protestant  religion  is  opened 
up  to  the  Catholic  desperadoes. 
They  have  nothing  to  do  but  shoot 
the  incumbent,  the  moment  that  he 
settles  in  the  parish,  or  drive  him  out 
of  the  country  by  threats  to  roast 
him  and  his  family  alive  in  their 
house,  or  burn  the  church,  or  assas- 
sinate all  the  Protestant  parishioners, 
and  the  living  will,  after  the  lapse  of 
a  very  short  period,  be  extinguished. 
And  what  is  to  come  of  the  tithes  ? 
They  are  to  be  vested  in  the  first  in- 
stance in  the  Parliamentary  Com- 
missioners, and  as  the  intention  is  an- 
nounced of  providing  out  of  the  funds 
in  their  hands  for  the  payment  of  the 
Catholic  clergy,  the  transference  of 
the  tithes  to  the  Catholic  priesthood 
will  ultimately  be  certain  and  pro- 
gressive. By  the  simple  expedient 
of  burning  the  houses,  and  murder- 
ing the  persons  of  the  Protestant 
clergy  and  parishioners,  the  national 
Establishment  will  be  gradually  and 
certainly  broken  up,  and  the  funds 
in  the  hands  of  the  Parliamentary 
Commissioners  so  much  enlarged  as 
gradually  to  give  the  Catholic  clergy 
a  just  and  irresistible  claim  to  the 
whole  ecclesiastical  property  in  the 
country.  We  are  confident  that  the 
authors  of  the  Bill  had  no  such  diabo- 
lical intention  in  view  when  they 
framed  it :  the  clause  was  probably 
drawn  without  attending  to  the  con- 
sequences, or  the  use  which  might 
be  made  of  it  at  all;  but  it  is  obvi- 
ous that  it  has  this  tendency,  and  is 
susceptible  of  this  application :  and 
when  we  recollect  that  under  the 
fostering  hand  of  the  political  and 
religious  agitators,  the  crimes  of  ex- 
treme violence  in  Ireland  have  risen 
to  more  than  1500  in  the  last  three 
months  of  1832,  being  at  the  rate  of 
six  THOUSAND  a-year,  it  may  readily 
be  conceived  what  a  formidable  wea- 
pon we  put  into  the  hands  of  the 
Catholic  Agitators,  and  what  nume- 
rous and  well-drilled  bravoes  are  at 
their  command  to  effect  the  gradual, 
extinction  of  the  Protestant  establish- 
ment. 

There  is  something  singularly  con- 
tradictory and  absurd  in  bringing  for- 
ward this  clause,  for  the  gradual  ex- 
tinction of  the  Protestant  -Establish- 
ment, in  default  of  regular  parochial 
service,  in  one  bill,  at  the  very  time 
that  in  another  bill,  which  is  at  the 


578 


Ireland.    No.  IV. 


[April, 


same  time  before  the  legislature,  Ire- 
land is  stated,  and  stated  with  jus- 
tice, to  be  in  such  a  state  of  disorder 
and  crime,  that  the  execution  of  the 
laws  has  become  impracticable,  and 
life  and  property  are  in  many  places 
utterly  insecure.  The  Government 
tell  us  with  one  breath  that  the 
state  of  Ireland  is  such  that  un- 
less the  disorders  are  arrested,  life 
and  property  in  great  part  of  the 
country  are  not  worth  two  years' 
purchase ;  and  yet  they  declare  in 
another  statute,  at  the  very  same 
time,  that  unless  service  is  regularly 
performed  inthe  Protestant  churches, 
the  living  is  to  be  extinguished;  in 
other  words,  the  tithes  are  ultimate- 
ly to  be  assigned  to  the  Catholics. 
Is  no  allowance  to  be  made  for  those 
situations  where  the  incumbent  has 
been  murdered  ?  or  residence,  or  the 
performance  of  duty  in  the  parish, 
been  rendered  impossible  by  the  in- 
timidation or  violence  applied  to 
him  or  his  family,  or  the  violent 
deaths  or  exile  of  all  the  Protestant 
inhabitants  ?  As  the  Bill  now 
stands,  it  must  operate,  though  we 
believe  unintentionally  on  the  part 
of  its  authors,  as  a  direct  bounty 
upon  the  commission  of  murder  and 
arson  by  the  Irish  Whitefeet,  and 
their  instigation  by  the  Agitators,  or 
connivance  at  by  the  priests.  It 
would  be  obviously  better  to  esta- 
blish the  Catholic  religion  at  once  by 
act  of  Parliament,  than  to  subject  the 
Protestant  Establishment,  as  this  Bill 
tends  to  do,  to  a  slow  and  agonizing 
process  of  dissolution,  brought  about 
by  the  commission  of  atrocious 
crimes  on  the  part  of  the  Catholic 
desperadoes,  and  the  incitement  to 
ruinous  agitation  and  conspiracies 
among  their  artful  and  unprincipled 
leaders. 

In  days  of  revolution,  every  pub- 
lic measure  is  to  be  judged  of  by  the 
principle  which  it  involves;  the  pre- 
cedent it  affords,  rather  than  its  actual 
and  immediate  consequences.  Mea- 
suring it  by  this  standard, — a  more 
ruinous  and  disorganizing  clause  was 
never  introduced  into  the  Legislature 
than  this — which  provides  for  the  gra- 
dual extinction  of  the  Protestant 
Establishment.  The  essence  of  every 
religious  Establishment  is,  that  it  is 
universal;  that  it  runs  through  the 
whole  realm,  and  embraces  alike  all 
the  subjects  of  the  Crown,  of  what- 


ever persuasion  or  character.  The 
principle  on  which  it  is  founded,  is, 
that  Government,  after  deliberation 
and  experience,  have  established 
that  species  of  religious  instruction 
to  be  afforded  to  the  people  by  the 
holders  of  tithes,  gratis,  which  they 
deem  most  advantageous,  upon  the 
whole,  for  their  temporal  and  spi- 
ritual welfare,  and  suitable  to  the 
inclinations  of  a  majority  of  the 
whole  empire.  This  Establishment 
being  once  fixed  on  in  conformity  to 
the  wishes  and  determination  of  the 
whole  nation,  the  minority,  though 
a  majority  in  a  particular  district, 
are  required  to  contribute  to  its  sup- 
port, on  the  same  grounds  as  the 
minority  in  the  political  world  are 
required  to  pay  the  taxes,  and  ac- 
quiesce in  the  measures  passed  by 
the  majority,  how  contrary  soever 
to  their  inclinations,  and  though  car- 
ried in  spite  of  their  most  strenuous 
opposition.  The  Catholics,  though 
a  majority  in  Ireland,  are  required 
to  contribute  to  the  general  Protest- 
ant Establishment  of  the  Empire,  be- 
cause they  are  not  a  fourth-par.t  of 
the  number,  nor  a  fortieth  part  of 
the  wealth  of  the  whole  empire,  and 
it  is  unreasonable  that  so  small  a 
fraction  should  shake  off  the  rule  of 
the  majority,  or  establish  an  Impe- 
rium  in  Imperio,  in  the  religious  any 
more  than  the  social  world.  The 
Tories  made  the  utmost  resistance 
by  legal  means  to  the  Reform  Bill ; 
but  they  never  were  so  absurd  as  to 
propose  on  that  account  that  they 
should  have  a  separate  parliament 
of  their  own,  though,  if  they  had,  it 
would  comprehend  three-fourths  of 
the  property,  and  four-fifths  of  the 
education  and  worth  of  the  king- 
dom. 

This  then  being  the  obvious  and 
well-known  ground  on  which  the 
social  union,  both  in  civil  and  reli- 
gious matters,  is  founded,  it  is  an 
utter  abandonment  of  the  whole 
system,  the  establishment  of  a  pre- 
cedent of  ruinous  application,  to  ad- 
mit the  principle,  that  because  reli- 
gious service  has  ceased  for  a  time 
in  any  quarter,  even  from  the  most 
atrocious  violence  or  intimidation, 
the  Establishment  is  to  be  broken 
up,  and  a  new  faith  introduced 
more  agreeable  to  the  wishes  of 
that  particular  district  or  parish. 
If  this  is  the  case,  it  is  a  good 


1833.] 


Ireland.     No.  IV. 


579 


reason  why  the  diocesan  should 
be  called  to  account  for  his  negli- 
gence, if  any  fault  is  imputable  to 
the  clergy;  or  the  civil  authority  en- 
forced and  aided,  if  the  surcease  has 
been  owing  to  the  disorders  or  re- 
sistance of  the  people ;  but  it  is  no 
reason  at  all  why  the  fatal  precedent 
should  be  adopted,  of  breaking  up 
he  uniform  establishment,  and  let- 
ting the  whims  or  caprices  of  the 
people,  or  of  their  spiritual  dema- 
gogues, be  the  rule  for  determining 
what  sort  of  creed  they  are  to  con- 
tribute to  support.  If  an  entrance 
is  once  given  to  this  principle,  the 
Protestant  Church  will  speedily  be 


broken  up,  and  the  creeds  of  differ- 
ent districts  become  as  various  as 
the  colours  on  a  harlequin's  jacket. 
The  Dissenters  in  many  districts  will 
suy  that  they  greatly  preponderate 
over  the  Church  of  England,  and 
therefore,  if  they  can  only  contrive 
to  prevent  the  celebration  of  service 
for  a  year  or  two,  by  burning  the 
church,  or  massacring  the  incum- 
bent, they  will  be  entitled  to  insist 
on  the  principle  of  Lord  Althorp's 
bill,  for  the  extinction  of  the  parish, 
aid  the  appropriation  of  the  tithes 
to  a  pastor  of  their  own  selection. 
If  it  is  intended  to  abolish  ecclesias- 
tical establishments  at  once,  and  pay 
every  clergyman  from  the  Treasury, 
without  any  regard  to  the  faith  to 
which  he  belongs,  we  understand 
tin?  principle,  and  are  prepared,  if 
it  is  necessary,  to  combat  it.  But  the 
present  bill  seems  calculated  to  pio- 
neur  for  the  "same  purpose,  by  the 
infernal  agents  of  murder,  robbery, 
and  fire-raising. 

It  exasperates,  if  possible,  the  feel- 
ing of  hostility  with  which  this  mea- 
sure for  the  spoliation  of  the  Church 
must  be  regarded  by  every  thought- 
ful person,  that  while  it  is  fraught 
with  such  dangerous  principles,  and 
proposes  to  realize  such  obvious  in- 
justice, it  has  no  tendency  whatever 
to  relieve  any  of  the  real  evils  under 
which  Ireland  labours.  Sir  Robert 
Ped  declared,  in  his  inimitable 
speech,  that  the  relation  between 
landlord  and  tenant,  was  the  real  and 
prolific  source  both  of  the  disorders 
and  the  misery  of  Ireland ;  and  the 
Attorney-General  added,  that  of  150 
case  s  of  Whitefeet  outrage  which  he 
had  investigated,  every  one  originated 
in  the  desire  to  dispossess  obnoxious 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCVJI. 


settlers  on  the  land.  This  then  being 
the  case,  what  is  the  real  and  practi- 
cal tendency  of  the  measures  which 
are  proposed  as  such  boons  to  the 
wretched  and  starving  Irish  tenant- 
ry ?  Church  cess  is  to  be  taken  off, 
and  laid  on  the  clergy;  the  conse- 
quence of  that  of  course  will  be, 
that  the  rent  of  the  land  will  rise  to 
the  full  amount  of  the  burden  taken 
off;  and  in  lieu  of  the  church  col- 
lector, the  formidable  land-bailiff 
will  make  his  appearance.  In  like 
manner,  the  reduction  of  the  Pro- 
testant Establishment  by  the  extinc- 
tion of  the  Protestant  parishes,  will 
occasion  no  reduction  in  the  burdens 
of  the  cultivator;  the  tithe,  with  all 
its  vexations,  will  continue,  with 
this  difference,  that  it  will  be  drawn 
by  the  Catholic  instead  of  the  Pro- 
testant incumbent  of  the  parish.  The 
result  of  this  great  remedial  mea- 
sure, which  is  to  heal  the  multiplied 
wounds  of  Ireland,  therefore  will  be, 
that  the  whole  amount  of  the  church 
cess  will  be  gained  to  the  opulent 
landlord,  in  the  shape  of  augmented 
rent,  at  the  expense  of  the  unhappy 
clergyman,  ground  down  by  partial 
taxation ;  and  that  the  whole  amount 
of  the  Protestant  tithes  in  the  ex- 
tinguished parishes,  will  be  gained 
by  the  Catholic  priesthood.  The 
condition  of  the  unhappy  cultivators 
will,  by  both  changes,  be  rendered 
worse  than  before.  And  it  is  for 
such  deceitful  illusory  benefits  as 
these,  that  the  precedent  of  spolia- 
tion, partial  taxation,  and  the  de- 
struction of  the  Establishment,  is  to 
be  afforded  to  a  hungry  and  insatiable 
revolutionary  generation ! 

The  proposed  reduction  in  the 
number  of  bishops,  is  to  be  judged 
of  on  the  same  principles.  It  is  to 
be  viewed  as  a  part  of  the  general 
system  of  the  movement ;  a  conces- 
sion to  the  party  who  openly  avow, 
that  their  object  is,  the  destruction 
of  the  Aristocracy,  the  established 
Church,  and  the  Throne.  O'  Connel 
has  declared  himself  in  an  especial 
manner  gratified  with  this  com- 
mencement of  the  great  work  of  de- 
molition, and  the  invaluable  princi- 
ples which  it  contains;  and  let  us 
attend  to  his  avowed  designs  in  re- 
gard to  the  remaining  institutions  of 
the  empire.  He  declared,  at  the 
meeting  of  the  Political  Union  in 
London,  "  what  I  struggled  for  was, 


580 


Ireland.    No.  IV. 


[April, 


to  annihilate  the  aristocratic  princi- 
ple, and  to  establish  the  pure  princi- 
ple of  democracy"  Now,  this  vehe- 
ment supporter  of  "  the  pure  princi- 
ple of  democracy,"  declared  himself 
highly  satisfied  with  this  great  prin- 
ciple involved  in  the  destruction  of 
the  bishops ;  and  in  order  to  show 
the  peril  with  which  any  concession 
*  to  feuch  a  party  is  attended,  we  must 
pollute  our  pages  by  the  following 
extract,  from  a  new  journal  entitled, 
«  A  Weekly,  Radical,  Christian,  and 
Family  Newspaper : — 

"  The  Bill  of  Blood  has  passed  through 
a  Christian  Senate  !  The  law  of  Nature 
and  Religion  has  been  nullified  by  the 
law  of  Man  !  '  Commit  no  murder'  is 
repealed ;  and  the  conflicting  Religions  of 
Christ  are  again  about  to  be  made  the  ex- 
cuse for  human  bloodshed,  and  the  signal 
for  mortal  collision  between  brother  and 
brother  ! — Was  there  no  opposition  ? — 
Where  were  '  the  Right  Reverend  Fathers 
in  God  ?'  Where  were  they,  we  demand  ? 
And,  Oh!  that  we  could  startle  their 
perjured  souls  by  the  thunder  of  Hell  into 
a  sense  of  their  Satanic  apostacy  I  And 
this  is  your  quarrel." 

*  *  *  * 

And  lest  it  should  be  imagined, 
that  it  is  only  against  the  Church 
that  this  fury  of  revolution  is  direct- 
ed, the  same  journal  contains  an  en- 
graven portrait  of  a  king,  bearing  a 
crown  and  sceptre,  and  represented 
as  a  "  Royal  Puppet,"  moved  by  two 
personages,  evidently  intended  for 
exalted  members  of  the  administra- 
tion, and  beneath  the  group  are 
these  lines, 

"  Alike  obedient  to  the  owner's  string, 
Moves  the  boy's  image  or  the  idiot  king  ; 
All  ages  have  their  games,  all  men  their 

toys, 
Kings  are  for  knaves,  and  pasteboard  fools 

for  boys." 

Well  may  that  able  paper  the 
Guardian  exclaim,  such  are  the  peri- 
odicals that  act  as  auxiliaries  to  the 
clubbists  of  Great  Britain  and  Ire- 
land, and  are  the"  very  pioneers  of 
revolution. 

Now  it  is  in  relation  to  these  at- 
tempts, to  the  spread  of  this  spirit 
through  the  realm,  that  the  projected 
invasion  of  the  establishment  is  to  be 
regarded ;  and  as  nothing  feeds  re- 
volutionary ambition  like  concession, 
as  the  ruinous  example  of  Ireland  too 
clearly  demonstrates,  it  is  evident 
what  immense  consequences  now 


depend  upon  steadily  resisting  in  this 
particular  the  invasions  of  democra- 
tic ambition. 

The  proposed  reduction,  too,  is 
as  pernicious  in  a  civil  as  it  is  pe- 
rilous in  a  political  point  of  view. 
The  Irish  have  told  us  a  hundred 
times,  that  the  ruin  of  their  country 
has  been  the  non-residence  of  the 
landed  proprietors,  and  in  spite  of 
the  paradox  of  Mr  M'Culloch,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  the  observation 
is  in  a  great  measure  well-founded. 
They  have,  however,  twenty-two  re- 
sident landed  proprietors,  whose  in- 
come, amounting  in  all  toL.130,000, 
is  all  spent  in  Ireland,  and  which 
contributes,  in  a  certain  degree,  to 
vivify  its  industry,  and  uphold  its 
charity.  These  twenty-two  proprie- 
tors are  the  Bishops;  and  because 
they  have  so  few  resident  proprie- 
tors, the  Government  propose  to 
make  them  still  fewer,  by  reducing 
the  Bishops  to  twelve,  and  cutting 
off  L.60,000  a-year  from  the  expen- 
diture of  that,  the  single  and  only 
body  of  permanent  resident  proprie- 
tors. This  the  Ministry  considers  a 
prodigious  boon  to  Ireland,  and  it 
was  received  with  shouts  of  delight 
by  the  reformed  House  of  Com- 
mons. The  cutting  off  L.60,000  a- 
year  of  expended  rents  in  Ireland, 
they  think  will  go  far  to  correct  the 
evils  of  absenteeism,  and  furnish 
bread  to  the  hundreds  of  thousands 
who  now  pine  for  want  of  employ- 
ment, in  its  densely-peopled  realms. 
What  is  to  be  done  with  the  L.60,000 
a-year  thus  cut  off  from  the  Bishops, 
is  not  very  apparent ;  but  whatever 
is  done  with  it,  one  thing  is  clear, 
that  it  never  will  assume  such  a  be- 
neficial form  for  Irish  industry  as  it 
now  has  obtained. 

The  alteration  on  the  Grand  Jury, 
is  another  of  the  concessions  made 
by  Ministers  to  the  Revolutionary 
party,  from  which  no  practical  good 
can  be  expected.  There  may  be 
abuses  in  the  present  system,  which 
should  be  remedied ;  but  the  idea  of 
effecting  it,  by  inundating  the  Grand 
Jury  Room  with  the  delegates  of  the 
Ten-Pounders,  and  neutralizing  the 
gentlemen  of  the  country  by  the 
admission  of  the  Catholic  demo- 
cracy, is  too  absurd  to  bear  an  argu- 
ment. Will  the  destruction  of  the 
funds  levied  by  the  Grand  Jury  as- 
sessments be  reformed,  or  the  com- 


1833.] 


Ireland.    No.  IV. 


581 


position  of  the  body  improved,  by 
letting  in  those  representatives  of 
the  Catholic  democracy,  to  wrangle 
3very  step  with  the  resident  gentle- 
men ?   Does  the  reformed  House  of 
Commons  afford  so  very  favourable 
;i  specimen  of  the  moderation,  good 
:iense,  and  habits  of  business  of  the 
Catholic  body,  as  to  render  it  desi- 
rable to  extend  the  system  to  inferior 
functionaries  ?    Is  their  dispatch  of 
business  so  very  smooth  and  rapid, 
ES  to  induce  the  belief  that  all  evils 
iti  the  Grand  Jury  system  will  be 
remedied,  by  the  admission  of  a  pre- 
f  onderating  number  of  votes  in  that 
i  iterest?  Will  the  weight  of  the  as- 
sessments  complained  of,  be  dimi- 
nished, by  a  more  mixed  and  conten- 
ti  ous  body  directing  their  application  ? 
lias  this  be.en  found  to  be  the  result  of 
a  Emitting  the  Ten-Pounders  to  the  di- 
rection of  corporate  funds  in  other 
places,— the  Police  Establishment,  or 
Improvement  assessment  of  Edin- 
b  irgh,  for  example?  Have  jobs  and  fa- 
vouritism entirely  ceased  in  the  towns 
where  the  lower  orders  have  acquired 
tie  control  of  the  corporate  funds  ? 
The  answer  which  experience  has 
given  to  these  queries,  may  perhaps 
illustrate  the  extent  of  the  practical 
b(  nefit  to  be  expected  from  the  pro- 
jected democratic  changes   in   the 
G^and  Jury  system.  But  it  has  other 
consequences  upon  that  most  impor- 
tant of  all  subjects,  the  administra- 
tion of  justice,  which  have  been  ably 
illistrated  by  Baron  Smith,  in  his 
late  inimitable  charge,  which  are  too 
important  to  be  condensed  in  this 
paper,  and  must  form  the  subject  of 
su  3sequent  discussion. 

The  importance  of  any  change  on 
th<!  Grand  Jury  system  consists  in 
this,  that  that  body  are  the  holders 
of  the  gates  of  criminal  justice — that 
th(  y  stand  at  the  portals,  and  if  they 
ch<  >ose  to  close  the  entrance  to  pro- 
sec  utions,  no  crime,  how  atrocious 
so(  ver,  can  be  prosecuted.  Now  it 
is  provided  in  the  proposed  act  on 
thu  subject,  "  That  every  Grand 
Jui  y  shall  at  their  assizes  fix  and  de- 
ter nine  the  number  of  persons  pay- 
ing Grand  Jury  cess  in  each  division 
proper,  with  reference  to  the  circum- 
stances thereof,  to  be  associated  with 
the  justices  at  the  special  sessions ; 


and  shall  make  out  a  list  of  double 
the  same  number  of  persons,  who, 
not  being  justices  of  the  peace,  shall 
have  paid  the  highest  amount  of 
Grand  Jury  cess  under  the  last  pre- 
vious appointment  thereof;"  and  the 
persons  to  be  associated  with  the 
justices  at  the  special  sessions  are  to 
be  chosen1  by  ballot  from  this  list.* 
By  this  enactment  the  Grand  Jury 
have  the  command  of  the  special 
sessions. 

For  the  formation  of  the  Grand 
Juries  themselves,  it  is  declared, 
"  that  the  sheriff  shall  place,  first,  on 
the  pannel,  the  name  of  some  free- 
holder, having  freehold  lands  of  the 
value  of  and  upwards,  within 

the  largest  barony  or  half  barony  of 
the  same  county;  and,  secondly,  the 
name  of  some  freeholder,  having 
lands  of  the  like  yearly  value  within 
the  barony  or  half  barony  next  in 
extent,  and  so  on  till  all  the  baronies 
or  half  baronies  within  the  said 
county  shall  be  gone  through."  f  It 
is  thus  as  yet  left  blank  what  is  to  be 
the  qualification  for  a  Grand  Juror 
under  the  act;  but  that  it  will  be 
such  a  low  qualification  as,  like  that 
of  the  Ten-Pounders,  will  practically 
give  the  lower  orders  the  command 
of  the  keys  of  justice,  may  be  in- 
ferred from  the  ominous  observation 
of  Baron  Smith  on  the  subject,  in 
his  late  admirable  charge  to  the 
Grand  Jury  of  Louth. 

"  The  rule  that  property  alone  shall 
not  qualify  to  be  returned  on  grand  or 
petit  jury  panels,  is  one  founded  in  sound 
as  well  as  ancient  principle  ;  and  one 
which  it  is  highly  material  to  bear  prac- 
tically in  mind.  It  seems  reasonable  that 
those  who  have  less  than  a  certain  in- 
come  say  ten  or  twenty  pounds — should 

be  disqualified  from  acting  as  jurors — but 
by  no  means  right,  that  this  income  alone 
should  qualify.  It  will  not  follow  that 
because  the  want  of  it  should  cause  dis- 
ability, the  possession  of  it  should  at  once 
capacitate.  There  are  other  more  im- 
portant qualifications)  which  should  be 
required  ;  and  of  the  existence  of  these 
—the  Sheriff  judges;  and,  as  I  think, 
ought  to  judge.  Considerable  income 
serves  to  denote  a  grade,  to  which  edu- 
cation, intelligence,  and  such  attributes 
presumably  belong;  together  with  an  ob- 
vious interest  to  maintain  those  laws,  by 


Sections  5  and  7. 


f  Section  29. 


582 


Ireland.    No.  IV. 


[April, 


which  that  considerable  property  is  secu- 
red. Of  these  attributes,  scanty  income 
may,  generally  speaking,  imply  the  want. 
And  I  will  ask,  whether  of  a  ten-pound 
income  it  can  be  said,  that  emollit  mores, 
nee  sinit  esse  feros  ?  The  registry  tribu- 
nals and  the  hustings  will  demonstrate 
whether  all,  admitted  as  voters,  are  of  the 
stuff  which  would  form  good  juries.  If 
the  mere  possession  of  a  certain  petty  in- 
come were  held  not  merely  to  impose  a 
duty,  but  to  vest  a  right  of  being  arrayed 
upon  the  panel  without  reference  to  the 
Sheriff's  opinion  of  the  person's  fitness,  I 
fear  we  might  sometimes  be  almost  be- 
wildered ;  and  have  to  enquire — which  is 
the  juror,  and  which  is  the  transgressor? 
which  is  the  jury-box,  and  which  the 
dock  ?  '  Change  places,'  says  Lear,  '  and 
handy-dandy;  which  is  the  justice,  and 
which  is  the  thief  ?'  Substitute  juror  for 
justice,  and  I  fear  we  might,  without  any 
raving,  adopt  the  question  put  by  the  de- 
lirious King.  I  fear,  too,  these  oscilla- 
tory panel  conscripts  minorum  gentium,  if 
they  chose  to  swing  at  all,  might  much 
prefer  the  jury-box  to  the  dock ;  and  be 
for  swinging  thither,  both  of  their  own 
mere  motion;  and  under  the  advice  of 
those  leaders  who  so  completely  rule 
them,  and  a  jury  after  whose  own  heart 
they  perhaps  might  form.  While  the 
good  and  true,  and  '  not  suspect'  retired, 
many  such  would  demand  loudly  to  be 
called.  If  the  Sheriff  had  not  a  solid  and 
a  well-protected  veto,  many  would  be  catt- 
ed ,•  and  of  these  not  a  few  would,  I  ap- 
prehend, be  chosen." 

From  the  changes  proposed  hy 
Ministers,  it  is  evident  that  they  have 
no  conception  of  the  measures  which 
are  really  calculated  to  relieve  the 
people.  For  all  evils  they  have  but 
one  remedy, — "Increase  the  influence 
of  the  democracy"  This  conduct  is 
the  result  of  the  same  principle  which 
inflamed  the  weavers  at  Lyons,  when 
starving  for  want  of  employment,  who 
declared  that  they  could  see  but  one 
mode  of  stopping  their  miseries, 
which  was,  to  give  every  workman  a 
vote.  This  absurd  system  is  still 
obstinately  persisted  in,  notwith- 
standing the  signal  and  admitted 
proof  of  its  tendency,  which  the  re- 
formed Parliament  has  already,  by 
the  consent  of  all  parties,  afforded. 
It  may  last  a  little  longer,  and  over- 
turn all  the  institutions  of  society  in 
its  course ;  but,  like  all  attempts  to 
subvert  the  order  of  nature,  it  must 
in  the  end  destroy  itself. 

The  first  measure  of  the  Constitu- 
ent Assembly  of  France,  was,  to  con- 


fiscate the  church  property;  the  next, 
to  extinguish  all  corporate  rights;  the 
third,  to  establish  partial  taxation  on 
the  opulent,  under  the  name  of 
"  forced  loans ;"  the  last,  to  uproot 
-  the  national  religion.  In  the  bill  for 
the  Irish  Church,  now  submitted  to 
Parliament,  are  admitted  the  princi~ 
pies  of  ecclesiastical  spoliation  for 
the  service  of  the  state — partial  taxa- 
tion on  a  particular  class — and  the 
progressive  demolition  of  the  esta- 
blished religion  ;  and  a  Committee, 
composed  of  a  great  majority  of 
Movement-men,  is  sitting  on  the 
whole  corporate  property  of  the 
kingdom.  In  a  short  time,  experi- 
ence and  observation  will  be  enabled 
to  determine  the  direction  and  force 
of  revolutionary  explosions,  with  as 
much  accuracy  as  it  has  fixed  the 
expansive  force  of  gunpowder,  or  the 
track  of  a  burning  projectile  through 
the  air. 

But  on  what  principle  Ministers 
are  now  proceeding,  in  levelling  al- 
ternate strokes  at  the  two  great  par- 
ties who  divide  the  kingdom,  it  is 
impossible  to  divine.  How  do  they 
expect  to  maintain  the  helm,  when 
in  one  night  they  level  martial  law 
at  the  Destructives,  and  on  the  next, 
church  and  corporate  spoliation  at 
the  Conservatives  ?  Do  they  intend, 
like  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety, 
to  place  themselves  boldly  between 
the  two  factions,  and  destroy  with  the 
right  hand  Hebert  and  the  Anarch- 
ists, and  the  left,  Danton  and  the 
Moderates  ?  Have  they  forgotten  the 
fate,  which  in  a  few  months  such 
conduct  brought  even  on  their  iron 
and  energetic  government  ?  Do  they 
expect  to  conciliate  the  Revolution- 
ists, by  suspending  the  Habeas  Cor- 
pus Act,  and  win  the  confidence  of 
the  Conservatives,  by  delivering  up 
the  Church  and  the  West  Indies  to 
destruction  ?  Or  do  they  expect  to 
maintain  themselves  at  the  head  of 
affairs,  by  declaring  a  monopoly  of 
spoliation  in  their  own  favour,  and 
letting  the  edge  of  the  scimitar  de- 
scend on  all  who  attempt  to  imitate 
their  example  ?  Their  conduct  is  in- 
explicable ;  but  its  tendency  is  ap- 
parent :  it  will  dash  themselves  from 
the  perilous  heights  of  power,  and 
deliver  over  the  divided  nation  to  a 
reckless  faction,  who  will  at  once 
overwhelm  it  by  the  horrors  of  Re- 
volution 


1833.] 


The  Lay-Figure. 


583 


THE  LAY-FIGURE. 


A  PAINTER'S  STORY. 


"  No  chance  of  the  steam-boat 
sailing  to-night,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
landlord  of  the  Crown  Inn  at  Dover, 
as  he  entered  the  room  where  I  and 
another  traveller  were  seated,  wait- 
ing for  a  passage  to  France.  "  The 
wind  blows  right  off  Calais,  and 
there  is  a  surf  on  the  pier  half  as 
high  as  Shakspeare's  cliff." 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  of  an 
afternoon  in  the  end  of  autumn.  The 
sun,  which  in  the  early  part  of  the 
day  had  made  some  feeble  attempts 
to  look  out,  had  fairly  gone  down,  as 
if  he  had  given  up  the  attempt  in 
despair ;  and  the  appearance  of 
things  without,  as  the  evening  closed 
in,  gave  promise  of  a  tempestuous 
night.  I  cannot  say,  therefore,  that 
the  communication  of  the  landlord 
was  altogether  an  unwelcome  one, 
for  the  prospect  of  passing  a  night  on 
the  Channel  in  such  weather,  instead 
of  sleeping  comfortably  on  terra 
firma,  was^  any  thing  but  inviting. 
My  companion  on  the  extreme  gauche 
side  of  the  fire,  seemed  to  be  much 
of  the  same  way  of  thinking.  We 
had  hitherto  been  sitting  in  that 
unsocial  mood  in  which  Englishmen 
are  apt  to  indulge  when  they  think 
they  are  only  likely  to  be  subjected 
10  one  another's  company  for  a  short 
time,  and  therefore  eschew  every  su- 
perfluous observation,  and  determine 
not  even  to  hazard  a  remark  on  the 
s-tate  of  the  weather,  except  upon  sure 
grounds.  But  the  announcement  of 
Mir  imprisonment  for  the  evening, 
and  the  consequent  necessity  of  ma- 
ling  the  most  of  each  other  during 
tliat  period,  went  far  towards  break- 
ing the  ice  between  us.  My  compa- 
nion, after  an  enquiring  glance  at 
me,  ventured  to  suggest  that  the 
landlord  should  be  instructed  to  get 
dinner  ready  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
that  a  bottle  or  two  of  his  best  port 
might  be  found  of  essential  advan- 
t;.ge  in  promoting  the  harmony  of 
the  evening.  I  myself,  not  less  "  on 
hospitable  thoughts  intent,"  imme- 
diately assented ;  and  the  landlord, 
without  waiting  for  further  orders, 
disappeared. 


Dinner  came  at  last,  and  went.  It 
was  such  as  might  have  been  expect- 
ed from  the  short  time  we  had  al- 
lowed for  its  preparation ;  for  a  poem 
may  be  extemporized,  but  not  a  din- 
ner. We  were  too  hungry,  however, 
to  be  critical,  and  the  productions  of 
our  host  of  the  Crown,  though  tole- 
rably cut  up,  were,  on  the  whole,  fa- 
vourably received. 

As  the  waiter  removed  dinner,  and 
placed  before  me  a  bottle  of  very  to- 
lerable port,  I  had  leisure  to  look  a 
little  more  particularly  at  my  oppo- 
site neighbour.  He  seemed  to  be 
about  thirty ;  tall,  dressed  in  black ; 
with  an  intelligentand  good-humour- 
ed countenance.  I  observed  he  had 
laid  upon  one  of  the  chairs  a  large 
portfolio,  carefully  secured  from  the 
weather  by  a  leather  coveririg.  I  set 
him  down  at  once  for  an  artist. 

I  am  fond  of  painting  myself,  and 
have  always  delighted  in  the  society 
of  artists,  that  is,  of  such  as  are  en- 
thusiasts in  their  profession,  and  not 
mere  mechanical  labourers  for  bread. 
It  is  a  striking  and  attractive  spec- 
tacle to  see  a  young  man,  perhaps 
contending  in  a  garret  with  the 
actual  miseries  of  poverty,  yet  pur- 
suing his  art  with  the  fond  convic- 
tion that  for  all  these  privations  he 
is  yet  to  be  recompensed  j  bating  no 
jot  of  heart  and  hope,  while  every 
thing  looks  gloomy  about  him,  and 
perceiving  in  the  dim  perspective  of 
life,  glimpses  of  comfort,  and  visions 
of  future  fame,  where  another  person 
sees  nothing  but  clouds  and  thick 
darkness.  This  sanguine  and  hope- 
ful temperament  communicates  its 
influence  to  their  conversation,  and 
imparts  to  it  in  general  a  warm  and 
genial  tone,  a  freshness  and  openness, 
which  are  seldom  met  with  in  the 
more  ordinary  intercourse  of  society. 

I  soon  found  I  was  right  in  my 
conjecture.  He  was  a  painter,  and 
had  travelled  a  good  deal  on  the 
Continent.  We  talked  of  "  the  Pyre- 
nean  and  the  river  Po," — the  Rhine, 
the  Tyrol,  Switzerland,  with  all  of 
which  my  companion  appeared  fa- 
miliar. He  told  me,  that  as  his  health 


584  The  Lay-Figure. 

had  not  been  good  during  the  last 
year,  he  was  now  on  his  way  to 
Rome,  where  he  intended  to  pass  the 
winter,  and,  if  possible,  to  unite  im- 
provement in  health  with  improve- 
ment in  his  art.  I  ventured  at  last 
to  ask  if  I  might  be  allowed  a  glance 
at  his  portfolio,  which  he  at  once 
produced. 

I  was  much  struck  with  some  of 
his  sketches,  both  in  history  and 
landscape.  They  displayed  great 
freedom  of  hand  and  a  liveliness  of 
imagination,  which  seemed  only  to 
require  a  longer  familiarity  with 
classical  models  to  restrain  its  ex- 
cesses, and  to  give  a  greater  sobriety 
of  effect  both  to  his  drawing  and 
colouring.  They  might  be  called,  to 
use  the  technical  phrase,  a  \itt\ejiut- 
tery,  not  unlike  De  Loutherbourg's 
or  Fuseli's.  I  told  my  companion 
candidly  what  I  thought  of  them, 
and  he  took  it  with  more  good  hu- 
mour than  might  have  been  expect- 
ed. 

As  I  was  lifting  the  edges  of  the 
leather  cover,  in  order  to  shut  up 
the  portfolio,  a  sketch  dropped 
out,  the  singularity  of  which  at- 
tracted my  attention.  It  was  quite 
unfinished,  as  if  the  artist  had  been 
suddenly  interrupted  in  his  work, 
and  represented  a  skeleton  head 
rising  above  what  seemed  to  be  a 
human  body,  the  arms  of  which  ap- 
peared extended  in  a  threatening  at- 
titude. Over  the  whole  figure,  with 
the  exception  of  the  face,  was  thrown 
a  loose  white  drapery,  descending 
in  large  folds,  like  the  figure  of  Sa- 
muel in  Salvator's  picture  of  the 
Witch  of  En- dor. 

The  Painter  coloured  a  little  as  I 
inquired  what  scene  this  sketch  was 
intended  to  represent.  "  I  have  no 
conception,"  said  he,  after  a  pause, 
"  how  that  sketch  happened  to  be  put 
up  with  the  others.  The  truth  is,  I 
have  not  looked  at  it  for  nearly  ten 
years ;  and  the  remembrance  with 
which  it  is  connected  is  not  of  so 
pleasant  a  nature,  that  I  should  be 
anxious  to  recall  it  to  my  recollec- 
tion." He  saw  that  my  curiosity  was 
roused,  and  went  on.  "  Since  the 
subject  has  been  alluded  to,  how- 
ever, you  shall  hear  the  history  of 
the  sketch,  though  I  am  aware,  that 
in  doing  so,  I  shall  very  probably 
expose  myself  to  ridicule.  I  assured 


[April, 


him  he  had  nothing  to  fear  on  that 
head;  so  filling  out  another  glass  of 
wine,  as  if  to  prepare  himself  for  the 
effort,  he  proceeded  : — 

"  I  am  not  a  very  rich  man  now, 
Heaven  knows,  but  I  was  poorer  still 
when  I  came  up  to  London  from  the 
country  some  ten  years  ago.  I  had 
long  been  convinced  that  if  I  was  not 
allowed  to  be  a  painter,  I  should 
never  be  any  thing  else ;  and  what- 
ever may  have  been  the  case  as  to 
the  former  alternative,  certain  it  is 
I  have  kept  my  word  as  to  the  latter. 
I  reached  London  with  my  only  suit 
of  clothes  on  my  back,  my  sketch- 
book in  my  hand,  twenty  pounds, 
the  gift  of  an  uncle,  in  my  pocket, 
half-a-dozen  shirts,  and  about  a 
dozen  daubings  in  oil  and  water- 
colours,  in  my  trunk.  I  smile  now 
when  I  recollect  what  preposterous 
performances  they  were,  but  at  the 
time,  I  remember  well,  I  looked 
upon  them  as  perfectly  unique,  and 
never  doubted  that  in  them,  like 
Fortunatus's  purse,  I  possessed  a 
never-failing  source  of  income. 

"  My  first  object,  which  I  looked 
upon  as  a  very  simple  matter  indeed, 
was  to  obtain  admission  as  a  pupil 
to  the  Royal  Academy.  By  the  kind- 
ness of  the  clergyman  of  my  native 
place,  himself  a  tolerable  amateur 
artist,  I  had  been  provided  with 
letters  of  introduction  to  some  per- 
sons of  influence  in  the  Academy  ; 
and  confident  in  my  introductions, 
and  in  the  possession  of  those  inva- 
luable treasures  which  adorned  my 
portfolio,  I  marched  up  to  the  trial 
at  Somerset-house,  with  all  the  as- 
surance which  the  union  of  vanity 
and  ignorance  could  inspire.  Con- 
ceive my  astonishment  and  dismay 
when  my  drawings  were  handed 
back  to  me  with  the  observation,  that 
though  not  without  talent,  they  did 
not  indicate  that  progress  in  the  art 
which  would  justify  my  admission  as 
a  pupil. 

"  At  first  the  shock  which  my  pride 
had  received  almost  unnerved  me ; 
but  the  spirits  of.  youth  are  elastic. 
Gradually  I  began  to  think  of  the 
matter  with  more  calmness,  and  de- 
termining to  shame  the  fools  who  had 
thus  attempted  to  suppress  my  rising 
genius,  I  walked  with  my  portfolio 
under  my  arm  towards  the  Strand, 
where  the  print-sellers  most  do  con" 


1838.]  The  Lay-Figure.  585 

resolved  to  throw  myself    heart  was  opened  by  the  recollection 
liberality  of   a  discerning    of  our  old  acquaintance,  and  by  the 

want  I  felt  of  consolation  and  advice, 
I  poured   out  to   him — not 


giegate 
on  the 
public. 

"  I  thought  I  saw  a  smile  on  Mr 
Ackermann's  face  as  he  looked  over 
my  collection,  and  observed  the 
pi-ices  which  I  had  ostentatiously 
emblazoned  in  pencil  on  the  corners. 
He  said  nothing,  however,  but  opening 
a  portfolio  which  lay  on  the  counter, 
ho  laid  before  me  a  number  of  draw- 
ings by  the  first  artists  in  London, 
which  even  my  optics,  disordered  as 
they  were  by  vanity,  could  not  fail 
tc  perceive  were  infinitely  superior 
tc  any  thing  I  could  yet  hope  -to 
p  -oduce.  '  The  best  of  these,  young 
gentleman,'  said  he,  '  we  sell  at 
about  half  the  price  you  put  upon 
yours.' 

"I  walked  away  without  saying  a 
word.  My  eyes  were  opened  to  my 

0  .vn  defects,  in  comparison  with  the 
superiority  of  the  rivals  with  whom 

1  had  to  contend,  and  to  the  bleak- 
n  3ss  of  my  prospects ;  but  I  saw  not 
Ii3w  I  was  to  cure  the  former,  or  to 
improve  the  latter.    As  I  passed  a 
print  shop  in  Fleet  Street,  on  my 
way  home  to   my   solitary  lodging 
naar  the  Temple  Garden,  I  turned 
a  most    mechanically   towards    the 
window.    It  was  crowded  with  en- 

f'avings  from  Laurence's  portraits, 
best's  historical  pieces,  and  Tur- 
ner's Landscapes;  and  some  etch- 
ings by  Callot  lay  in  the  corner.  I 
had  never  before  seen  any  of  this 
artist's  works  ;  and  I  was  strangely 
f  iscinated  by  the  grotesque  horrors 
cf  those  strange  exhibitions  of  dia- 
blerie, in  which  the  Fleming  has  dis- 
played his  wonderful  powers  of 

0  rawing  and  composition,  and  the 
v/ild  and  ghastly  fertility  of  his  ima- 
g  ination.    Another  spectator  seemed 
to  be  not  less  attracted  than  myself; 
far  I  had  found  him  gazing  at  them 
when  I  came  up,  and  when  I  turned 
to  go,  he  was  still  lingering  over 
them,  as  if  bound  by  some  of  those 
spells  which  they  represented.     Cu- 

1  iosity  induced  me  to  give  a  glance 
1  owards  him.     It  was  my  old  school- 
iellow  and  fellow  draftsman,  Walter 
Ohesterton,  who  had  come   up   to 
?^ondon  for  the  purpose  of  pursuing 
his  studies   in   the  art,  about  two 
;rears  before. 

"  He  recognised  me  the  instant  I 
.'  aid  my  hand  upon  Jiis  shoulder.  My 


so  1  poured  out  to  mm — not  my 
plans,  for  I  had  none — but  the  whole 
history  of  my  hopes  and  disappoint- 
ments. He  entered  into  my  feelings 
with  much  warmth  and  cordiality. 
'  Your  history,'  said  he,  *  is  that  of 
most  young  artists  from  the  coun- 
try. I  will  not  flatter  you  so  far  as 
to  say,  your  chance  is  great,  or  your 
prospects  very  inviting.  I  believe 
you  have  a  very  considerable  turn 
for  drawing;  but  nothing  but  severe 
and  regular  study  can  ever  enable 
you  to  turn  it  to  account.  You  must 
give  up  all  thoughts  of  taking  the 
Town  by  storm,  and  submit  to  a 
steady  course  of  professional  study 
and  application.  In  time,  I  have  no 
doubt,  you  will  do  well ;  that  is,  as 
well  as  any  of  us,'  added  he,  smiling. 
'But  come  home  and  dine  with  me 
in  the  meantime,  and  we  shall  talk 
the  matter  over  more  leisurely.' 

"  Chesterton's  lodgings  were  situa- 
ted in  one  of  the  narrow  streets 
running  off  from  the  Strand  towards 
the  river.  The  windows  of  his  room 
looked  out  on  the  broad  and  majes- 
tic Thames,  on  the  surface  of  which, 
the  shadows  of  the  tall  buildings  of 
Southwark,  projected  far  out  upon 
the  stream  by  the  almost  horizontal 
rays  of  a  November  sun,  lay  dark 
and  gloomy.  The  declining  light, 
reddened  by  the  frost  fog  which  had 
begun  to  ascend,  streamed  faintly 
into  a  large  and  comfortably  furnish- 
ed apartment,  crowded  with  port- 
folios, panels,  painting  implements, 
sketchesjfragments  of  armour,  dress- 
es, and  all  the  usual  litter  of  a  pain- 
ter's study.  On  the  easel  was  a 
half-finished  sketch,  which  excited 
my  attention.  No  figure  was  visible 
in  it,  yet  I  have  seldom  seen  a  paint- 
ing which  told  more  impressively  a 
story  of  terror.  The  scene  repre- 
sented a  bed-room,  in  which  the  only 
light  visible  was  from  a  lamp,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  overturned, 
and  lay  expiring  on  the  floor.  Its 
flickering  ray  fell  on  some  glittering 
object,  which  seemed  either  a  knife 
or  a  dagger;  a  lady's  slipper,  stain- 
ed with  blood,  lay  on  the  carpet. 
Behind,  upon  a  bed,  appeared  ex- 
tended some  vague  shadowy  inde- 
finite heap,  to  which  the  fancy  could 


586  The  Lay-Figure. 

not  give  either  a  figure  or  a  name. 
A  door  into  the  room  stood  half 
opened  on  the  right,  at  which  the 
foot,  and  part  of  the  leg,  of  a  man 
were  visible,  as  if  leaving  the  apart- 
ment. 

"  *  I  have  been  trying  an  experi- 
ment,' said  Chesterton,  *  with  this 
sketch.  I  have  always  been  of  opi- 
nion, that  we  paint  too  much  to  the 
eye,  and  too  little  to  the  imagination, 
and  that  a  more  powerful  effect 
might  often  be  produced  by  indi- 
cating, rather  than  fully  expressing, 
the  idea  intended  to  be  conveyed. 
Fuseli  understood  this  subject  pretty 
well,  but  he  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  parading  his  anatomi- 
cal knowledge,  and  power  of  draw- 
ing ;  so  he  has  too  often,  in  his  treat- 
ment of  subjects  of  a  terrible  or 
supernatural  cast,  ruined  his  effects, 
by  crowding  his  canvass  with  figures, 
or  attempting  to  embody,  in  visible 
outline,  what  should  have  been  left 
in  the  palpable  obscure  of  the  ima- 
gination. It  is  the  same  thing  with 
those  etchings  of  Callot.  Indistinct- 
ness is  the  true  source  of  superna- 
tural terror ; — there  can  be  no  diab- 
lerie in  daylight,  and  those  hags  and 
demons  of  his,  which,  palled  in  vapour 
or  clouds,  might  have  been  solemn 
and  impressive,  seem  only  crazed 
old  women  of  bedlam,  when  brought 
forward  into  the  fore-ground,  and 
lighted  up  with  those  trumpery  sul- 
phureous flames,  and  the  other  pyro- 
technic contrivances  of  the  lower 
world.' 

*' While  he  wasspeaking,Ihappened 
to  cast  my  eyes  towards  the  corner 
of  the  room,  which  was  gradually 
becoming  dusky,  the  sun  having  now 
dipped  behind  the  patent-shot  ma- 
nufactory on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  river.  I  started ; — for  a  figure, 
enveloped  in  a  white  mantle,  seem- 
ed to  be  stretching  out  its  hands  to- 
wards me  from  the  gloom. 

" '  Don't  be  afraid,'  said  my  friend, 
smiling,  as  he  saw  me  draw  back, 
*  it  is  only  my  lay-figure,  from  which 
I  had  been  sketching  this  morning, 
before  we  met,  for  a  picture  of  the 
apparition  in  the  tent  of  Brutus.  By 
the  bye,'  he  continued,  stepping  up 
to  the  figure,  and  removing  the  large 
cloth  which  had  been  thrown  over 
its  limbs,  *  I  am  rather  proud  of  this 
figure,  for  it  is  mainly  my  own  work. 
A  lay-figure,  of  the  best  sort,  as  you 


[April, 


will  learn  when  you  come  to  pur- 
chase one,  is  rather  expensive ;  and 
as  you  know  I  have  a  tolerable  turn 
for  mechanics,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
I  might  manage  matters  at  a  cheaper 
rate.  I  applied  to  a  young  medical 
friend  of  mine  to  procure  me  a  skele- 
ton in  good  condition — fit  to  keep,  as 
the  advertisements  have  it,  in  any 
climate — which  he  did.  How,  or 
where  he  got  it,  I  did  not  then 
enquire — I  conjectured  from  some 
resurrectionist  or  other,  for  he  was 
hand  in  glove  with  all  those  fellows, 
— but  so  it  was,  it  was  as  fresh  and 
complete,  and  the  bones  as  sound, 
as  if  it  had  never  smelt  cold  earth  at 
all.  Perhaps,  as  Hamlet  says,  the 
man  may  have  been  a  tanner.  No 
matter ;  with  the  assistance  of  a  few 
springs  and  wires  at  the  shoulders, 
elbows,  and  knees,  I  soon  found  I 
could  make  it  assume  any  position  I 
might  require,  just  as  well,  if  not 
better,  than  nine  out  of  ten  of  the 
artificial  figures  to  be  found  in  the 
shops.  I  have  covered  its  nakedness, 
as  you  see,  with  very  decent  raiment 
from  my  old  wardrobe  ; — and  as  the 
hollow  of  the  skull  used  to  look 
somewhat  grinning  and  gloomy  upon 
me  in  sketching  by  candle-light,  I 
shaded  them  with  an  old  mask,  and 
a  superannuated  periwig  of  my  fa- 
ther's, which  by  some  accident  had 
dropped  into  my  trunk.  The  only 
thing  that  annoys  me,  is,  that  the 
skull  seems  to  have  a  strange  lean- 
ing to  one  side,  as  if  the  owner  had 
had  a  crick  in  his  neck  while  alive. 
I  have  done  all  I  could  to  correct 
this  propensity,  but  I  fear  HKhall  not 
get  quit  of  it  entirely  without  break- 
ing the  collar  bone  on  both  sides, 
which  I  am  rather  unwilling  to  do.' 

"  So  saying,  he  removed  the  mask 
and  wig,  and  shewed  me  a  bare  and 
bleached  skull,  rising  above  the 
stuffed  doublet,  which  he  had  wound 
round  the  rest  of  the  figure.  I  could 
see  distinctly  enough,  as  he  pointed 
it  out  to  me,  the  visible  leaning  of 
the  head  to  the  right.  The  white 
scalp  rising  over  the  hollow  eyes  and 
gaping  jaws  below,  formed  a  most 
singular  contrast  to  the  faded  garb, 
apparently  the  poor  remains  of  a  sur- 
tout,  in  which  the  body,  or  rather  the 
bones  of  the  figure  were  enveloped  ; 
it  looked  like  death  in  masquerade, 
and  produced  a  mixed  impression,  at 
once  ludicrous  and  hideous.  View- 


1833.] 


ing  the  figure,  as  I  did,  for  the  first 
time,  and  by  the  uncertain  and  wa- 
vering light,  I  must  confess,  that  in 
my  mind  the  latter  emotion  predo- 
minated. 

"  *  It  is  really  too  bad,'  said  I  step- 
ping back,  as  Chesterton,  pressing 
one  of  his  springs,  made  the  hands 
rise  into  the  air,  somewhat  in  the 
style  of  the  Millennian  orator  of  the 
Caledonian  chapel,  *  it  is  really  too 
bad  to  allow  these  poor  bones  no 
rest,  either  in  life  or  death.  I  dare 
say,  their  unfortunate  owner,  who- 
ever he  was,  little  expected  that  after 
his  labours  on  earth,  he  was  not  even 
to  be  allowed  to  sleep  in  his  grave, 
but  was  still  to  be  turned  to  account, 
and  forced  to  play  Pulcinello  in  a 
painter's  study.' 

"  I  cannot  say  I  was  sorry  when  the 
entrance  of  dinner  and  candles  put 
a  stop  to  our  contemplations.  My 
friend  replaced  the  mask  and  wig, 
threw  the  cloak  over  the  figure  again, 
md  we  took  our  seats  at  the  table. 

"  Our  conversation  was  long  and 
earnest.  Chesterton,  who,  in  his  two 
years'  sojourn  in  London,  had  studied 
both  the  world  and  his  own  art  tho- 
roughly, poured  out  without  reserve 
the  results  of  his  studies.  He  exa- 
mined my  sketches  carefully,  pointed 
out  with  candour  and  discrimination 
their  merits  £nd  defects,  suggested 
the  course  of  study  I  ought  to  pur- 
sue, and  warned  me  of  the  many  ob- 
stacles I  should  have  to  contend  with, 
in  my  own  overweening  confidence, 
or  the  self-love  and  jealousy  of  my 
competitors.  As  I  listened  to  his 
strong  and  forcible  observations,  I 
i'elt  myself  becoming  a  humbler  and 
:i  wiser  man. 

"  In  these  discussions,  sometimes 
enlivened,  and  sometimes  saddened 
1  >y  tales  of  olden  times,  and  school-boy 
recollections ;  of  friends  who  had  al- 
ready closed  a  brief  career  on  earth, 
jind  slept,  some  under  the  burning 
s  kies  of  India,  some  beneath  the  snows 
( f  the  Pole,  some  under  the  green 
waves  of  the  ocean,  the  long  Novem- 
ber evening  wore  away.  More  than 
<  -nee,  however,  in  the  course  of  our 
conversation,  when  the  caudles,  ne- 
glected in  the  earnestness  of  discus- 
sion, began  to  grow  a  little  dim  and 
cabbaged  at  the  top,  and  the  light  fell 
dull  and  feeble  on  the  farther  end  of 
the  room;  I  could  hardly  refrain 
from  starting,  as  my  eye  accidental- 


The  Lay-Figure.  587 

ly  rested  on  the  lay-figure  in  the 
corner,  standing  as  it  had  been  left 
with  its  hands  erect,  and  its  outlines 
faintly  discernible  beneath  its  fune- 
ral drapery.  At  last  it  became  late, 
and  I  retired  to  my  own  lodging. 
"  I  practised  steadily  for  two  months 
the  lessons  which  Chesterton  had 
taught  me.  Every  morning  I  was  up 
by  candle  light,  either  drawing  or  pe- 
rusing works  of  art.  Midnight  gene- 
rally found  me  still  at  work  drawing 
from  the  antique,  for  my  friend's 
kindness  had  supplied  me  with  the 
use  of  all  his  casts  and  models.  I 
used  to  visit  him  at  his  lodgings  al- 
most every  day — we  drew,  dined, 
and  occasionally  visifed  the  theatre 
in  company.  1  began  to  be  sensible 
of  my  own  progress ;  my  taste  and 
power  of  execution  were  visibly  im- 
proving, and  I  now  awaited,  no  long- 
er with  presumptuous  confidence, 
yet  with  good  hopes  of  success,  the 
arrival  of  the  next  competition  for 
admission  of  a  pupil  of  the  Aca- 
demy. 

"  The  day  arrived  at  last,  and  with 
a  beating  heart  I  presented  myself 
and  my  sketches.  The  gentleman 
who  had  communicated  my  doom 
on  the  last  occasion,  was  also  the 
spokesman  on  this.  '  These  draw- 
ings,' said  he,  '  are  very  different 
from  the  last.  They  display  traces 
of  correct  and  systematic  study,  as 
well  as  more  facility  of  execution. 
To-morrow  you  will  be  admitted  as 
a  pupil.' 

"1  knew  only  one  of  the  young  men 
who  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  ad- 
mitted along  with  me.  His  name 
was  Gifford,  and  I  had  met  him  more 
than  once  in  Chesterton's  study.  He 
was  an  able  draftsman,  but  his  viva- 
city of  manner  was  somewhat  too 
boisterous  to  render  his  society  in 
general  acceptable  to  me.  On  this 
occasion,  however,  my  spirits  were 
more  than  usually  elevated,  and  on 
his  proposing  that  we  should  adjourn 
to  dine  at  a  neighbouring  coffee- 
house, and  celebrate  our  success  over 
a  bottle  of  wine,  I  consented  without 
much  hesitation. 

"The  evening  passed,  as  might  be 
expected,  gaily.  Labours  past,  diffi- 
culties vanquished,  hopes  to  come, 
supplied  us  with  ample  materials  for 
conversation.  Each  probably  saw 
himself,  (though  we  had  the  modes- 
ty to  disguise  our  anticipations)  fi- 


588  The  Lay-Figure.  [April, 

guring,  in  a  few  years,  among  those    to  some  rocky  scene  or  gloomy  cave, 


privileged  members  of  the  Academy; 
whose  condition  then  appeared  to  us 
the  most  enviable  in  existence.  We 
chatted,  we  sung,  the  stipulated 
bottle  was  succeeded  by  another. 
It  was  past  eleven,  in  short,  before 
we  parted  close  to  Temple-Bar. 

"  You  wonder,  perhaps,  what  our 
dinner  party  had  to  do  with  the  sub- 
ject of  your  question;  you  shall  hear, 
for  I  am  approaching  the  singular 
part  of  my  story. 

"  The  night  was  fine,  and  as  I  was 
so  near  to  Chesterton's  residence, 
the  thought  occurred  to  me,  that  I 
would  call  on  him,  and  communicate 
in  person  the  news  of  my  success, 
in  which  I  knew  he  would  be  warm- 
ly interested.  I  knocked  at  his 
door,  but  was  told  he  dined  that  day 
in  the  west  end  of  the  town,  and  had 
not  yet  returned.  Being,  however,  by 
this  time  on  terms  of  tolerable  inti- 
macy with  his  landlady,  I  told  her  I 
would  step  up  to  his  room  and  wait 
his  return.  The  candles  were  on 
the  table  unlighted ;  the  fire  iu  the 
grate  burnt  briskly,  illuminating  the 
apartment  with  a  cheerful  gleam. 
'  You  need  not  light  the  candles,' 
said  I,  '  I  like  to  sit  by  the  fire,  and 
Chesterton,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  be 
here  immediately.' 

"  I  sat  down  by  the  fire,  watching 
the  strange  forms  and  combinations, 
into  which  the  shadows  of  the  chairs, 
easels,  and  casts,  were  thrown  upon 
the  walls  and  roof.  The  arm  of  a 
Horcules,  like  the  mast  of  some  tall 
admiral,  would  be  seen  traversing 
the  ceiling  to  clasp  the  leg  of  a  Ve^ 
nus,  which  seemed  swollen  to  the 

K'oportions  of  the  Colossus  of 
hodes;  while  a  Montero  cap  be- 
longing to  my  friend,  suspended  on 
the  top  of  the  easel,  looked  on  the 
wall  like  the  gigantic  helmet  in  the 
Castle  of  Otranto.  As  the  fire  grew 
lower,  and  the  shadows  less  distinct, 
I  began  to  pore  into  the  grate,  and 
to  image  forth  castles,  human  forms, 
and  chimeras  dire  from  among  the 
glowing  embers.  Sometimes  a  wild 
looking  head  would  brighten  into 
light  in  the  midst  of  a  dark  mass, 
and  grin  horribly  for  a  moment  over 
some  castellated  mass  in  the  coals ; 
then  the  jaws  would  quiver  and 
drop  off,  the  monstrous  nose  shrink 
away,  a  dark  film  would  come  over 


through  whose  cloven  arches  the 
eye  wandered  into  regions  of  intense 
light  beyond,  across  which  little  airy 
figures  seemed  to  flit  and  hover. 
Anon,  some  slender  jet  of  flame, 
spouting  out  like  a  miniature  volca- 
no, from  some  abyss  in  the  coals, 
would  leap  and  play  about  for  a  little 
like  an  ignis  fatuus,  now  flashing 
up,  now  disappearing,  till  at  last,  as 
if  an  earthquake  or  firequake  had 
followed,  the  whole  crust  fell  in  at 
once,  and  cave  and  castle,  temple 
and  tower,  with  all  their  inhabitants, 
sunk  and  disappeared  like  the  sha- 
dows of  a  dream. 

"  My  amusements  being  interrupted 
by  this  catastrophe,  I  rose  and  look- 
ed out  of  the  window.  The  night 
was  clear  but  cold,  some  stars  were 
visible  in  the  zenith,  and  the  thin 
thread  of  a  crescent  moon  was  just 
sinking  above  Westminster,  the  dark 
piles  of  which  were  faintly  visible 
to  the  west.  It  was  too  near  to  the 
horizon,  however,  to  throw  any  light 
on  the  waters  of  the  river,  which, 
ebbing  with  the  retiring  tide,  rolled 
beneath  the  window,  black  and  mur- 
muring. Here  and  there  a  light 
twinkling  through  the  vague  masses 
of  shadow  to  the  south,  cast  its  qui- 
vering reflection  on  the  stream.  Did 
it  indicate  the  abode  of  virtuous  in- 
dustry toiling  late  for  an  honourable 
support,  or  the  haunt  of  villainy 
and  vice  ;  did  it  burn  by  the  sick-bed 
of  one  taking  leave  of  the  world,  or 
in  the  study  of  some  midnight  stu- 
dent, outwatching  the  bear,  and  wast- 
ing life  in  the  hope  of  future  fortune 
or  fame  ?  Who  could  say  ?  yet  my 
eye  rested  with  pleasure  on  those 
bright  and  cheering  mementos  of  hu- 
man labours  and  human  existence, 
which  sparkled  through  the  sur- 
rounding silence  and  gloom,  like 
those  ever-burning  cressets,  which 
the  ancients  suspended  in  their 
tombs,  as  if  to  indicate  that  a  bright 
and  ethereal  spark  survived  amidst 
the  dreary  stillness  and  corruption  of 
death. 

«  Methought,  as  I  watched  those  tiny 
rays,  and  while  the  chimes  of  St  Mar- 
tin's were  striking  the  third  quarter 
past  eleven,  my  eyes  rested  on  some 
dark  object  which  came  floating  to- 
wards me  down  the  river.  It  resem- 
bled a  boat,  but  the  extreme  indis- 


the  eyes,  and  the  whole  changed  in-   tinctness  of  the  outline,  occasioned 


1333.] 


by  the  deep  shadow  in  which  the 
surface  of  the  river  at  that  point  lay, 
prevented  me  from  distinguishing 
what  it  contained.  But  as  it  crossed 
tl  e  long  flickering  line  of  light,  pro- 
d  iced  by  one  of  those  lamps  on  the 
other  side,  I  saw  by  the  momentary 
eclipse  of  the  ray  on  the  water,  that 
seme  object  stood  erect  in  the  boat 
with  an  oar  in  its  hand.  It  did  not 
appear  to  be  rowing,  but  allowed 
the  boat  to  drift,  impelled  by  the 
mere  sweep  of  the  retiring  tide.  It 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  though 
I  oould  not  distinguish  a  single  fea- 
ture, I  saw  there  were  many  others 
in  the  boat  besides  the  waterman, 
among  whom  a  low  whispering  con- 
versation, of  which  nothing  reached 
my  ears,  appeared  to  be  carried  on. 
At  last  the  boat  stopped  beneath  the 
window,  the  waterman  looked  up, 
put  his  fingers  to  his  mouth  and 
whistled.  The  sound  echoed  loudly 
on  the  water  and  died  away. 

'  Could  I  be  deceived  ?  It  seemed 
as  if  behind  me — in  the  very  room, 
th'i  signal  was  repeated  faintly,  as 
if  :he  person  who  answered  the  chal- 
lenge were  unable  to  join  his  lips 
perfectly,  or  as  if  the  buccinatory 
muscles  of  the  cheek  had  not  been 
in  working  condition.  The  sound 
en  itted  seemed  like  a  gust  of  wind 
rushing  through  an  imperfectly  clo- 
sed window.  My  eyes  involuntarily 
travelled  towards  that  part  of  the 
room  from  which  the  sound  had  ap- 
peared to  come.  The  fire,  refreshed 
by  a  late  supply,  had  again  revived 
sutficiently  to  enable  me  to  see  dis- 
tinctly enough  every  object  in  the 
apiirtment.  All  was  profoundly  still. 
In  the  corner  to  which  I  looked, 
stood  the  lay-figure,  still  covered 
with  its  cloth,  motionless  as  a  statue. 
It  t  eemed  to  be  precisely  in  the  po- 
sition I  had  last  seen  it,  with  its  arms 
a  1  ttle  elevated,  though  I  could  not 
distinctly  trace  through  the  super- 
incumbent drapery,  the  precise  situ- 
ation of  its  hand.  I  felt  ashamed  of 
my  momentary  weakness  j  I  turned 
again  to  the  window,  but  the  boat  on 
the  river  was  gone. 

'•  Meantime,  the  appearance  of  the 
night  had  changed.  The  moon  was 
down,  the  wind  blew  colder  from 
the  water,  stirring  up  the  fire  in  fit- 
ful gusts,  and  some  heavy  rain-drops 
wh  ch  pattered  upon  my  face,  an- 
nouncing an  approaching  storm,  ob- 


The  Lay-Figure.  589 

liged  me  to  close  the  window.  I 
felt  somewhat  uneasy  at  the  prospect 
of  being  detained  by  the  rain,  but 
trusting  that,  from  its  suddenness, 
it  would  soon  pass  over,  and  that  it 
would,  in  all  probability,  accelerate 
Chesterton's  return,  I  drew  my  chair 
close  to  the  table,  and  endeavoured 
to  amuse  myself  during  the  interval 
in  the  best  way  I  could.  'I  will  try  my 
hand  on  an  apparition  scene  myself,' 
said  I — '  this  is  the  very  moment  for 
inspiration;' — so  lighting  the  candles, 
and  taking  a  portcrayon  and  a  sheet 
of  paper  from  the  adjoining  table,  I 
brought  out  the  lay-figure  from  its 
corner,  placed  it  in  the  attitude  I  re- 
quired, and  began  to  draw. 

"  It  was  the  very  sketch  which,  a 
little  while  ago,  attracted  your  at- 
tention. I  had  succeeded,  as  I  thought, 
pretty  fairly  in  catching  the  general 
outline,  and  had  begun  to  mark  in  a 
little  the  shadows  of  the  head,  when 
twelve  began  to  strike  upon  the  great 
bell  of  St  Paul's.  It  seemed  to  me 
as  if  at  the  first  stroke  the  drapery 
of  my  model  was  a  little  agitated, 
but  seeing  that  the  wind  was  roaring 
down  the  chimney  ia  sudden  gusts, 
and  filling  the  room  at  times  with 
smoke,  I  attributed  the  movement 
to  a  passing  current  of  air.  Conceive 
my  astonishment,  however,  when, 
as  the  last  stroke  still  vibrated  on 
the  tongue  of  the  bell,  the  figure  laid 
aside  the  white  cloth  with  which  it 
was  covered,  hung  it  carefully  over  a 
screen,  took  down  my  friend's  Mon- 
tero  cap  from  the  top  of  the  easel, 
placed  it  on  its  head,  and,  bowing  to 
me  with  great  gravity,  as  if  apologi- 
zing for  being  under  the  necessity 
of  interrupting  my  studies,  walked 
slowly  out  of  the  door,  and  disap- 
peared. 

"  I  have  some  difficulty,  at  this 
distance  of  time,  in  recalling  to  mind 
the  precise  effect  which  this  singular 
apparition  produced  upon  mej  in- 
deed,  my  sensations  at  the  moment 
must  have  been  blended  and  con- 
fused, yet,  so  far  as  I  can  remember, 
my  feelings  were  actually  more  of 
astonishment  than  of  terror.  My 
eyes  dazzled  as  the  creature  rose 
and  put  on  its  capj  I  sat  petrified 
for  an  instant,  while  it  stalked  across 
the  room,  and  I  could  hear  distinct- 
ly the  beating  of  my  heart  against 
my  ribs.  But  this  soon  vanished; 
perhaps  the  wine  I  had  drunk  may 


590  The  Lay-Figure. 

have  steadied  my  nerves  a  little, 
perhaps  the  very  suddenness  with 
which  the  whole  scene  had  passed 
before  me,  left  me  no  time  to  be  fully 
sensible  of  its  terrors.  But  so  it  was. 
As  I  heard  the  street  door  close,  I 
rose  from  my  chair;  an  irresistible 
force  seemed  to  impel  me  forth  in 
pursuit  of  the  figure ; — I  determined 
to  see  where  this  midnight  pilgrim- 
age was  to  end,  and  seizing  my 
hat,  which  lay  beside  me  on  the 
table,  I  hurried  down  stairs,  as  if 
under  the  influence  of  some  over- 
powering dream. 

"  When  I  reached  the  street,  I 
could  just,  by  the  dim  light,  discern 
the  figure  as  it  strode  along,  about 
twenty  yards  before  me.  There  was 
nobody  moving  in  the  street,  save 
the  phantom  and  myself,  yet  it  stole 
cautiously  along  by  the  walls,  with 
all  the  retiring  modesty  of  a  footpad. 
I  was  able,  however,  to  trace  its  pro- 
gress all  along  by  the  glance  of  the 
lamps  upon  the  scarlet  cap  as  it 
passed,  and  a  certain  rusty  and 
creaking  sound  which  accompanied 
its  movements,  as  if  the  joints  did 
not  play  with  all  the  facility  it  could 
have  wished. 

"  It  made  towards  the  north,  avoid- 
ingthemore  public  streets,and  thread- 
ing the  by-lanes  and  dark  alleys  with 
the  dexterity  of  a  hackney  coach- 
man. Occasionally  some  passenger, 
attracted  by  the  uncouth  appearance 
of  its  head-dress,  would  stare  at  it 
for  a  moment  as  it  stalked  past  him ; 
a  watchman,  as  we  turned  the  cor- 
ner of  Covent'Garden  market,  mis- 
led by  the  strange  creaking  and  rat- 
tling of  its  limbs,  sprung  his  rattle, 
and  began  to  call  out  fire ;  and  one 
of  the  new  police  of  the  B  Division, 
catching  a  glimpse  of  its  mask,  made 
a  blow  at  it  as  we  plunged  into  the 
gloomy  region  of  the  Seven  Dials. 
I  saw  him  start,  however,  and  recoil 
with  precipitation,  when  he  heard  the 
sound  which  followed  the  stroke. 
It  was  exactly  as  if  he  had  smashed 
a  shelf  of  crockery  ware  in  a  potter's 
shop. 

"  Meantime,  the  figure  kept  on  its 
way,  still  gliding  closely  by  the  eaves, 
and  now  and  then  eyeing,  with  a  cau- 
tious glance,  the  occasional  passen- 
gers whom  we  encountered  in  those 
nameless  streets.  Once,  indeed,  I 
thought,— though  it  may  have  been 
fancy,  — that  I  saw  the  creature 


[April, 


plunge  its  hand  into  the  pocket  of  a 
man,  who  came  reeling  along  the 
pavement,  probably  returning  from 
some  haunt  of  vice  or  infamy.  But 
it  drew  it  out  again  immediately, 
shook  its  head  with  a  melancholy 
gesture,  and  resumed  its  way. 

"  I  had  now  lost  all  notion  in  what 
part  of  London  we  were,  or  in  what 
direction  we  were  steering,  so  dark 
and  tempestuous  grew  the  night,  so 
intricate  and  perplexed  the  alleys 
and  courts  though  which  we  dived. 
The  lamps,  with  the  exception  here 
and  there  of  one  more  sheltered  from 
the  wind  and  driving  rain,  were 
extinguished  by  the  storm.  I  saw 
enough,  however,  to  perceive  that 
we  were  travelling  the  lowest  haunts 
of  depravity,  the  very  ninth  circle  of 
the  London  Inferno.  The  sights  and 
sounds  were  precisely  those  which 
the  gloomy  pencil  of  Dante  has  ac- 
cumulated, even  to  the  '  sound  of 
hands  together  smote,'  though  here, 
to  be  sure,  they  wefe  smote  in  pugil- 
istic conflict,  rather  than  remorse. 
Often  from  cellars,  which  seemed  to 
yawn  under  the  pavement,  like  so 
many  entrances  to  the  lower  regions, 
would  ascend  the  roar  of  drunken 
revelry,  or  obscene  song,  the  most 
fearful  execrations  from  voices,  male 
and  female,  the  noise  of  subterranean 
scuffles,  groans,  and  cries  for  help ; 
while,  ever  and  anon,  our  path  would 
be  crossed  by  some  loathsome  vic- 
tim of  vice,  staggering  towards  her 
home,  or  laying  her  houseless  head 
in  some  doorway  or  passage  for  the 
night.  I  knew  not  what  to  make  of 
the  conduct  of  my  skeleton  guide. 
As  he  passed  the  door  of  some  of 
those  fearful  recesses  from  whence 
the  sounds  proceeded,  he  would 
pause,  look  wistfully  down  the  trap 
stairs  which  gave  access  to  those 
lower  deeps,  as  if  anxious  to  join 
their  inmates,  then  as  if  some  secret 
and  superior  force,  powerful  as  the 
New  Police  itself,  impelled  him  for- 
ward, he  set  his  joints  in  order,  and 
*  moved  on.' 

"  At  length  even  these  sad  tokens 
of  human  existence  and  crime  disap- 
peared. The  streets  seemed  to 
widen,  the  houses  to  grow  larger. 
Through  the  heavy  rain  which  still 
fell,  I  thought  I  tfould  occasionally 
perceive  vacancies  in  the  line  of 
houses,  as  if  we  were  approaching 
the  country,  The  want  of  the  lamps, 


1333.] 

however,  rendered  it  impossible  for 
me  to  recognise  the  spot  on  which 
we  were.  At  last  the  roaring  of  the 
wind  in  the  branches  of  a  tree, 
\A  hich  seemed  to  grow  close  to  the 
pavement,  convinced  me  that  we 
iriust  have  approached  the  suburbs 
o:  London.  The  figure  now  appear- 
ed to  be  moving  towards  one  solitary 
lamp  a  little  a-head  of  us,  which, 
like  the  last  lamp  of  winter,  stood 
burning  alone,  after  the  extinction 
or*  its  companions.  He  reached  it 
and  stopped.  When  I  came  within 
a  yard  or  two,  I  did  the  same. 

"  At  that  moment  another  whistle, 
which  seemed  the  very  counterpart 
of  what  I  had  heard  from  the  water- 
man on  the  river,  echoed  shrilly  as  if 
by  my  side.  The  creature  started, 
turned  round,  and  making  me  a  low 
bow  as  if  to  thank  me  for  my  escort, 
it  put  into  my  hands  the  Montero 
cpp,  with  a  gesture  expressive  of  gra- 
titude for  the  temporary  accommo- 
dation it  had  afforded  to  its  cranium. 
The  signal  was  repeated  as  if  with 
impatience ;  and  putting  its  hand  in 
a  significant  way  round  its  left  ear, 
like  a  man  adjusting  his  cravat,  it 
gnve  a  strange  gambol  with  its  legs 
at  if  commencing  a  pas  seul,  and 
disappeared. 

"  A  gust  of  wind  coming  howling 
from  the  west,  at  the  same  time  ex- 
tinguished the  lamp,  and  left  me  in 
utter  darkness.  I  knew  not  to  which 
si  Je  I  ought  to  turn,  in  order  to  re- 
gain my  lodgings.  I  could  not  ven- 
ture to  stir  from  the  spot,  lest  I 
should  break  my  neck  over  some  un- 
known obstruction,  or  drop  <  plump 
down,'  into  some  of  those  subter- 
ranean hells  I  had  witnessed  in  pass- 
ing. To  my  inexpressible  relief, 
however,  I  saw  a  light  approaching 
from  the  opposite  side.  It  was  the 
watchman. 

"  *  Where  in  heaven's  name  am  I  ?' 
said  I,  as  the  watchman,  after  turn- 
ing the  light  of  his  lantern  on  my 
countenance,  and  satisfying  himself 
that  I  was  no  thief  but  a  true  man, 
offered  to  assist  me  homeward. 
*  What  strange  quarter  of  the  town 
is  this?' 

" '  This  ?'  said  the  watchman ; <  why, 
this  is  Tyburn  Turnpike,  and  that 
th  ere  stone  you  see  under  that  lamp, 
as  was  blown  out  just  as  I  came  up,  is 
the  old  place  where  the  gallows  used 
to  stand,' 


The  Lay-Figure.  591 

"  I  knew  not  exactly  what  followed. 
I  have  an  indistinct  recollection,  as 
if  the  unnatural  state  of  excitation, 
which  had  hitherto  kept  me  up, 
failed  me  at  this  moment,  and  I  sank 
down  without  further  consciousness. 
When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  lying 
on  Chesterton's  bed,  the  bright  beams 
of  a  morning  sun  in  February  were 
beginning  to  illuminate  the  apart- 
ment, and  in  a  chair  by  the  fireside, 
I  saw  my  friend  reading  the  Morning 
Post,  and  waiting  seemingly  with 
some  anxiety  for  breakfast.  I  rubbed 
my  eyes  and  sat  up.  The  first  thing 
I  saw  was  the  Montero  cap,  placed 
as  it  had  been  the  evening  before,  on 
the  top  of  the  easel,  and  in  the  cor- 
ner stood  the  lay-figure  in  its  usual 
position,  looking  as  innocent  as  pos- 
sible of  its  street- walking  gambols  of 
the  preceding  night. 

"  '  My  dear  fellow,'  said  Chester- 
ton, rising  and  coming  up  to  my  bed- 
side, '  I  am  glad  to  see  you  have 
come  to  your  senses  again.  You 
must  have  been  conspicuously  drunk 
last  night.  I  was  very  late  in  re- 
turning to  my  lodgings,  and  when  I 
came  in  then,  you  were  at  full 
length  on  the  floor.  I  could  not 
think  of  sending  you  home  in  such 
a  tempest;  so,  without  taking  off 
your  clothes,  I  put  you  into  bed,  and 
you  have  never  opened  your  eyes 
till  this  moment.' 

"  '  My  clothes,'  said  I,  *  why,  they 
must  have  been  wet  through  with 
the  rain  of  last  night.' 

" '  Not  a  stitch  of  them,'  said  Ches- 
terton. *  But  how,  pray,  should  they 
be  wet  ?  Though  you  moistened  your 
clay  pretty  well,  there  was  no  oc- 
casion for  moistening  your  coat 
too.' 

"  It  was  with  some  difficulty  I  could 
bring  myself  to  communicate  to 
Chesterton  the  strange  adventure  of 
the  night;  but  seeing  that  he  was  de- 
termined to  set  down  the  whole 
affair  to  the  score  of  intoxication, 
a  point  on  which  I  felt  a  little  sore, 
I  thought  I  was  bound,  in  justice  to 
myself,  to  set  him  right  in  this  parti- 
cular. I  began,  and  he  listened  at 
first  with  an  incredulous  smile,  but 
his  interest  increased  as  the  narra- 
tive proceeded ;  the  smile  was  suc- 
ceeded by  an  air  of  deep  attention, 
till  at  last,  as  I  described  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  figure  and  the  spot 
where  it  happened,  he  looked  at  me 


592                                         The  Lay-Figure.  [April, 

gravely  for  some  time,  and  remained  would  fain    have    endeavoured  to 

silent.  think  the  whole  a  dream ;  but  a  feel- 

"  *  It  is  singular/  said  he,  after  a  ing  of  awe  and  painful  recollection 

pause, '  singular  enough.  Yesterday,  came  over  me  as  I  looked  at  the 

I  dined  with  the  medical  friend  from  figure,   whicli   even  the  bright  and 

whom  I  procured  the  skeleton  for  sunny  morning,    and  the   cheerful 

my  lay-figure.      The    conversation  sights  and  sounds  of  day,  did  not 

happening    to  turn   on  anatomical  enable  me  to  overcome.     I  have  an 

subjects,  I  pressed  him  to  tell  me  idea  that  my  friend,  though  he  did 

where  he  had  got  it,  when  at  last  he  not  own  it,  had  something  of  the 

owned  it  was  the  skeleton  of  a  cri-  same  feeling ;  for  a  few  days  after- 

minal  who  had  been   executed   at  wards,  when  I  visited  his  apartment, 

Tyburn  many  years  ago,  and  which  I  looked  in  vain  for  the  companion 

had  for  a  long  time  ornamented  the  of  my  midnight  walk.     It  was  gone, 

dissecting  room  at  Grey's  Hospital,  and  from  that  day  to  this  I  have 

It  had  been  sold  along  with  some  heard  no  more  of  the  lay-figure.    I 

other  medical  preparations,  of  which  had,  in  fact,  almost  forgotten  the 

they  happened  to  have  duplicates,  whole    phantasmagoria,   when  that 

and  had  in  this  way  fallen  into  his  unlucky  sketch,  which,  please  Hea- 

hands.    The  coincidence,  however,  ven,  I  shall  burn  before  going  to  bed, 

with  this  ghastly  dream  of  yours,  recalled  the  scene  to  my  recollec- 

for  such  of  course  it  must  have  been,  tion.    But  the  bottle's  out,  I  see— 

is  remarkable  enough.'  shall  we  ring  for  another  P" 

"  I  said  no  more  on  the  subject.   I 


LINES  ON  A  THRUSH  CONFINED  IN  A  CAGE  NEAR  THE  SEA. 
BY  LADY  EMMELINE  STUART  WORTLEY. 

Poor  solitary — melancholy  thing ! 
How  heavily  droops  thy  long-unpractised  wing — 
Par  from  the  golden-fruited  scented  woods — 
Far  from  the  chainless  joy  of  founts  and  floods 
Exiled  for  ever — from  thy  haunts  of  old, 
Where  gleamed  the  leaves  from  the  tree's  ivy-fold, 
Where  thy  notes  pierced  the  richly-flowering  branches — 
Sweet  as  the  tone  some  breeze-swept  harp-string  launches 
Upon  the  ravish'd  and  bewilder' d  ear  ! 
But  here,  disconsolate,  joyless,  captive  !  here 
No  golden-fruited  woods  spread  wide  around— 
No  coloured  moss  robes  royally  the  ground — 
No  violet  tufts  enrich  the  passing  breeze — 
No  tender  shadows  fall  from  clustering  trees — 
For  thee  awakes  no  tone  of  kindred  glee, 
No  sweet  companion's  answering  minstrelsy  ! 
Nought  but  the  melancholy-sounding  sea, 
The  many-cadenced,  ever  mournful  main, 
Thou  nearest! — till  thy  once  exulting  strain 
Is  changed  and  saddened  with  a  dreamy  tone, 
Wild  as  the  sea- shells'  undistinguished  moan — 
As  though  those  sea-shells,  with  vain  mysteries  fill'd, 
Had  fitfully  and  plaintively  instill'd 
Their  soul  of  mournfulness  through  thy  clear  lay ! 
That  thou— the  Child  of  Spring,  and  Light,  and  Day, 
Should  bear  the  chain  !— Oh,  could  my  hand  restore  thee 
To  that  blest  haunt  where  green  leaves  trembled  o'er  thee, 
Thou  shouldst  not,  lingering  by  the  cold,  cold  wave- 
That  can  but  offer  thee  a  welcome  grave — 
Mourn  thy  sick  heart  away ! — but  once  again 
Send  through  the  echoing  woods  thy  rapturous  strain, 
Free,  and  forgetful  of  the  cage  and  chain  ! 


1833.]  Female  Characters  of  Scripture,  593 

FEMALE  CHARACTERS  OF  SCRIPTURE. 
A  SERIES  OF  SONNETS.      BY  MRS  HEMAN8. 

Your  tents  are  desolate  ;  your  stately  steps, 
Of  all  their  choral  dances  have  not  left 
One  trace  beside  the  fountains  :  your  full  cup 
Of  gladness,  and  of  trembling,  each  alike 
1     Is  broken  :  Yet,  amidst  undying  things, 
The  mind  still  keeps  your  loveliness,  and  still 
All  the  fresh  glories  of  the  early  world 
Hang  round  you  ia  the  spirit's  pictured  halls, 
Never  to  change ! 

INVOCATION. 

As  the  tired  voyager  on  stormy  seas 

Invokes  the  coming  of  bright  birds  from  shore, 
To  waft  him  tidings,  with  the  gentler  breeze, 

Of  dim  sweet  woods  that  hear  no  billows  roar  : 

So  from  the  depth  of  days,  when  Earth  yet  wore 
Her  solemn  beauty,  and  primeval  dew, 

I  call  you,  gracious  forms  !     Oh  !  come,  restore 
Awhile  that  holy  freshness,  and  renew 
Life's  morning  dreams.     Come  with  the  voice,  the  lyre, 

Daughters  of  Judah  1  with  the  timbrel  rise  ! 

Ye  of  the  dark  prophetic  eastern  eyes, 
Imperial  in  their  visionary  fire ; 
Oh !  steep  my  soul  in  that  old  glorious  time, 
When  God's  own  whisper  shook  the  cedars  of  your  clime ! 

INVOCATION  CONTINUED. 

AND  come,  ye  faithful !  round  Messiah  seen, 

With  a  soft  harmony  of  tears  and  light 
Streaming  through  all  your  spiritual  mien, 

As  in  calm  clouds  of  pearly  stillness  bright 

Showers  weave  with  sunshine,  and  transpierce  their  slight 
Ethereal  cradle. — From  your  heart  subdued 

All  haughty  dreams  of  Power  had  wing'd  their  flight, 
And  left  high  place  for  Martyr-fortitude, 
True  Faith,  long-suffering  Love. — Come  to  me,  come ! 

And,  as  the  seas  beneath  your  Master's  tread 

Fell  into  crystal  smoothness,  round  him  spread 
Like  the  clear  pavement  of  his  heavenly  home; 

So  in  your  presence,  let  the  Soul's  great  deep 

Sink  to  the  gentleness  of  infant  sleep. 

THE  SONG  OF  MIRIAM. 

A  SONG  for  Israel's  God  I — Spear,  crest,  and  helm, 

Lay  by  the  billows  of  the  old  Red  Sea, 
When  Miriam's  voice  o'er  that  sepulchral  realm 

Sent  on  the  blast  a  hymn  of  jubilee ; 

With  her  lit  eye,  and  long  hair  floating  free, 

Queen-like  she  stood,  and  glorious  was  the  strain, 

Ev'n  as  instinct  with  the  tempestuous  glee 
Of  the  dark  waters,  tossing  o'er  the  slain. 

A  song  for  God's  own  Victory  !— Oh,  thy  lays, 
Bright  Poesy  !  were  holy  in  their  birth  :— 

How  hath  it  died,  thy  seraph  note  of  praise, 
In  the  bewildering  melodies  of  Earth ! 

Return  from  troubling  bitter  founts ;  return 

Back  to  the  life-springs  of  thy  native  urn  ! 


594  Female  Characters  of  Scripture.  [April, 

RUTH. 

The  plume-like  swaying  of  the  auburn  corn, 

By  soft  winds  to  a  dreamy  motion  fann'd, 
Still  brings  me  back  thine  image — Oh  !  forlorn, 

Yet  not  forsaken,  Ruth ! — I  see  thee  stand 

Lone,  midst  the  gladness  of  the  harvest-band, — 
Lone  as  a  wood-bird  on  the  ocean's  foam, 

Fall'n  in  its  weariness.     Thy  fatherland 
Smiles  far  away !  yet  to  the  Sense  of  Home, 
That  finest,  purest,  which  can  recognise 

Home  in  affection's  glance,  for  ever  true 
Beats  thy  calm  heart;  and  if  thy  gentle  eyes 

Gleam  tremulous  through  tears,  'tis  not  to  rue 
Those  words,  immortal  in  their  deep  Love's  tone, 
"  Thy  people  and  thy  God  shall  be  mine  own!" 

THE  VIGIL  OF  RIZPAH. 

"And  Rizpah,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  took  sackcloth,  and  spread  it  for  her  upon  the  rock,  from 
the  beginning  of  harvest,  until  water  dropped  upon  them  out  of  heaven ;  and  suffered  neither  the 
birds  of  the  air  to  rest  on  them  by  day,  nor  the  beasts  of  the  field  by  night."— 2  Sam.  xxi.  10. 

Who  watches  on  the  mountain  with  the  dead, 

Alone  before  the  awfulness  of  night  ? 
— A  Seer  awaiting  the  deep  Spirit's  might  ? 

A  Warrior  guarding  some  dark  pass  of  dread  ? 

No,  a  lorn  Woman ! — On  her  drooping  head, 
Once  proudly  graceful,  heavy  beats  the  rain ; 

She  recks  not, — living  for  the  unburied  slain, 
Only  to  scare  the  vulture  from  their  bed. 

So,  night  by  night,  her  vigil  hath  she  kept 

With  the  pale  stars,  and  with  the  dews  hath  wept; — 

Oh !  surely  some  bright  Presence  from  above 
On  those  wild  rocks  the  lonely  one  must  aid! — 
E'en  so ;  a  strengthener  through  all  storm  and  shade, 

Th'  unconquerable  Angel,  mightiest  Love ! 


THE  REPLY  OF  THE  SHUNAMITE  WOMAN. 

"  And  she  answered,  I  dwell  among  mine  own  people."— 2  Kings,  iv.  13. 

"  I  dwell  among  mine  own,''— Oh !  happy  thou  ! 

Not  for  the  sunny  clusters  of  the  vine, 
Nor  for  the  olives  on  the  mountain's  brow ; 

Nor  the  flocks  wandering  by  the  flowery  line 
Of  streams,  that  make  the  green  land  where  they  shine 
Laugh  to  the  light  of  waters  :— not  for  these, 
Nor  the  soft  shadow  of  ancestral  trees, 

WThose  kindly  whisper  floats  o'er  thee  and  thine ; 
Oh  !  not  for  these  1  call  thee  richly  blest, 
'  But  for  the  meekness  of  thy  woman's  breast, 

Where  that  sweet  depth  of  still  contentment  lies  : 
And  for  thy  holy  household  love,  which  clings 
Unto  all  ancient  and  familiar  things, 
Weaving  from  each  some  link  for  Home's  dear  Charities. 


13&J.J  Lyrics  of  t fix  East.  59  j 


LYRICS  OF  THE  EAST.      liV  MRS  GODWIN. 

No.  V. 
DVING  REQUEST  OF  A  HINDU  GIRL. 

KEEP,  dear  friends,  when  I  am  dead, 
And  green  moss  above  my  head, 
Cherish  with  your  tender  care 
My  fond  birds  and  blossoms  fair. 
Mother,  father,  sisters  three, 
Cherish  them  for  love  of  me. 

Azla,  for  my  spotted  fawn, 
Gather  leaves  at  early  dawn  : 
Anasuya,  in  thy  breast, 
Let  my  playful  lorie  rest. 
Gently  round  my  lonely  bower, 
Train  yon  Camalata  flower. 

Mora,  to  thy  care  I  leave 
Flowers  that  shed  their  sweets  at  eve, 
And  all  timid  birds  that  tune 
Melodies  beneath  the  moon. 
Thou,  sweet  sister,  art  like  them, 
Born  the  pensive  shades  to  gem. 

Keep,  my  friends,  when  I'm  no  more, 
In  your  hearts  the  looks  I  wore ; 
Let  my  memory  haunt  these  bowers, 
Shrined  in  birds  and  fragrant  flowers,-— 
Mother,  sisters,  sire,  to  you 
Amra  breathes  a  last  adieu. 

No.  VI. 
THE  RUINED  FOUNTAIN. 

Flow  on,  limpid  fountain,  though  deserts  surround  thee, 

Thy  waters  sweet  melody  have ; 
Though  the  weeds  of  neglect  in  their  cold  arras  have  bound  thee, 

And  birds  dip  their  wings  in  thy  wave. 

Thy  marble  so  bright  through  the  dank  moss  betrayeth 

A  gleam  of  thy  destiny  gone, 
But  the  clear  wave  hath  ruin'd  the  urn  where  it  playeth, 

And  still  in  its  glory  rolls  on. 

It  may  be,  thy  music,  in  ages  departed, 

The  proud  Courts  of  royalty  cheer'd, 
While  shapes  of  the  lovely,  the  brave,  the  light-hearted, 

All  glass'd  in  thy  waters  appear'd. 

But  now,  of  the  grandeur  that  was,  not  a  token 

Remains  to  adorn  thy  decay ; 
Like  a  wreath  of  wan  vapour  the  breeze  hath  just  broken, 

The  vision  hath  melted  away. 

Thou  only  art  spared,  even  as  virtue  endureth, 

When  pride,  wealth,  and  beauty  decline, 
For  the  life  that  dwells  deep  in  thy  centre  ensureth 

A  power  that  for  aye  shall  be  thine. 

Lone  fount  of  the  wilderness !  broken  and  slighted  ! 

Thou  teem'st  with  adversity's  lore  ! 
Oh !  how  many  like  me  in  thy  flow  have  delighted, 

Whose  eyes  may  behold  thee  no  more  ! 

VOL.  XXXIII,    NO.  COVII.  2  Q 


596 


My  Grave.  [April, 

MY  GRAVE. 

FAJI  from  the  city's  ceaseless  hum, 

Hither  let  my  relics  come  ; — 

Lowly  and  lonely  be  my  grave, 

Fast  by  this  streamlet's  oozing  wave, 

Still  to  the  gentle  angler  dear, 

And  heaven's  fair  face  reflecting  clear. 

No  rank  luxuriance  from  the  dead 

Draw  the  green  turf  above  my  head, 

But  cowslips,  here  and  there,  be  found, 

Sweet  natives  of  the  hallowed  ground, 

Diffusing  Nature's  incense  round! 

Kindly  sloping  to  the  sun, 

Wien  his  course  is  nearly  run, 

Let  it  catch  his  farewell  beams, 

Brief  and  pale,  as  best  beseems; 

But  let  the  melancholy  yew 

(Still  to  the  cemetery  true) 

Defend  it  from  his  noonday  ray, 

Debarring  visitant  so  gay ; 

And  when  the  robin's  fitful  song 

Is  hush'd  the  darkling  boughs  among, 

There  let  the  spirit  of  the  wind 

A  Heaven-rear'd  tabernacle  find 

To  warble  wild  a  vesper  hymn, 

To  soothe  my  shade  at  twilight  dim  ! 

Seldom  let  feet  of  man  be  there 

Save  bending  towards  the  house  of  prayer  ; 

Few  human  sounds  disturb  the  calm, 

Save  words  of  grace  or  solemn  psalm  ! 

Yet  would  I  not  my  humble  tomb 

Should  wear  an  uninviting  gloom, 

As  if  there  seem'd  to  hover  near, 

In  fancy's  ken,  a  thing  of  fear ; 

And  view'd  with  superstitious  awe, 

Be  duly  shunn'd,  and  scarcely  draw 

The  sidelong  glance  of  passer  by, 

As  haunt  of  sprite  with  blasting  eye  ; 

Or  not|ed  be  by  some  sad  token, 

Bearing  a  name  in  whispers  spoken  I 

No ! — let  the  thoughtful  schoolboy  stray 

Far  from  his  giddy  mates  at  play, 

My  secret  place  of  rest  explore, 

There  pore  on  page  of  classic  lore  : — 

Thither  let  hoary  men  of  age 

Perform  a  pensive  pilgrimage, 

And  think,  as  o'er  my  turf  they  bend, 

It  woos  them  to  their  welcome  end  : 

And  let  the  woe- worn  wand'ring  one, 

Blind  to  the  rays  of  reason's  sun, 

Thither  his  weary  way  incline, 

There  catch  a  gleam  of  light  divine ; 

But,  chiefly,  let  the  friend  sincere 

There  drop  a  tributary  tear, 

There  pause,  in  musing  mood,  and  all 

Our  bygone  hours  of  bliss  recall; 

Delightful  hours  !  too  fleetly  flown  I 

By  the  heart's  pulses  only  known ! 

R#**#Y. 

Aberdeen. 


L833.] 


Edmund  JBurke. 


597 


ED3IUND  BURKE. 


PART  II. 


THE  death  of  George  II.,  in  1760, 
closed  one  of  the  most  successful 
reigns  of  England.  At  home,  the 
popularity  of  the  Stuarts,  first  bro- 
ken down  on  the  field  of  battle,  had 
been  extinguished  on  the  scaffold; 
abroad,  the  continental  hostilities, 
often  threatening  the  overthrow  of 
British  influence,  had  closed  in  a 
series  of  encounters  which  gave  the 
.ast  honours  to  the  British  military 
mme.  The  capture  of  Calcutta  by 
Olive,  in  1757,  had  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  an  empire  in  India.  The 
successes  of  Amherst  and  Johnson 
,it  Crown- Point  and  Niagara,  follow- 
ed by  the  capture  of  Quebec  in  1 759, 
had  completed  the  conquest  of  Ca- 
nada, and  laid,  in  a  country  almost 
joundless,the  foundations  of  a  wes- 
tern empire.  To  complete  the  pic- 
sure  of  triumph,  the  victory  of  Hawke 
in  Quiberon  Bay,  had  destroyed  the 
chief  fleetof  France  within  sightof  her 
own  shore.  In  the  midst  of  all  those 
prospects  of  national  prosperity,  the 
old  King  suddenly  died,  at  the  age  of 
seventy-seven,  after  a  reign  of  thirty- 
Jiree  years.  The  King's  character 
Lad  been  fitted  for  the  time.  He 
vas  a  firm,  temperate,  and  sincere 
:nan,  steady  to  the  possession  of  his 
)0\ver,  but  unambitious  of  its  in* 
crease;  not  forgetting  his  natural 
'  ies  to  the  place  of  his  birth,  but  ho- 
:iest  to  the  obligations  of  his  throne, 
'—attached  to  Hanover,  but  proud  of 
England.  History  has  now  passed 
sentence  upon  him,  and  it  will  not 
"!>e  reversed  by  time.  "  On  whatever 
side,"  says  a  narrator  of  his  reign, 
"  we  look  upon  the  character  of 
'oreorge  II.,  we  shall  find  ample  mat- 
-er  for  just  and  unsuspected  praise, 
^one  of  his  predecessors  enjoyed 
longer  felicity.  His  subjects  were 
i  till  improving  under  him  in  com- 
]  aerce  and  arts ;  and  his  own  econo- 
my set  a  prudent  example  to  the  na- 
lion,  which,  however,  they  did  not 
lollow.  He  was  in  temper  sudden 
;md  violent;  but  this,  though  it  in- 
fluenced his  private  conduct,  made 
no  change  in  his  public,  which  was 
£  enerally  guided  by  reason.  He 
was  plain  and  direct  in  his  inten- 


tions, true  to  his  word,  steady  in  his 
favour  and  protection  to  his  public 
servants,  not  parting  with  his  Mini- 
sters till  compelled  by  the  force  of 
faction."  If  to  this  we  add,  that, 
through  his  whole  life,  he  appeared 
to  live  for  the  cultivation  rather  of 
useful  public  virtues  than  of  splen- 
did ones,  we  shall  have  a  character 
which  might  well  and  worthily  sus- 
tain the  functions  of  British  royalty. 
He  might  not  attract  popular  admi- 
ration, nor  be  a  pillow  for  personal 
friendship  to  repose  on.  He  might 
be  neither  an  Alfred  nor  a  Charles 
II.  But  he  might,  and  did,  conduct 
manfully,  with  integrity,  and  in  the 
spirit  of  the  Constitution,  a  constitu- 
tional empire.  The  great  Minister 
of  his  latter  day  was  Lord  Chatham 
— a  splendid  innovation  on  the  rou- 
tine of  ministry.  A  new  political 
star,  which  had  shot  down  to  give 
new  energy  to  the  state,  and  throw 
sudden  brightness  over  the  decaying 
system  of  the  Newcastle  Administra- 
tion. Chatham  was  the  Premier  on 
the  accession  of  George  III. ;  but  his 
power  was  not  of  a  nature  to  last. 
His  personal  haughtiness  had  grown 
by  success  until  it  alienated  his 
friends,  and,  finally,  estranged  his 
sovereign.  A  division  in  the  Cabi- 
net on  the  question  of  a  Spanish 
war,  shewed  him  that  his  dictator- 
ship was  at  an  end,  and  arrogantly, 
to  be  less  than  the  embodied  minis- 
try, he  threw  up  the  seals.  His  suc- 
cessor, Lord  Bute,  was  overthrown 
in  his  turn  by  three  causes,  each  of 
which  at  other  times  would  have  led 
the  way  to  fortune, — the  favour  of 
his  King,  the  favouritism  of  the  King's 
mother,  and  his  being  a  Scotsman. 
The  rapid  succession  of  ministerial 
changes  which,  subsequently,  for 
some  years  left  England  with  but 
the  name  of  a  government,  had  the 
disastrous  eifect  of  teaching  the 
people  to  look  with  scorn  upon  mi- 
nisterial ambition.  When  public  men 
trafficked  alternately  with  the  neces- 
sities of  the  King  and  the  passions  of 
the  people,  the  nation  soon  learned 
to  consider  office  as  a  trade.  All 
revolutions  are  tests  of  character; 


593 


Edmund 


but  a  perpetual  revolution,  in  the 
shape  of  official  changes,  the  hourly 
rise  and  fall  of  public  men,  the  vio- 
lent professions  of  this  day  contrast- 
ed with  the  violent  abjurations  of 
the  next,  the  lofty  pledges  followed 
by  the  abject  compliances, the  claims 
of  the  reigning  Ministers  to  confi- 
dence mingled  with  the  complaints 
of  the  fallen  Ministers  of  treachery, 
rapidly  turned  the  people  into  j  udges 
of  all  public  men,  erected  a  tribunal 
of  state  offences  in  every  street,  and 
summoning  the  multitude  to  a  juris- 
diction to  which  their  reason  was 
incompetent,  left  Government  at  the 
mercy  of  their  prejudices.  The  ge- 
neral result  was,  to  degrade  all  pub- 
lic servants  in  the  national  eye ;  but 
the  immediate  was,  to  shake  the  su- 
premacy of  the  great  families  in  the 
government  of  the  country.  Chatham 
himself  had  been  an  intruder  on  the 
proud  aristocracy  of  the  Cabinet. 
But  wherever  his  banner  waved,  vic- 
tory must  have  sat  upon  it ;  his  ex- 
traordinary powers  were  not  made 
to  be  repulsed  by  their  frigid  forms. 
He  could  not  enter  by  the  gate,  but 
he  boldly  scaled  the  walls,  and  made 
himself  master  of  the  citadel.  The 
King,  whom  he  could  not  conciliate, 
he  kept  in  awe ;  and  the  Ministry, 
whom  he  could  not  coerce,  he  held 
in  obedience  by  the  popular  voice, 
which  followed  all  his  enterprises. 
But  in  his  fall  he  completely  drew 
down  with  him  the  veil  which  had 
hitherto  covered  the  ministerial 
weakness  of  the  great  families. 
They  struggled  long  to  regain  their 
ancient  right  to  dispose  of  the  Cabi- 
net ;  but  the  struggle  constantly  be- 
came more  unsuccessful;  until  the 
still  greater  son  of  that  great  man 
who  had  first  broke  in  upon  their 
privilege  of  possession,  finished  the 
contest,  by  throwing  open  govern- 
ment to  men  of  all  ranks,  and  making 
public  ability  the  ground  of  official 
distinction. 

Yet  no  maxim  is  more  unquestion- 
able, than  that  all  change  in  the  old 
principles  of  a  country  is  hazardous. 
Nothing  could  seem  more  pregnant 
with  good  than  the  dismissal  of  anti- 
quated feebleness  for  young  vigour  ; 
nothing  more  suited  to"  infuse  a  new 
wisdom  in  the  national  councils  than 
the  extinction  of  those  obsolete  pre- 
judices, which  found  their  protec- 
tion only  in  wealth,  and  referred  for 


Burke.  [April, 

political  virtue  only  to  the  rolls  of 
the  Heralds'  College;  nothing  more 
just,  natural,  or  congenial  to  the  im- 
proving intelligence  of  the  empire, 
than  that  some  of  that  vast  harvest 
of  ability  and  knowledge,  which  was 
hourly  growing  up  with  the  growing 
influence  of  the  middle  orders, 
should  be  gathered  for  the  public 
use;  that  the  hourly  opening  mine  of 
public  genius  should  be  worked  for 
the  benefit  of  the  high  concerns  of 
empire. 

All  would  have  been  fortunate  if 
the  operation  could  have  stopped 
here.  But  the  almost  immediate  re- 
sult of  abolishing  this  patent  of  the 
great  families,  was  to  create  a  new 
and  singularly  hazardous  influence 
in  the  State.  The  high  aristocrats, 
stiff  with  the  privileges  of  genera- 
tions, suddenly  assumed  the  flexibi- 
lity of  popular  canvass.  The  popu- 
lace in  their  turn  hailed  their  new 
allies,  and  rejoiced  in  their  familiar- 
ity with  the  Peerage.  The  extremes 
of  society  met.  The  old  Court  suit, 
with  all  its  royal  embroidery,  was 
thrown  off  for  the  costume  of  the 
club  and  the  coffeehouse ;  the  con- 
test for  power  was  adjourned  from 
the  Cabinet  to  the  streets ;  and  the 
men  who  would  have  frowned  down, 
with  hereditary  haughtiness,  the 
slightest  approach  of  the  order  im- 
mediately below  themselves,  how- 
ever graced  by  learning  and  genius, 
sprang  down  at  once  to  the  lowest 
grade,  and  bound  themselves  to  the 
populace  by  a  bond  which  will  never 
be  dissolved,  but  in  their  own  ruin. 
On  this  overthrow  of  the  ancient  pa- 
tentees of  power,  Burke  was  led  to 
write  his  famous  pamphlet,  entitled 
"  Thoughts  on  the  Cause  of  the  Pre- 
sent Discontents."  The  public  cla- 
mours which  assailed  Lord  North's 
Ministry,  had  grown  at  this  period 
(1770)  to  a  height  which  threatened 
dangerous  tumult.  Burke,  the  friend 
and  follower  of  Lord  Rockingham, 
and  involved  in  his  exclusion,  natu- 
rally imputed  a  large  share  of  the 
clamour  to  the  loss  of  his  ministerial 
councils.  But  it  is  the  characteristic 
and  the  value  of  his  writings,  that 
the  particular  topic  always  expands 
into  the  general  instruction,  and  that 
even  out  of  the  barrenness  of  an 
eulogy  on  Lord  Rockingham,  he 
could  raise  maxims  for  the  wisdom 
of  mankind,  He  thus  describes  the. 


1888.1 


Edmund  Burke. 


origin  of  the  aristocratic  caste  in 
statesmanship : 

"  At  the  Revolution,  the  Crown, 
deprived,  for  the  ends  of  the  Revo- 
lution itself,  of  many  prerogatives, 
was  found  too  weak  to  struggle 
against  all  the  difficulties  which 
pressed  on  so  new  and  unsettled  a 
Government.  The  Court  was  obliged 
to  delegate  a  part  of  its  powers  to 
men  of  such  interest  as  could  sup- 
port, and  of  such  fidelity  as  would 
adhere  to,  its  establishment.  This 
connexion,  necessary  at  first,  conti- 
nued long  after  convenient,  and,  pro- 
perly conducted,  might  indeed,  in  all 
situations,  be  an  useful  instrument 
of  Government.  At  the  same  time, 
through  the  intervention  of  men  of 
popular  weight  and  character,  the 
people  possessed  a  security  for  their 
just  proportion  of  importance  in  the 
State." 

Having  accounted  for  the  rise  of 
the  aristocracy  to  power,  he  accounts 
for  their  fall.  In  this  statement,  his 
pencil  is  dipt  in  Rockingham  colours : 
but  those  colours  were  pure,  and  the 
outline  is  admirably  true.  He  tells 
us,  that  when  the  Court  felt  itself 
beginning  to  grow  strong,  it  began 
also  to  feel  the  irksomeness  of  de- 
pendence on  its  Ministers,  and  re- 
solved to  deal  with  more  complying 
Cabinets.  "  The  greatest  weight  of 
popular  opinion  and  party  connexion 
was  then  with  the  Duke  of  Newcastle 
juid  Mr  Pitt.  Neither  of  these  held 
his  importance  by  the  new  tenure  of 
the  Court;  they  we'ie  not,  therefore, 
thought  to  be  so  proper  as  others  for 
the  services  which  were  required  by 
that  tenure.  It  happened,  very  fa- 
vourably for  the  new  system,  that 
under  a  forced  coalition  there  rank- 
led an  incurable  alienation  and  dis- 
gust between  the  parties  which  com- 
j  osed  the  administration.  Mr  Pitt 
v  ras  first  attacked.  Not  satisfied  with 
removing  him  from  power,  they  en- 
deavoured by  various  artifices  to 
r  lin  his  character.  The  other  party 
s  Denied  rather  pleased  to  get  rid  of 
s  >  oppressive  a  support,  not  percei- 
v  ng  that  their  own  fall  was  prepa- 
ivd  by  his,  and  involved  in  it.  Many 
o'her  reasons  prevented  them  from 
d  iring  to  look  their  true  situation  in 
tie  face.  *  *  *  *  *  *  The 
power  of  Mr  Pitt  was  vast  and  me- 
ri.ed,  but  it  was  in  a  great  degree 
personal,  and  therefore  transient, 


The  power  of  the  great  aristocratic 
families  was  rooted  in  the  country. 
With  a  good  deal  less  of  popularity, 
they  possessed  a  far  more  natural 
and  fixed  influence.  Long  possession 
of  government,  vast  property,  obli- 
gations of  favours  given  and  recei- 
ved, connexion  of  office,  ties  of  blood, 
of  alliance,  of  friendship,  the  name 
of  Whig,  dear  to  the  majority  of  the 
people,  the  zeal,  early  begun  and 
steadily  continued,  to  the  royal  fa- 
mily, all  these  together  formed  a 
body  of  power  in  the  nation." 

Inconsistency  is  the  favourite  to- 
pic of  the  libellers  of  Burke.  But 
the  language  which  he  held  in  this 
pamphlet  is  the  language  which  he 
breathed  from  his  expiring  tongue ; 
sacred  honour  for  established  insti- 
tutions, hatred  of  worthless  change, 
just  respect  for  the  natural  influence 
of  rank,  birth,  and  property.  The 
change  was  not  in  the  writer,  but  in 
the  men.  The  French  Revolution 
was  the  boundary-line  between  the 
aristocrat  of  his  first  day  and  his  last, 
the  gulf  which  whoever  passed  left 
his  former  robes  on  the  edge,  and 
came  out  naked.  He  as  powerfully 
asserts  the  superior  claim  of  the  first 
class  of  the  nation  to  govern  the 
State  in  1770,  as  he  asserted  it  in  the 
full  fury  and  tempest  of  1793. 

"  One  of  the  principal  topics,"  he 
observes,  "  of  the  new  school,  is  a 
terror  of  the  growth  of  an  aristocra- 
tic power,  prejudicial  to  the  rights 
of  the  Crown,  and  the  balance  of 
the  Constitution.  It  is  true,  that  the 
Peers  have  a  great  influence  in  the 
kingdom,  and  in  every  part  of  the 
public  concerns.  While  they  are 
men  of  property,"  it  is  impossible  to 
prevent  it,  except  by  such  means  as 
must  prevent  all  property  from  its 
natural  operation,  —  an  event  not 
easily  to  be  compassed,  while  pro- 
perty is  power ;  nor  by  any  means 
to  be  wished,  while  the  least  notion 
exists  of  the  method  by  which  the  spi- 
rit of  liberty  acts,  and  of  the  means 
by  which  it  is  preserved.  If  any  par- 
ticular Peers,  by  their  uniform,  up- 
right, constitutional  conduct,  by  their 
public  and  their  private  virtues,  have 
acquired  an  influence  in  the  coun- 
try, the  people,  on  whose  favour  that 
influence  depends,  will  never  be 
duped  into  an  opinion,  that  such 
greatness  in  a  Peer  is  the  despotism 
of  an  aristocracy,  when  they  know 


600 


Edm  und  Burke. 


[April, 


and  feel  it  to  be  the  pledge  of  their 
own  importance. 

"  I  am  no  friend  to  aristocracy,  in 
the  sense,  at  least,  in  which  that  word 
is  usually  understood.  If  it  were 
not  a  bad  habit  to  moot  cases  on  the 
supposed  ruin  of  the  Constitution,  I 
should  be  free  to  declare,  that,  if  it 
must  perish,  I  should  rather,  by  far, 
see  it  resolved  into  any  other  form, 
than  lost  in  that  austere  and  inso- 
lent domination.  But  whatever  my 
dislikes  are,  my  fears  are  not  from 
that  quarter." 

It  is  clear,  that  in  this  passage,  the 
writer  alludes  to  an  aristocracy  as- 
suming the  sole  functions  of  Govern- 
ment, —  notan  English,  buta  Venetian 
aristocracy,  —  an  oligarchy  at  once 
shielding  itself  from  responsibility 
by  its  numbers,  and  overawing  the 
people  by  its  dark  and  sullen  vio- 
lence. The  power  to  which  he  al- 
ludes as  the  object  of  dread,  is  that 
of  a  faction  behind  the  throne.  It  is 
equally  clear,  that  even  Burke's  wis- 
dom mistook  the  true  hazard  of 
the  Constitution,  that  in  contempla- 
ting the  power  of  an  intriguing  Court, 
he  overlooked  the  tyranny  of  an  irre- 
sponsible populace;  that  in  guarding 
the  Constitutional  tree  from  the 
southern,  sickly  breezes  of  Court 
patronage,  he  forgot  the  hurricane 
that  would  shatter  and  root  it  out  of 
the  ground.  But  even  his  sagacity 
may  be  forgiven  for  being  unable  to 
anticipate  the  horrors  of  revolution- 
ary rage.  It  is  to  the  honour  of  his 
humanity  that  he  was  yet  to  learn  the 
depths  of  the  popular  heart,  when 
convulsed  and  laid  open  b^the  sense 
of  uncontrollable  power  ;  the  ter- 
rible deposits  of  the  revolutionary 
volcano,  when  once  shaken  and  kin- 
dled into  flame. 

It  is  also  to  be  remembered,  that 
during  this  entire  discussion,  the 
question  is  not  of  Whigs  or  Tories, 
according  to  their  later  qualities.  In 
Burke's  early  day,  the  Whigs  were 
but  another  name  for  the  landed  in- 
terest, for  the  great  body  of  family 
and  fortune  of  the  country  ;  the 
habitual  Ministers  of  the  Crown,  and 
claiming  to  be  all  but  the  hereditary 
governors  of  the  empire;  but  little 
connected  with  any  inferior  class  of 


the  State,  and  scarcely  recognising 
the  existence  of  the  populace  ;  hold- 
ing the  highest  doctrines  on  the  sub- 
ject of  allegiance,  priestly  autho- 


rity and  national  subordination ;  and 
no  more  dreaming  of  an  appeal  to 
the  multitude  for  the  support  of 
their  measures,  than  they  would  have 
dreamt  of  allying  them  with  their 
blood ;  a  genuine  English  aristocra- 
cy, doubtless  bearing  somewhat  of 
the  disqualifications  produced  by 
time  upon  all  things  human,  per- 
haps too  proud  to  be  easily  acces- 
sible to  the  public  feelings,  too  fully 
satisfied  with  their  ancient  posses- 
sion of  prosperity  to  think,  that  while 
all  went  well  with  the  Peerage,  the 
nation  could  suffer  any  serious  evil  j 
and  too  fond  of  the  silk  and  ermine 
of  their  state  to  be  prepared  to  cast 
them  off,  and  grapple  with  those  new 
public  difficulties  which  new  times 
were  bringing  on,  and  which  de- 
manded the  whole  unembarrassed 
muscle  and  activity  of  the  man. 
Still,  in  that  class,  there  was  a  great 
safeguard  for  the  Crown  and  the 
people ;  a  nobleness  more  of  mind 
than  even  of  rank ;  an  embodying  of 
grave  manliness,  and  generous  and 
pure  principle,  derived  from  an  early 
superiority  to  the  motives  and  habits 
which  the  common  exigencies  of 
things  sometimes  impose  on  men 
struggling  through  the  obscurer  ways 
of  life ;  a  patrician  dignity,  which 
spread  from  the  manners  to  the  mind, 
and  if  it  did  not  give  full  security 
against  the  assumption  of  a  power 
beyond  their  right,  yet  prevented  all 
the  meaner  abuses  of  the  functions 
of  government,  all  personal  and  petty 
tyranny,  all  the  baser  tarn  peri  ngs 
with  popular  corruption,  and  all  the 
ignoble  jealousy,  livid  rancour,  and 
bloodthirsty  persecution  of  power 
suddenly  consigned  to  the  hands  of 
the  multitude. 

In  adverting  to  the  remedies  pro- 
posed for  the  renovation  of  the 
State,  he  touches  upon  the  two 
grand  expedients,  which  are  now 
received  with  such  cheers,  Triennial 
Parliaments,  and  the  exclusion  of 
every  man  holding  office,  from  Par- 
liament. His  language  on  those 
heating  topics,  shews  how  maturely 
he  had  formed  his  earliest  political 
impressions. 

"  If  I  wrote  merely  to  please  the 
popular  palate,  it  would  indeed  be 
as  little  troublesome  to  me  as  to  an- 
other, to  extol  those  remedies  so  fa- 
mous in  speculation ;  but  to  which 
their  greatest  admirers  have  never 


1833.] 


Edmund  Burke. 


601 


attempted  seriously  to  resort  in  prac- 
tice. I  confess,  then,  I  have  no  sort 
of  reliance  upon  either  a  Triennial 
Parliament,  or  a  Place  Bill.  With 
regard  to  the  former,  perhaps  it 
might  rather  serve  to  counteract 
than  to  promote  the  ends  that  are 
promoted  by  it.  To  say  nothing  of 
the  horrible  disorders  among  the 
people  attending  frequent  elections, 
I  should  be  fearful  of  committing, 
every  three  years,  the  independent 
gentlemen  of  the  country  in  a  con- 
test with  the  Treasury.  It  is  easy  to 
see  which  of  the  parties  would  be 
ruined  first.  Whoever  has  taken  a 
careful  view  of  public  proceedings, 
so  as  to  ground  his  speculations  on 
his  experience,  must  have  observed 
how  prodigiously  greater  the  power 
of  Ministry  is  in  the  first  and  last 
Session  of  a  Parliament,  than  it  is  in 
the  intermediate  periods,  when  mem- 
bers sit  a  little  firm  in  their  seats. 
The  evil  complained  of,  if  it  exists  in 
the  present  state  of  things,  would 
hardly  be  removed  by  a  triennial 
Parliament  ,•  for,  unless  the  influence 
of  Government  in  elections  can  be 
entirely  taken  away,  the  more  fre- 
quently they  return,  the  more  they 
will  harass  private  independence; 
the  more  generally  will  men  be  com- 
pelled to  fly  to  the  settled,  systema- 
tic influence  of  Government,  and  to 
the  resources  of  a  boundless  civil  list. 
Certainly  something  may  be  done, 
and  ought  to  be  done,  towards  less- 
ening that  influence  in  elections. 
****#,  But  nothing  can  so 
perfectly  remove  the  evil,  as  not  to 
render  such  contentions,  too  fre- 
quently repeated,  utterly  ruinous, 
first  to  independence  of  fortune,  and 
then  to  independence  of  spirit.  With 
great  truth,  I  may  aver,  that  I  never 
remember  to  have  talked  on  this 
subject  with  any  man  much  conver- 
sant with  public  business,  who  con- 
sidered short  Parliaments  as  a  real 
improvement  of  the  Constitution." 

He  next  examines  the  merits  of  a 
Place  Bill,  a  measure  which  unques- 
tionably will  be  one  of  the  favourite 
proposals,  at  the  first  convenient 
season,  of  that  extravagant  and  angry 
faction,  which,  making  its  way  into 
public  influence,  through  the  late 
changes  of  Government,  and  follow- 
ing the  new  Ministry  in  their  march 
over  the  ruins  of  the  rival  Admini- 
stration, are  now  turning,  knife  in 


hand,  upon  that  Ministry,  and  sum- 
moning the  populace  to  a  general 
assault  of  the  last  bulwarks  of  the 
Constitution. 

"  The  next  remedy,"  says  he,  "  is 
a  Place  Bill.  The  same  principle 
guides  in  both;  I  mean,  that  is  en- 
tertained by  many,  of  the  infallibili- 
ty of  laws  and  regulations  in  the  cure 
of  public  distempers.  Without  be- 
ing as  unreasonably  doubtful,  as 
many  are  unwisely  confident,  I  will 
only  say,  that  this  also  is  a  matter 
very  well  worthy  of  serious  and 
mature  reflection.  It  is  not  easy  to 
foresee,  what  the  effect  would  be,  of 
disconnecting  with  Parliament  the 
greater  part  of  those  who  hold  civil 
employments,  and  of  such  mighty 
and  important  bodies  as  the  military 
and  naval  establishments.  It  were 
better,  perhaps,  that  they  should 
have  a  corrupt  interest  in  the  forms 
of  the  Constitution,  than  that  they 
should  have  none  at  all.  This  is  a 
question  altogether  different  from 
the  disqualification  of  a  particular 
description  of  revenue  officers  from 
seats  in  Parliament,  or,  perhaps,  of 
all  the  lower  sorts  of  them  from 
votes  in  elections.  In  the  former 
case,  only  the  few  are  affected;  in 
the  latter,  only  the  inconsiderable. 
But  a  great  official,  a  great  profes- 
sional, a  great  military  and  naval  in- 
terest, all  necessarily  comprehending 
many  people  of  the  first  weight, 
ability,  wealth,  and  spirit,  has  been 
gradually  formed  in  the  kingdom. 
Those  new  interests  must  be  let  into 
a  share  of  representation ;  else  pos- 
sibly they  may  be  inclined  to  de- 
stroy those  institutions  of  which 
they  are  not  permitted  to  partake. 
*****  It  is  no  inconsiderable 
part  of  wisdom,  to  know  how  much 
of  an  evil  ought  to  be  tolerated ;  lest 
by  attempting  a  degree  of  purity  im- 
practicable in  degenerate  times  and 
manners,  instead  of  cutting  off  the 
subsisting  ill  practices,  new  corrup- 
tions might  be  produced,  for  the 
concealment  and  security  of  the  old. 
It  were  better,  undoubtedly,  that  no 
influence  at  all  should  affect  the 
mind  of  a  member  of  Parliament. 
But,  of  all  modes  of  influence,  in 
my  opinion,  a  place  under  the  Go- 
vernment is  the  least  disgraceful 
to  the  man  who  holds  it,  and  by  far 
the  most  safe  to  the  country.  I 
would  not  shut  out  that  sort  of  in- 


gO-2  Edmund  Bur  lie. 

fluencc  which  is  open  and  visible, 
which  is  connected  with  the  dignity 
and  the  service  of  the  State ;  when 
it  is  not  in  my  power  to  prevent  the 
influence  of  contracts,  of  subscrip- 
tions, of  direct  bribery,  and  of  those 
innumerable  methods  of  clandestine 
corruption,  which  are  abundantly  in 
the  hands  of  the  Court,and  which  will 
be  applied,  so  long  as  the  means  of 
corruption,  and  the  disposition  to  be 
corrupted,  have  existence  among  us. 
Our  Constitution  stands  on  a  nice 
equipoise,  with  steep  precipices  and 
deep  waters  upon  all  sides  of  it.  In 
removing  it  from  a  dangerous  lean- 
ing towards  one  side,  there  may  be 
a  risk  of  oversetting  it  on  the  other. 
Every  project  of  a  material  change 
in  a  Government  so  complicated  as 
ours,  combined  at  the  same  time 
with  external  circumstances  still 
more  complicated,  is  a  matter  full  of 
difficulties,  in  which  a  considerate 
man  will  not  be  too  ready  to  decide, 
a  prudent  man  too  ready  to  under- 
take, or  an  honest  man  too  ready  to 
promise." 

The  rashness  of  the  Ministry  had 
at  length  involved  them  in  general 
quarrel,  —  quarrel  with  America, 
quarrel  with  foreign  Powers,  and 
quarrel  at  home.  Wilkes,the  printers 
who  published  the  debates  in  Par- 
liament, and  the  Mayor  and  Alder- 
nien  who  were  imprisoned  for  re- 
sisting the  authority  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  were  the  civil  antago- 
nists. In  every  conflict  with  them, 
the  Ministry  were  worsted.  Burke 
took  a  vigorous  share  in  those  per- 
petual debates,  and  he  made  con- 
tinual progress  in  the  public  admi- 
ration. His  speaking  was  a  style 
totally  new  to  the  House  and  the  na- 
tion. But  two  eminent  orators  had 
appeared  in  Parliament foracentury : 
Bolingbroke,  rich,  dexterous,  and  flu- 
ent, the  prince  of  rhetoricians :  Chat- 
ham, condensed,pointed,and  brilliant, 
irregular  in  his  conceptions,  and  un- 
equal in  his  efforts ;  but  when  he 
put  forth  his  strength,  striking  with 
prodigious  power,  the  weight,  di- 
rectness, and  fire  of  a  thunderbolt. 
But,  like  the  thunderbolt,  his  elo- 
quence was  generated  by  the  storm, 
and  fit  only  for  the  storm.  Burke's 
larger  scholarship  and  finer  philoso- 
phy produced  an  eloquence  not  less 
fluent  than  the  one,  or  less  vivid 


[April, 


than  the  other;  but  still  more  cheer- 
ing, magnificent,  and  fruitful  of 
noble  thoughts  and  generous  pur- 
poses. When  he  spoke,  he  seemed 
to  be  speaking,  not  for  the  time,  but 
for  the  benefit  of  centuries  to  come; 
less  for  the  triumph  of  his  party, 
than  for  the  wellbeing  of  the  human 
race.  All  his  speeches  are  profound 
wisdom  administering  to  daily  prac- 
tice. The  House,  perpetually  as- 
tonished by  the  opulent  variety  of 
his  knowledge,  by  his  sudden  illus- 
trations, gathered  from  every  art  and 
science,  by  the  living  splendours 
which  he  caught  from  every  region 
of  human  research,  and  flashed  upon 
the  subject  of  debate,  were  yet  more 
astonished  by  the  practical  tendency 
of  the  finest  efforts  of  his  imagination. 
The  broadest  expansion  of  his  wings 
was  never  suffered  to  whirl  him  be- 
yond the  visible  diurnal  sphere.  His 
simplest  purpose  was  kept  steadily 
in  view.  He  might  luxuriate  and 
sport  his  powers  in  the  realm  of 
brilliant  abstraction  for  a  time,  but 
his  eye  never  wandered;  he  struck 
down  instantly  upon  the  point — and 
at  once  dazzled,  delighted,  and  con- 
vinced. It  had  been  said  that,  under 
Walpole's  Ministry,  the  debates  were 
worthy  only  of  a  club  of  Dutch  bur- 
gomasters ;.  Burke  brought  back  the 
spirit,  which  should  never  have  do- 
parted  from  an  assembly  of  freemen. 
He  gave  the  debates  at  once  Attic 
elegance,  and  Attic  vigour.  Other 
times  and  other  men  followed.  Vio- 
lent faction  disturbed  the  tastes  of 
national  debate.  The  fierceness  of 
civil  struggle,  and  the  terrors  of  a 
war  which  threatened  to  overwhelm 
the  empire,  at  length  indisposed  men 
to  oratory.  Pitt  and  Fox  became 
the  arbiters  of  the  House.  The  simr 
plicity  of  their  style  was  more  con- 
genial to  the  severe  and  trying  time, 
than  the  lavish  grandeur  and  poetic 
magnificence  of  Burke.  But  his  tri- 
umph has  returned.  The  speeches 
of  the  great  Minister  and  his  great 
rival  have  gone  down  with  them 
to  the  tomb.  Burke's  have  assumed 
only  a  loftier  character  in  the  esti- 
mation of  all  men  since  his  death. 
They  are  the  study  of  every  mind 
that  thirsts  to  drink  pure  political 
wisdom  from  one  of  its  highest  hu- 
man sources.  Their  spring  has  not 
sunk  into  the  grave ;  fed  by  nature 
I 


]  800. ]  Edmund  Burlie. 

and  genius,  it  will  be  fresh,  clear, 
and  healthful,  until  the  last  ages  of 
the  national  mind. 

The  fall  of  the  Rockingham  Minis- 
try had  displaced  Burke;  it  had 
done  more.  With  his  delicacy  of 
taking  office,  under  the  slightest  pre- 
sumption of  a  change  of  principle,  it 
had  nearly  disqualified  him  from 
public  service.  But  in  this  interval 
he  possessed  all  the  substantial  gra- 
tifications of  life.  His  seat  in  Par- 
liament gave  him  the  opportunity  of 
exertion  suitable  to  his  studies.  In 
general  society,  he  was  one  of  the 
leaders  of  all  that  was  intellectual. 
His  almost  boundless  information, 
his  well-regulated  wit,  and  his  fine 
and  peculiar  mastery  of  all  that  was 
graceful  or  vigorous  in  the  English 
language,  gave  him  a  superiority  in 
conversation,  which  was  rendered 
still  more  pleasing  by  the  uniform 
kindness,  simplicity,  and  good-hu- 
mour of  his  manners.  In  his  domes- 
tic life  he  was  fortunate.  His  wife 
\vas  an  estimable  woman,  strongly 
attached  to  him,  and  proud  of  his 
j'ame.  His  two  brothers  were  ami- 
able and  intelligent  men,  united  with 
him  in  close  friendship,  and  whom 
he  hoped  yet  to  advance  to  fortune. 
He  had  purchased  with  his  paternal 
property,  and  by  a  sum  raised  on 
mortgage,  which  Lord  Rockingham 
{Advanced,  Gregories,  a  house  with 
^ome  land,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
lieaconsfield.  There  \i& farmed, read, 
znd  wrote.  In  London,  from  which 
liis  house  was  but  twenty-four  miles 
distant,  he  mingled  with  the  highest 
circles  of  active  life,  enjoyed  all  the 
concentrated  animation  and  ability  of 
the  accomplished  and  opulent^  and 
i  i  Parliament  continually  indulged 
1  is  genius,  and  enlarged  his  fame  by 
an  oratory,  which,  in  its  peculiar 
spirit,  has  never  found  a  superior. 

It  has  been  remarked  as  a  charac- 
teristic of  all  eminent  minds,  that 
v>  hatever  pursuit  they  adopt,  they 
adopt  it  with  peculiar  vigour.  Burke, 
as  all  times  attached  to  a  country 
life,  was  a  farmer  in  the  intervals  of 
h  s  labours  as  a  statesman,  and  he 
g  ive  himself  up  to  his  crops  with  a 
diligence  that  would  have  done  ho- 
nour to  a  man  who  had  never  strayed 
beyond  the  farm-yard.  In  one  of 
his  letters  to  an  Irish  friend,  about 
1  71,  he  thus  mentions  his  successes 
at  the  plough-tail :— •"  We  have  had 


603 


the  most  rainy  and  stormy  season 
that  has  been  known.  I  have  got  my 
wheat  into  the  ground  better  than 
some  others ;  that  is,  about  four- 
and-twenty  acres.  I  purposed  ha- 
ving about  ten  more;  but,  consider- 
ing the  season,  this  is  tolerable."  He 
then  proceeds  to  a  detail  of  his  ex- 
ploits in  the  production  of  bacon ; 
enquires  to  what  weight  hogs  are 
capable  of  being  fed  in  Ireland,  and 
anticipates  victory  in  giving  the 
weight  of  his  own  ;  discusses  the 
market-prices  of  things,  and  explains 
a  new  project  of  sowing  peas,  which 
is  to  save  a  fallow,  and  of  course 
make  a  handsome  return  to  the  pro- 
jector, &c.  But  he  soon  returned  to 
more  congenial  occupations,  and  was 
seen  in  Parliament,  standing  forth 
the  champion  of  common  sense  and 
the  institutions  of  the  State.  His 
love  of  political  quiet,  his  adherence 
to  established  order,  and  his  prophe- 
tic fears  of  the  change  that  might  be 
wrought  upon  the  spirit  of  the  con- 
stitution, by  rashly  tampering  even 
with  any  of  its  externals,  were  not 
the  late  prejudices  of  his  political 
life,  but  the  original  principles  of  his 
moral  understanding.  On  a  peti- 
tion, so  early  as  1772,  from  250 
Clergy  of  the  Establishment  against 
subscription  to  the  Articles,  he  re- 
sisted the  opinion  of  nearly  the  whole 
of  his  friends,  and  spoke  directly 
against  the  point  of  petition.  "  I  can 
comprehend,"  was  the  substance  of 
his  speech,  "  how  men  may  decline 
entering  a  church  where  they  are  to 
be  bound  by  a  declaration  of  their 
opinions.  Well,  then,  let  them  not 
enter  it.  But,  if  it  is  important  that 
a  church  should  have  any  settled  opi- 
nions at  all — and  who  shall  deny  this  ? 
— it  is  surely  important  that  those 
opinions  should  be  distinctly  decla- 
red, and  not  less  important  that  the 
ministers  and  teachers  of  that  church 
should  be  faithful  transmitters  of  its 
tenets,  otherwise  the  church  may  be 
paying  an  enemy,  and  the  people 
may  be  listening  to  a  renegade.  But 
while  the  petitioners  profess  to  be- 
long to  the  Jlstablislimcnt,  and  profit 
by  it,  no  hardship  can  be  implied  in 
requiring  some  common  bond  of 
agreement,  such  as  the  subscription 
to  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  for  the 
fidelity,  the  union,  and  the  obedience 
of  its  members." 
But  every  trait  that  private  life 


604 


Edmund  Burke. 


[April, 


developed  in  this  admirable  mind, 
bore  the  same   stamp   of   habitual 
value  for  the  common  sense  of  human 
nature.     His  principle  was  a  consi- 
derate respect  for  the  customs   of 
general  life,  and  a  persuasion  that 
Time,  their  founder,  was  a  wiser 
guide  than  Innovation,  their  over- 
thrower.   Burke's  humanity  had  en- 
cumbered   him  with   Barry,  after- 
wards the  well-known  and  eccentric 
painter.     He  had  sent  him  to  take 
the  range  of  the  Italian  schools,  and 
from  1765  to   1770  supported  him 
nearly  at  his  sole  expense.    Barry 
was  the  most  impracticable  of  men. 
He  possessed  some  vigour  of  con- 
ception in  his  art,  but  unfortunate- 
ly prepared  himself  for  perpetual 
failure  by  a  perpetual  miscalculation 
of  his  powers.     He   revenged  his 
failure  with  the  public,  by  contempt 
for  the  public  taste,  and  cheered  his 
arrogance,  on  the  very  verge  of  ruin, 
by  pronouncing  that  the  success  of 
his  contemporaries  was  the  result  of 
intrigue.     His  vanity  and  stubborn- 
ness at  length  totally  alienated  him 
from  the  good  offices  of  his  profes- 
sion ;  his  determined  neglect  of  ap- 
pearances, and  intentional  roughness 
of  manner,  repelled  all  higher  patro- 
nage j  and  gradually  exiling  himself 
from  the  society  in  which  his  talents 
might  have  given  him  a  place,  and 
abandoning  the  opportunies  of  the 
profession  by  which  he  was  to  live, 
he  shrank  into  wolfish  solitude.    He 
still  lingered  out  some  bitter  years ; 
furious  at  being  taken  at  his  word  j 
furious  at  being  suffered  to  relinquish 
the  world,  which  he  affected  to  de- 
spise ;  and  furious  at  the  profession- 
al neglect  which  he  professed   to 
value  as  the  stamp  of  his  superiority. 
Burke's  generous  friendship  adhered 
to  him  to  the  last,  supplying  his 
wants,    though    often    exposed    to 
slights,  and  through  good  report  and 
evil  report,  sheltering  the  remnants 
of  his  fame.  Barry  died  at  last,  worn 
out  by  a  perpetual  struggle  against 
the  calamities  which  he  summoned 
for  his  own  undoing,  crushed  by  the 
weight  of  evils  which  he  had  pulled 
down  upon  his  own  head.    He  had 
lived  in  projects,  and  in  projects  he 
died;    leaving  no  memorial  of  his 
powers,  but  the  frescoes  on  the  walls 
of  the  Society  of  Arts,  a  fatal  proof 
of  the  extravagance  that   mingled 
with  his  most  fortunate  conceptions  j 


dreaming  of  unattainable  triumphs, 
and  longing  but  for  another  year  to 
throw  all  living  excellence  into 
eclipse,  and  sit  down  by  the  side  of 
Michael  Angelo. 

Burke  corresponded  with  this  un- 
fortunate man,  while  he  was  making 
the  tour  of  the  Italian  galleries  ;  and 
his  letters  are  admirable  models  al- 
ternately of  criticism  and  conduct. 

In  one  of  these  he  says,  "  With  re- 
gard to  your  studies,  you  know,  my 
dear  Barry,  my  opinion.  I  do  not 
choose  to  lecture  you  to  death ;  but, 
to  say  all  I  can  in  a  few  words,  it 
will  not  do  for  a  man  qualified  like 
you,  to  be  a  connoisseur  and  a 
sketcher.  You  must  be  an  artist; 
and  this  you  cannot  be,  but  by  draw- 
ing with  the  last  degree  of  noble  cor- 
rectness. Until  you  can  draw  beauty, 
with  the  last  degree  of  truth  and  pre- 
cision, you  will  not  consider  yourself 
possessed  of  that  faculty.  This  power 
will  not  hinder  you  from  passing  to 
the  c  great  style'  when  you  please,  if 
your  character  should,  as  1  imagine 
it  will,  lead  you  to  that  style  in  pre- 
ference to  the  other.  But  no  man 
can  draw  perfectly,  who  cannot  draw 
beauty.  My  dear  Barry,  I  repeat  it 
again  and  again,  leave  off  sketching. 
Whatever  you  do,  finish  it." 

He  next  attempts  to  warn  this  un- 
manageable painter,  of  the  idle  habit 
of  attempting  every  thing  at  once. 

"  At  Rome,  you  are,  I  suppose,  ever 
still  so  much  agitated  by  the  profu- 
sion of  fine  things  on  every  side  of 
you,  that  you  have  hardly  had  time 
to  sit  down  to  methodical  and  regular 
study.  W7hen  you  do,  you  will  cer- 
tainly select  the  best  parts  of  the  best 
things,  and  attach  yourself  to  them 
wholly.  Permit  me,  once  more  to 
wish  you,  in  the  beginning,  at  least, 
to  contract  the  circle  of  your  studies. 
The  extent  and  rapidity  of  your  mind 
carries  you  to  too  great  a  diversity 
of  things,  and  to  the  completion  of  a 
whole  before  you  are  quite  master 
of  the  parts,  in  a  degree  equal  to  the 
dignity  of  your  ideas.  This  disposi- 
tion arises  from  a  generous  impa- 
tience, which  is  a  fault  almost  cha- 
racteristic of  great  genius.  But  it  is 
a  fault  nevertheless." 

He  still  insists  with  the  zeal  of  a 
friend,  and  the  feelings  of  a  true 
judge  of  the  art,  upon  the  necessity 
of  first  acquiring  perfection  in  draw- 
ing. Barry,  had,  doubtless,  in  his 


1833.]  Edmund  Burke. 

va»ue  style,  talked  of  composing  all 
ki  ids  of  subjects.  To  temper  this 
vanity  of  the'idler,  Burke  gives  him 
the  advice  which  would  have  formed 
the,  artist.  "  I  confess,  I  am  not  much 
dtsirous  of  your  composing  many 
pisces,  for  some  time  at  least;  com- 
position I  do  not  value  near  so 
highly  as  in  general.  I  know  none 
who  attempt,  who  thus  do  not  suc- 
ceed tolerably  in  that  part.  But  that 
exquisite,  masterly  drawing,  which 
is  the  glory  of  the  great  school  where 
you  are,  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  very 
few,  perhaps  to  none  of  the  present 
age,  in  its  highest  perfection.  If  I 
wire  to  indulge  a  conjecture,  I 
should  attribute  all  that  is  called 
greatness  of  style  and  manner  of 
di  awing  to  this  exact  knowledge  of 
the  parts  of  the  human  body,  of 
at- atomy  and  perspective.  For,  by 
knowing  exactly  and  habitually, 
without  the  labour  of  particular  and 
occasional  thinking,  what  was  to  be 
done  in  every  figure  they  designed, 
they  naturally  attained  a  freedom 
ai  d  spirit  of  outline  ;  because  they 
could  be  daring  without  being  ab- 
surd. Whereas  ignorance,  if  it  be 
csutious,  is  poor  and  timid ;  if  bold, 
it  is  only  blindly  presumptuous.  This 
minute  and  thorough  knowledge  of 
ac atomy,  and  practical  as  well  as 
theoretical  perspective,  by  which  I 
m?an  to  include  foreshortening,  is 
al  the  effect  of  labour  and  use  in 
PC  rticular  studies,  and  not  in  general 
compositions." 

Barry,  it  appears,  had  fallen  into 
tli a  habit  of  charging  the  ill  success 
of  his  art  on  the  contrivances  of  the 
picture-dealers,  an  old  and  a  suffi- 
ciently childish  topic  with  all  artists 
w  10  are  destined  to  obscurity.  Burke, 
w  th  his  usual  calmness  of  view, 
p<  inted  out  the  weakness  of  this 
perpetual  tirade. 

"  You  have  given  a  strong,  and  I 
fa  icy,  a  very  faithful,  picture  of  the 
d(  alers  in  taste  with  you.  It  is  very 
ri:;ht  that  you  should  know  and  re- 
in irk  their  little  arts ;  but,  as  fraud 
w  11  intermeddle  in  every  transaction 
of  life,  where  we  cannot  oppose  our- 
se  ves  to  it  with  effect,  it  is  by  no 
m  ?ans  our  duty  or  our  interest,  to 
m  ike  ourselves  uneasy,  or  to  multi- 
ply enemies  on  account  of  it.  In 
particular,  you  may  be  assured,  that 
th  j  traffic  in  antiquity,  and  all  the 
enthusiasm,  folly,  or  fraud  that  may 


605 

be  in  it,  never  did,  and  never  can, 
hurt  the  merit  of  living  artists.  Quite 
the  contrary,  in  my  opinion.  For  I 
have  ever  observed,  that  whatever  it 
be  that  turns  the  minds  of  men  to 
any  thing  relative  to  the  arts,  even 
the  most  remotely  so,  brings  artists 
more  and  more  into  credit  and  re- 
pute. And  though,  now  and  then, 
the  mere  broker  and  dealer  in  such 
things  runs  away  with  a  great  deal 
of  the  profit,  yet,  in  the  end,  ingeni- 
ous men  will  find  themselves  gainers 
by  the  dispositions  which  are  nou- 
rished and  cherished  in  the  world  by 
such  pursuits." 

The  advice  was  thrown  away. 
Barry's  ill- manners  and  discontented 
spirit  had  soon  brought  him  into  col- 
lision with  the  artists  and  persons 
connected  with  the  arts  in  Rome. 
Of  this  he  complained  to  Burke,  but 
seems  to  have  intimated  that  his  ac- 
quirements would  be  benefited  in 
consequence,  probably  by  the  seclu- 
sion which  he  thus  brought  upon 
himself.  Burke's  letter  is  incompa- 
rable, as  a  manual  of  general  advice 
to  all  who  must  mix  among  mankind. 
To  the  fanciful  or  the  fastidious, — to 
those  who  weakly  think  themselves 
above  their  circle,  or  bitterly  con- 
ceive that  the  neglect  of  their  circle 
is  to  be  averted  only  by  hostility,  and 
more  peculiarly  to  all  ranks  of  those 
irritable  races,  whose  life  must  be  a 
perpetual  run  under  the  fire  of  cri- 
ticism. The  motto  of  this  fine  docu- 
ment ought  to  be,  "  Nocturna  ver- 
sate  manUy  versate  diurna" 

"  Until  very  lately,  I  had  never 
heard  any  thing  of  your  proceedings 
from  others;  and  when  I  did,  it  was 
much  less  than  I  had  known  from 
yourself; — that  you  had  been  upon 
ill  terms  with  the  artists  and  virtu- 
osi in  Rome,  without  much  mention 
of  cause  or  consequence.  If  you 
have  improved  those  unfortunate 
quarrels  to  your  advancement  in 
your  art,  you  have  turned  a  very 
disagreeable  circumstance  to  a  very 
capital  advantage.  However  you  may 
have  succeeded  in  this  uncommon 
attempt,  permit  me  to  suggest  to 
you,  with  that  friendly  liberty  which 
you  have  always  had  the  goodness  to 
bear  from  me,  that  you  cannot  pos- 
sibly always  have  the  same  success, 
with  regard  to  either  your  fortune  or 
your  reputation.  Depend  upon  it, 
that  you  will  find  the  same  competi- 


606 


Edmund  Burke. 


[April, 


tions,  the  same  jealousies,  the  same 
arts  and  cabals,  the  same  emulations 
of  interest  and  fame,  and  the  same 
agitations  and  passions  here,  that  you 
have  experienced  in  Italy.  And  if 
they  have  the  same  effect  on  your 
temper,  they  will  have  just  the  same 
effect  on  your  interest,  and,  be  your 
merit  what  it  will,  you  will  never  be 
employed  to  paint  a  picture.  It  will 
be  the  same  'in  London  as  in  Rome, 
and  the  same  in  Paris  as  in  London, 
for  the  world  is  pretty  nearly  alike 
in  all  its  parts.  Nay,  though  it  would 
perhaps  be  a  little  inconvenience  to 
me,  I  had  a  thousand  times  rather 
you  should  fix  your  residence  at 
Rome  than  here,  as  I  should  not  then 
have  the  mortification  of  seeing  with 
my  own  eyes,  a  genius  of  the  first 
rank  lost  to  the  world,  himself,  and 
his  friends;  as  I  certainly  must,  if 
you  do  not  assume  a  manner  of  act- 
ing and  thinking  here,  totally  differ- 
ent from  what  your  letters  from 
Rome  have  described  to  me. 

"  That  you  have  had  just  subjects 
of  indignation  always,  and  of  anger 
often,  I  do  noways  doubt;  who  can 
live  in  the  world  without  some  trial 
of  his  patience  ?  But  believe  me,  my 
dear  Barry,  that  the  arms  with  which 
the  ill  dispositions  of  the  world  are 
to  be  combated,  and  the  qualities  by 
which  it  is  to  be  reconciled  to  us, 
and  we  reconciled  to  it,  are  modera- 
tion, gentleness,  a  little  indulgence  to 
others,  and  a  great  deal  of  distrust  of 
ourselves ;  which  are  not  qualities  of 
a  mean  spirit,  as  some  may  possibly 
think  them ;  but  virtues  of  a  great 
and  noble  kind,  and  such  as  dignify 
our  nature  as  much  as  they  contri- 
bute to  our  repose  and  fortune. 
For  nothing  can  be  so  unworthy  of 
a  well-composed  soul,  as  to  pass 
away  life  in  bickerings  and  litiga- 
tions, in  snarling  and  scuffling  with 
every  one  about  us.  Again  and 
again,  my  dear  Barry,  we  must  be  at 
peace  with  our  species;  if  not  for 
their  sakes,  yet  very  much  for  our 
own.  Think  what  my  feelings  must 
be,  from  my  unfeigned  regard,  and 
from  my  wishes  that  your  talents 
might  be  of  use ;  when  I  see  what 
the  inevitable  consequences  must  be, 
of  your  persevering  in  what  has 
hitherto  been  your  course,  ever  since 
I  knew  you;  and  which  you  will 
permit  me  to  trace  out  for  you  be- 
forehand, 


"You  will  come  here;  you  wilt 
observe  what  the  artists  are  doing; 
and  you  will  sometimes  speak  a  dis- 
approbation in  plain  words,  and  some- 
times by  a  no  less  expressive  silence. 
By  degrees  you  will  produce  some 
of  your  own  works.  They  will  be 
variously  criticised;  you  will  defend 
them ;  you  will  abuse  those  who 
have  attacked  you;  expostulations, 
discussions,  letters,  possibly  chal- 
lenges, will  go  forward,  "in  the 
meantime,  gentlemen  will  avoid  your 
friendship,  for  fear  of  being  engaged 
in  your  quarrels.  You  will  fall  into 
•distresses,  which  will  only  aggravate 
your  disposition  for  further  quarrels. 
You  will  be  obliged,  for  mainte- 
nance, to  do  any  thing  for  anybody— 
your  very  talents  will  depart,  for 
want  of  hope  and  encouragement;  . 
and  you  will  go  out  of  the  world, 
fretted,  disappointed,  and  ruined. 

"  Nothing  but  my  real  regard  for 
you,  could  induce  me  to  set  those 
considerations  in  this  light  before 
you.  Remember,  we  are  born  to 
serve  and  to  adorn  our  country,  and 
not  to  contend  with  our  fellow-citi- 
zens; and  that  in  particular,  your 
business  is  to  paint,  and  not  to  dis- 
pute." The  prediction  was  true  to 
the  letter. 

Life  was  still  opening  upon  Burke. 
Every  year  urged  him  more  into 
public  fame.  He  spoke  on  all  great 
occasions  in  the  House.  The  vivid- 
ness and  power  of  his  fancy  was  be- 
coming constantly  more  effective, 
from  his  constant  acquisition  of 
facts ;  a  consciousness  of  the  stand 
which  he  took  in  national  estima- 
tion, stimulated  him  to  indefatigable 
industry;  and  in  the  course  of  a 
period  which  generally  finds  the 
young  senator  still  trembling  on  the 
edg<3  of  debate,  Burke  had  passed  all 
his  contemporaries,  shorn  the  old 
leaders  of  party  of  their  laurels,  and 
by  universal  consent  was  placed  at 
the  head  of  Opposition. 

This  maturity  of  his  powers  had 
arrived  at  a  memorable  time.  The 
state  of  the  Empire  required  the 
highest  ability  in  the  Governors  of 
the  State,  and  gave  the  largest  scope 
for  all  the  attributes  of  political 
knowledge,  wisdom,  and  eloquence 
in  the  Senate.  If  the  world  shall 
ever  become  virtuous  enough  to  de- 
serve a  developement  of  the  actual 
course  of  Providence  in  the  affairs 


1833.] 


of  nations,  a  new  light  may 
thrown  on  the  whole  aspect  of  his- 
tory. Events  remote,  trivial,  and  ob- 
scure, may  be  found  to  have  been 
the  origin  to  the  greatest  transac- 
tions. A  chain  of  circumstance  may 
be  traceable  round  the  globe;  and 
while  the  shortsightedness  of  the 
woildly  politician  deems  the  catas- 
trophe complete  and  closed,  its  ope- 
ration may  be  but  more  secretly  ex- 
tending, to  envelope  a  still  larger 
space,  and  explode  with  a  more 
dazxiingand  tremendous  ruin.  The 
revolt  of  America  has  been  attributed 
to  the  attempt  to  lay  on  taxes  with- 
out representation.  But  a  more  re- 
mote, yet  substantial  ground  for  the 
spirit  of  resistance,  w&8  to  be  found 
in  the  French  war  of  twenty  years 
before.  At  that  period  the  colonists 
wen;  first  taught  their  use  in  the 
field— the  advantages  of  natives  over 
foreigners,  in  the  forest  skirmishes — 
the  natural  strength  of  the  swamp, 
the  i  iver,  and  the  thicket — the  utter 
helplessness  of  the  most  disciplined 
army  of  Europe  to  resist  the  famine 
and  inclemency  of  the  wilderness — 
and  the  utter  feebleness  of  the  most 
dexterous  tactics  before  the  simple 
activity  and  courage  of  the  American 
hunter  on  his  own  ground.  Washing- 
ton had  served  in  the  British  cam- 
paigns against  the  French  masters  of 
the  chain  of  fortresses,  extending 
from  Quebec  in  a  circle  to  the  west 
and  ^outh,  through  the  forests ;  and 
the  hisson  was  not  forgotten  by  him 
or  hi»  Virginian  countrymen.  It  un- 
quesiionably  rendered  the  popula- 
tion less  fearful  of  a  shock  with  even 
the  mighty  power  of  England;  and 
the  first  impulse  which  was  given  to 
the  rational  spirit,  by  the  first  ima- 
ginary pressure  of  the  slightest  of  all 
national  bonds,  found  the  Americans 
falling  back  upon  the  memories  of 
their  successful  skirmishes,  and  not 
unwilling  to  renew  the  stirring  times, 
when  the  lance  and  the  rifle  would 
becot.ie  names  of  terror  in  the  hands 
of  the  woodsman  once  more. 

Burke's  rank  in  the  House  natu- 
rally induced  him  to  take  a  promi- 
nent part  in  the  debates  on  America. 
But  he  had  an  additional  source  of 
know  edge  and  feeling,  in  his  person- 
al cornexion  with  the  State  of  New 
York,  for  which  he  had  been  appoint- 
ed agont  in  1771 .  It  is  not  improba- 
ble tlat  to  this  connexion  may  be 


' 
Edmund  Burke.  *>&&  007 

be    ascribed  some  share  of  the  extraor- 
dinary ardour  with  which  he  adopted 


the  complaints  of  America.  That  his 
nature  disdained  corruption,  is  ac- 
knowledged; that  the  advocacy  of  a 
side  which  embarrassed  the  Minister, 
was  the  established  service  of  Oppo- 
sition, is  a  maxim  which  will  not  be, 
disputed  by  the  morals  of  Parlia- 
ment; and  thus  this  eminent  person 
may  have  been  blamelessly  drawn  in 
to  give  his  support  to  pretensions, 
which  his  calmer  reason  would  have 
discovered  to  be  utterly  untenable. 

The  tea-duty,  of  all  pretexts  the 
most  trivial  for  a  great  insurrection- 
ary movement  against  a  protecting 
and  parent  state,  was  the  constant 
topic  of  Ministers  and  Opposition. 
At  length  the  question  was  brought 
to  an  issue,  by  a  proposal,  on  the  19th 
of  April,  1774,  for  the  final  repeal  of 
the  obnoxious  duty.  Burke  rose  in 
reply  to  a  vehement  speech  on  the 
Ministerial  side,  by  Wolfran  Corn- 
wall, one  of  the  new  Lords  of  the 
Treasury.  It  is  said  that  a  consider- 
able portion  of  this  reply  was  the 
work  of  the  moment.  Of  course,  he 
had  too  much  deference  for  the 
House,'and  too  much  regard  for  his 
own  rank  there,  to  venture  so  im- 
portant a  question  altogether  upon 
the  chance  impulses  of  the  hour. 
But  its  direct  allusions  to  the  argu- 
ments of  the  preceding  speaker,  give 
unequivocal  proof  of  that  ready  and 
rapid  seizure  of  circumstances,  which 
forms  the  chief  talent  of  a  debater  in 
Parliament.  This  speech,  too,  has 
the  distinction  of  being  the  first  that 
has  been  preserved.  Its  effect  on 
the  House  had  induced  several  of  the 
Members  to  take  notes,  and  from 
those  the  speech  was  subsequently 
given  to  the  public  curiosity.  It 
abounds  in  strong  appeals,  and  dex- 
terous instances  of  language.  "  For 
nine  long  years,"  it  began,  "  we  have 
been  lashed  round  and  round  this 
circle  of  occasional  arguments  and 
temporary  expedients.  We  have  had 
them  in  every  shape — we  have  look- 
ed at  them  in  every  point  of  view. 
Invention  is  exhausted, — reason  is 
fatigued, — experience  has  given  judg- 
ment, but  obstinacy  is  not  yet  con- 
quered." *  *  *  "It  is  through 
your  American  trade  that  your  East 
India  conquests  are  to  be  prevented 
from  crushing  you  with  their  bur- 
den, They  are  ponderous  indeed^ 


608 

and  they  must  have  that  great  coun- 
try to  lean  on,  or  they  tumble  on 
your  head.  The  same  folly  has  lost 
you  the  benefit  at  once  of  the  West 
and  the  East.  This  folly  has  thrown 
open  the  folding-doors  to  contra- 
band. It  will  be  the  means  of  giving 
the  profits  of  the  trade  of  your  colo- 
nies to  every  nation  but  yourselves. 
Never  did  a  people  suffer  so  much 
from  a  preamble.  It  is  a  tax  of  so- 
phistry—a tax  of  pedantry— a  tax  of 
disputation — a  tax  of  war  and  rebel- 
lion— a  tax  for  any  thing  but  benefit 
to  the  imposers,  or  satisfaction  to  the 
subject."  *  *  *  "I  pass  by  the 
use  of  the  King's  name  in  a  matter 
of  supply,  that  sacred  and  reserved 
right  of  the  Commons.  I  conceal  the 
ridiculous  figure  of  Parliament,  hurl- 
ing its  thunders  at  the  gigantic  re- 
bellion of  America,  and  then,  five 
days  after,  prostrate  at  the  feet  of 
those  assemblies  which  we  affected 
to  despise;  begging  them,  by  the 
intervention  of  our  Ministerial  sure- 
ties, to  receive  our  submission." 

From  those  keen  and  pointed  sen- 
tences, he  sometimes  spreads  into 
bold  and  rich  amplification.  "Let 
us,"  he  exclaims,  "  embrace  some 
system  or  other,  before  we  put  an 
end  to  this  session.  Do  you  mean 
to  tax  America,  and  to  draw  a  pro- 
ductive revenue  from  her?  If  you  do, 
speak  out, — name,  fix  this  revenue, 
— settle  its  quantity, — define  its  ob- 
jects,— provide  for  its  collection,  and 
then  fight,  when  you  have  something 
to  fight  for.  If  you  murder,  rob ;  if 
you  kill,  take  possession ;  but  do  not 
appear  in  the  character  of  madmen 
as  well  as  assassins,  violent,  vindic- 
tive, bloody  and  tyrannical,  and  all 
without  an  object." 

Lord  Caermarthen  had  remarked 
in  the  course  of  the  debate,  that 
America  was  at  least  as  much  repre- 
sented as  Manchester,  which  had 
made  no  complaint  of  a  want  so 
imaginary,  and  that  the  Americans 
ought,  as  the  children  of  England,  to 
have  exhibited  somewhat  more  of 
the  spirit  of  filial  obedience.  Burke's 
forcible  and  brilliant  remark  on  this 
charge,  produced  an  extraordinary 
sensation  in  the  whole  assembly. 

"  The  noble  lord,"  said  he,  "  calls 
the  Americans  our  children,  and  such 
they  are.  But  when  our  children 
ask  for  bread,  shall  we  give  them  a 
stone  ?  When  they  wish  to  assimi- 


Edmund  BtirJte.  [April, 

late  to  their  parent,  and  to  reflect 
with  a  true  filial  resemblance  the 
beauteous  countenance  of  British  li- 
berty, are  we  to  turn  to  them  only 
the  deformed  part  of  the  British  Con- 
stitution ?  Are  we  to  give  them  our 
weakness  for  their  strength,  our  op- 
probrium for  their  glory,  and  the 
slough  of  slavery,  which  we  are  not 
able  to  work  off,  to  serve  them  for 
their  freedom  ?" 

Even  in  this  speech  he  strikes  a 
blow  at  the  political  metaphysics, 
which  the  later  and  more  glorious 
part  of  his  life  was  so  vigorously 
employed  in  exposing.  "  Those  are," 
said  he,  "  the  arguments  of  states 
and  kingdoms.  Leave  the  rest  to  the 
schools.  But  if  intemperately,  un- 
wisely, fatally,  you  sophisticate  and 
poison  the  very  source  of  government 
by  urging  subtU  deductions,  and  con- 
sequences odious  to  those  you  go- 
vern, from  the  unlimited  and  illimit- 
able nature  of  supreme  sovereignty, 
you  will  teach  them  by  these  means 
to  call  that  sovereignty  in  question. 
If  you  drive  him  hard,  the  boar  will 
turn  upon  the  hunters." 

This  speech  was  one  of  the  most 
signal  triumphs  of  the  orator.  The 
debate  had  been  long  and  tedious  ; 
the  members  had  gradually  thinned 
away  to  the  coffee-room,  and  neigh- 
bourhood  of  the  house.  When  it 
was  told  that  Burke  was  on  his  legs, 
public  expectation  was  excited,  but  it 
was  only  when  he  had  thoroughly 
entered  on  his  subject,  that  the  re- 
ports of  his  extraordinary  brilliancy 
on  that  night  suddenly  crowded  the 
house.  From  that  moment,  their  ex- 
pressions of  delight  were  incessant. 
The  hearers  in  the  galleries  could  be 
scarcely  restrained  from  bursting 
out  into  loud  applause.  At  one  of 
these  hidden  and  powerful  turns 
with  which  the  speech  abounded, 
Lord  John  Townshend,  who  had  been 
familiar  with  all  the  leaders  of  debate, 
exclaimed,  "  Good  heavens,  what  a 
man  is  this !  Where  could  he  have 
found  such  transcendent  powers  1" 

The  dissolution  of  Parliament  put 
an  end  to  Burke's  representation  of 
Wendover.  But  he  had  given  proof 
of  qualities  which  made  his  presence 
necessary  to  his  party  in  the  House ; 
and,  by  the  Rockingham  interest,  he 
was  returned  for  Mai  ton.  But  he 
was  to  ascend  a  higher  step  in  po- 
pular distinctions.  While  he  had 


1  &)3.]  Edmund  Burfte. 

scarcely  more  than  made  bis  ac- 
knowledgments to  the  northern 
electors,  a  deputation  from  Bristol 
WciS  announced.  It  had  been  sent 
by  a  strong  body  of  the  merchants, 
to  propose  his  nomination  in  their 
city,  and  offered  to  bring  him  in  free 
of  all  canvass  or  expense.  So  strik- 
ing; an  evidence  of  the  public  value 
for  his  services  could  not  be  decli- 
ne 1.  He  immediately  took  leave  of 
Malton,  and  started  for  Bristol,  where 
he  arrived  only  on  the  sixth  day  of 
the-  election.  There  was  no  time  to 
be  lost;  and,  notwithstanding  his 
wt  ariness,  for  he  had  travelled  forty 
ho  ars  without  rest,  he  drove  to  the 
hustings.  The  candidates  had  been 
Lord  Clare  and  Mr  Brickdale,  the 
Iat3  members,  with  Mr  Cruger,  a 
considerable  merchant.  On  the  se- 
cond day  of  the  poll,  Lord  Clare  had 
ghen  up  the  contest;  Brickdale  had 
rendered  himself  unacceptable  to 
the  merchants,  and  they  determined 
to  find  a  candidate  at  once  master 
of  the  commercial  interests  of  the 
empire,  and  possessing  weight  in 
the  House.  The  deputation  had  im- 
mediately set  out  for  London  in 
search  of  Burke ;  from  London  they 
had  followed  him  to  Yorkshire,  and 
they  soon  had  the  gratification  of 
set  ing  him  returned  for  their  city. 

r  "he  speech  which  he  addressed  to 
the  electors  on  his  arrival,  a  brief, 
bus  eloquent  exposition  of  his  poli- 
tical views,  shewed  at  the  instant 
how  highly  his  friends  were  justified 
in  >iis  selection.  America  was  now 
the  topic  upon  which  all  others 
turned,  and  he,  of  course,  alluded 
to  it.  But  it  is  gratifying  to  have 
his  explicit  declaration  that  he  never 
contemplated  the  rash  separation, 
he  aever  countenanced  the  unnatu- 
ral rebellion,  and  he  never  justified 
the  insolent  denial  of  British  right, 
wh  ch  formed  the  head  and  front  of 
American  offending.  "  I  have  held," 
saic  he  "and  ever  shall  maintain, 
to  1  lie  best  of  my  power,  unimpair- 
ed md  undiminished,  the  just,  wise, 
and  necessary  constitutional  superi- 
ority  of  Great  Britain.  This  is  ne- 
cesi  ary  for  America,  as  well  as  for 
us-  -I  never  mean  to  depart  from  it. 
Wh  itever  may  be  lost  by  it,  I  avow  it. 
Th(  forfeiture  even  of  your  favour, 
if  b  r  such  a  declaration  I  could  for- 
feit it,  never  will  make  me  disguise 
my  sentiments  on  the  subject.  But 


609 

I  have  ever  had  a  clear  opinion, 
and  have  ever  held  a  constant,  cor- 
respondent conduct,  that  this  superi- 
ority is  consistent  with  all  the  liberties 
which  a  sober  and  spirited  American 
ought  to  desire.  I  never  mean  to  put 
any  colonist,  or  any  human  being  in  a 
situation  not  becoming  a  freeman." 

On  the  popular  claims  which,  at 
that  time,  were  echoed  and  re-echo- 
ed through  the  kingdom,  he  is  equal- 
ly bold — "  The  distinguishing  part 
of  our  constitution  is  its  liberty.  To 
preserve  that  liberty  inviolate,  seems 
the  particular  duty  and  proper  trust 
of  a  member  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. But  the  liberty,  the  only 
liberty  I  mean,  is  a  liberty  connected 
with  order,  that  not  only  exists  along 
with  order  and  virtue,  but  which 
cannot  exist  at  all  without  them.  It 
inheres  in  good  and  steady  Govern- 
ment, as  in  its  vital  principle." 

At  the  close  of  the  poll,  which 
was  prolonged  with  unusual  perse- 
verance, another  demand  was  made 
on  his  political  fortitude,  by  that 
question  of  pledges  which  has  fet- 
tered so  many  of  the  "independents" 
of  our  own  day.  Cruger  had  made 
some  idle  admission  as  to  their  pow- 
er of  binding  the  candidate.  "  I 
wish,"  said  Burke  in  his  final  ad- 
dress, "  that  topic  had  been  passed 
by ;  at  a  time  when  I  have  so  little 
leisure  to  discuss  it."  He  then  pro- 
ceeded to  state  his  sentiments,  which 
have,  till  one  fatal  period  of  change 
in  every  thing,  formed  the  law  on 
the  subject.  "  It  is  the  duty  of  the 
representative  to  sacrifice  his  re- 
pose, his  pleasures,  his  satisfactions, 
to  his  constituents.  But  his  unbiass- 
ed opinion,  his  mature  judgment,  his 
enlightened  conscience,  he  ought  not 
to  sacrifice  to  you,  to  any  man,  or  to 
any  set  of  men  living.  They  are  a 
trust  from  Providence,  for  the  abuse 
of  which  he  is  deeply  answerable. 
Your  representative  owes  you,  not 
his  industry  only,  but  his  judgment; 
and  he  betrays  instead  of  serving  you, 
if  he  sacrifices  it  to  your  opinion. 
*****  If  government  were  a 
matter  of  will,  upon  any  side  ;  yours, 
without  question,  ought  to  be  supe- 
rior. But  government  and  legislation 
are  matters  of  reason  and  judgment, 
not  of  inclination.  And  what  sort  of 
reason  is  that,  in  which  the  determi- 
nation precedes  the  discussion;  in 
which  one  set  of  men  deliberate, 


CIO 

and    another 


decide 

those  who  form  the  conclusion  are 
perhaps  three  hundred  miles  distant 
from  those  who  hear  the  arguments? 
#####*  Authoritative  instruc- 
tions, mandates,  which  the  member 
is  bound  blindly  and  implicitly  to 
obey;  these  are  things  utterly  un- 
known to  the  laws  of  this  land,  and 
which  arise  from  a  fundamental  mis- 
take of  the  whole  order  and  tenor 
of  our  constitution.  Parliament  is 
not  a  congress  of  ambassadors  from 
different  states,  and  with  hostile  in- 
terests, which  interests  each  must 
maintain  as  an  agent  against  other 
agents.  But  Parliament  is  a  delibe- 
rative assembly  of  one  nation  with 
one  interest,  that  of  the  whole.  You 
choose  a  member  indeed;  but  when 
you  have  chosen  him,  he  is  not  mem- 
ber for  Bristol,  but  he  is  a  member 
of  Parliament." 

And  those  words  were  not  the  bra- 
vado of  a  man  secure  of  his  seat. 
He  acted  up  to  their  spirit,  even 
when  the  loss  of  his  seat  was  invol- 
ved in  the  action.  In  1780,  he  re- 
peated his  declaration — "  I  did  not 
obey  your  instructions.  No ;  I  con- 
formed to  the  instructions  of  truth 
and  nature,  and  maintained  your  in- 
terests against  your  opinions,  with 
a  constancy  that  became  me.  A  re- 
presentative worthy  of  you  ought  to 
be  a  person  of  stability.  I  am  to 
look  indeed  to  your  opinions.  But 
to  such  opinions  as  you  and  I  must 
look  to,  five  years  hence.  I  was  not 
to  look  at  the  flash  of  the  day.  I 
knew  that  you  chose  me  in  my 
place,  along  with  others,  to  be  a  pil- 
lar of  the  State,  and  not  a  weather- 
cock on  the  top  of  the  edifice,  ex- 
alted for  my  levity  and  versatility ; 
and  of  no  use  but  to  indicate  the 
shiftings  of  every  popular  gale." 

Election  jests  are  not  always  long 
lived.  But  Cruger's  deficiencies, 
in  comparison  with  Burke's  public- 
ability  as  a  speaker,  gave  rise  to  a 
burlesque  of  the  opulent  man  of 
trade,  which  is  still  memorable  at 
Bristol.  On  the  conclusion  of  Burke's 
fine  address,  Cruger  stood  up ;  but 
his  fount  of  eloquence  would  not 
flow.  At  length  the  genius  of  the 
counting-house  saved  him  from  utter 
silence.  "  I  say  ditto  to  Mr  Burke,  I 
say  ditto  to  Mr  Burke!"  he  exclaim- 
ed, and  rushed  from  the  hustings,  in 


Edmund  Burke.  [April, 

and    where     a  general  roar  of  laughter  and  ap- 


plause. 

Burke's  definition  of  the  duties  of 
a  member  of  Parliament,  with  which 
he  closed  his  speech,  shows  how  lit- 
tle he  shared  in  the  extravagances  of 
his  time  or  our  own.  It  is  as  appli- 
cable to  this  hour  as  it  was  to  the 
moment  when  it  was  first  hailed  by 
every  lover  of  legitimate  freedom. 
"  To  be  a  good  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, is,  let  me  tell  you,  no  easy 
task ;  especially  at  this  time,  when 
there  is  so  strong  a  disposition  to  run 
into  the  perilous  extremes  of  servile 
compliance  or  wild  popularity.  To 
unite  circumspection  with  vigour  is 
absolutely  necessary,  but  it  is  ex- 
tremely difficult.  We  are  now  mem- 
bers for  a  rich  commercial  city,  that 
city  is,  however,  but  a  part  of  a  rich 
commercial  nation,  the  interests  of 
which  are  various,  multiform,  and 
intricate.  We  are  members  for  that 
great  nation,  which  itself,  however, 
is  but  a  part  of  a  great  empire,  ex- 
tended by  our  virtue  and  our  fortune 
to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  east  and 
the  west.  All  these  wide-spread  in- 
terests must  be  considered,  must  be 
compared,  must  be  reconciled,  if 
possible.  We  are  members  for  a  free 
country,  and  surely  we  all  know, 
that  the  machine  of  a  free  country  is 
no  simple  thing ;  but,  as  intricate  and 
as  delicate  as  it  is  valuable.  We  are 
members  in  a  great  and  ancient  mo- 
narchy. And  we  must  preserve  reli- 
giously^ the  true  legal  rights  of  the 
sovereign,  which  form  the  key-stone 
that  binds  together  the  noble  and 
well-constructed  arch  of  our  empire 
and  our  Constitution." 

A  history  of  public  questions  might 
be  a  work  worthy  of  some  great  be- 
nefactor to  his  country.  It  would 
show  the  perpetual  facility  with 
which  the  public  mind  may  be  fruit- 
lessly disturbed.  The  guilty  dexte- 
rity with  which  popular  imposture 
may  inflame  popular  passion ;  and 
the  utter  absurdity  with  which  na- 
tions may  be  impregnated,  at  the 
moment  when  they  are  giving  them- 
selves credit  for  supreme  wisdom ; 
the  whole  forming  a  great  legacy  of 
political  common  sense  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  future.  An  extract  from 
the  follies  of  the  fathers,  for  an  anti- 
dote to  the  crimes  of  posterity. 

Within  the  latter  half  of  the  eigh- 


1833.] 


Edmund  Burke. 


611 


teanth  century,  the  visitations  of  this 
periodic  frenzy  thickened.  Frederic 
and  the  Seven  Years'  War  roused 
ev  ery  talker  in  England  into  angry  elo- 
cution, and  the  man  was  pronounced 
ar  enemy  to  his  country  who  could 
dcubt  the  cause  of  Prussia.  This  ab- 
surdity had  its  day.  The  public 
fever  cooled  away,  and  men  were 
as  ;onished  at  their  own  extravagance. 
The  Middlesex  elections  next  disco- 
vered the  organ  of  political  frenzy 
in  the  public  brain.  The  nation  was 
instantly  in  a  paroxysm.  Every  man 
WKS  an  orator,  and  every  orator  ex- 
claimed, that  all  past  hazards  were 
nothing  to  the  inevitable  ruin  of  the 
hour ;  what  was  life  without  liberty, 
and  what  was  liberty  without  the 
power  of  election.  England  saw  this 
day  pass  too,  and  the  chief  miner  lay 
aside  the  match  which  he  had  been 
so  long  waving  at  the  mouth  of  the 
mine,  shelter  himself  in  an  opulent 
sinecure,  and  laugh  at  the  dupes 
whose  clamour  had  been  its  pur- 
chase. The  American  question  next 
roused  the  multitude.  The  whole 
host  of  obscure  politicians  were  in- 
stantly awakened  in  their  retreats, 
and  poured  forth,  brandishing  their 
ru^ty  and  uncouth  weapons  for  the 
colonies.  Every  factious  clamour 
from  beyond  the  Atlantic  was  echoed 
from  our  shores  with  either  a  shout 
of  applause  or  a  groan  of  sympathy. 
Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  in- 
flamed themselves  into  the  concep- 
tion that  the  hourly  fate  of  England 
was  hung  in  the  balance  of  America. 
Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands 
imbued  themselves  with  American 
politics. until  the  English  complexion 
had  vanished  from  their  features, 
and  they  actually  saw  nothing  in  sul- 
len ingratitude,  but  generous  resist- 
ance, and  in  a  rash,  unjustifiable,  and 
godless  determination  to  throw  off 
all  the  ties  of  duty,  kindred,  and 
sworn  allegiance,  but  a  heroic  and 
English  repulsion  of  tyranny.  We 
see,  and  we  should  see  it  with  a  na- 
tural alarm  at  the  power  of  political 
illu^on,  the  extent  to  which  this  fan- 
tast  c  folly  usurped  over  the  higher 
minds  of  England.  We  may  well 
shrink  at  the  strength  of  the  whirl- 
pool when  we  see  it  sweeping  Burke 
and  Chatham  round,  through  every 
circle  but  the  last,  and  those  most 
muscular  minds  of  the  empire,  barely 
making  their  escape  from  being  ab- 

VOL.  XXXIIJ,    NO.  CCVII, 


sorbed  and  sunk  in  the  common 
gulf  of  national  perversion.  Catholic 
Emancipation  was  the  next  crisis  of 
the  public  folly.  Its  cry  rang  through 
the  empire,  until  the  whole  tribe  of 
loose  politics,  the  general  living  dis- 
contents, the  incurable  bitternesses 
against  all  government,  the  aliena- 
tions from  all  rule,  the  whole  fretful 
accumulation  of  imaginary  wrongs, 
imaginary  rights,  and  imaginary  pa- 
naceas for  all  the  common  difficulties 
of  mankind,  were  marshalled  at  the 
sound  of  that  voice  of  evil.  Other 
and  more  disciplined  forces  soon 
joined  to  swell  that  levy.  The  priest- 
hood sounded  the  trumpet  from  their 
altars.  The  armed  banditti  of  Irish 
faction,  long  trained  by  mid-day  in- 
sults to  all  authority,  and  midnight 
usurpation  of  all  power,  moved  at 
the  head  of  the  insurrection,  and 
Parliament  was  stormed.  The  great 
body  of  the  English  nation  must  be 
exonerated,  in  this  instance,  from 
the  guilt  of  the  act,  if  they  shall  yet 
be  compelled  to  share  deeply  in  the 
misfortune  of  its  consequences.  But 
the  battle  was  not  now  fought  upon 
the  old  ground.  The  nation  was  ex- 
cluded from  the  contest,  and  reser- 
ved only  to  be  delivered  over  in  fet- 
ters to  the  conqueror.  The  battle 
was  fought  not  in  Parliament,  but 
in  the  Cabinet.  The  weapons  of 
English  allegiance,  virtue,  and  wis- 
dom, were  petition  and  remon- 
strance. The  weapons  of  Popish  am- 
bition were  open  and  hourly  mur- 
der, pitiless  conflagration,  notorious 
bands  of  blood,  the  curses  of  a  furious 
superstition,  the  triumphings  of  un- 
punished insurrection,  insolent  ap- 
peals to  foreign  Powers,  and  the 
traitorous  menaces  of  national  sepa- 
ration. The  walls  of  the  Cabinet, 
impregnable  to  the  weapons  of  Con 
stitutional  entreaty,  broke  down  in- 
stantly before  the  assaults  of  un- 
constitutional force.  For  this  emer- 
gency there  was  but  one  resource ; 
and  it  is  in  no  tendency  to  undue 
homage,  that  we  pronounce  that  re- 
source to  be  RELIGION.  If  that  Cabi 
net  had  but  remembered  that  there 
was  a  Providence  above  them,  they 
would  never  have  shrunk  from  the 
fullest  trial  of  the  strength  of  Eng- 
land against  the  guilty  fury  of  Popish 
faction,  with  all  its  allies  of  treason, 
rapine,  and  infidelity.  Manfully,  can- 
didly, and  wisely,  they  would  havo 


612 

resisted  the  madness  of  the  hour,  and 
their  resistance  would  have  been 
triumphant ;  they  would  have  been 
at  this  moment  in  possession  of 
power,  if  to  the  champions  of  the 
cause  of  God,  the  gratifications  of  hu- 
man power  are  worth  considering ; 
they  would  have  saved  England  from 
calamities,  now  growing  on  her  from 
moment  to  moment,  and  which  seem 
to  deepen  only  into  the  bloody  vista 
of  civil  war;  and  with  the  whole  vast 
and  high-minded  population  of  the 
British  Empire  rejoicing  in  their  au- 
thority, and  supporting  them  with  its 
irresistible  strength,  they  would  have 
wielded  the  affairs  of  England  and 
the  world  until  they  were  gathered 
in  glory  to  their  graves. 

This  illusion  will  pass  away,  like 
all  that  went  before.  But  it  will  not 
pass  away  with  the  impunity  of  the 
past  follies.  It  has  been  tinged  with 
crime,  a  dash  of  blood  and  treason 
has  been  flung  on  the  national  cha- 
racter, which  will  not  be  bleached 
away  by  the  common  operation  of 
time.  There  is  a  stain  on  the  floor 
of  that  Cabinet  which  will  tell,  to  the 
remotest  age,  the  spot  where  the  dag- 
ger was  driven  into  the  side  of  the 
Constitution.  Evil  days  are  coming, 
evil  days  have  come.  Who  talks  now 
of  the  majesty  of  public  deliberation  ? 
Who  thinks  now  of  the  dignity  of 
halls,  which  once  echoed  to  the  no- 
blest aspirations  of  human  wisdom, 
philosophy,  and  courage  ?  Or  who 
thinks  of  their  old  sacredness  with- 
out thinking  of  the  Capitol  taken  by 
assault,  and  the  Goth  and  the  Gaul, 
the  ferocious  sons  of  the  forest  and 
the  swamp,  playing  their  savage  gam- 
bols, plucking  the  Roman  Senator 
by  the  beard,  from  his  curule  chair, 
rending  the  ivory  sceptre  from  his 
hand  ?  / 

Burke's  speech  on  American  affairs, 
on  the  22d  of  March,  1775,  is  record- 
ed as  one  of  his  most  remarkable 
displays  of  ability.  In  the  general 
resistance  of  the  Ministry  to  all  pro- 
posals of  treating  with  the  Colonies, 
and  the  general  inefficiency  of  Oppo- 
sition to  concoct  even  any  plausible 
measure,  the  task  fell  upon  Burke, 
and  he  employed  himself  in  framing 
the  memorable  "  Thirteen  Articles," 
which  were  to  be  the  purchase  of 
national  tranquillity.  The  project 
belonged  to  party;  it  was  of  course 
extravagant;  and  the  result  was,  of 


Edmund  Surke.  [April 

course,  failure.  Rash  conciliation 
naturally  inflames  the  malady  which 
it  proposes  to  cure ;  America  pro- 
ceeded in  her  rebellion,  only  the 
more  fortified  by  the  knowledge 
that  she  had  active  partisans,  and  in- 
active repugnants,  in  the  mother 
country.  The  topic  is  now  unimport- 
ant, but  the  speech  has  still  a  high 
value  as  an  example  of  eloquence, 
and  as  a  depository  of  that  moral 
wisdom,  which  embalms  the  most 
temporary  and  decaying  subjects  of 
the  great  orator.  We  shall  give  a 
few  of  the  detached  and  characteristic 
sentences.  *  *  *  *  "I  have  no  very 
exalted  opinion  of  paper  government, 
nor  of  any  politics  in  which  the  plan 
is  to  be  wholly  separated  from  the 
execution.  *  *  *  *  Public  calamity 
is  a  mighty  leveller  j  and  there  are 
occasions  when  any,  even  the  slight- 
est, chance  of  doing  good  must  be 
laid  hold  on,  even  by  the  most  in- 
considerable person.  *  *  *  *  The 
proposition  is  peace.  Not  peace 
through  the  medium  of  war.  Not 
peace  to  be  hunted  through  the  la- 
byrinth of  intricate  and  endless  ne- 
gotiations. Not  peace  to  arise  out 
of  universal  discord,  fomented  on 
principle  in  all  parts  of  the  Empire. 
Not  peace  to  depend  on  the  juridi- 
cal determination  of  perplexing  ques- 
tions; or  the  precise  marking  the 
shadowy  boundaries  of  acomplex  go- 
vernment. It  is  simple  peace,  sought 
in  its  natural  course,  and  in  its  or- 
dinary haunts.  It  is  peace,  sought 
in  the  spirit  of  peace.  *  *  *  *  Re- 
fined policy  ever  has  been  the  parent 
of  confusion,  and  ever  will  be,  so 
long  as  the  world  endures.  Plain 
good  intention,  which  is  as  easily  dis- 
covered at  the  first  view  as  fraud  h 
surely  detected  at  last,  is  of  no 
mean  force  in  governing  mankind. 
Genuine  simplicity  of  heart  is  a  heal- 
ing and  cementing  principle.  *  *  *  * 
Great  and  acknowledged  force  is 
not  impaired  in  either  effect  or 
opinion  by  an  unwillingness  to  exert 
itself.  The  superior  power  may 
offer  peace  with  honour  and  with 
safety.  Such  an  offer,  from  such  a 
power,  will  be  attributed  to  magna- 
nimity. But  the  concessions  of  the 
weak  are  the  concessions  of  fear. 
When  such  a  one  is  disarmed,  he  is 
wholly  at  the  mercy  of  his  superior, 
and  he  loses  for  eve^1  that  time  and 
those  chances,  which,  as  they  happen 


1  333.] 

to  all  men,  are  the  strength  and  re- 
sources of  all  inferior  power.  *  *  * 
I  look  on  force,  not  only  as  an  odi- 
o  is,  but  a  feeble  instrument,  for  pre- 
serving a  people  so  numerous,  so 
growing1,  and  so  spirited  as  this,  in  a 
profitable  and  subordinate  connexion. 
First,  the  use  of  force  alone  is  but 
temporary.  It  may  subdue  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  it  does  not  remove  the  ne- 
cessity of  subduing  again.  A  nation 
ot  governed,  which  is  j 


is  not  governed,  which  is  perpetually 
to  be  conquered.  My  next  objection 
is  its  uncertainty.  Terror  is  not  al- 
ways the  effect  of  force,  and  an  ar- 
mament is  not  a  victory.  If  you  do 
not  succeed,  you  are  without  re- 
source. For,  conciliation  failing, 
fo  'ce  remains ;  but  force  failing,  no 
further  hope  of  conciliation  is  left. 
Power  and  authority  are  sometimes 
bought  by  kindness;  but  they  can 
never  be  begged  as  alms,  by  an  im- 
poverished and  defeated  violence. 
A  further  objection  to  force  is,  that 
you  impair  the  object  by  your  very 
endeavours  to  preserve  it.  The 
thing  you  fought  for  is  not  the  thing 
which  you  recover ;  but  depreciated, 
sunk,  wasted,  and  consumed  in  the 
contest." 

His  remark  on  the  state  of  society 
in  the  Southern  Provinces  of  Ameri- 
ca, unquestionably  true  as  it  is,  may 
give  some  insight  into  the  grounds 
of  their  present  dispute  with  the 
Northern,  and  of  that  original  and 
nai  ive  difference  which  must  end  in 
national  struggle.  "  In  Virginia  and 
the  Carolinas,  they  have  a  vast 
multitude  of  slaves.  Where  this  is 
the  case  in  any  part  of  the  world, 
these  who  are  free,  are  by  far  the 
most  proud  and  jealous  of  their 
freedom.  Freedom  to  them  is  not 
only  an  enjoyment,  but  a  kind  of 
rack  and  privilege.  Not  seeing  there 
that  freedom,  as  in  countries  where 
it  it  a  common  blessing,  and  as  broad 
anc  general  as  the  air,  may  be  unit- 
ed with  much  abject  toil,  with  great 
misery,  with  all  the  exterior  of  ser- 
vitude, Liberty  looks  among  them, 
lik(  something  more  noble  and  liberal. 
I  d.)  not  mean  to  commend  the  su- 
perior morality  of  this  sentiment, 
which  has  at  least  as  much  pride  as 
virtue  in  it;  but  I  cannot  alter  the 
nature  of  man.  The  fact  is  so ;  and 
the  people  of  the  Southern  Colonies 
are  much  more  strongly,  and  with  a 
higher  and  more  stubborn  spirit,  at- 


Edniund  Burke.  613 

tached  to  Liberty,  than  those  to  the 
Northward.  Such  were  all  the  an- 
cient commonwealths;  such  were 
our  Gothic  ancestors ;  such  in  our 
days  were  the  Poles ;  and  such  will 
be  all  masters  of  slaves,  who  are  not 
slaves  themselves.  In  such  a  people, 
the  haughtiness  of  domination  com- 
bines with  the  spirit  of  freedom,  for- 
tifies it,  and  renders  it  invincible.'* 

His  eloquent  observation  on  the 
general  taste  for  legal  studies  which 
predominated  in  America,  is  true  to 
fact  and  nature.  "  When  great  ho- 
nours and  great  emoluments  do  not 
win  over  this  knowledge  to  the  ser- 
vice of  the  state,  it  is  a  formidable 
adversary  to  government.  Abeunt 
studio,  in  mores.  This  study  renders 
men  acute,  inquisitive,  dexterous, 
prompt  in  attack,  ready  in  defence, 
full  of  resources.  In  other  coun- 
tries, the  people,  more  simple  and  of 
a  less  mercurial  cast,  judge  of  an 
ill  principle  in  government  only  by 
an  actual  grievance ;  here  they  anti- 
cipate the  evil  and  judge  of  the  pres- 
sure of  the  grievance  by  the  badness 
of  the  principle.  They  augur  mis- 
government  at  a  distance,  and  snuff 
the  approach  of  tyranny  in  every 
tainted  breeze."  *  *  *  "  Three 
thousand  miles  of  ocean  lie  between 
you  and  the  colonies.  No  contri- 
vance can  prevent  the  effect  of  this 
distance  in  weakening  government. 
Seas  roll  and  months  pass  between 
the  order  and  the  execution.  And 
the  want  of  a  speedy  explanation  of 
a  single  point  is  enough  to  defeat  a 
whole  system.  You  have  indeed 
winged  Ministers  of  vengeance,  who 
carry  your  bolts  in  their  pounces  to 
the  uttermost  verge  of  the  sea.  But 
there  a  power  steps  in,  which  limits 
the  arrogance  of  raging  passions  and 
furious  elements,  and  says,  *  So  far 
shalt  thou  go,  and  no  further  !'  Who 
are  you  that  should  fret  and  rage, 
and  bite  the  chains  of  nature  ?" 

His  anticipation  of  the  results  that 
must  yet  follow  from  the  extension 
of  the  colonies,  through  the  western 
lauds  of  America,  is  probably  not 
far  from  its  fulfilment,  though  the 
sea-shore  States  have  abandoned 
their  allegiance.  "  You  cannot  sta- 
tion garrisons  in  every  part  of  those 
deserts.  If  you  drive  the  people 
from  one  place,  they  will  carry  on 
their  annual  tillage,  and  remove  with 
their  flocks  and  herds  to  another* 


614 


Edmund 


Many  of  the  people  in  the  back  set- 
tlements are  already  little  attached 
to  particular  situations.  Already 
they  have  topped  the  Apalachian 
mountains.  Thence  they  behold  be- 
fore them  an  immense  plain,  one 
vast  rich  level  meadow,  a  square  of 
five  hundred  miles.  Over  this  they 
would  wander  without  a  possibility 
of  restraint;  they  would  change  their 
manners  with  their  habits  of  life; 
would  soon  forget  a  government  by 
which  they  were  disowned ;  would 
become  hordes  of  English  Tartars, 
and  pouring  down  upon  your  fron- 
tiers a  fierce  and  irresistible  cavalry, 
become  masters  of  your  governors 
and  counsellors,  your  collectors  and 
comptrollers,  and  of  all  the  slaves 
that  adhered  to  them.  Such  would, 
and  in  no  long  time  must  be,  the  ef- 
fect of  attempting  to  forbid  as  a 
crime,  and  to  suppress  as  an  evil,  the 
command  and  blessing  of  Provi- 
dence, increase  and  multiply." 

Towards  the  close  of  this  great 
performance,  he  lays  down  the  prin- 
ciple, (so  adverse  to  that  of  the  en- 
thusiasts for  new  constitutions,)  that 
in  all  things,  even  in  freedom,  we 
must  consider  the  price,  and  settle 
with  ourselves  how  far  we  may  be 
satisfied  with  what  is  attainable. 
"  Although  there  are  some  among 
us  who  think  our  constitution  wants 
many  improvements  to  make  it  a 
complete  system  of  liberty,  perhaps 
none  who  are  of  that  opinion  would 
think  it  right  to  aim  at  such  improve- 
ment by  disturbing  his  country,  and 
risking  every  thing  that  is  dear  to 
him.  In  every  arduous  enterprise 
we  consider  what  we  are  to  lose,  as 
well  as  what  we  are  to  gain;  and 
the  more  and  better  stake  of  liberty 
every  people  possess,  the  less  they 
will  hazard  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
make  it  more.  These  are  the  cords 
of  a  man.  Man  acts  from  adequate 
motives  relative  to  his  interest,  and 
not  on  metaphysical  speculations. 
Aristotle,  the  great  master  of  rea- 
soning, cautions  us,  and  with  great 
weight  and  propriety,  against  this 
species  of  delusive  geometrical  ac- 
curacy in  moral  arguments,  as  the 
most  fallacious  of  all  sophistry." 

In  these  fragments,  the  object  has 
been  exclusively  to  extract  the  max- 
ims of  political  truth.  The  passages 
of  oratorical  beauty  have  been  passed 
by ;  among  the  rest,  that  bold  apos- 


Burhc.  [April, 

trophe  to  old  Lord  Bathurst  on  the 
progress  of  the  Colonies  to  maturity 
within  his  lifetime,  and  the  nervous 
description  of  the  early  vigour  of 
their  commercial  and  maritime  pur- 
suits. These  are  probably  familiar 
to  the  lovers  of  English  eloquence. 
But  every  portion  of  the  speech 
abounds  with  noble  illustrations,  and 
lavish  command  of  classic  language. 
In  allusion  to  the  undoubted  fact, 
that  the  true  way  to  secure  a  re- 
venue is  to  begin,  not  by  fiscal  regu- 
lations, but  by  making  the  people 
masters  of  their  own  wealth,  he  sud- 
denly starts  from  the  simplest  form 
of  the  statement,  into  various  and 
luminous  figures.  "  What,  says  the 
financier,  is  peace  to  us,  without 
money.  Your  plan  gives  us  no  re- 
venue. Yes,  but  it  does,  for  it  se- 
cures to  the  subject  the  power  of  re- 
fusal, the  first  of  all  revenues.  Ex- 
perience is  a  cheat,  and  fact  a  liar,  if 
this  power  in  the  subject  of  propor- 
tioning his  grant,  or  of  not  granting 
at  all,  has  not  been  found  the  richest 
mine  of  revenue  ever  discovered  by 
the  skill  or  the  fortune  of  man.  It 
does  not  indeed  vote  you  any  paltry, 
or  limited  sum.  But  it  gives  the 
strong-box  itself,  the  fund,  the  bank, 
from  which  only  revenues  can  arise 
among  a  people  sensible  of  freedom. 
Posita  luditur  area.  Most  may  be 
taken  where  most  is  accumulated. 
And  what  is  the  soil  or  climate  where 
experience  has  not  uniformly  proved, 
that  the  voluntary  flow  of  heaped  up 
plenty,  bursting  from  the  weight  of 
its  own  luxuriance,  has  ever  run 
with  a  more  copious  stream  of  reve- 
nue, than  could  be  squeezed  from 
the  dry  husks  of  oppressed  indi- 
gence by  the  straining  of  all  the  po- 
litical machinery  in  the  world  ?" 

During  this  anxious  period,  while 
all  the  elements  of  public  life  were 
darkening,  and  the  tempest  which 
began  in  America  threatened  to  make 
its  round  of  the  whole  European 
horizon,  Burke  found  leisure  and 
buoyancy  of  spirit  for  the  full  en- 
joyment of  society.  He  was  still 
the  universal  favourite.  Even  John- 
son, adverse  as  he  was  to  him  in  po- 
litics, and  accustomed  to  treat  all  ad- 
versaries, on  all  occasions,  with  rough 
contempt  or  angry  sarcasm,  smooth- 
ed down  his  mane,  and  drew  in  his 
talons  in  the  presence  of  Burke.  On 
one  occasion,  when  Goldsmith,  in  hii 


1833.] 


Edmund  Burke. 


015 


style,  talked  of  the  impossibi- 
lity of  living  in  intimacy  with  a  per- 
scm  having  a  different  opinion  on  any 
prominent  topic,  Johnson  rebuked 
him  us  usual.  "  Why,  no,  Sir.  You 
must  only  shun  the  subject  on  which 
you  disagree.  For  instance,  I  can 
live  very  well  with  Burke.  I  love 
hi&  knowledge,  his  genins,  his  diffu- 
sion and  affluence  of  conversation. 
But  I  would  not  talk  to  him  of  the 
Rockingham  party." 

In  his  reserve  upon  this  topic, 
Johnson  probably  meant  to  exhibit 
more  kindness  than  met  the  ear,  for 
tin;  Rockingham  party  had  become 
the  tender  point  of  Burke's  public 
feelings.  That  party  had  been  ori- 
ginally driven  to  take  refuge  under 
its  nominal  leader,  by  the  mere  temp- 
tation of  high  Whig  title,  hereditary 
rank,  and  large  fortune.  But  the 
Marquis  had  been  found  inefficient 
or  unlucky,  and  his  parliamentary 
weight  diminished  day  by  day.  Burke 
still  fought,  kept  actual  ruin  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  signalized  himself  by  all 
the  vigour,  zeal,  and  enterprise  of  an 
invincible  debater.  But  nothing 
could  resist  the  force  of  circumstan- 
ces ;  the  party  must  change  its  leader, 
or  give  up  its  arms.  In  this  emer- 
gency, the  Marquis  proposed  a  total 
secession  from  Parliament.  To  thia 
proposal  Burke,  with  due  submis- 
sion, gave  way,  but  accompanied  his 
acquiescence  with  a  letter,  in  which, 
in  stating  his  reasons  for  retreat,  he 
so  strikingly  stated  the  reasons  for 
the  contrary,  that  the  Marquis  chan- 
ged his  opinion  at  once ;  and  the  field 
wai  retained  for  a  new  trial  of 
fortune.  Burke's  impression,  doubt- 
less, was,  that  nothing  is  capable  of 
beiag  gained,  though  every  thing 
may  be  lost,  by  giving  up  the  con- 
test; that  nothing  is  sooner  forgot- 
ten than  the  public  man  who  is  no 
longer  before  the  public  eye;  and 
thao,  whatever  the  nation  may  disco- 
ver in  vigorous  resistance,  it  will 
never  discover  courage  in  flight,  or 
wisdom  in  despair. 

His  opinion  on  this  point  was 
touched  on  in  a  subsequent  conver- 
sation with  his  friend  Sir  Joshua 
Re-nolds.  "Mr  Burke,  I  do  not 
me: in  to  flatter,"  said  Sir  Joshua, 
"  but  when  posterity  reads  one  of 
yoisr  speeches  in  Parliament,  it  will 
be  difficult  to  believe  that  you  took 
BO  much  pains,  knowing  with_  cer- 


tainty that  it  could  produce  no  ef- 
fect—  that  not  one  vote  would  be 
gained  by  it." 

"  Waiving  your  compliment  to 
me,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  shall  say,  in 
general,  that  it  is  very  well  worth 
while  for  a  man  to  take  pains  tospeak 
well  in  Parliament.  A  man  who  has 
vanity  speaks  to  display  his  talents. 
And  if  a  man  speaks  well,  he  gradu- 
ally establishes  a  certain  reputation 
and  consequence  in  the  general  opi- 
nion, which  sooner  or  later  will  have 
its  political  reward.  Besides,  though 
not  one  vote  is  gained,  a  good  speech 
has  its  effect.  Though  an  act  which  has 
been  ably  opposed  passes  into  a  law, 
yet  in  its  progress  it  is  modelled,  it 
is  softened  in  such  a  manner,  that  we 
see  plainly  the  Minister  has  been 
told,  that  the  members  attached  to 
him  are  so  sensible  of  its  injustice  or 
absurdity  from  what  they  have  heard, 
that  it  must  be  altered." 

He  again  observed, — "  There  are 
many  members  who  generally  go 
with  the  Minister,  who  will  not  go 
all  lengths.  There  are  many  honest, 
well-meaning  country  gentlemen, 
who  are  in  Parliament  only  to  keep 
up  the  consequence  of  their  families. 
Upon  most  of  those  a  good  speech 
will  have  influence." 

"  What,"  asked  Sir  Joshua,  "would 
be  the  result,  if  a  Minister,  secure  of 
a  majority,  were  to  resolve  that  there 
should  be  no  speaking  on  his  side  ?'* 
Burke  answered,  "  he  must  soon  go 
out.  The  plan  has  been  tried  al- 
ready, but  it  was  found  it  would  not 
do."  - 

In  the  midst  of  the  more  import- 
ant matters  of  debate,  his  natural 
good  humour  often  relieved  the  gra- 
vity of  the  House.  His  half-vexed, 
half-sportive  remark  on  the  speech 
of  David  Hartley,  the  member  for 
Hull,  an  honest  man,  but  a  dreary 
orator,  was  long  remembered.  Burke 
had  come,  intending  to  speak  to  a 
motion  on  American  affairs  to  be 
brought  forward  by  the  member  for 
Hull.  But  that  gentleman's  style 
rapidly  thinned  the  benches.  At 
length,  when  the  House  was  almost 
a  desert,  he  called  for  the  reading  of 
the  Riot  Act,  to  support  some  of 
his  arguments.  Burke's  impatience 
could  be  restrained  no  longer,  and 
under  the  double  vexation  of  seeing 
the  motion  ruined,  and  his  own 
speech  likely  to  be  thrown  away  for 


616 


Edmund  Burke. 


[April 


want  of  an  audience,  he  started 
up,  almost  instinctively,  exclaiming, 
"  The  Riot  Act,  the  Riot  Act !  for 
what?  does  not  my  honourable  friend 
see  that  he  has  dispersed  the  mob 
already  ?" 

His  exertions  on  the  American 
question  naturally  brought  him  into 
intercourse  with  the  principal  per- 
sons connected  with  the  subject.  He 
corresponded  with  General  Lee,  a 
man  of  some  acquirements,  but  of 
remarkable  eccentricity,  if  not  nearly 
insane.  Lee  afterwards  took  service 
in  the  American  army,  where  he 
eoon  quarrelled  with  his  superiors 
as  much  as  at  home ;  and  found  as 
little  to  reconcile  his  weak  and  gid- 
dy understanding  and  worthless 
heart,  in  republicanism  as  in  mo- 
narchy. Some  intercourse  with 
Franklin  was  the  natural  result  of 
his  position  in  the  House.  But 
Franklin  at  that  time  was  not  the  re- 
volter  that  he  afterwards  became. 
He  called  upon  Burke  the  day  be- 
fore he  took  his  final  leave  of  Lon- 
don, in  1775,  and  had  a  long  inter- 
view with  him.  On  this  occasion 
Franklin  expressed  great  regret  for 
the  calamities  which  he  viewed  as 
the  consequence  of  the  ministerial 
determinations ;  professing,  that  no- 
thing could  give  him  more  pain  than 
the  separation  of  the  colonies  from 
the  mother-country;  that  America 
had  enjoyed  many  happy  days  un- 
der her  rule,  and  that  he  never  ex- 
pected to  see  such  again  !  How  much 
of  this  was  sincere,  the  character 
of  the  speaker  justifies  suspicion. 
Cold,  worldly,  and  jealous,  Franklin 
hated  England  for  her  prosperity. 
And  this  feeling  had  broken  out 
on  the  moat  accidental  occasions. 
One  day  visiting  the  source  of  the 
Thames,  he  exclaimed,  "  And  is  it 
this  narrow  stream  that  is  to  have 
dominion  over  a  country  that  con- 
tains the  Hudson  and  the  Ohio  ?"  On 
leaving  the  Privy-Council,  where  he 
had  been  examined  and  taken  to  task 
by  Wedderburne  theAttorney-Gene- 
ral,  he  murmured  in  the  bitterness 
of  personal  revenge,  "  For  this  I 
will  make  your  King  a  little  king." 
This  was  not  the  language  of  a  peace- 
maker. His  language  to  Burke  was 
naturally  the  tale  of  a  client  to  his 
counsel,  anxious  to  leave  a  favour- 
able impression  behind  him,  giving 
the  wrong  the  air  of  right,  and  facing 


rebellion  with  the  best  colour.  The 
Americans  still  panegyrise  this  man. 
His  known  skill  makes  the  standing 
figure  of  those  swelling  and  school- 
boy productions,  the  fourth  of  July 
speeches,  the  annual  elaborate  abor- 
tion of  Republican  eloquence.  But 
whatever  they  may  do  with  his  name, 
they  should  abjure  his  spirit.  To 
Franklin  and  to  his  doctrine  of  mo- 
ney-getting, his  substitution  of  the 
mere  business  of  amassing  for  the 
generous  and  natural  uses  of  wealth, 
his  turning  the  American  into  a  mere 
calculator  of  profit  and  loss,  and 
America  into  a  huge  Counting-house, 
is  due  a  vast  portion  of  every  evil 
belonging  to  the  character  of  her 
people,  and  every  convulsion  that  so 
inevitably  threatens  her  government. 
The  sooner  they  lay  his  maxims  and 
his  memory  in  the  grave  together, 
the  better  for  the  national  chance  of 
honour.  The  spirit  of  a  pedlar  ought 
not  to  preside  over  the  councils  of  a 
great  people.  The  Americans  may 
erect  his  statue  in  their  Temple  of 
Mammon,  if  they  will  j  but  they  must 
close  the  temple,  and  embrace  a 
loftier  worship,  before  they  can  be 
worthy  of  the  renown  of  their  ances- 
tors, or  be  fitting  trustees  of  the  vir- 
tues to  their  posterity. 

We  once  more  look  to  Burke  for 
wisdom.  At  the  moment  when  these 
pages  are  passing  through  the  press, 
the  aft'airs  of  Ireland  are  engrossing 
the  public  attention.  Among  others 
of  those  violent  palliatives,  which 
have  in  them  all  the  nature  of  poi- 
sons, is  an  absentee-tax.  The  propo- 
sition is  not  new,  for  the  spirit  is  not 
new  that  makes  it.  It  is  the  charac- 
teristic of  Ireland,  that  every  suc- 
ceedingage  of  herhistory  is  a  counter- 
part of  the  preceding.  Other  nations 
advance,  make  progress,  and,  leaving 
their  follies  and  their  prejudices  be- 
hind them,  push  on  in  the  great  ge- 
neral highway  of  European  know- 
ledge and  prosperity.  But  to  Ire- 
land this  progress  is  forbidden  by  an 
influence,  that  the  wisest  and  boldest 
of  her  minds  has  never  been  able  to 
overthrow.  A  fierce  superstition  has 
bound  the  chain  upon  her,  and  she 
now  can  but  range  the  length  of  its 
links.  Every  salient  step,  every  na- 
tural impulse  of  health  and  vigour, 
but  acts  as  a  new  memento  of  the 
fetter  that  checks  it  instantly,  and 
the  first  consciousness  of  freedom  is 


Edmund  Burke. 


617 


made  but  to  impress  a  keener  consci- 
ousness of  the  bond.  Ireland,  whether 
weary  or  fresh  for  labour,  whether 
exhausted  by  her  efforts  for  or  against 
legitimate  government,  still  struggles 
within  the  same  limit,  still  finds  her 
foot  rounding  the  same  narrow  track 
o  '  thorns  and  blood.  The  evil  of  the 
lend  is  Popery,  which  has  been  the 
e  dl  of  every  land  where  it  first  in- 
vided  law,  freedom,  and  religion. 
The  Parliament  of  England  can  do 
nothing  in  the  distemper.  The  root 
of  the  public  hazard  is  not  to  be 
reached  by  the  feeble  handling  of 
men  accustomed  only  to  the  slight 
derangements  of  the  national  health 
on  this  side  of  the  Channel.  Ireland 
must  be  unhappy,  convulsed,  and 
criminal,  until,  by  either  the  energy 
of  man,  or  the  mercy  of  God,  Popery 
is  extinguished  in  the  land.  Till 
that  time  comes,  national  peace  is 
uiterly  hopeless.  The  labours  of 
English  Senates  will  be  thrown 
away.  Insubordination  will  be  the 
established  lord  of  Ireland,  until 
E  igland  herself  may  begin  to  feel 
the  result,  in  the  transmission  of  tu- 
rn alts  to  her  own  shores.  The  pesti- 
leace  will  come  on  the  tainted  gale. 
Tjie  example  of  a  successful  defiance 
of  authority  within  sight  of  her  walls, 
w  11  not  be  always  lost  on  her  do- 
m  3stic  traitors.  The  watchwords  of 
Popish  Rebellion  will  find  their  echo 
among  that  crowd  ofabitter  and  livid 
sectarianism,  which  at  this  hour 
hictes  the  crown  as  much  as  it  does 
the  mitre;  and  under  cover  of  the 
smoke  that  comes  rolling  from  the 
conflagration  of  the  Church  in  Ire- 
land, a  furious  and  final  assault  may 
be  made  upon  the  throne. 

Burke's  conceptions  of  the  utter 
in  policy  of  an  absentee  tax,  which 
had  been  proposed  by  Mr  Flood,  then 
at  the  head  of  Opposition  in  Ireland, 
and  was  acquiesced  in  by  the  Minis- 
try of  1773,  were  given  in  a  letter  to 
Sir  Charles  Bingham.  From  this  we 
se  ect  a  few  sentences  of  the  argu- 
ment:— "  I  look  upon  this  projected 
tax  in  a  very  evil  light.  I  think  it  is 
not  advisable ;— I  am  sure  it  is  not 
ne  cessary.  And,  as  it  is  not  a  mere 
mutter  of  finance,  but  involves  a 
political  question  of  much  import- 
ance, I  consider  the  principle  and 
pracedent  as  far  worse  than  the 
thing  itself.  *  *  *  *  *  in 
th  >  first  place,  it  strikes  at  the  power 


of  this  country ;  in  the  end,  at  the 
union  of  the  whole  empire.  I  do 
not  mean,  to  express  any  thing  invi- 
dious concerning  the  superintending 
authority  of  Great  Britain.  But,  if 
it  be  true,  that  the  several  bodies 
which  make  up  this  complicated 
mass,  are  to  be  preserved  as  one 
empire,  an  authority  sufficient  to 
preserve  this  unity,  and  by  its  equal 
weight  and  pressure  to  consolidate 
the  various  parts,  must  reside  some- 
where, and  that  somewhere  can  be 
only  in  England.  ***** 
A  free  communication  by  discretion" 
ary  residence  is  necessary  to  all  the 
other  purposes  of  communication. 
*  *  *  *  *  if  men  may  be  dis- 
abled from  following  their  suits  here, 
they  may  be  thus  taxed  into  a  denial 
of  justice.  A  tax  of  two  shillings 
may  not  do  it;  but  the  principle 
implies  it.  They  who  restrain  may 
prohibit.  They  who  may  impose 
two  shillings  in  the  pound,  may  im- 
pose ten.  And  those  who  condition 
the  tax  to  six  months'  annual  absence, 
may  carry  that  condition  to  six 
weeks,  or  to  six  days,  and  thereby 
totally  defeat  the  means  which  have 
been  provided  for  extensive  and 
impartial  justice.  ***** 
What  is  taxing  a  resort  to,  and  resi- 
dence in,  any  place,  but  declaring 
that  your  connexion  with  that  place 
is  a  grievance  P  Is  not  such  an  Irish  tax 
a  virtual  declaration  that  England  is  a 
foreign  country  ;  and  a  renunciation 
ofthe  principle  of  common  naturali- 
zation, which  runs  through  the  whole 
empire  ?  *  *  *  *  *  *  I  can 
easily  conceive,  that  a  citizen  of 
Dublin,  who  looks  no  further  than 
his  counter,  may  think  that  Ireland 
will  be  repaid  for  such  a  loss  by  any 
small  diminution  of  taxes,  or  any  in- 
crease in  the  circulation  of, £money, 
that  may  be  laid  out  in  the  purchase 
of  claret  or  groceries  in  his  corpora- 
tion. But  I  cannot  think  that  any- 
educated  man,  any  man  who  looks 
with  an  enlightened  eye  on  the  inte- 
rests of  Ireland,  can  believe  that  it 
is  not  highly  for  the  advantage  of 
Ireland,  that  this  Parliament,  which, 
whether  right  or  wrong,  will  make 
some  laws  to  bind  Ireland,  should 
have  some  persons  in  it,  who,  by 
connexion,  by  property,  or  by  early 
prepossessions;  are  attached  to  the 
welfare  of  the  country.  *  *  * 
There  is  another  matter  in  the  tax 


618 


Edmund  Burhe. 


[April, 


that  contradicts  a  very  great  prin- 
ciple necessary  for  preserving  the 
union  of  the  various  parts  of    the 
State;   because   it   does,  in   eft'ect, 
discountenance    intermarriage    and 
mutual   inheritance;  —  things    that 
bind  countries  more  closely  togeth- 
er than  any  laws  or  constitutions 
whatsoever.     Is  it  right,  that  a  wo- 
man who  marries  into  Ireland,  and 
perhaps  well  purchases  her  jointure 
or  her  dower  there,  should  not,  after 
her  husband's  death,  have  it  in  her 
choice  to  return  to  her  country  and 
her  friends  without  being  taxed  for 
it?     Or,  if  an  Irish  heiress  should 
marry  into  an  English  family,  and 
that  great  property  in  both  countries 
should  thereby  come  to  be  united  in 
the  common  issue  ;    shall  the   de- 
scendant of  that  marriage  abandon 
his  natural  connexions,  his  family 
interests,  his  public  and  private  du- 
ties, and  be  compelled  to  take  up 
his  residence  in  Ireland  ?    Is  there 
any  sense  or  justice  in  it,  unless  you 
affirm  that  there  should  be  no  such 
intermarriage,  and  no  such  natural 
inheritance  ?     Is  there  a  shadow  of 
reason,  that,  because  a  Lord  Buck- 
ingham, a  Duke  of  Devonshire,  a 
Sir  George  Saville,  possess  property 
in  Ireland,  which  has  descended  to 
them  without  any  act  of  theirs,  they 
should  abandon  their  duty  in  Parlia- 
ment, and   spend  their  winters  in 
Dublin  ?  or,  having  spent  the  session 
in  Westminster,  must  they  abandon 
their  seats,  and  all  their  family  inte- 
rests, in  Yorkshire  and  Derbyshire, 
and  pass  the  rest  of  the  year  in  Wick- 
low,  Cork,  or  Tyrone  ?      *  .    *      * 
But  a  man  may  have  property  in 
more  parts  of  the  Empire.     He  may 
have  property  in  Jamaica,  as  well  as 
in  England  and  Ireland.  I  know  some 
who  have  property  in  all  of  them. 
Suppose  this  poor  distracted  citizen 
of  the  whole  Empire,  providing  (if 
the  nature  of  the  laws  will  admit  of 
it,)  a  flying  camp,  and  dividing  his 
year,  as  well  as  lie  can,  between  Eng- 
land and  Ireland,  and  at  the  charge 
of  two  town  houses,  and  two  country 
houses  in  both  kingdoms.     In  this 
situation  he  receives  an  account  that 
a  law  is  transmitted  from  Jamaica 
to  tax  absentees  from  that  province, 
which  is  impoverished  by  the  Euro- 
pean residence  of  the  possessors  of 
their  lands.     How  is  he  to  escape 
this  ricochet  of  cross-firing  of  so  ma- 


ny opposite  batteries  of  notice  and 
regulation?  If  he  comply,  he  is  more 
likely  to  be  a  citizen  of  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  and  the  Irish  Sea,  than  of 
either  of  the  countries." 

He  then  closely  follows  the  argu- 
ment into  the  case  of  minors  sent  to 
English  schools  or  colleges ;  of  law 
students  sent  to  the  English  Inns  of 
Court;  of  people  forced  by  infirmity 
to  change  their  residence ;  of  persons 
of  embarrassed  fortunes,  who  retired 
in  order  to  retrench,  and  asks,  Are 
such  fit  objects  of  a  tax  ?  "  You  be- 
gin to  burthen  those  people  pre- 
cisely at  the  time  when  their  circum- 
stances of  health  and  fortune  render 
them  objects  of  relief  and  commise- 
ration." 

To  those  powerful  reasons  might 
be  added  the  obvious  ones.  That  an 
absentee  tax  would  be  a  virtual  pro- 
hibition of  all  English  money  in  the 
purchase  of  lands  in  Ireland;  for, 
who  would  buy  where  he  was  to  pay 
an  additional  tax  for  his  purchase  ? 
Thus  the  value  of  every  acre  in  Iy.e- 
land  would  be  instantly  sunk.  A  still 
more  striking  reason  against  an  ab- 
sentee tax  would  be  the  almost  total 
impossibility  of  raising  it,  in  any  in- 
stance where  the  landed  owner  was 
disinclined  to  assist  the  collection. 
Was  the  tax  to  be  contingent  on  a 
six  months  absence  from  the  country  ? 
Is  there  to  be  a  register  of  the  goings 
in  and  out  of  every  man  ?  Or  is  an 
army  of  spies  to  be  employed  to  trace 
gentlemen  to  their  dwellings  ?  Or  is 
every  owner  of  property  (for  the  law 
must  comprehend  every  man  capa- 
ble of  absenting  himself,  for  whatever 
cause,)  to  be  compelled  to  make  a 
return  of  his  presence  every  six 
months  to  Government  ?  Or  is  resi- 
dence to  imply  the  abiding  of  the 
whole  family  in  the  country,  or  of  a 
part,  or  of  the  head  o£  the  family 
alone  ?  In  the  former  instances,  who 
is  to  ascertain  whether  the  requisite 
number  of  the  family  constantly  re- 
side ?  Or  if  the  residence  of  the 
head  of  the  house  be  satisfactory, 
how  is  the  country  to  be  a  gainer  by 
the  residence  of  a  solitary  and  doubt- 
less a  highly  discontented  resident, 
who  sends  off  his  rental  to  support 
the  expenditure  or  amusements  of 
his  family  in  Bath  or  London  ?  Or, 
does  not  the  whole  conception  imply 
a  scandalous,  vexatious,  and  expen- 
sive espionage  ?  Or  if  not  the  land- 


]  833.]  Edmund 

holder  but  his  rents  are  to  be  the 
object,  what  is  to  intercept  the  trans- 
mission of  money  to  any  part  of  the 
earth  ?  This  part  of  the  conception 
\vould  imply  an  impossibility.  A  few 
rien  of  large  fortunes,  and  constantly 
residing  in  England,  a  Marquis  of 
Lansdowne,or  a  Duke  of  Devonshire, 
nay  be  mulcted  for  the  crimes  of 
their  ancestors  in  paying  their  money 
f  >r  Irish  estates,  and  not  being  able 
t  j  be  in  Ireland  and  England  at  the 
same  time.  But  the  great  multitude 
against  whom  the  act  was  especially 
levelled,  would  especially  elude  it. 
The  crowd,  whom  in  bitterness  much 
more  than  impolicy  the  levellers 
would  wish  to  fine  for  enjoying  them- 
selves for  a  year  or  two  in  any  other 
portion  of  the  earth  than  Ireland,  and 
preferring  Brighton  and  Cheltenham 
t  j  a  visit  from  Captain  Rock,  or  an 
assassination  at  their  own  doors, 
v/ould  unquestionably  evade  the  sta- 
tute, and  leave  nothing  for  its  advo- 
cates but  fruitless  declamation  and 
expense  thrown  away.  In  1773, 
tiiough  the  measure  had  already  re- 
ceived the  sanction  of  Ministers,  the 
embarrassments  of  ils  practical  ope- 
ration, and  the  probably  interested 
and  factious  motives  of  its  proposers, 
were  so  strongly  suggested,  that  the 
project  was  suppressed. 

We  now  draw  to  the  close  of  one 
of  the  epochs  of  this  great  man's 
j  ublic  career.  He  was  still  under 
the  obligations  of  a  party.  The  Ame- 
rican question  was  fastened  on  him 
I  y  the  hands  of  others,  and  he  drag- 
g  ed  it  on  with  a  vigour  that  redeem- 
td  his  pledge  of  fidelity.  He  perse- 
A  ered  to  the  last  moment,  while 
t  iiere  was  a  hope  of  reconciling  the 
countries,  and  supported  his  re- 
peated proposals  with  an  enthusiasm 
c  f  eloquence  which  held  the  House 
i  i  perpetual  astonishment.  A  speech 
ia  which  he  denounced  the  employ- 
i  lent  of  the  Indian  savages,  as  an  ag- 
gravatiou  of  the  horrors  of  war,  is 
said  to  have  produced  eflects  un- 
equalled by  any  effort  of  modern 
t  ines.  Of  this  speech  there  is  no 
record,  further  than  its  impres- 
sion on  the  House.  On  its  close, 
Colonel  Barre  started  up,  and  de- 
clared, that  if  it  were  but  published, 
be  would  have  it  nailed  up  on  every 
church-door  in  the  kingdom,  by  the 
s  de  of  the  proclamation  for  the  Ge- 
neral Fast,  Sir  George  Saville  pro- 


Burke. 


619 


nouncedinall  quarters,  that  "he  who 
had  not  been  present  on  that  night, 
had  not  witnessed  the  greatest  tri- 
umph of  eloquence  within  memory." 
Governor  Johnstone  solemnly  aver- 
red, that  "  it  was  fortunate  for  the 
Noble  Lords  on  the  Treasury  Bench, 
North  and  Germain,  that  there  were 
no  strangers  present,  (the  gallery 
having  been  cleared,)  as  their  indig- 
nation would  have  roused  the  peo- 
ple in  the  streets  to  tear  them  in 
pieces  on  their  way  home." 

But  an  event  altogether  uncon- 
nected with  the  labours  of  the  British 
Parliament,  suddenly  brought  the 
contests  of  party  to  a  close.  America 
formed  an  alliance  with  France.  The 
war  suddenly  became  hazardous  on 
the  only  side  which  ever  threatens 
the  British  Empire  with  danger. 
From  this  period  success  evidently 
became  too  dear  for  the  price  that  it 
might  be  politic  in  England  to  pay. 
Opposition  was  probably  not  less 
startled  by  this  event  than  Ministers. 
If  party  ever  feels,  it  felt  then,  and 
regretted  the  work  of  its  own  hands. 
The  declaration  of  Colonial  indepen- 
dence was  received  by  the  antago- 
nists of  Administration  with  unequi- 
vocal surprise,  perhaps  with  bitter 
regret.  "  We  must  take  it,"  was  then- 
language  ;  "  but  it  is  not  as  a  matter 
of  choice,  but  of  hard  and  over- 
powering necessity."  Burke  declared, 
that  "  it  made  him  sick  at  heart,  that 
it  struck  him  to  the  soul,  that  he  felt 
the  claim  to  be  essentially  injurious 
to  Great  Britain,  and  one  of  which 
she  could  never  get  rid.  No,  never, 
never,  never!  It  was  not  to  be 
thought  that  he  wished  for  the  inde- 
pendence of  America.  Far  from  it. 
He  felt  it  a  circumstance  exceeding- 
ly detrimental  to  the  fame,  and  ex- 
ceedingly detrimental  to  the  inte- 
rests of  his  country."  Lord  Chatham 
was  equally  full  of  eloquent  remorse: 
He  exclaimed,  that  "  he  could  never 
bring  himself  to  admit  the  indepen- 
dence of  the  Colonies;  that  the  hand 
which  signed  the  concession  might 
as  well  rend  the  jewels  from  the 
British  Crown  at  once;  that  the  sun 
of  England  would  go  down,  never  to 
rise  again."  Such  is  the  sincerity  of 
party,  and  such  sometimes  its  pu- 
nishment Those  great  men  had 
laboured  for  years  to  pull  down  the 
supremacy  which  they  loved,  to  raise 
up  a  revolt  to  the  rank  of  a  triumph, 


620 


Edmund  Burke. 


[April, 


and  give  the  loose  and  desultory  ef- 
forts of  popular  ambition  the  form 
and  consistency  of  Empire.  But 
while  they  contemplated  nothing  be- 
yond the  overthrow  of  the  Minister, 
they  found  that  their  weapons  had 
passed  through  his  shield,  and  struck 
into  the  bosom  of  their  country.  Yet 
the  whole  question  was  destined  to 
expose  the  short-sightedness,  not 
less  than  the  passions  of  party. 
The  blows  struck  at  the  grandeur 
of  England  were  quickly  healed. 
The  separation  of  the  Colonies  was 
found  to  be  the  separation  of  a 
branch  from  a  monarch  of  the  forest, 
which  soon  more  than  recovered  the 
loss  in  its  statelier  strength  and 
loftier  luxuriance.  In  a  few  years 
the  growth  of  the  Colonies  would 
have  been  a  fatal  appendage  to  Eng- 
land; the  mere  patronage  of  their 
offices  must  have  made  the  Minister 
superior  to  the  Constitution.  The 
two  countries  might  have  still  clung 
together,  but  it  would  be  no  longer 
an  union  of  strength,  but  a  common 
consent  in  corruption.  But  the  ar- 
rear  of  evil  must  be  paid  at  last,  and 
the  connexion  would  be  severed, 
and  the  crime  punished  by  some 
fatal  violence,  some  fearful  explo- 
sion, which  might  have  left  of  both 
nothing  but  ruins. 

But  those  were  the  errors  of  party, 
not  of  Burke ;  of  his  noviciate,  not 


of  his  head  or  his  heart ;  of  his  alle- 
giance to  a  political  superior,  not  of 
his  genius,  acting  on  his  ripened 
knowledge  of  the  interests  of  the 
Empire. 

It  is  remarkable  that  as  he  gra- 
dually extricated  himself  from  the 
bonds  of  party,  he  became  not  mere- 
ly a  freer,  but  a  more  enlightened 
statesman.  While  he  continued  in 
the  ranks  of  the  Rockingham  party, 
nothing  but  the  extraordinary  merits 
of  his  public  speaking  could  rescue 
him  from  the  general  cloud  which 
gathered  on  the  fame  of  Opposition. 
Further,  in  the  second  stage  of  his 
political  career,  he  steered  side  by 
side  with  Fox ;  his  rank  as  a  patriot 
was  still  partially  obscured,  and  his 
public  services  were  narrowed, 
wasted,  and  humiliated  by  the  con- 
junction. But  his  time  was  to  come. 
For  sincerity  there  is  always  a  tri- 
umph at  last.  It  was  when  he  hoist- 
ed his  flag  alone,  when  he  steered 
aloof  from  party,  when  abandoning 
the  creeks  and  shallows  of  personal 
policy,  he  boldly  followed  the  im- 
pulse of  his  own  great  mind,  and 
made  the  cause  of  England  his  gui- 
ding star,  that  his  true  character 
became  visible,  and  he  achieved  the 
whole  splendour  of  that  fame,  which, 
from  his  tomb,  still  lightens  on  his 
country. 


J833.] 


On  the  Picturesque  Style  of  Historical  Romance. 


ON  THE  PICTURESQUE  STYLE  OF  HISTORICAL  ROMANCE,  ILLUSTRATED  BY 
SOME  RECENT  FRENCH  WORKS  OF  THAT  DESCRIPTION.* 


WE  recognise,  in  the  lively  style 
and  rich  display  of  historical  know- 
1 ?dge  which  characterise  this  singu- 
]  u-  work,  the  hand  of  the  author  of 
Cinq- Mars,  although  the  .late  Re- 
solution appears  to  have  imparted 
somewhat  of  its  disorganizing  influ- 
ence to  his  imagination.  Instead  of 
narching  steadily  along  in  the  beaten 
track  of  the  historical  novel,  he  in- 
culges  himself  in  sundry  eccentric 
promenades  on  the  neutral  ground 
which  lies  between  philosophy  and 
fction;  a  region  much  trodden  of 
1  ite,  for  the  benefit  both  of  indolent 
writers  and  fastidious  readers,  who 
are  apt  to  be  appalled  almost  equal- 
ly by  the  aspect  of  a  metaphysical 
essay,  and  of  a  complete  three- vo- 
Ijmed  novel,  with  its  apparatus  of 
\  ero,  heroine,  plot,  and  descriptions. 
It  is,  in  fact,  a  half  serious,  half  gro- 
tesque performance,  powerfully  exe- 
cuted in  parts,  but  without  unity  of 
plan  or  of  manifest  purpose,  so  as  to 
laave  no  very  distinct  impression  on 
tiie  mind  of  the  reader.  A  slight 
chain  of  fanciful  narrative  connects 
t  ic  three  tales,  or  scenes,  of  which 
i ;  is  composed  j  intended,  as  the  au- 
t aor  seems  to  intimate,  to  illustrate 
some  determinate  theory  of  society 
rnd  mankind;  but  for  a  more  full 
c  evelopement  of  these  views,  we 
riust  probably  wait  for  a  second 
consultation  of  the  Black  Doctor, 
should  that  redoubtable  personage 
f  ivour  us  with  farther  specimens  of 
1  is  conversation. 

Stello  is  a  young  man  of  wealth 
end  high  connexions,  a  wit  and  a 
I  oet,  and  classed  among  those  indi- 
i  iduals  whom  the  world  terms  hap- 
py,  because  external  circumstances 
seem  to  modify  themselves  to  his 
wish,  as  if  he  were  the  protege  of  a 
fairy  princess  or  a  beneficent  star. 
Yet  Stello  is  unhappy.  He  is  con- 
stitutionally subject  to  the  attacks  of 
t  he  tormentor  of  men  of  genius,  that 
i  end  Legion  whom  we  have  re- 
cently learned  to  designate  by  the 
title  of  Blue  Devils,  and  for  whom, 


strange  to  say,  the  French  have  bor- 
rowed, in  modern  days,  the  appella- 
tion of  "  Le  Spleen,"  by  which  he 
was  known  to  our  grandmothers  in 
the  days  of  George  the  Second.  His 
nervous  fever  preys  upon  his  mind, 
until  all  its  powers  seem  to  desert 
him,  yet  without  impairing  his  na- 
tural goodness  of  heart,  and  a  sensi- 
bility rendered  yet  more  excitable 
by  the  irritated  condition  of  his  sys- 
tem. It  is  in  one  of  the  fits  of  this 
distemper  that  he  communicates  to 
his  friend  and  confident,  the  Black 
Doctor,  a  desperate  resolution  which 
he  has  conceived  of  vanquishing  the 
enemy  by  plunging  into  the  abyss 
of  politics,  and  devoting  his  pen  to 
the  service  of  a  political  cause.  To 
cure  him  of  this  dangerous  mania, 
the  Doctor  relates  three  tales,  intend* 
ed  to  shew  the  sufferings  and  neglect 
which  are  the  portion  of  genius, 
when  it  endeavours  to  lean  on  the 
hollow  support  of  political  power  in 
either  of  its  three  modern  forms— - 
Absolutism,ConstitutionalMonarchy, 
and  Democracy. 

With  the  first  of  these  stories,  the 
"  Histoire  d'une  Puce  Enragee,  a 
Tale  of  the  year  1780,"  we  will  not 
detain  our  readers.  Under  this 
whimsical  title,  we  are  introduced 
to  a  detailed  sketch  of  the  horrible 
end  of  Gilbert,  a  poet  of  talent,  whom, 
for  the  sake  of  effect,  our  author  de- 
lineates as  having  perished  of  actual 
want  in  a  garret  in  Paris  j — a  some- 
what exaggerated  representation  of 
a  lamentable  real  catastrophe.  It  is 
an  extravagant  attempt  to  blend  to- 
gether the  terrible  and  the  ludicrous. 
Since  the  days  of  Childe  Harold  and 
Don  Juan,  too  many  writers  appear 
to  imagine,  that  the  true  mode  to  in- 
terest, or  rather  to  astonish,  the 
reader,  is  to  aim  at  producing  the 
most  startling  contrasts  of  circum- 
stance, and  confounding  the  most 
opposite  extremes  of  human  feeling, 
in  the  same  cold  and  somewhat  sar- 
castic style  of  narrative ;  as  if  each 
component  part  of  our  mixed  liuma- 


*  Stello :    ou,  Les  Consultations  du  Docteur  Noir, 
/igny.     12mo,     Brussels  and  Paris,  1832, 


Par  le  Comte  Alfred  de 


022  On  the  Picturesque  Style 

nity  was  of  equal  value  in  the  eyes 
of  the  calm  anatomical  observer. 
Now,  although  the  Black  Doctor  re- 
presents, we  are  told,  "  the  abstract 
idea  of  Analysis,"  and  his  office  is  to 
ho  moral  ortion  of  man 


with  as  much  indifference  as  he 
would  operate  on  an  actual  subject 
in  a  hospital,  yet  the  reader  can 
scarcely  partake  in  his  impassibility. 
He  can  with  difficulty  pass  from  the 
awful  to  the  ridiculous—  from  Paris 
to  Versailles—  withoutcarrying  away 
from  the  one  a  remnant  of  his  late 
impression,  which  neutralizes  the 
effect  of  the  other.  It  requires  some 
discretion  to  play  the  Mephistophe- 
les  ;  that  favourite  character  of  the 
present  day,  who,  being  supposed  to 
have  run  through  in  his  own  person 
the  circle  of  all  possible  passions 
and  emotions,  has  acquired  a  tho- 
rough knowledge  and  contempt  of 
all.  Therefore,  although  somewhat 
tempted  by  our  author's  lively  de- 
scription of  the  leisure  hours  of 
Louis  XV.,  and  his  sketch  of  the  good 
old  Archbishop  of  Paris,  M.  de  Beau- 
mont, we  will  pass  on  to  the  second 
picture  which  the  physician  places 
before  the  eyes  of  his  patient,  the 
"  History  of  Kitty  Bell,"  or,  in  other 
words,  the  death  of  Chatterton.  The 
portrait  of  the  "  Naive  Anglaise," 
who  is  the  heroine  of  the  tale,  is 
amusingly  drawn.  The  Doctor,  it 
will  be  observed  —  whether  he  be  an 
abstract  idea,  or  a  Magian,  or  the 
Wandering  Jew  —  speaks  always  as 
the  eyewitness  of  the  scenes  which 
he  describes. 

"  Kitty  Bell  was  one  of  those  young 
women,  of  whom  there  are  so  many  in 
England,  even  among  the  common  peo- 
ple. Her  countenance  was  soft,  pale,  and 
oval,  her  figure  tall  and  slender,  with  large 
feet,  and  a  certain  slight  awkwardness  and 
bashfulness  of  manner  which  I  found  full 
of  charms.  From  her  elegant  and  noble 
features,  her  aquiline  nose,  and  her  large 
blue  eyes,  you  would  have  taken  her  for 
one  of  those  beautiful  mistresses  of  Louis 
XIV.  whose  portraits  on  enamel  you  ad- 
mire so  much,  rather  than  for  what  she 
was,  namely,  a  pastry-cook.  Her  little 
shop  was  hard  by  the  two  Parliament 
Houses  ;  and  sometimes  the  members 
would  alight  at  her  door,  and  enter  to  eat 
a  bun  or  a  cheese-cake,  while  they  con- 
tinued their  discussions  on  the  pending 
'  Bill.'  The  husband  of  Kitty  was  one  of 
the  best  saddlers  in  London  ;  and  so  zeal- 


of  Historical  Romance.  [April, 

OU3  in  his  trade,  so  devoted  to  the  im- 
provement of  his  bridles  and  stirrups,  that 
he  scarcely  ever  placed  his  foot  in  the 
shop  of  his  pretty  wife  during  the  day. 
She  was  grave  and  discreet;  he  knew  it 
— he  relied  on  her,  and  I  verily  believed 
that  he  was  safe  iu  doing  so.  On  look- 
ing at  Kitty,  you  would  have  taken  her 
for  the  statue  of  Peace.  Order  and  re- 
pose breathed  in  her  every  gesture  and 
action.  She  leaned  on  her  counter,  and 
rested  her  head  in  a  soft  attitude,  looking 
at  her  two  beautiful  children.  She  cross- 
ed her  arms,  waited  for  customers  witli 
the  most  angelic  patience,  rose  respectfully 
to  receive  them,  answered  precisely  in  the 
words  that  were  wanted,  quietly  wrapped 
in  paper  the  change  which  she  handed  to 
customers ;  and  such,  with  small  excep- 
tions, was  the  whole  of  her  daily  occupa- 
tion." 

We  will  add,  in  the  Author's  own 
language,  the  following  portrait  of 
Chatterton's  well-known  patron,  the 
Lord  Mayor,  Beckford ;  bearing  no 
real  resemblance,  as  will  be  imme- 
diately seen,  to  that  popular  magis- 
trate, who  ventured  personally  to 
address  his  sovereign  with  the  lan- 
guage of  opposition,  but  a  sort  of 
fancy  sketch,  in  the  manner  of  a 
French  sentimental  tourist,  of  the 
fabulous  John  Bull,  who  parades  in 
his  gilt  coach,  and  eats  imaginary 
custard  in  civic  robes. 

"  C'etait  un  digne  '  Gentleman/  exer- 
cant  sa  jurisdiction  avec  gravite  et  poli- 
tesse,  ayant  son  palais  et  ses  grands  di- 
ners, ou  quelquefois  le  Roi  etait  invite, 
et  ou  le  Lord-Maire  buvait  prodigieuse- 
ment  sans  perdre  un  instant  son  admi- 
rable sang-froid.  Tous  les  soirs,  apres 
diner,  il  se  levait  de  table  le  premier, 
vers  huit  heures  du  soir,  allait  lui-mt-me 
ouvrir  la  grand  porte  de  la  salle  a  manger 
aux  femmes  qu'il  avait  re9ues  :  ensuite 
se  rasseyait  avec  tous  les  homines,  et  de- 
ineurait  a.  boirejusqu'a  minuit.  Tousles 
vins  du  globe  circulaient  autour  de  la 
table,  et  passaient  de  main  en  main,  em- 
plissant,  pour  une  seconde,  des  verves  de 
toutes  les  dimensions,  que  M.  Beckfort 
vidait  le  premier  avec  une  egale  indiffe- 
rence. II  parlait  des  affaires  publiques 
avec  le  vieux  Lord  Chatham,  le  Due  de 
Grafton,  le  Comte  de  Mansfield,  aussi  a 
son  aise  apres  la  trentieme  bouteille  qu'a- 
vant  la  premiere,  et  son  esprit  strict, 
droit,  bref,  sec,  et  lourd,  ne  subissait  au- 
cune  alteration  dans  la  soiree.... II  avait 
un  ventre  parresseux,  dedaigneux,  etgour- 
mand,  longuement  emmaillote  dans  une 
veste  Ue  broeart  d'or ;  des  joues  orgueil- 


On  the  Picturesque  Style  of  Historical  Romance. 


JS33.] 

It-uses,  satisfaites,  opulentes,  paternellcs, 
j-endantes  largement  sur  la  cravate  ;  des 
j  a  tubes  solides,  monumentales,  ft  gout- 
teuses,  qui  le  portaient  noblemen  t  d'un 
l>as  prudent,  mais  ferme  et  honorable ; 
une  queue  poudree,  qui  couvraitses  roncles 
ft  larges  epaules,  dignes  de  porter,  comrae 
mi  monde,  la  charge  de  Lord-Mayor. 
Tout  cet  homme  descendit  de  voiture 
lentcment  et  peniblement." 

The  third  tale,  longer  and  more 
complete  than  either  of  the  two  for- 
mer, exemplifies,  we  are  told,  the 


6-23 


ed  wooden  structures — one  the  statue  of 
Liberty,  the  other  the  Guillotine. 

"  The  evening  was  oppressive.  As  the 
sun  slowly  sank  behind  the  trees  under  a 
heavy  purple  cloud,  its  rays  fell  more  and 
more  obliquely  on  the  crowd  of  red  caps 
(bonnets  rouges)  and  black  hats,  reflect- 
ing gleams  of  light  which  gave  to  that 
agitated  multitude  the  aspect  of  a  dark 
sea,  flecked  with  spots  of  blood.  The 
confused  hum  of  their  voices  reached  my 
high  attic  chamber  like  the  voice  of  its 
waves,  and  the  distant  roll  of  the  thun- 
der augmented  this  dreary  illusion.  All 


late  of  genius  in  the  midst  of  popu-    at  once  the  murmur  increased,  and  I  saw 


every  head  and  every  arm  directed  to- 
wards the  Boulevards,  which  were  out  of 
my  sight.  Something  proceeding  from 
that  quarter  excited  their  cries  and  hoot- 
ings.  The  noise  increased  every  moment, 
and  a  louder  sound  gradually  approached 
from  the  other  side,  like  the  roar  of  can- 
non in  the  midst  of  musketry.  A  huge 
wave  of  men  armed  with  pikes  burst  into 
the  wide  sea  of  disarmed  people  which 
occupied  the  Place ;  and  I  saw  at  length 
the  cause  of  this  ominous  tumult.  It  was 
a  waggon  painted  red,  and  laden  with 


lar  violence,  by  the  history  of  the 
brothers  Chenier ;  of  whom  the 
greatest,  the  celebrated  Andre',  fell 
by  the  guillotine  in  the  days  of  Ter- 
ror. But  it  must  be  owned  that  the 
fable  required  to  have  the  moral 
pointed  out  beforehand,  as  few  read- 
ers would  be  apt  to  deduce  this  or 
any  other  general  result  from  the 
series  of  distinct,  disjointed  scenes 
which  the  dramatic  power  of  the 
author  has  placed  before  us  in  this 
performance.  It  contains  a  beauti- 
j'ully  imagined  developement  of  fe- 
male character  in  its  mixed  firmness 
and  frailty,  in  the  portrait  of  Madame 
Saint  Aignan.  The  dialogue  between 
Aiobespierre,  Saint  Just,  and  the 
younger  Che'nier,  is  also  powerfully 
conceived,  and  would  be  more  inte- 
resting if  it  were  not  for  the  constant 
effort  at  the  sarcastic  and  humor- 
ous, with  which  it  is  intermixed,  and 
'he  short,  epigrammatic,  "  saccade," 
style,  which  may  give  piquancy  to 
an  imaginary  conversation  on  gene- 
ral subjects,  but  which  interferes 
very  unseasonably  when  the  mind  is 

engrossed  with  the  interest  of  a  nar-  chariot  was  completely  besieged, 
yative.  We  will,  however,  extract 
no  more  than  the  following  descrip- 
tion of  the  last  execution  under  the 
Gommittee  of  Public  Safety,  when 
ihe  struggle  had  already  begun  in 
che  Convention,  and  the  destinies 
of  France  and  of  her  tyrants  yet 
trembled  in  the  scale,  agitated  by 
die  breath  of  each  successive  orator 
;'rom  the  opposite  sides  of  the  As- 
sembly. 

"  Lost  in  reflection,  I  gazed  from  my 
window  on  those  Tuileries,  ever  royal 
ind  ever  mournful ;  with  their  green 
chestnut  trees,  and  the  long  fa$ade  on 
the  long  terrace  of  the  Feuillans  :  the 
trees  of  the  Champs  Elisees,  all  white 
with  dust ;  the  Place  all  dark  with  human 
heads  j  and  in  the  midst  of  it  two  paint- 


eighty  living  bodies.  All  stood  upright, 
closely  packed  together.  All  ages  and 
sizes  were  huddled  together  in  the  same 
mass;  all  were  bareheaded,  arid  there 
were  among  them  grey  hairs,  bald  heads, 
little  flaxen-haired  polls  reaching  to  the 
waists  of  their  neighbours,  white  gowns, 
labourers'  frocks,  and  the  various  habili- 
ments of  officers,  priests,  and  citizens. 
As  I  have  already  told  you,  this  was  called 
a  "  Fourne*e."  The  load  was  so  heavy 
that  three  horses  could  scarcely  drag  it. 
Besides,  (and  this  occasioned  the  noise,) 
at  every  step  the  carriage  was  stopped  by 
the  people,  with  loud  exclamations.  Ttie 
horses  backed  against  each  other,  the 

Above 

the  heads  of  the  guards,  the  victims 
stretched  out  their  arms  towards  their 
friends.  It  was  like  an  overloaded  vessel 
about  to  founder,  which  those  on  shore 
are  striving  to  save.  At  every  attempt 
of  the  gendarmes  and  the  sans- culottes 
to  move  on,  the  people  uttered  a  loud 
shout,  and  pressed  back  the  percussion 
with  all  the  force  of  their  chests  and  arms. 
As  each  vast  tide  of  men  rolled  on,  the 
car  swayed  about  on  its  wheels  like  a 
vessel  at  anchor,  and  was  almost  lifted 
into  the  air  with  its  load.  I  was  in  con- 
tinual hopes  of  seeing  it  overturned.  My 
heart  beat  violently  :  I  breathed  no  longer: 
My  whole  soul  and  life  were  in  my  eye. 
In  the  exaltation  caused  by  this  grand 
spectacle,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  Earth 
and  Heaven  became  actors  in  it.  From 
time  to  time,  a  single  flash  of  lightning 


624 


On  the  Picturesque  Style  of  Historical  Romance. 


[April, 


came  like  a  signal  from  the  cloud.  The 
black  front  of  the  Tuileries  turned  blood- 
red  :  its  two  great  squ.ire  masses  of  trees 
bent  back  as  if  in  horror  :  then  the  mul- 
titude shouted,  and  after  its  mighty  voice, 
tl.at  of  the  cloud  recommenced  its  me- 
lancholy roll.  I  uttered  unconscious 
cries  :  I  invoked  the  people :  I  cried, 
courage  !  and  then  I  looked  to  see  if  the 
heavens  would  not  take  part  with  them. 
I  exclaimed — Yet  three  days  !  yet  three 
days !  O  Providence  !  O  Destiny  !  O  ye 
unknown,  ineffable  powers !  Thou  God  ! 
ye,  the  Spirits !  the  Masters  !  the  Eter- 
nals !  if  ye  hear — stay  them  for  three 
days  more ! 

"  The  car  continued  its  progress,  slow 
and  interrupted,  but,1  alas !  still  onward. 
The  troops  thickened  around  it.  Between 
the  statue  of  Liberty  and  the  Guillotine 
there  gleamed  a  forest  of  bayonets. 
There,  as  it  seemed,  was  the  port  which 
awaited  the  arrival  of  the  vessel.  The 
people,  tired  of  bloodshed,  and  irri- 
tated as  they  were,  murmured  more,  but 
resisted  less  than  at  first.  My  limbs 

trembled,  my  teeth  chattered 

I  heard  no  more  shouts.  The  motion  of 
the  multitude  had  all  at  once  become  re- 
trograde. The  quays,  hitherto  so  crowded, 
began  to  grow  thinner  of  people.  Masses 
dissolved  into  groups,  groups  into  fami- 
lies, families  into  single  figures.  At  the 
corners  of  the  Place  the  crowds  were 
hurrying  away  in  the  midst  of  a  thick 
dust:  The  women  covered  the  heads 
of  their  children  with  their  robes.  It 
rained  ! 

"  Whoever  has  seen  Pads  will  under- 
stand this.  I  have  seen  it  again,  since, 
on  critical  and  important  occasions.  All 
emotion  was  now  confined  to  those  who 
wished  to  see,  or  wished  to  escape.  No 
one  endeavoured  to  prevent.  The  exe- 
cutioners seized  the  moment.  The  sea 
was  calm,  and  their  dreadful  bark  com- 
pleted its  voyage.  The  guillotine  raised 
its  arm."— Pp.  330—338. 

Our  author  has  depicted  the  de- 
stroying ministers  or  the  Goddess 
Terror,  in  colours  opposed  to  the  re- 
ceived notions,  especially  of  histo- 
rians of  the  school  of  Thiers  and 
Mignet,  as  weak  and  irresolute  men, 
excited  to  continual  murders  by  a 
gnawing  envy  of  all  superiority,  mix- 
ed with  a  constant  fear  for  their  own 
security  from  its  influence,  and  not 
acting  on  any  preconceived  plan. 
But  theirs  were  characters  which  it 
is  not  philosophical  to  confound  and 
class  together.  When  society  is  fairly 
disorganized,  the  weak  and  the  wick- 
ed act  in  concert — the  monster,  who 
from  a  diseased  organization  delight! 


in  destruction — the  fanatic,  who  sa- 
crifices life  to  a  favourite  chimera, 
and  sheds  the  blood  of  others  as  reck- 
lessly as  he  would  devote  his  own — 
the  bold  profligate,  and  the  envious 
assassin,  unite  to  enact  murder  on 
the  same  stage.  Such  were  Marat, 
Saint  Just,Danton,  and  Robespierre. 
The  following  remark  is  worthy  of 
our  observation  : — "  Every  year," 
says  our  author,  "  many  theories 
have  been  made  respecting  these 
men ;  but  this  year,  as  many  have 
been  made  every  day,  because  at  no 
period  have  a  greater  number  of  men 
nourished  stronger  hopes,  or  enjoy- 
ed greater  probabilities  of  resem- 
bling and  imitating  them."— P.  155. 

But  our  present  business  with 
these  Tales  is  not  to  treat  them  with 
respect  to  their  merits  as  works  of 
fiction,  or  as  narratives  of  real  events. 
We  may  therefore  dismiss  them  with 
the  remark,  that  it  seems  to  be  an 
established  maxim  among  writers  of 
the  new  and  picturesque  style  of  his- 
torical romance,  that  literal  truth  in 
matters  of  fact  is  not  only  to  be  laid 
aside  where  it  might  derange  the 
plot,  or  disturb  the  philosophic  unity 
of  the  conception,  but  that  it  should 
be  violated  ad  libitum  by  the  author, 
merely,  like  the  emperors  of  heroic 
tragedy,  "  to  shew  his  arbitrary 
power."  It  will  be  thought,  we  sup- 
pose, strangely  hypercritical  to  ob- 
serve, that  Alderman  Beckford  died 
some  time  before  his  singular  pro- 
t6ge",  whose  witty  debtor  and  credi- 
tor account  on  the  death  of  his  pa- 
tron is  the  best  known  anecdote  in 
his  history;  that  Louis  XV.  could  not 
by  possibility  have  lived  and  reigned 
in  1780,  and  that  Gilbert  died  a  pen- 
sioner of  his  grandson,  Louis  XVI.  It 
is  of  more  importance  to  consider  the 
moral  evidence  which  this  and  simi- 
lar publications  seem  to  afford  us  to 
the  state  of  mind  which  now  prevails 
among  the  literary  world  in  France ; 
and  to  consider  what  prognostics  we 
may  draw  from  thence  as  to  the  fu- 
ture destiny  of  that  mighty  nation—- 
the heart  of  Europe,  which  sends 
forth  its  streams  of  thought  and  pur- 
pose, sometimes  to  quicken  and  some- 
times to  corrupt,  to  the  uttermost 
ends  of  the  civilized  world. 

We  have  heard  much  of  the  disor- 
ganized state  into  which  society  is 
said  to  have  been  thrown  by  the  late 
Revolution  of  which  France  has  been 
thi  theatre.  Yet  when  a  system  poi- 


1833.] 


On  the  Picturesque  Style  of  Historical  Romance. 


sensed  of  no  internal  principle  of  sta- 
bility is  overthrown  by  violence, 
such  a  convulsion  may  rather  be  said 
tc  manifest  the  disunion  and  insecu- 
rity which  previously  existed,  than 
tc  produce  or  aggravate  it.  A  deter- 
mined conservative  spirit  may  deve- 
lope  itself  in  a  nation,  either  where 
there  has  prevailed  a  long  habit  of 
obedience  to  the  laws,  or  where  new 
principles  have  been  suddenly  and 
vehemently  adopted  among  a  whole 
people.  But  a  monarchy  introduced 
as  it  were  by  a  third  party,  institu- 
tions founded  on  foreign  interfe- 
rence, were  ill  calculated  to  acquire 
ardent  defenders.  The  only  auxilia- 
ry which  the  Bourbons  possessed  in 
France,  when  foreign  bayonets  had 
been  withdrawn  from  her  soil,  was 
the  fear  of  revolution  which  prevail- 
ec  among  all  classes  raised  above 
actual  want.  The  cause  of  quiet  and 
public  order,  in  common  times,  is 
sure  to  have  an  influential  majority 
enrolled  in  its  support.  And  it  is  na- 
tural enough  that  the  ruling  powers, 
when  thus  supported,  should  over- 
look the  insecurity  of  the  foundation 
on  which  the  superstructure  of  their 
authority  resti,  and  mistake  negative 
acquiescence  for  active  adhesion. 
Tius  the  governments  which  suc- 
ceeded each  other  during  the  vacil- 
lating period  of  the  Restoration, 
made  no  effort  to  establish  any  de- 
finite principle  of  political  action. 
Provided  the  world  of  France  ap- 
p<  ared  satisfied  that  the  designs  of 
the  "  extreme  left"  were  incompati- 
ble with  orderly  government,  and  that 
the  visions  of  the  "  extreme  right" 
cculd  not  be  realized  in  a  country 
w  icre  popular  doctrines  had  once 
taicen  root — ministers  felt  secure  as 
to  the  ultimate  prospects  of  France, 
ard  intent  only  on  the  minor  strug- 
gles of  party  warfare. 

Then  came  those  years  of  mere 
determined  conflict  which  prece- 
ded the  late  Revolution,  when  the 
Tiers  Etat  had  begun  to  resume  its 
strength,  prostrated  by  successive 
bl  >ws  from  the  armed  hands  of  Na- 
pe leon  and  the  Allies.  In  the  ex- 
ci  ement  produced  by  every  succes- 
sive victory  which  the  opposition 
obtained,  sanguine  rainds  thought 
th;;y  at  length  saw  a  principle.  They 
imagined  that  political  liberty  and 
th«i  old  feeling  of  national  honour 
would  prove  elements  sufficient  to 


625 

reconstitute  society,  when  the  ob- 
noxious tokens  of  conquest  and  feu- 
dality were  removed  together.  Nor, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  there  any 
lack  of  confidence  among  the  writers 
and  thinkers  on  the  Royalist  side. 
They  had  long  suffered  from  the  sus- 
picion and  discord  which  naturally 
arise  among  the  members  of  a  victo- 
rious party.  There  were  among  them 
Ultramontanes  and  Jansenists,  Abso- 
lutists and  Liberals,  men  of  every 
shade  of  religious  and  political  feel- 
ing. These  now  possessed  one  com- 
mon bond  of  union,  the  cause  of  mo- 
narchy ;  and,  from  Delamennais  to 
Chateaubriand,  they  stood  side  by 
side  on  the  defensive,  and  opposed  a 
single  front  of  resistance  to  the 
mighty  host  which  assailed  them. 

The  struggle  was  great  and  impo- 
sing. It  was  ended  by  the  "  ordon- 
nances,"  which  drove  from  the  side  of 
Royalty  more  than  half  its  conscien- 
tious supporters ;  and  by  the  days 
of  the  barricades,  which  terrified  in- 
to neutrality  half  the  professors  of 
Liberalism.  Then  it  became  evi- 
dent to  both  sides,  how  fallacious 
were  those  appearances  of  concord, 
under  which  they  had  so  long  com- 
bated together.  Disunion  and  dis- 
content commenced  alike  among  the 
victorious  and  the  vanquished  party. 
And  the  disgust  of  the  still  united 
portion  of  the  friends  of  liberty,  was 
increased  by  the  turn  which  affairs 
took  immediately  after  the  Revolu- 
tion. It  was  seen  that  the  men  who 
profited  by  that  event,  were  not  the 
men  who  had  actively  concurred  in 
it.  Those  who  found  their  way  to 
office,  it  was  bitterly  said^were  for 
the  most  part  taken  from  the  old 
tribe  of  place-hunters,  who  find  profit 
in  every  change ;  and  their  main  sup- 
port was  the  timidity  of  the  great 
body  of  the  people.  This  must  have 
been  foreseen  by  the  wise ;  nay,  it 
was  clearly  inevitable.  Ministries 
could  not  be  formed  from  among 
the  warlike  artisans  of  Paris,  or  the 
vehement  patriots  of  the  Polytechnic 
School.  Nor  was  it  possible  to  satis- 
fy with  place  or  pension,  all  those 
two  or  three  hundred  politicians 
who  direct  the  ephemeral  opinions 
of  Paris,  through  the  medium  of  its 
journals.  That  the  excluded  should 
attack  their  more  successful  bre- 
thren with  sarcasm  and  abuse,  was 
natural.  But  it  was  somewhat  more 


On  the  Picturesque  Style  of  Historical  Romance.          [April, 


626 

surprising  to  hear  the  general  voice 
of  the  nation  echoing  their  com- 
plaints, and  adopting  the  established 
"  fallacy  of  the  outs;"  that  they  who 
profit  by  a  change,  must  have  been 
insincere  in  their  support  of  it.  So 
unfounded  and  unreasonable  a  cla- 
mour proved  that  there  existed  deep- 
er causes  for  general  discontent. 
Exaggerated  benefits  had  been  ex- 
pected, and  instead  of  them  followed 
losses.  Commercial  distress,  do- 
mestic agitation,  peril  of  foreign  war, 
pressed  heavily  on  the  people.  Those 
who  had  expected  the  most,  ever  in 
extremes,  now  saw  only  despair  in 
the  future.  Every  system  had  been 
tried  in  France ;  all,  they  said,  had 
failed,  because  none  had  realized  the 
expected  Utopia.  There  was  nothing 
more  to  look  forward  to;  for  the  pa- 
tient had  fairly  exhausted  all  the 
pharmacopoeia  of  the  Constitution- 
mongers.  "  Nous  voulons  la  liberte," 
says  the  Prince  de  Polignac,  reason- 
ing from  his  prison  at  Ham,  on  the 
aspect  of  affairs,  "  mais  nous  ne  vou- 
lons ni  de  la  liberte  sanglante  de  la 
Convention,  ni  de  la  liberte'  corrom- 
pue  du  Directoire,  ni  de  la  liberte 
chimerique  de  1'  Empire,  ni  de  la 
liberte  de  la  Restauration,  qu'on  pre'- 
tend  avoir  ete  insuffisante :  Ainsi 
depuis  40  ans  nous  nous  e'gorgeons 
pour,  apres  tout,  ne  pas  trouver  ce 
que  nous  cherchons."  It  seemed  as 
if  the  bold  historical  theory  of  the  St 
Simonians  was  receiving  its  accom- 
plishment. The  critical  or  destruc- 
tive character  of  the  era  was  develo- 
ping itself  more  fully  than  ever.  It 
had  overthrown  successively  all  sys- 
tems and  all  institutions.  Where 
was  the  new  constructive  principle 
to  be  found,  whose  discovery,  ac- 
cording to  the  above  mentioned 
theory,  was  shortly  to  be  expected  ? 
Mere  political  liberty,  it  is  now  an 
admitted  maxim,  is  insufficient  to  re- 
generate a  nation.  In  the  meantime 
Doubt  reigned,  and  still  presides.  A 
disposition  to  exaggerate  the  disor- 
ders of  society,  and  yet  to  d«ride 
with  the  fiercest  sarcasm,  all  the  re- 
medics  which  have  been  proposed 
for  its  relief,  is  one  of  the  chief  cha- 
racteristics of  the  French  writers  of 
the  present  day. 

The  effect  produced  upon  litera- 
ture, not  merely  of  the  argumenta- 
tive, but  imaginative  class,  is  one  of 
the  most  lamentable  results  of  this 


state  of  disgust  and  scepticism.  The 
Theatre  and  Romance  are,  in  modern 
days,  the  two  habitual  resources  of 
those  who  desire  mental  excitement. 
All  common  stimulants  are  now  in- 
sufficient. Under  the  Bourbons,  a 
covert  allusion  to  Jesuitism  or  Roy- 
alty— a  slight  tincture  of  profaneness 
or  ribaldry,  was  spice  enough  to  sea- 
son a  theatrical  piece  for  the  vulgar 
palate.  Now,  the  dose  must  be  quin- 
tupled to  produce  the  same  effect. 
We  see  by  the  daily  papers,  that  the 
hero  and  heroine,  who  divide  public 
interest  on  the  Parisian  stage  at  this 
moment,  are  Faublas  and  Lucrezia 
Borgia.  The  same  rule  holds  good 
in  the  Romance.  The  most  mon- 
strous and  refined  imaginations  of  sen- 
suality— modern  sensuality,  which 
differs  from  that  of  Laclos  and  Lou~ 
vet,  as  Byron  differs  from  Casti,  in 
the  robe  of  mystical  enthusiasm  in 
which  it  delights  to  envelope  itself — 
characterise  the  most  popular  wri- 
tings which  have  issued  from  the 
Parisian  press  since  1830.  The  ex- 
tent of  the  mischief  is  nowhere  more 
forcibly  depicted  than  in  a  little  work 
of  Salvandi,  (de  la  Revolution  et  des 
Revolutionnaires,)  in  which  that  wri- 
ter, one  of  the  most  influential  of  the 
Liberal  class  before  1830,  pronoun- 
ces a  sort  of  palinode  against  his  for- 
mer coadjutors.  If  the  public,  in  its 
appetite  for  excitement,  has  been 
rightly  compared  to  the  dram-drink- 
er, that  of  modern  Paris  seems  near- 
ly to  have  arrived  at  the  same  envi- 
able condition  with  the  Turkish  eater 
of  corrosive  sublimate,  to  whom  the 
most  violent  of  poisons  became  an 
ordinary  stimulant. 

Not  that  the  contamination  of  mo- 
ral scepticism  has  reached  the  higher 
and  more  meritorious  class  of  French 
writers.  On  the  contrary,  there  ne- 
ver was  a  period  when  mere  mate- 
rialism was  less  popular  among  them. 
Yet  something  of  the  "malaise"  and 
languor  incident  to  disbelief  appears 
in  almost  all.  The  writer  of  the 
work  from  which  we  have  made 
the  above  extracts  is  far  too  right- 
thinking  not  to  respect  religion  and 
the  bases  of  private  morality;  yet  if 
there  be  any  purpose  in  the  connex- 
ion of  the  singular  scenes  which  he 
presents  to  his  readers,  it  is  to  show 
that  no  political  or  social  system 
presents  an  aspect  of  permanency ; 
that  society  is  without  hope  of  re- 


1  833  ]  On  the  Picturesque  Style 

nevval,  unless  it  be  first  subjected  to 
an  entire  decomposition.  Synthesis, 
or  the  habit  of  reasoning  from  as- 
Mimed  principles,  is,  we  are  told,  the 
t  rror  of'  enthusiasts.  Analysis  is  the 
weapon  of  the  wise.  His  duty  is 
t-lenchtic  :—  to  refute  the  errors  of 
others — to  prove  that  all  general 
theories  are  at  variance  with  some 
individual  facts.  Yet,  by  a  natural 
contradiction,  the  disbeliever  in  all 
systems  looks  back  with  a  feeling  of 
regret  to  the  period  when  systems 
prevailed.  The  Rights  of  Man  were 
a  fallacy;  but  they  were  conscien- 
tiously believed.  The  glory  of  "  les 
j  >urs  de  lagrande  epee"  was  a  fal- 
lacy  ;  but  how  enviable  the  feelings 
of  its  undoubting  and  exalted  follow- 
ers! Take  the  following  animated 
passage : — 

"  Lorsque  le  drapeau  blanc  de  la 
Vendee  marchait  au  vent  centre  le  dra- 
peau tricolore  de  la  Convention,  tons 
deux  etaient  loyalenaent  i'expression 
d'une  idee  :  1'un  voulait  dire  bien  nette- 
nient,  Monarchic,  Heredite,  Carholi- 
c  sme;  1'autre,  Republique,  Egalite,  Rai- 
son  Humaine:  leurs  plis  de  sole  cla- 
quaient  dans  1'air  au  dessus  des  epees, 
comme  uu  dessus  des  canons  se  faisaient 
e  itendre  les  chants  enthousiastt-s  des 
voix  males,  sortis  de  coeurs  bieu  convain- 
cas:  Henri  Quatre, — La  Marseillaise,. — 
s  •  lieurtaierit  dans  1'air  comme  les  faux 
e<:  les  baioriettes  sur  la  terre.  C'etaient 
Iji  des  drapeaux!  O  temps  de  riegout  et 
di  paleur,  tu  n'en  as  plus  !  N'aguere  le 
b  mic  voulait  dire  Charte  :  aujourd'hui  le 
tricolore  veut  dire  Charte.  Le  blanc 
e  ait  devenu  un  peu  rouge  et  bleu,  le 
tricolore  est  devenu  un  peu  blanc.  Leur 

nuance  est  insaisissable Dans 

notre  siecle,  je  vous  le  dis,  1'uniforme 
Si  ra  un  jour  ridicule,  comme  la  guerre 
est  passee.  Le  soldat  sera  deshabille 
cjmme  le  medecin  1'a  ete  par  Moliere,  et 
cti  sera  peut-erre  un  bien.  Tout  sera 
range  sous  un  habit  noir  comme  le  mien. 
Les  revokes  n'auront  pas  d'etendard. 
I'emandez  a  Lyon." 

Want  of  faith,  want  of  conviction, 
the  absence  of  every  strong  element 
of  thought  and  action,  which  might 


of  Historical  Romance. 


627 


produce  unity  of  purpose  among 
citizens — these  are  the  complaints 
re-echoed  in  almost  every  page 
which  issues  from  the  pens  of  the 
more  reflective  class  of  French  wri- 
ters. From  Voltaire  downwards,  the 
great  school  of  Paris  has  applied  it- 
self perseveringly  to  the  task  of  strip- 
ping life  of  all  its  illusions,  (if  such 
they  were,)  and  striking  oft',  by  de- 
grees, every  secondary  motive  which 
could  actuate  the  mind  of  man — as 
unprofitable  and  absurd— until  that 
primary  motive  —  self-interest  — 
stands  alone  in  unadorned  hideous- 
ness.  They  have  performed  for  so- 
cial morality  what  the  academicians 
of  old  did  for  philosophy,  when  they 
began  by  combating  the  dogmatic 
sects  which  preceded  them,  and  end- 
ed by  denying  the  certainty  of  all 
which  was  not  evident  to  external 
sense.  And  now — 

"  Come  quei,  che  con  lena  affanata 
Uscito  t'uor  del  pelago  alia  riva 
Si  volge  all'  acqua  perigliosa,  e  guata"— 

they  look  back  on  the  wreck  of  their 
past  creeds,  shattered  amidst  the 
ocean  of  doubt  which  they  have  tra- 
versed, and  despair  of  finding  mate- 
rials to  construct  a  new  one.  But  to 
enter  into  a  discussion  as  to  the  one 
thing  wanted  in  France,  without 
which  all  such  efforts  would  be  of  no 
avail,  would  be  too  grave  and  import- 
ant a  purpose  for  our  present  pages. 
We  shall,  however,  have  done  some 
service,  if  we  can  direct  the  atten- 
tion of  a  single  reader  to  the  manner 
in  which  this  topic  is  treated  by  the 
Rev.  Hugh  Rose,  in  a  sermon  lately 
published,  with  an  introduction  con- 
cerning the  Saint  Sirnonians,  and 
their  views  of  religion  and  economy. 
It  is  the  work  of  one  who  unites  to 
theological  learning  an  accomplish- 
ment much  rarer  among  our  divines 
— considerable  knowledge  of  the  ac- 
tual spirit  and  habits  of  thought 
which  prevail  in  other  countries  be- 
side his  own. 


VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.   CCVII. 


628 


Traditions  of  the.  Rabbins. 


[April, 


TRADITIONS  OF  THE  RABBINS. 


THE  chief  portion  of  the  Rabbinical 
fantasies  are  derived  from  Indian  fa- 
bles ;  and  among  those  the  transmi- 
gration of  souls  seems  to  have  made 
the  most  powerful  impression.  It  is 
singular,  that  this  doctrine,  utterly 
unsupported  as  it  is  by  any  approach 
to  evidence, should haveyet  prevailed 
among  a  vast  multitude,  or  rather  the 
great  majority,  of  ancient  mankind  ; 
and  the  question  is  still  dubious,  to 
which  of  the  three  most  learned  and 
investigating  nations  of  antiquity  the 
doctrine  is  first  due.  It  belonged  at 
once  to  India,  Egypt,  and  Greece. 
Yet  its  origin  may  probably  be  traced 
to  India,  and  there  to  some  of  those 
corruptions  of  the  primal  revelation, 
and  of  the  second  birth  of  mankind, 
the  spirit  transmitted  from  the  ante- 
diluvian race  into  the  descendants  of 
Noah,  the  representative  of  the  first 
man,  and  beginner  of  a  neve  patriar- 
chal line.  Tne  doctrine,  too,  served 
the  purpose  of  offering  an  apparent 
explanation  of  that  mysterious  Pro- 
vidence by  which  the  guilty  some- 
times exhibit  striking  examples  of 
prosperity.  It  further  gave  some 
equally  obscure  hope  of  an  explana- 
tion of  the  uses,  partial  sufferings, 
and  general  degradation,  of  the  lower 
animal  creation.  The  transfer  of  the 
BOU!  of  a  tyrant  to  the  body  of  a  tiger 
seemed  not  unnatural ;  of  the  gl  uttou's 
to  the  hog,  or  the  robber's  to  the 
wolf,  the  vulture,  or  the  hysena ;  all 
displayed  a  species  of  natural  justice 
which  might  gradually  render  the 
transmigration  probable  to  the  quick 
and  figurative  fancies  of  the  East. 
Their  style  of  expression,  too,  the 
forms  and  emblems  by  which,  in  the 
early  rudeness  of  penmanship,  they 
laboured  to  describe  moral  and  men- 
tal qualities,  tended  to  reinforce  the 
doctrine.  The  outline  of  a  dog  ex- 
pressed the  persevering  or  the  faith- 
ful, the  lion  characterised  the  bold, 
or  the  eagle  gave  the  natural  con- 
ception ot  lofty  aspirings  and  indo- 
mitable ardour.  For  this  doctrine 
the  Rabbinical  name  is  GiUjul  Nesha- 
methy  (the  revolving  of  souls.) 

Butthe  Rabbins  sometimes  deform 
the  poetical  part  of  this  conception 
by  their  absurd  habits  of  particular- 
izing. In  the  Nishmeth  Chajim  we 


are  thus  told,  that  the  soul  of  the 
man  who  transgresses  by  attempt- 
ing to  provoke  another  to  anger, 
passes  inevitably  into  a  beast.  Those 
who  were  engaged  in  the  rebellion 
at  the  building  of  Babel,  were  punish- 
ed by  three  judgments.  The  best 
among  them  were  punished  by  the 
confusion  of  tongues.  The  second 
rank,  or  those  who  attempted  to  set 
up  the  idol,  were  sent  to  inhabit  cats 
and  monkeys.  The  third,  more  am- 
bitious and  more  impious,  who  at- 
tempted to  scale  the  heavens  and 
assault  the  divine  throne  with  earthly 
weapons,  were  flung  down  from  their 
height,  and  transformed  into  evil 
spirits,  whose  torment  is,  to  be  al- 
ways in  restless  and  agonizing  mo- 
tion. A  prevailing  cabalistic  doc- 
trine is  the  transmigration  of  the  hu- 
man spirit  into  cattle.  But  this  de- 
pends on  the  degree  of  guilt.  "  If  he 
hath  committed  one  sin  more  than 
the  number  of  his  good  works,"  he 
must  undergo  transmigration.  The 
soul  of  the  man  who  thinks  on  his 
good  works,  is  the  more  fortunate ; 
for  though  her  must  undergo  the  de- 
gradation of  passing  into  the  form  of 
a  beast,  yet  it  is  of  a  clean  or  ru- 
minant one.  But  the  soul  of  the  pro- 
fligate, or  theshedder  of  blood,  passes 
into  an  unclean  beast,  the  camel,  the 
rabbit,  or  the  hog.  The  sensualist  is 
generally  condemned  to  the  form  of 
a  reptile. 

Rabbinism  has  continued  full  of 
trivial  observances ;  and  the  Jew  of 
the  present  day  is  harassed  with  a 
weight  of  ceremonies,  which  exceed 
the  heaviest  burdens  of  the  ancient 
law.  This  yoke  he  has  laid  upon 
himself.  A  rigour,  worthy  of  the 
Pharisee,  is  exercised  in  minute  and 
perpetual  triflings  worthy  of  a  child. 
One  of  those  ordinances,  which  pass 
through  every  portion  of  Jewish  so- 
ciety, relates  to  the  smoothness  of 
their  knife-blades.  The  knife  with 
which  the  Jew  puts  bird  or  beast  to 
death,  must  be  without  jags  or  not- 
ches of  any  kind.  TheAvoctathHakko- 
desh  assigns  the  important  reason — 
"Sometimes  the  soul  of  a  righteous 
man  is  found  in  a  clean  beast  or 
fowl.  The  Jews  are  therefore  com- 
manded to  have  their  killing-knives 


1833.] 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


without  notches,  to  the  end  that  they 
may  give  as  little  pain  as  possible  to 
the  souls  contained  therein." 

The  treatise  Ginek  Hammelech 
fives  the  following  instance  of  the 
j;enal  effect  of  the  transmigration  as 
detailed  by  the  Rabbi  Mosche  Gal- 
1  tnte,  chief  judge  of  Jerusalem. 
'•  When,  in  the  first  ages  of  Israel,  the 
llabbi  Isaac  Luija — blessed  be  his 
memory  ! — was  passing  through  the 
Holy  Land,  he  carne  faint  and  weary 
to  a  grove  of  olives,  and  there  laid 
Mm  down.  He  said  to  the  Rabbi 
Mosche,  *  Here  let  us  rest;'  but  the 
Jlabbi  would  not,  for  he  looked 
lound,  and  the  place  whereon  they 
lay  was  a  grave  of  the  wicked.  But 
the  Rabbi  Isaac,  pointing  to  a  tree 
above,  on  which  sat  a  raven  loudly 
<  roaking,  said,  *  There  is  no  spirit  in 
this  grave.  Dost  thou  not  remem- 
ber Nismath,  the  extortioner  of  the 
<;ityr" — *I  remember  him  well,'  an- 
f  wered  the  Rabbi  Mosche;  'he  was 
the  grand  collector  of  the  customs, 
jind  was  cursed  every  day  he  lived  for 
Ms  cruelty.  He  robbed  the  rich  and 
he  trampled  on  the  poor,  the  old  he 
deprived  of  their  property,  and  the 
young  of  their  inheritance.  May  his 
name  be  black  as  night,  and  his  me- 
mory be  buried  deep  as  the  bottom 
of  the  sea.' — *  He  is  sorry  enough 
now  tor  his  oppression,'  said  the 
Rabbi  Isaac  Lurja.  *  The  King  of 
Judgment  hath  sentenced  his  evil  soul 
to  be  imprisoned  in  the  body  of  that 
raven,  and  its  complainings  are  its 
sorrows  for  its  state,  and  its  suppli- 
cations to  me  to  pray  for  its  release.' 
— '  And  wilt  thou  pray  for  the  son  of 
ivil  ?'  asked  the  Rabbi  Mosche. — 
Sooner  will  I  pray  that  this  staff  be 
;he  serpent  of  the  magician,'  answer- 
id  Rabbi  Isaac;  and  thereupon  rising, 
le  flung  it  at  the  raven,  which,  with  a 
yell  of  fury,  waved  its  wings,  and 
shot  up  in  agony  into  the  bosom  of 
.he  clouds." 

But,  even  in  its  original  state,  the 
soul,  according  to  the  Rabbins,  is 
under  a  multiform  shape.  They  hold 
Lhat  the  human  soul  has  no  less  than 
ive  different  forms  or  stages.  "  The 
irst  is  the  Nephesh,  the  bodily  soul. 
The  second  is  the  Ruach,  the  spirit. 
The  third  is  the  Neahama,  the  more 
celestial  soul.  The  fourth,  the  Chaja, 
:he  life.  The  fifth'  is  the  Jechida, 
-he  solitary.  And  those  divisions  have 
;heir  appropriate  occasions  and  uses, 


629 

every  remarkable  period  of  human 
existence  requiring  a  due  reinforce- 
ment of  the  soul,  as  a  principle.  "  In 
the  working  and  week  days,  between 
the  new  moon  and  the  feast-day, 
thou  must  be  content  with  having  the 
Nephesh.  On  the  Feast-day  comes 
the  Ruach.  On  the  day  of  Atone- 
ment comes  the  Neshama.  On  the 
Sabbath  comes  the  Chaja,  or  super- 
numerary soul,  and  in  the  final  and 
future  life  of  happiness  comes  the 
Jechida."  The  tenet,  that  on  the 
Sabbath  man  receives  an  additional 
soul,  is  established  among  the  Rab- 
bins. But  the  extravagance  of  those 
conceptions  is  occasionally  qualified 
among  the  later  commentators  by  the 
explanation,  that  those  diversities  of 
the  human  spirit  simply  mean  the 
gradual  advance  of  the  soul  from 
excellence  to  excellence  in  the 
course  of  prayer,  and  the  study  of 
divine  things. 

By  a  singular  improvement  on  the 
pagan  doctrine  of  the  metempsycho- 
sis, there  is  also  a  reverse  change  of 
bodies ;  and  the  spirit  which  had  in- 
habited the  form  of  a  wild  beast,  be- 
comes occasionally  the  inhabitant  of 
the  human  shape.  The  tenet  of  the 
famous  Rabbi  Lurja,  in  the  treatise 
Ginek  Hummelech,  is,  that  the  violen- 
ces and  follies  so  conspicuous  and 
unaccountable  on  human  grounds, 
in  certain  individuals,  are  explained 
by  this  transmission.  The  vulture, 
the  panther,  the  'jackal,  the  fox, 
transmit  their  spirits  into  men,  and 
thence  we  obviously  derive  the  glut- 
tonous, the  rapacious,  the  base,  the 
crafty,  the  whole  train  of  the  profli- 
gate and  the  mischievous  of  man- 
kind ;  the  race  whom  no  precept  can 
guide,  no  fear  can  restrain,  and  no 
principle  can  regulate;  the  whole 
lineage  of  the  desperate  and  imprac- 
ticable among  men. 

Such  are  the  doctrines  in  their 
ruder  state.  But  they  sometimes 
take  a  finer  and  more  fanciful  shape, 
and  rise  into  the  boldness  and  ima- 
gery of  Oriental  fiction.  "  What," 
says  the  Shaar  Aikkune,  "  is  the  fall 
of  the  guiltiest  of  the  guilty;  of 
those  who  have  made  themselves 
abominable  in  the  sight  of  earth  and 
heaven;  of  those  who  have  exulted 
in  their  sins;  of  the  man  who  has 
slain  a  son  of  Israel ;  of  the  apostate 
who  has  denied  the  supremacy  of  the 
religion  of  Israel  over  all  other  reli- 


(>30 


TrudMuns  of  the  Rabbins. 


[April, 


gions  of  the  earth  ;  of  the  spy  who 
has  betrayed  a  Jew,  or  a  community 
of  Jews  ?  Shall  they  ascend  to  hea- 
ven ;  shall  they  be  worthy  to  plant 
their  steps  in  the  courts  of  the  pa- 
laces of  the  angels  ?  No  ;  the  angels 
are  their  punishers ;  they  utter  the 
sentence  of  ruin  against  them  ;  they 
drive  them  downward,  and  summon 
a  band  of  evil  spirits  to  chase  them 
round  the  world.  The  dark  torment- 
ors rush  after  them,  with  goads  and 
whips  of  fire ;  their  chase  is  cease- 
less ;  they  hunt  them  from  the  plain 
to  the  mountain,  from  the  mountain 
to  the  river,  from  the  river  to  the 
ocean,  from  the  ocean  round  the 
circle  of  the  earth.  Thus  the  tor- 
mented fly  in  terror,  arid  the  tor- 
mentors follow  in  vengeance,  until 
the  time  decreed  is  done.  Then  the 
doomed  sink  into  dust  and  ashes. 
Another  beginning  of  existence,  the 
commencement  of  a  second  trial, 
awaits  them.  They  become  clay, 
they  take  the  nature  of  the  stone 
and  of  the  mineral ;  they  are  water, 
fire,  air ;  they  roll  in  the  thunder ; 
they  float  in  the  cloud  ;  they  rush  in 
the  whirlwind.  They  change  again. 
They  enter  into  the  shapes  of  the 
vegetable  tribes  ;  they  live  in  the 
shrub,  the  flowerr  and  the  tree. 
Ages  on  ages  pass  in  their  transfor- 
mations ;  they  wither ;  they  are  toss- 
ed by  the  tempest;  they  are  tram- 
pled by  man;  they  are  smote  by 
the  axe  ;  they  are  consumed  by  fire. 
Another  change  comes ;  they  enter 
into  the  shape  of  the  beast,  the  bird, 
the  fish,  the  insect;  they  traverse 
the  desert,  they  destroy,  and  are  de- 
stroyed ;  they  soar  into  the  clouds  ; 
they  shoot  through  the  depths  of  the 
ocean;  they  burrow  their  invisible 
way  through  the  recesses  of  the 
earth  ;  they  come  by  devouring  mil- 
lions in  the  locust;  they  sting  in  the 
scorpion ;  they  crumble  away  the 
roots  of  vegetation  in  the  hosts  of 
the  ant;  they  destroy  the  promise 
of  the  year  in  the  caterpillar;  they 
drive  the  flocks  and  herds  into  fa- 
mine and  madness  in  the  hornet  and 
the  fly  zebib.  They  at  last  are  suf- 
fered to  ascend  into  the  rank  of  hu- 
man beings  once  more.  Yet  their 
ascent  is  step  by  step.  They  are 
first  slaves;  they  see  their  first  light 
in  the  land  of  misery.  The  African 
or  the  Asiatic  sun  scorches  them  by 


day  ;  they  are  frozen  with  the  dews 
of  the  night;  they  live  in  perpetual 
toil ;  their  frames  are  lacerated  with 
the  scourge  ;  their  steps  clank  with 
the  chain ;  their  souls  faint  within 
them  in  hopeless  misery,  till  they 
long  to  die.  At  last  they  die,  and 
again  commence  life  in  a  higher 
rank;  they  are  now  free,  but  they 
cultivate  a  sterile  soil ;  they  are 
impoverished,  trampled,  tortured  by 
tyrant  rulers ;  they  are  dragged  to 
war  by  fierce  ambition ;  they  are 
pursued,  starved,  ruined  by  furious 
war;  they  are  thrown  into  dun- 
geons ;  they  are  banished:  and  above 
all,  their  souls  are  degraded  by  the 
darkness  of  superstitions  bathed  in 
blood.  They  are  bowed  down  to 
idols  which  they  dread,  while  they 
despise ;  they  repeat  prayers  to 
things  which  they  know  to  be  the 
work  of  men's  hands,  stocks  and 
stones,  which  yet  from  infancy  they 
have  taught  themselves  to  adore ; 
and  thus  drag  on  life  in  torture  of 
mind,  in  shame,  the  twilight  of 
truth,  and  the  bewilderment  of  ig- 
norance; they  worship  with  their 
lips,  yet  scorn  with  their  hearts. 
But  their  scorn  breaks  forth;  they 
are  grasped  by  power  ;  they  resist ; 
they  are  dragged  to  the  rack  and  the 
flame;  they  are  slain.  The  final 
change  is  now  come.  They  are  Israel- 
ites. They  have  risen  into  the  fir^t 
class  of  mankind  ;  they  are  of  the  cho- 
sen people;  the  sons  of  Abraham,  to 
whom  has  been  given  the  promise 
of  universal  dominion.  Joy  to  them 
unspeakable,  if  they  hold  their  rank ; 
misery  tenfold  if  they  fall,  for  their 
fall  now  will  be  without  redemption." 

Those  are  the  theories,  and  they 
bear  evidence  of  that  mixture  of 
Greek  philosophy  and  Asiatic  inven- 
tion, which  forms  the  romance  of 
the  early  ages.  But  they  are  some- 
times embodied  into  narratives  of 
singular  imagination.  The  Thousand 
and  One  Nights  are  rivalled,  and  the 
Sultana  Scheherazade  might  find 
some  of  her  originality  thrown  into 
the  shade  by  those  tales.  The  wi- 
dow of  Hebron  is  an  example. 

"  The  Rabbi  Joseph,  the  son  of 
Jehoshapbat,  had  been  praying  from 
noon  until  the  time  of  the  going 
down  of  the  sun,  when  a  messenger 
from  the  chief  of  the  Synagogue  of 
Hebron  came  to  him,  and  besought 


\  833.] 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


631 


li  La  to  go  forth  and  pray  for  a  wo- 
man who  was  grievously  tormented. 
The  Rabbi,  ever  awake  to  the  call  of 
human  sorrow,  rose  from  his  knees, 
:*irt  his  robe  round  him,  and  went 
orth.  The  messenger  led  him  to  a 
juilding  deep  in  the  forest  that  grew 
on  the  south  side  of  the  hill  of  He- 
bron. The  building  had  more  the 
jook  of  the  palace  of  one  of  the 
princes  of  Israel  than  of  a  private 
dwelling.  But  if  its  exterior  struck 
the  gaze  of  the  Rabbi,  its  apartments 
excited  his  astonishment.  He  passed 
through  a  succession  of  halls  wor- 
thy of  the  days  of  the  first  Herod, 
when  Jerusalem  raised  her  head 
rgain  after  the  ruin  of  Antiochus, 
when  her  long  civil  wars  were  past, 
end  she  had  become  once  more  the 
itiost  magnificent  city  of  the  eastern 
world.  Marble  columns,  silken  veils 
suspended  from  the  capitals  of  the 
pillars,  tissues  wrought  with  the  em- 
broidery of  Sidon,  and  coloured 
with  the  incomparable  dyes  of  Caesa- 
rsa,  vases  of  Armenian  crystal,  and 
tibles  of  Grecian  mosaic,  filled  cham- 
bers, in  which  were  trains  of  attend- 
ants of  every  climate,  Ethiopian,  In- 
dian, Persian,  and  Greek,  all  habited 
in  the  richest  dresses.  All  that  met 
the  eye  wore  an  air  of  the  most 
sumptuous  and  habitual  magnifi- 
cence. The  Rabbi,  however,  had 
but  a  short  time  for  wonder,  before 
ha  was  summoned  to  the  chamber 
of  the  sick  person.  But  all  the  cost- 
liness that  he  had  seen  before  was 
e olipsed  by  the  singular  brilliancy  of 
this  apartment;  it  was  small,  and 
e  /idently  contrived  for  the  secluded 
hours  of  an  individual ;  but  every 
tl  ing  was  sumptuous,  all  gold  or 
pearl,  amber  or  lapislazuli.  And  in 
tl.e  midst  of  this  pomp,  reclined,  half 
sitting,  half  lying,  on  huge  pillows 
oi'Shiraz  silk,  a  female,  whose  beau- 
ty, in  all  the  languor  of  pain,  riveted 
even  the  ancient  eye  of  the  pious 
Rabbi.  The  sufferer  was  young; 
b  it  the  flush  that  from  time  to  time 
b;  oke  across  her  countenance,  and 
tlen  left  it  to  the  paleness  of  the 
gi  ave,  shewed  that  she  was  on  the 
v<Tge  of  the  tomb.  The  Rabbi 
was  famous  for  his  knowledge  of 
h«Tbs  and  minerals,  and  he  offered 
LIT  some  of  those  medicaments 
wftich  he  had  found  useful  in  arrest- 
in  »  the  progress  of  decay.  The 
dying  beauty  thanked  him,  and  said 


in  a  faint  voice  that  slie  had  im- 
plored his  coming,  not  to  be  cured 
of  a  disease  which  she  knew  to  be 
fatal,  but  to  disburden  her  mind  of 
a  secret  which  had  already  hung 
heavy  on  her,  and  which  must  ex- 
tinguish her  existence  before  the 
morn.  The  Rabbi,  on  hearing  this, 
besought  her  to  make  him  the  depo- 
sitary of  her  sorrow,  if  he  could 
serve  her ;  but  if  he  could  not,  for- 
bade her  to  tell  him  what  might 
hang  darkly  on  the  memory  of  a  man 
of  Israel.  '  I  am  the  daughter,'  said 
she,  *  of  your  friend  the  Rabbi  Ben 
Bechai,  whose  memory  be  blessed, 
but  the  widow  of  a  prince,  the  de- 
scendant of  Ishmael.  You  see  the 
riches  in  this  house  ;  but  they  are  not 
the  riches  of  the  sons  of  the  Desert. 
They  were  desperately  gained,  bit- 
terly enjoyed,  and  now  they  are 
repented  of  when  it  is  too  late.' 
As  the  lovely  being  spoke,  her 
countenance  changed;  she  suddenly 
writhed  and  tossed  with  pain,  and 
in  her  agony  cried  out  words  that 
pierced  the  holy  man's  ears  with  ter- 
ror. He  cast  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
and  prayed,  and  was  strengthened. 
But  when  he  looked  up  again,  an 
extraordinary  change  had  come  upon 
the  woman's  countenance.  Its  pale- 
ness was  gone,  her  cheeks  were 
burning,  her  hollow  eyes  were  dart- 
ing'strange  light;  her  lips,  which 
had  been  thin  and  faded  as  the  fall- 
ing leaf,  were  full,  crimson,  and  qui- 
vering with  wild  passion  arid  magic 
energy.  The  Rabbi  could  not  be- 
lieve that  he  saw  the  dying  woman 
by  whose  side  he  had  so  lately  knelt, 
in  the  fierce  and  bold,  yet  still  beau- 
tiful creature,  that  now  gazed  full 
and  fearless  upon  him.  '  You  see 
me  now,'  said  she,  *  with  surprise  ; 
but  these  are  the  common  changes 
of  my  suffering.  The  deadly  disease 
that  is  sinking  me  to  the  dust,  thus 
varies  its  torment  hour  by  hour; 
but  I  must  submit  and  suffer.'  The 
Rabbi  knew  by  those  words  that 
the  woman  was  tormented  with  an 
evil  spirit.  Upon  this  he  sent  for  a 
famous  unction,  which  had  been 
handed  down  to  him  from  his  an- 
cestor the  Rabbi  Joseph,  who  had 
been  physician  to  King  Herod  the 
Great,  and  had  exorcised  the  evil 
spirit  out  of  the  dying  king.  On  its 
being  brought,  he  anointed  the  fore- 
head of  the  woman,  her  eyes,  and  the 


632 


I'raditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


[April, 


tips  of  her  fingers.  Heathen  made  a 
fire  of  citron  wood  and  cinnamon, 
and  threw  on  it  incense.  As  the 
smoke  arose,  he  bowed  her  head 
gently  over  it,  that  she  might  imbibe 
the  odour  in  her  nostrils,  which  was 
an  established  way  of  expelling  the 
evil  spirit. 

"  The  woman's  countenance  now 
changed  again,  it  was  once  more  pale 
with  pain,  and  she  cried  out  in  her 
torment ;  at  length  in  strong  agony 
she  uttered  many  words.     But  the 
Rabbi   perceived,    from   her    fixed 
eyes  and  motionless  lips,  that  it  was 
the  spirit  within  her  that  spoke  the 
words.      It  said,  *  Why  am  I  to  be 
disturbed  with  anointings  and   in- 
cense ?    Why  am  T  to  hear  the  sound 
of  prayer,  and  be  smitten  with  the 
voice  of  the  holy  ?     Look  round  the 
chamber.     Is  it  not  full  of  us  and 
our  punishers  ?   Are  we  not  pursued 
for  ever  by  the  avenging  angels  ?  Do 
they  not  hold  scourges  of  fire  in  their 
hands,  and  fill  every  wound  they 
make  with  thrice  distilled  poison  of 
the  tree  Asgard,  that  grows  by  the 
lake  of  fire  ?    I  was  an  Egyptian ; 
five  hundred  years  ago  I  lived  at  the 
Court  of  Ptolemy  Philadelphus.     I 
longed  for  power,  and  I  obtained  it ; 
I  longed  to  possess  the  fairest  daugh- 
ters of  the  land,  and  I  possessed 
them.     I  longed  for   riches,  and  I 
practised  all  evil  to  gain  them.  I  was 
at  length  accused  before  the  King 
of  sorcery.    I  longed  for  revenge  on 
my    accuser,    and    I    enjoyed    my 
revenge.     I  stabbed  him  as  he. was 
sleeping  in  his  chamber.     The  mur- 
der was  known ;  I  was  forced  to  fly. 
But  I  first  sent  a  present  of  perfumed 
cakes  of  Damascus  to  the  mistress  of 
the  man  who  made  the  discovery; 
they  feasted  on  them  together,  and 
together  they  died.  The  ship  in  which 
I  fled   was    overtaken   by  a  storm. 
I  was  charged  with  having  brought 
the  anger  of  heaven  on  the  vessel. 
I  was  seized,  aud  about  to  be  slain ; 
I  drove  my  dagger  through  the  cap- 
tain, sprang  overboard,  and  reached 
the  shore.     From  it,  in  triumphant 
revenge,  I  saw  the  ship  and  all  the 
crew  perish  in  the  waters.     I  was 
now  in  the  Great  Desert  of  Africa; 
and  was  starving  and  scorched,  until 
I  lay  down  to  die.     But  at  the  last 
moment    an    old   man   came    from 
among  the  tombs,  and  offered  me 
bread  and  water.    I  followed  him  t<5 


his  dwelling  in  the  tombs.  He  scofted 
at  my  complaints  of  ill  fortune,  and 
swore  to  place  me  cnce  again  at  the 
height  of  my  wishes,  if  I  would  be 
ready  at  his  call  at  the  end  of  a 
hundred  years.  I  could  have  then 
drunk  fire  and  blood  in  my  fury 
against  mankind,  and  my  thirst  of 
possession.  I  swore  to  be  his,  and 
prepared  to  begin  my  hundred  years 
of  enjoyment. 

"  '  1  returned  to  Egypt.  I  had  been 
supposed  to  have  sunk  to  the  bottom 
of  the  waters  with  the  wreck  of  the 
vessel.  My  countenance  was  no 
longer  the  same.  No  man  remem- 
bered me.  I  began  my  career.  I 
was  full  of  wild  ambition,  eager  de- 
sire, and  matchless  sagacity.  1  rapid- 
ly outstripped  all  rivalry.  I  rose  to 
the  first  rauk  under  the  Ptolemies. 
I  enjoyed  the  delight  of  ruining  every 
man  who  had  formerly  thwarted  me. 
All  Egypt  rang  with  my  fame.  1  had 
secret  enemies,  and  strange  rumours 
of  the  means  of  my  perpetual  success 
began  to  be  spread.  But  I  had  spies 
everywhere;  a  whisper  was  repaid 
by  death.  A  frown  was  avenged 
like  an  open  accusation.  My  name 
became  a  universal  terror.  But  I 
had  my  followers  and  flatterers  only 
the  more.  I  trampled  on  mankind.  I 
revelled  in  seeing  the  proud  grovel- 
ling at  my  feet.  I  corrupted  the 
lowly,  I  terrified  the  high,  I  bound 
the  strong  to  my  basest  services.  I 
was  hated  and  cursed,  but  I  was 
feared.  Daggers,  poison,  secret  rage, 
and  public  abhorrence, all  were  level- 
led against  me ;  I  encountered  them 
all,  defied  them  all,  challenged  and 
triumphed  over  them  all.  I  was  the 
most  successful,  the  most  envied,  and 
the  most  wretched  of  human  beings. 
But  my  passions  at  length  changed 
their  colour;  I  had  lost  all  sense 
of  enjoyment,  habit  had  worn  its 
sense  away ;  the  feast,  rank,  splen- 
dour, the  adulation  of  the  great,  the 
beauty  of  woman,  all  had  grown 
tasteless  and  wearisome.  Life  was 
withering.  But  I  had  a  fierce  enjoy- 
ment still,  and  one  that  grew  keener 
with  the  advance  of  years.  I  rejoiced 
in  the  degradation  of  my  fellow  men. 
I  revelled  in  corrupting  the  merce- 
nary, in  hardening  the  ferocious,  in 
inflaming  the  vindictive,  in  stimula- 
ting the  violent.  I  lived,  too,  in  an  evil 
time  of  the  monarchy.  Desperate 
excesses  in  the  court  wefb  all  but 


1833.] 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


rivalled  by  furious  \  ice  in  the  people. 
The  old  age  of  the  Greek  dynasty 
was  a  sinking  of  the  soul  and  body 
of  dominion  together.  The  deepest 
sensuality,  the  wildest  waste  of  public 
wealth,  the  meanest  extortion,  the 
most  reckless  tyranny,  all  that  could 
fester  the  memory  of  a  nation,  were 
the  daily  crimes  of  the  decaying  court 
of  the  Ptolemies.  I  had  come  at  the 
light  time.  Invested  with  power 
which  made  the  monarch  a  cipher, 
I  exulted  in  the  coming  ruin — I 
blinded  the  eyes  of  this  voluptuous 
tyranny  to  its  inevitable  fate — I  had 
but  little  to  do  in  urging  it  to  new 
crime,  but  I  did  that  little.  I  wove 
round  it  a  web  of  temptation  that  the 
strength  even  of  virtue  could  have 
scarcely  broken,  but  into  which  the 
iager  dissoluteness  of  the  Egyptian 
"ourt  plunged  as  if  it  had  been  the 
nost  signal  gift  of  fortune.  I  exulted 
n  the  prospect  of  my  accomplished 
:ask  of  precipitating  a  guilty  palace 
md  people  into  utter  ruin;  but  in 
:he  fever  of  my  exultation  I  had  for- 
got that  my  time  was  measured.  At 
i  banquet  in  the  King's  chamber  I 
$aw  a  guest  whose  face  struck  me  as 
having  been  known  to  me  at  some 
remote  period.  He  was  the  chieftain 
of  one  of  the  Bactrian  tribes,  who 
now  came  to  offer  compensation  for 
some  outrages  of  his  wild  horsemen 
on  a  caravan  returning  from  the  Indus 
;o  Egypt.  He  was  a  man  of  marvel- 
ous age,  the  signs  of  which  he  bore 
n  his  visage,  but  of  the  most  singu- 
ar  sagacity.  His  reputation  had  gone 
a>rth  among  the  people ;  and  all  the 
dealers  in  forbidden  arts,  the  magi, 
:he  soothsayers,  and  the  consul  ters 
of  the  dead,  acknowledged  their  skill 
outdone  by  this  exhausted  and  decre- 
pit barbarian.  The  first  glance  of  his 
\een  eye  awoke  me  to  strange  and 
fearful  remembrances,  but  his  first 
wrd  put  an  end  to  all  doubt,  and 
cnade  me  feel  the  agonies  of  despair. 
At  the  sound  of  his  voice  I  recogni- 
sed the  old  man  of  the  tombs,  and 
felt  that  the  terrible  time  for  his  pay- 
ment was  come.  It  was  true,  I  was 
to  die— I  was  to  suffer  for  the  long 
oanquet  of  life — I  was  to  undergo 
:he  torture  of  the  place  of  all  torture 
— I  was  to  suffer  a  hideous  retribu- 
tion for  the  days  of  my  triumph. 
They  had  been  many,  but  they  now 
seemed  to  me  but  a  moment.  Days, 
nonths,  years,  were  compressed  into 


633 

a  thought,  and  I  groaned  within 
my  inmost  soul  at  the  frenzy  which 
had  bound  rne  to  a  master  so  soon  to 
demand  the  penalty  to  the  utter- 
most. 

"  *  I  flew  from  the  royal  chamber  ; 
my  mind  was  a  whirl  of  terror,  shame, 
loathing,  hatred,  and  remorse.  I 
seized  my  sword,  and  was  about  to 
plunge  it  into  my  heart,  and  end  a 
suspense  more  stinging  than  despair, 
when  I  found  my  hand  arrested,  and, 
on  turning,  saw  the  visage  of  the 
Bactrian.  1  indignantly  attempted  to 
wrest  the  sword  from  him,  and  drive 
it  home  to  a  heart  burning  with  the 
poison  of  the  soul.  But  he  held  it 
with  a  grasp  to  which  my  utmost 
strength  was  as  a  child's ;  I  might  as 
well  have  forced  a  rock  from  its  base. 
He  smiled,  and  said, "  I  am  Sammael ; 
you  should  have  known,  that  to  resist 
me  was  as  absurd  as  to  expect  pity 
from  our  race.  I  am  one  of  the 
princes  of  evil — I  reign  over  the 
south-east — I  fill  the  Bactrian  deserts 
with  rapine,  the  Persian  chambers 
with  profligacy,  and  am  now  come 
to  fling  the  firebrands  of  civil  war 
into  this  court  of  effeminate  Asiatics, 
savage  Africans,  and  treacherous 
Greeks.  The  work  was  nearly  done 
without  me  ;  but  Sammael  must  not 
let  the  wickedness  of  man  triumph 
alone.  He  tempts,  ensnares,  betrays, 
and  he  must  have  his  reward  like 
mankind.  This  kingdom  will  soon 
be  a  deluge  of  blood  where  it  is  not 
a  deluge  of  conflagration,  and  a 
deluge  of  conflagration  where  it  is 
not  a  deluge  of  blood."  As  he  spoke 
his  countenance  grew  fiery,  his  voice 
became  awful,  and  I  fell  at  his  feet 
without  the  power  to  struggle  or  to 
speak.  He  was  on  the  point  of  plun- 
ging me  through  the  crust  of  the 
earth  ten  thousand  times  ten  thou- 
sand fathoms  deep,  below  the  roots 
of  the  ocean,  to  abide  in  the  region 
of  rack  and  flame.  He  had  already 
lifted  his  heel  to  trample  me  down. 
But  he  paused,  and  uttered  a  groan. 
Isaw  a  burst  of  light  that  covered  him 
from  the  head  to  the  foot,  and  in 
which  he  writhed  as  if  it  had  been  a 
robe  of  venom.  I  looked  up  and  saw 
a  giant  shape,  one  of  the  sons  of 
Paradise  who  watch  over  the  children 
of  Israel,  standing  before  the  evil 
King.  They  fought  for  me  with 
lances  bright  and  swift  as  flashes  of 
lightning.  But  Sammael  was  over- 


634 


Traditions  of  the  liabbins. 


[April, 


thrown.  He  sprang  from  the  ground, 
and  cursing,  spread  his  wings  and 
flew  up  into  a  passing  thunder-cloud. 
The  sou  of  Paradise  still  stood  over 
me  with  a  countenance  of  wrath,  and 
said,  "  Child  of  guilt,  why  shall  not 
vengeance  be  wrought  upon  the 
guilty  ?  Why  shall  not  the  subject  of 
the  evil  one  be  stricken  with  his 
punishment,  and  be  chained  on  the 
burning  rocks  of  his  dungeon,  that 
are  deep  as  the  centre  of  the  earth, 
and  wide  as  its  surface  spread  out 
ten  thousand  times  ?"  I  clasped  his 
knees,  and  bathed  them  with  tears  ; 
I  groaned,  and  beat  my  bosom  in  the 
terrors  of  instant  death.  The  bright 
vision  still  held  the  blow  suspended, 
and  saying  "  that  I  had  been  preser- 
ved from  ruin  only  by  being  the 
descendant  of  an  Israelitish  mother, 
but  that  my  life  had  earned  punish- 
ment which  must  be  undergone  ;"  as 
he  spoke  the  words,  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  my  forehead  with  a  weight 
which  seemed  to  crush  my  brain. 

" '  I  shrank  and  sprang  away  in  fear. 
I  rushed  wildly  through  the  palace, 
through  the  streets,  through  the 
highways.  I  felt  myself  moving  with 
a  vigour  of  limb,  and  savage  swift- 
ness, that  astonished  me.  On  the 
way  I  overtook  a  troop  of  Alexandrian 
merchants  going  towards  the  desert 
of  the  Pentapolis.  I  felt  a  strange 
instinct  to  rush  among  them — I  was 
hungry  and  parched  with  thirst.  I 
sprang  among  a  group  who  had  sat 
down  beside  one  of  the  wells  that 
border  the  sands.  They  all  rose  up 
at  my  sight  with  a  hideous  outcry. 
Some  fled,  some  threw  themselves 
down  behind  the  shelter  of  the  thick- 
ets, but  some  seized  their  swords 
and  lances,  and  stood  to  defend 
themselves.  I  glowed  with  unac- 
countable rage!  The  sight  of  their 
defiance  doubly  inflamed  me,  the 
very  gleam  of  their  steel  seemed  to 
me  the  last  insult,  and  I  rushed  for- 
ward to  make  them  repent  of  their 
temerity.  At  the  same  instant  I  felt  a 
sudden  tin  ill  of  pain;  a  spear,  thrown 
by  a  powerful  hand,  was  quivering 
in  my  side.  I  bounded  resistlessly 
on  my  assailant,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment saw  him  lying  in  horrid  muti- 
lation at  my  feet.  The  rest  instantly 
lost  all  courage  at  the  sight,  and,  fling- 
ing down  their  weapons,  scattered  in 
all  directions,  crying  for  help.  But 
those  dastards  were  not  worth  pur- 


suit. The  well  was  before  me,  I  was 
burning  with  thirst  and  fatigue,  and  I 
stooped  down  to  drink  of  its  pure 
and  smooth  water.  What  was  my 
astonishment  when  1  saw  a  lion 
stooping  in  the  mirror  of  the  well  I 
I  distinctly  saw  the  shaggy  mane 
the  huge  bloodshot  eyes,  the  rough 
and  rapidly  moving  lips,  the  pointed 
tusks,  and  all  red  with  recent  gore 
I  shrank  in  strange  perturbation.  I 
returned  to  the  well  again,  stooped 
to  drink,  and  again  saw  the  same  fu- 
rious monster  stoop  to  its  calm,  blue 
mirror.  A  horrid  thought  crossed 
my  mind.  I  had  known  the  old  doc- 
trine of  the  Egyptians  and  Asiatics, 
which  denounced  punishment  in  the 
shape  of  brutes  to  the  guilty  dead. 
Had  I  shared  this  hideous  punish- 
ment ?  I  again  gave  a  glance  at  the 
water.  The  sight  was  now  convic- 
tion. I  no  longer  wondered  at  the 
wild  outcry  of  the  caravan,  at  the 
hurried  defence,  at  the  strange  flight, 
at  the  ferocious  joy  with  which  L 
tore  down  my  enemy,  and  trampled 
and  rent  him  till  he  had  lost  all  sem- 
blance of  man.  The  punishment  had 
come  upon  me.  My  fated  spirit  had 
left  its  human  body,  and  hud  enter- 
ed into  the  shape  of  the  savage  in  ha- 
bitant of  the  wilderness.  The  thought 
was  one  of  indescribable  horror.  I 
bounded  away  with  furious  speed, 
I  tore  up  the  sands,  I  darted  rny  fangs 
into  my  own  flesh,  and  sought  for 
some  respite  from  hideous  thought 
in  the  violence  of  bodily  pain.  I  flew 
along  the  limitless  plains  of  the  de- 
sert, from  night  till  morning,  and 
from  morning  till  night,  in  hope  to 
exhaust  bitter  memory  by  fatigue; 
all  was  in  vain.  1  lay  down  to  die, 
but  the  vast  strength  of  my  frame 
was  proof  against  fatigue. 

"*  1  rushed  from  hill  to  valley  with 
the  speed  of  the  whirl  wind,  and  still 
I  was  but  the  terror  of  the  wilder- 
ness, all  whose  tenants  flew  before 
me.  I  sought  the  verge  of  the  little 
villages,  where  the  natives  hide  their 
heads  from  the  scorching  sun  and  the 
deadly  dews.  I  sought  them,  to 
perish  by  their  arrows  and  lances. 
1  was  often  wounded;  I  often  carried 
away  with  me  their  barbed  iron  in 
my  flesh.  I  often  writhed  in  the 
agony  of  poisoned  wounds.  Still  I 
lived.  My  life  was  the  solitary  ex- 
istence of  the  wild  beast.  1  hunted 
down  the  antelope,  the  boar,  and  the 


]  833.] 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


goat,  and  gorged  upon  their  blood. 
V  then  slept,  until  hunger,  or  the  cry 
of  the  hunter,  roused  me  once  more, 
to    coinmeuce   the    same    career  ot 
llight,  pursuit,  watching, and  wounds. 
This  lite   was  hideous.       With    the 
savage  instincts  of  the  wild  beast,  I 
retained  the  bitter   recollections  of 
rny  earlier  nature,  and  every  hour  was 
j'elt  with  the  keenness  of  a  punish- 
ment allotted  by  a  Judge  too  power- 
ful to  be  questioned,  and  too  stern 
to  be  propitiated.     How  long  I  en- 
dured  this  state  of  evil,   I  had   no 
:neans  of  knowing.     I  had  lost  the 
sn  man  faculty  of  measuring  the  flight 
of  time.    J  howled  in  rage  at  the  light 
of  the  moon  as  I  roamed   through 
the  wilderness;    I  shrank  from  the 
broad  blaze  of  the  sun,  which  at  once 
parched  my  blood  arid  warned  my 
•sjrey  of  my  approach;  I  felt  the  tem- 
Dests  of   the  furious  season   which 
drove  all  the  feebler  animals  from  the 
lace  of  the  land  to  hide  in  caves  and 
\voods.       I   felt  the   renewed   fires 
of  the  season  when  the  sun  broke 
through  his  clouds  once  more,  and 
ihe  earth,  refreshed  with  the  rains, 
began  to  be  withered  like  the  weed 
In  the  furnace.     But,  for  all  other 
purposes,  the  moon  and  the  sun  rose 
alike  to   my   mind,  embodied  as  it 
was  in  the  brute,  and  sharing  the  nar- 
rowness and  obscurity  of  the  animal 
intellect.     Months  and  years  pass- 
ed  unnoted.      In   the    remnant    of 
understanding  that  was  left  to  me 
in  vengeance,  I  laboured  in  vain  to 
recount  the  periods  of    my   savage 
suffering  ;  but  the  periods  of  my  hu- 
man guilt  were,  by  some  strange  vi- 
sitation of  wrath,   always   and    in- 
itautly  ready  at  my  call.    I  there  saw 
any    whole   career  with  a   distinct- 
aess  which  seemed  beyond  all  human 
memory.      I  lived  over  every  hour, 
every  thought,  every  passion,  every 
:iang.     Then  the  instincts  of  my  de- 
graded state  would  seize  me  again  ; 
i  was  again   the   devouier,  the    in- 
satiate drinker    of   blood,    ihe  ter- 
ror of  the  African,   the  ravager  of 
Jie  sheepfold,  the  monarch   of  the 
forest.     But  my  life  of  horror  seern- 
ed  at  length  to  approach  its  limit; 
I  felt  the  gradual  approach  of  decay. 
My  eyes,  once  keen  as  the  lightning, 
could  no  longer  discern  the  prey  on 
the  edge  of  the  horizon;  my  massive 
strength  grew  weary  ;  my  limbs,  the 
perfection  of  muscular  strength  and 


activity,  became  ponderous,  and  bore 
me  no  longer  with  the  lightness  that 
had  giveu  the  swiftest  gazelle  to  my 
grasp.  1  shrank  within  my  cavern, 
and  was  to  be  roused  only  by  the 
hunger  which  I  bore  long  after  it 
had  begun  to  gnaw  me.  One  day 
1  dragged  out  my  tardy  limbs,  urged 
by  famine,  to  seize  upon  the  buffa- 
loes of  a  tribe  passing  across  the  de- 
sert. I  sprang  upon  the  leader  of 
the  herd,  and  had  already  dragged  it 
to  the  earth,  when  the  chieftain  of 
the  tribe  rubied  forward  with  his 
lance,  and  uttering  a  loud  outcry,  I 
turned  from  the  fallen  buffalo  to  at- 
tack the  hunter.  But  in  that  glance 
I  saw  an  aspect  which  I  remembered 
after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years  of 
misery.  The  countenance  of  the  be- 
ing who  had  crushed  me  out  of  hu- 
man nature  was  before  me.  I  felt 
the  powerful  pressure;  a  pang  new 
to  me,  a  sting  of  human  feeling,  pier- 
ced through  my  frame.  I  dared  not 
rush  upon  this  strange  avenger — I 
cowered  in  the  dust — I  would  have 
licked  his  feet.  My  fury,  my  appe- 
tite for  carnage,  my  ruthless  delight 
in  rending  and  devouring  the  help- 
less creatures  of  the  wilderness,  had 
passed  away.  I  doubly  loathed  rny 
degradation,  and  if  1  could  have  ut- 
tered a  human  voice,  I  should  at  this 
moment  have  implored  the  being  be- 
fore me  to  plunge  his  spear  into  my 
brain,  and  extinguish  all  conscious- 
ness at  once.  As  the  thought  arose, 
I  looked  on  him  once  more;  he  was 
no  longer  the  African;  he  wore  the 
grandeur  and  fearful  majesty  of  Az- 
rael — I  knew  ihe  Angel  of  Judgment. 
Again  he  laid  his  grasp  upon  my 
front.  Again  1  felt  it  like  the  weight 
of  a  thunderbolt.  I  bounded  in  ago- 
ny from  the  plain,  fell  at  his  feet, 
and  the  sky,  the  earth,  and  the  aven- 
ger, disappeared  from  my  eyes. 

" '  When  life  returned  to  me  again, 
I  found  that  I  was  rushing  forward 
with  vast  speed,  but  it  was  no  longer 
the  bound  and  spring  of  my  sinewy 
limbs;  I  felt,  too,  that  I  was  no  longer 
treading  the  sands  that  had  so  long 
burned  under  my  feet.  I  was  tossed 
by  winds;  I  was  drenched  with  heavy 
moisture  ;  I  saw  at  intervals  a  strong 
glare  of  light  bursting  on  me,  and 
then  suddenly  obscured.  My  senses 
gradually  cleared,  and  1  became  con- 
scious that  my  being  had  undergone 
a  new  change.  1  glanced  at  my 
7 


636 

limbs,  and  saw  them  covered  with 
plumage ;  but  the  talons  were  still 
there.  I  still  felt  the  fierce  eager- 
ness for  blood,  the  instinctive  desire 
of  destroying  life,  the  eagerness  of 
pursuit,  the  savage  spirit  of  loneli- 
ness. Still  I  was  the  sullen  king  of 
the  forest;  in  every  impulse  of  my 
spirit  I  rushed  on.  As  far  as  my 
eye  could  gaze,  and  it  now  possessed 
a  power  of  vision  which  seemed  to 
give  me  the  command  of  the  earth, 
I  saw  clouds  rolling  in  huge  piles  as 
white  as  snow,  and  wilder  than  the 
surges  of  an  uproused  sea.  I  saw  the 
marble  pinnacles  of  mountains  pier- 
cing through  the  vapoury  ocean  like 
the  points  of  lances;  I  saw  the  whole 
majesty  of  the  kingdom  of  the  air, 
with  all  its  splendour  of  colouring, 
its  gathering  tempests,  its  boundless 
reservoirs  of  the  rain,  its  fiery  forges 
of  the  thunder.  Still  I  rushed  on,  sus- 
tained by  unconscious  power,  and 
filled  with  a  fierce  joy  in  my  new 
strength.  As  I  accidentally  passed 
over  a  broad  expanse  of  vapour,  which 
lay  calm  and  smooth  under  the  me- 
ridian beams,  I  looked  downwards. 
The  speed  of  my  shadow  as  it  swept 
across  the  cloud,  first  caught  my  eye. 
But  I  was  in  another  moment  struck 
with  still  keener  astonishment  at 
the  shape  which  fell  there.  It  bore 
the  complete  outline  of  an  eagle;  I 
saw  the  broad  wings,  the  strong  form, 
the  beak  and  head  framed  for  ra- 
pine; the  destruction  of  prey  was  in 
every  movement.  The  truth  flashed 
on  me.  My  spirit  had  transmigrated 
into  the  king  of  the  feathered  race. 
My  first  sensations  were  of  the  deep- 
est melancholy.  I  was  to  be  a  pri- 
soner once  more  in  the  form  of  an 
inferior  nature.  I  was  still  to  be 
exiled  from  the  communion  of  man. 
I  was,  for  years  or  ages,  to  be  a 
fierce  and  blood-devouring  creature, 
the  dweller  among  mountains  and 
precipices,  pursued  by  man,  a  terror 
to  all  the  beings  of  its  nature,  stern, 
solitary,  hated,  and  miserable.  Yet  I 
had  glimpses  of  consolation.  Though 
retaining  the  ruthless  impulses  of 
ray  forest  state,  I  felt  that  my  lot  was 
now  softened,  that  my  fate  was  cast 
in  a  mould  of  higher  capabilities  of 
enjoyment,  that  1  was  safer  from  the 
incessant  fears  of  pursuit,  from  the 
famine,  the  thirst,  the  wounds,  an4 
the  inclemency  of  the  life  of  the 
wilderness.  I  felt  still  a  higher  allev  i- 


Ti-aditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


[April, 


ation  of  my  destiny  in  the  sense  that 
the  very  enjoyments,  few  and  lonely 
as  they  were,  which  were  added  to 
my  existence,  were  proof  that  my 
captivity  was  not  to  be  for  ever.  The 
recollections  of  my  human  career 
still  mingled  with  the  keen  and  brute 
impulses  of  my  present  being;  but 
they  were  no  longer  the  scorpion 
scourges  that  had  once  tortured  me. 
I  remembered  with  what  eager  long- 
ing I  had  often  looked  upon  the  clear 
heavens  of  Egypt,  and  envied  every 
bird  that  I  saw  soaring  in  the  sun- 
shine. I  remembered  how  often,  in 
even  the  most  successful  hours  of 
my  ambition,  I  had  wished  to  ex- 
change existence  with  the  ibis  that 
I  had  seen  sporting  over  the  banks 
of  the  Nile,  and  then  spreading  his 
speckled  wings,  and  floating  onward 
to  the  Thebais,  at  a  height  inacces- 
sible to  the  arrow.  How  often  had 
I  gazed  at  the  eagles  which  I  started 
at  the  head  of  my  hunting  train  from 
the  country  of  the  Cataracts,  and 
while  I  watched  their  flight  into  the 
highest  region  of  the  blue  and  lovely 
atmosphere,  saw  their  plumage  turn- 
ed to  gold  and  purple  as  they  rose 
through  the  coloured  light  of  the 
clouds,  or  poised  themselves  in  the 
full  radiance  of  the  sunbeams!  This 
delight  was  now  fully  within  my 
possession,  and  I  enjoyed  it  to  the 
full.  The  mere  faculty  of  motion  is 
an  indulgence ;  but  to  possess  it  with- 
out restraint,  to  have  unlimited  space 
before  me  for  its  exercise,  and  to  tra- 
verse it  without  an  exertion ;  to  be 
able  to  speed  with  a  swiftness  sur- 
passing all  human  rapidity,  to  speed 
through  a  world,  and  to  speed  with 
the  simple  wave  of  a  wing,  was  a 
new  sense,  a  source  of  pleasure  that 
alone  might  almost  have  soothed  my 
calamity.  The  beauty  of  nature,  the 
grandeur  of  the  elemental  changes, 
the  contrasted  majesty  of  the  moun- 
tains with  the  living  and  crowded 
luxuriance  of  the  plains  below,  were 
perpetually  before  my  eye ;  and  tar- 
dily as  they  impressed  themselves 
on  my  spirit,  and  often  as  they  were 
degraded  and  darkened  by  the  ne- 
cessities of  my  animal  nature,  they 
still  made  their  impression.  My 
better  mind  was  beginning  to  revive. 
At  length,  one  day  as  1  lay  on  my 
poised  pinions,  basking  in  the  sun, 
and  wondering  at  the  flood  of  radi- 
ance that  from  his  orb  illumined 


1333.] 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


eirth  and  heaven,  I  lamented  with 
a" most  the  keenness  of  human  re- 
gret, that  I  was  destitute  of  the  organs 
to  make  known  to  man  the  magnifi- 
cence of  the  powers  of  creation,  thus 
83en  nigh,  cloudless,  and  serene.  In 
tiis  contemplation  I  had  forgotten 
t  >at  a  tempest  had  been  gathering  in 
t  le  horizon.  It  had  rapidly  advanced 
t) wards  me.  It  enwrapped  me  he- 
fore  I  had  time  to  spread  my  pinions 
and  escape  from  its  overwhelming 
ruin.  When  I  made  the  attempt,  it 
vas  too  late.  I  saw  nothing  before, 
below,  or  above  me,  but  rolling  vo- 
1  imes  of  vapour,  which  confused 
Eiy  vision  and  clogged  my  wings. 
Lightning  began  to  shoot  through' 
t  le  depths  of  the  world  of  cloud.  As 
I  still  struggled  fiercely  to  extricate 
nyself,  I  saw  a  shape  standing  in  the 
1  eart  of  the  storm.  I  knew  the  coun- 
tinance.  It  was  Azrael ;  still  awful, 
but  with  its  earlier  indignation  gone. 
My  strength  sank  and  withered  be- 
f  jre  him.  My  powerful  pinion  flag- 
ged. I  waited  the  blow.  It  was 
mercy.  I  saw  him  stretch  forth  the 
fatal  hand  again.  The  lightning  burst 
round  me.  I  was  enveloped  in  a 
whirlwind  of  fire,  felt  one  wild  pang, 
t.nd  felt  no  more. 

"  *  I  awoke  in  the  midst  of  a  chamber 
f  lied  with  a  crowd  of  wild  looking 
iaen  and  women,  who,  on  seeing  me 
open  my  eyes,  could  not  suppress 
their  wonder  and  joy.  They  danced 
*  bout  the  chamber  with  all  the  ges- 
ticulations of  barbarian  delight.  As 
1  gazed  round  with  some  hope  or 
tear  of  seeing  the  mighty  angel  who 
had  smote  me,  my  gesture  was  mis- 
taken for  a  desire  to  breathe  the 
open  air.  I  was  carried  towards  a 
large  casement,  from  which  a  view 
of  the  country  spread  before  me.  I 
'vas  instantly,  and  for  the  first  time, 
now  sensible  that  another  change 
had  come  upon  me.  Where  were 
•.lie  vast  volumes  oi  clouds,  on  which 
had  floated  in  such  supreme  com- 
mand? Where  were  the  glittering 
pinnacles  of  the  mountains,  on  which 
*  L  had  for  so  many  years  looked  down 
from  a  height  that  made  them  d  windle 

nto  spear  heads  and  arrow  points  ? 

vVhere  was  that  broad  and  golden 
splendour  of  the  sun,  on  which  I  had 

or  so  many  thousand  days  gazed,  as 

If  I  drank  new  life  from  the  lustre? 

now  saw  before  me  only  a  deep 

md  gloomy  ravine,  feathered  with 


637 

,  ami  filled  with  a  torrent  that 
bounded  from  the  marble  summit  of 
the  precipice.  The  tops  of  the  hills 
seemed  to  pierce  the  heavens,  but 
they  were  a  sheet  of  sullen  forest; 
the  sun  was  shut  out,  and  but  for  a 
golden  line  that  touched  the  ridge, 
i  should  have  forgotten  that  he  had 
an  existence.  I  had  left  the  region  of 
lights  and  glories;  I  was  now  a  wing- 
less, powerless,  earth-fixed  thing,  a 
helpless  exile  from  the  azure  pro- 
vinces of  the  sky.  What  I  had  be- 
come, I  toiled  in  vain  to  discover.  I 
was  changed;  I,knew  no  more;  my 
faculties  still  retained  the  impres- 
sions made  on  them  by  long  habit ; 
and  I  felt  myself  involuntarily  at- 
tempting to  spring  forward,  and 
launch  again  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
air.  But  I  was  at  length  to  be  fully 
acquainted  with  the  truth. 

"  *  As  the  evening  came  on,  I  heard 
signals  of  horns  and  wild  cries,  the 
sounds  of  many  voices  roused  me, 
and  soon  after,  the  wonfcri  whom  I 
had  seen  before,  rushed  into  the 
chamber,  bringing  a  variety  of  orna- 
ments and  robes,  which  they  put  on 
me.  A  mirror  which  one  of  them 
held  to  my  face,  when  all  was  com- 
pleted, shewed  me  that  I  had  trans- 
migrated into  the  form  of  a  young 
female.  I  was  now  the  daughter  of 
a  Circassian  chieftain.  The  being 
whose  form  I  now  possessed  had 
been  memorable  for  her  beauty,  was 
accordingly  looked  upon  as  a  trea- 
sure by  her  parents,  and  destined  to 
be  sold  to  the  most  extravagant  pur- 
chaser. But  envy  exists  even  iu  the 
mountains  of  Circassia ;  and  a  dose 
of  opium,  administered  by  a  rival 
beauty,  had  suddenly  extinguished 
a  bargain,  which  had  been  already 
far  advanced,  with  an  envoy  from,  the 
royal  haram  of  Persia.  My  parents 
were  inconsolable,  and  they  had  torn 
their  garments,  and  vowed  revenge 
over  me  for  three  days.  On  this 
evening  the  horsemen  of  the  whole 
tribe  were  to  have  assembled  for  an 
incursion  upon  the  tribe  of  my  suc- 
cessful rival,  and  to  have  avenged 
my  death  by  general  extermination. 
While  all  was  in  suspense,  the  light 
had  come  into  the  eyes  of  the  dead 
beauty,  the  colour  had  dawned  on 
her  cheeks, her  lips  had  moved;  and 
her  parents,  in  exultation  at  the  hope 
of  renewing  their  bargain,  had  at 
once  given  a  general  feast  to  their 


6;38 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


[April, 


kinsmen,  loaded  me  with  their  fa- 
mily ornaments,  and  invited  the  Per- 
sian to  renew  hi*  purchase,  and  carry 
me  without  delay  beyond  the  chance 
of  future  doses  of  opium. 

"  *  The  Persian  came  in  full  gallop, 
and  approved  of  me  for  the  posses- 
sion of  his  long-bearded  lord;  my 
parents  embraced  me,  wept  over  me, 
protested  that  1  was  the  light  of  their 
eyes,  and  sold  me  without  the  slight- 
est ceremony.  That  night  I  was 
packed  up  like  a  bale  of  Curdistan 
cloth,  was  flung  on  a  horse,  and  car- 
ried far  from  the  mountains  of  Cir- 
cassia. 

'"  At  the  Persian  court  I  lived  sump- 
tuously, and  in  perpetual  terror;  I 
ate  off  dishes  of  gold,  and  slept  on 
beds  fringed  with  pearl,  yet  1  envied 
the  slave  who  swept  the  chamber. 
Every  thing  round  me  was  distrust, 
discontent,  and  treachery.  My  Per- 
sian lord  was  devoted  to  me  for  a 
month  ;  and  at  the  end  of  that  time, 
I  learned  from  an  old  female  slave, 
that  I  was  to  be  poisoned,  as  my  place 
was  to  be  supplied  by  a  new  fa- 
vourite, and  it  was  contrary  to  the 
dignity  of  the  court  that  I  should  be 
sold  to  a  subject.  My  old  friend  fur- 
ther told  me,  that  the  poison  was  to 
be  administered  in  a  pomegranate 
that  night  at  supper,  and  mentioned 
by  what  mark  1  was  to  know  the  fatal 
fruit.  On  that  night  there  was  a 
banquet  in  the  haram,  the  Monarch 
was  beyond  ail  custom  courteous, 
and  he  repeatedly  invited  me  to  drink 
perfumed  liquors,  as  the  highest  to- 
ken of  his  regard,  from  his  own  table. 
At  length,  in  a  sportive  tone,  he  or- 
dered a  dish  of  pomegranates  from 
his  favourite  garden  to  be  divided 
among  the  fairest  of  the  fair  of  the 
haram.  My  heart  sank  within  me, 
as  I  heard  the  sentence  of  death.  But 
I  became  only  the  more  vigilant. 
The  dish  was  brought.  The  fruits 
were  flung  by  the  Monarch  to  his 
delighted  guests;  till  at  last  but  two 
remained.  One  of  them,  I  saw,  was 
the  marked  one.  To  have  refused 
it,  would  have  argued  detection  of 
the  treachery,  and  must  have  been 
followed  by  certain  death.  At  the 
moment  when  his  hand  touched  it,  I 
exclaimed  that  a  scorpion  had  stung 
me,  and  fell  on  the  floor  in  agony  ! 
This  produced  a  momentary  confu- 
sion. The  Monarch  dropped  the 
fruit  from  his  hand,  and  turned  to 


summon  assistance.  Quick  as  the 
love  of  life  could  urge  me,  I  darted 
towards  the  table,  and  changed  the 
places  of  the  two  pomegranates.  The 
confusion  soon  subsided,  and  1  re- 
ceived from  the  hand  of  the  Sofi  the 
one  which  was  now  next  to  his  royal 
touch.  I  bowed  to  the  ground  in 
gratitude,  and  tasted  the  fruit,  which 
I  praised  as  the  most  exquisite  of  all 
productions  of  the  earth.  The  Mo- 
narch, satisfied  with  his  performance, 
now  put  the  remaining  one  to  his 
lips.  I  saw  the  royal  epicure  devour 
it  to  the  last  morsel,  and  observed 
the  process  without  the  least  com- 
punction ;  he  enjoyed  it  prodigiously. 
*In  the  consciousness  that  he  would 
not  enjoy  it  long,  1  packed  up  every 
jewel  and  coin  I  could  gather  in  my 
chamber  the  moment  I  left  the  ban- 
quet, desiring  the  old  slave  to  bring 
me  the  earliest  intelligence  of  the 
catastrophe.  My  labours  were  scarce- 
ly completed,  when  an  uproar  in  the 
palace  told  me  that  my  pomegranate 
was  effectual.  The  old  slave  came 
flying  in  immediately  after,  saying 
that  ail  the  physicians  of  the  city  had 
been  ordered  to  come  to  the  Son's 
chamber;  that  he  was  in  agony,  and 
that  there  were  "  strong  suspicions 
of  his  having  been  poisoned  !"  The 
old  Nubian  laughed  excessively  as 
she  communicated  her  intelligence, 
and  at  the  same  time  recommended 
my  taking  advantage  of  the  tumult 
to  escape.  I  lost  no  time,  and  we 
fled  together. 

" '  But  as  I  passed  the  windows  of 
the  royal  chamber,  I  could  not  resist 
the  impulse  to  see  how  his  supper 
succeeded  with  him.  Climbing  on 
my  old  companion's  shoulders,  I 
looked  in.  He  was  surrounded  by 
a  crowd  of  physicians  of  all  ranks 
and  races,  Jews  and  infidels,  all  of- 
fering their  nostrums;  and  all  an-, 
swered  by  the  most  furious  threats, 
that  unless  they  recovered  him  before 
the  night  was  over,  the  dawn  should 
see  every  one  of  them  without  his 
head.  He  then  raved  at  his  own 
blunder,  which  he  appeared  to  have 
found  out  in  all  points,  and  cursed 
the  hour  when  he  ate  pomegranates 
for  supper,  and  was  outwitted  by  a 
woman.  He  then  rolled  in  agony. 
I  left  him  yelling,  and  heard  him, 
long  after  I  had  reached  the  bounda- 
ries of  the  haram  garden.  He  died 
before  he  had  time  to  cut  off  the 


183:3.] 


Traditions  of  tie  Rabbins. 


physicians'  heads.     Before  dawn  he 
wis  with  his  forefathers. 

"  '  Through  what  changes  of  life  I 
nc  w  ran,  I  remember  but  little  more. 
Ail  is  confused  before  my  eyes.  I 
became  the  captive  of  a  Bedoueen, 
fed  his  camels,  moved  the  jealousy 
of  the  daughter  of  a  neighbouring 
robber,  was  carried  off  by  his  wild 
riders  in  consequence,  and  left  to 
pi  rish  in  the  heart  of  the  Hedjaz. 
From  this  horrible  fate  I  was  res- 
cued, after  days  of  wandering  and 
famine,  by  a  caravan  which  had  lost 
its-  way,  arid  by  straying  out  of  the 
ri^ht  road,  came  to  make  prize  of 
me.  The  conductor  of  the  escort 
seized  me  as  his  property,  fed  me 
until  I  was  in  due  fulness  for  the 
slave  market  at  Astrachan,  and  sold 
ma  to  a  travelling  Indian  dealer  in 
A  igora  goats'  hair  and  women.  I 
was  hurried  to  the  borders  of  the 
Ginges,  and  consigned  to  the  court 
of  a  mighty  sovereign,  black  as  ebony, 
ai,d  with  the  strongest  resemblance 
to  an  overgrown  baboon.  I  was 
next  the  Sultana  of  a  Rajahpoot.  I 
was  then  the  water-carrier  of  a  Tur- 
coman horse-stealer ;  I  was  the  slave 
of  a  Roman  matron  at  Constantino- 
ple, who  famished  and  flogged  me  to 
make  me  a  convert,  and  when  I  at 
last  owned  the  conversion,  famished 
and  flogged  me  to  keep  me  to  my 
duty.  She  died,  and  I  was  free  from 
the  scourge,  the  temple,  and  the 
dungeon.  I  have  but  one  confession 
more  to  make.  Can  the  ear  of  the 
holy  son  of  Jehoshaphat,  the  wisest 
of  the  wise,  listen  to  the  compacts 
oi  the  tempter  ?'  The  fair  speaker 
paused  ;  the  Rabbi  shrank  at  the 
\\ords.  But  the  dying  penitent  be- 
f(  re  him  was  no  longer  an  object  of 
either  temptation  or  terror.  He 
p.TSsed  his  hands  upon  his  bosom, 
b  owed  his  head,  and  listened. 

"  The  tainting  beauty  smiled,  and 
t?  king  from  her  locks  a  rich  jewel, 
p  aced  it  on  the  hand  of  her  hearer. 

*  My  story  is   at  an  end,'  said  she. 

*  I  had  but  one  trial  yet  to  undergo. 
T  he  King  of  the  Spirits  of  Evil  urged 
n.e  to  deliver  myself  over  to  him. 
He  promised  me  instant  liberty,  the 
breaking  of  my  earthly  chain,  the 
e  evation   into   the  highest  rank  of 
earth,  the  enjoyment  of  riches  be- 
yond the  treasures  of  kings.      The 
tt  mptatiori  was  powerful ;  the  wealth 
which  you  now  see  round  me,  was 


C39 

brought  by  hands  that  might  have 
controlled  the  elements,  but  I  had 
learned  to  resist  all  that  dazzled  the 
eye.  Ambition  was  not  for  my  sex, 
yet  I  might  have  at  this  hour  ranked 
at  the  head  of  the  race  of  woman ; 
a  spell  was  within  my  power,  by  the 
simple  uttering  of  which,  I  might 
have  sat  on  a  throne,  the  noblest 
throne  at  this  hour  upon  earth.  This, 
too,  I  resisted.  But  the  more  over- 
whelming temptation  was  at  hand; 
the  King  of  Evil  stood  before  me  in 
a  garb  of  splendour  inexpressible, 
and  offered  to  make  me  the  pos- 
sessor of  all  the  secrets  of  magic. 
He  raised  upon  the  earth  visions  of 
the  most  bewitching  beauty ;  he  filled 
these  halls  with  shapes  of  the  most 
dazzling  brightness  ;  he  touched  my 
eyes,  and  I  saw  the  secrets  of  other 
worlds,  the  people  of  the  stars,  the 
grandeur  of  the  mighty  regions  that 
spread  above  this  cloudy  dwelling 
and  prison  of  man.  The  temptation 
was  beyond  all  resistance,  I  was  on 
the  point  of  yielding,  when  I  saw  the 
Spirit  of  Evil  suddenly  writhe  as  if 
an  arrow  had  shot  through  him  ;  his 
brightness  instantly  grew  dim,  his 
strength  withered,  and  even  while  I 
gazed,  he  sank  into  the  earth.  Where 
he  had  stood,  I  saw  nothing  but  a 
foot-print,  marked  as  if  the  soil  had 
borne  fire;  but  another  form  arose. 
I  knew  Azrael ;  his  countenance  had 
now  lost  all  its  terrors.  He  told  me 
that  my  trials  were  come  to  their 
conclusion.  That  guilty  as  I  was, 
my  last  allegiance  to  the  tempter 
was  broken ;  that  the  decree  had 
gone  forth  for  my  release,  and  that 
this  night  I  was  to  inhabit  a  form  of 
clay  no  more.'  The  Rabbi  listened 
in  holy  fear  to  the  language  of  the 
wearied  spirit,  and  for  a  while  was 
absorbed  in  supplication.  He  then 
repeated  the  prayers  for  the  dying 
hours  of  the  daughters  of  Israel. 

"  '  It  was  for  this  that  I  summoned 
you,  son  of  Jehoshaphat,'  said  the 
sinking  form.  *  It  was  to  soothe 
my  last  hour  on  earth  with  the 
sounds  of  holy  things,  and  to  fill  my 
dying  ear  with  the  wisdom  of  our 
fathers.  So  shall  my  chain  be  gently 
divided,  and  the  hand  of  the  angel 
of  death  lead  me  through  the  valley 
of  darkness,  without  ireading  on  the 
thorns  of  pain.'  The  Rabbi  knelt, 
and  prayed  more  fervently.  But  he 
was  roused  by  the  deep  sigh  of  the  suf- 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


640 

ferer.  *  Now,  pray  for  me  no  longer,' 
were  her  words ;  '  pray  for  the  peace 
of  Jerusalem.'     The  Rabbi  prayed 
for  the  restoration  of  Zion.     As  his 
prayer  arose,  he  heard  it  echoed  by 
voices  of  sweetness  that  sank  into 
his  soul.  He  looked  upon  the  couch  ; 
the  sufferer  was  dead  ;  but  the  strug- 
gle  of  death  had  not  disturbed  a 
feature.     She  lay  still  lovely,  and  he 
knew  that  the  fetter  of  the  spirit  had 
been  loosed  for  ever,  and  that  the 
trial  had  been  endfci  in  mercy.     He 
rose  to  call  the  attendants  to  watch 
by   the  dead,  but   the    halls    were 
empty.      He    then    turned    to    the 
porch,  and  pondering  on  the  ways 
of  destiny,  set  his  face  in  awe  and 
sorrow  towards  his  own  home.     He 
looked  back  once  more,  but  where 
was  the  porch  through  which  he  had 
so  lately  passed?     Where  was  the 
stately  mansion  itself?  All  before  the 
eye  was  the  dim  and  yellow  expanse  of 
weeds  that  covers  the  foot  of  Hebron. 
He  looked  around  him — he  saw  but 
the    heathy   sides  of  the  hill,  with 
the  city  on  its  brow;  he  looked  be- 
low him — he  saw  but  the  endless 
range  of  fertile  plain  that  is  lost  in 
the  desert;  above  him,  all  was  the 
blue  glory  of  midnight.     The  palace 
was  air.     Had  he  been  in  a  trance  ? 
Had  he  seen  a  vision  ?  Had  a  warn- 
ing been  given  to  him  in  a  dream  ? 
Who  krioweth  ?     But   is  it  not  re- 
corded in  the  book  of  the  house  of 
Jehoshaphat;   who  shall  tell?    Go, 
thou   who   readest,  arid   learn  wis- 
dom.     Are  not  all  things  dust  and 
air  ?" 

Some  of  the  traditions  allow  a 
much  more  extensive  transmigra- 
tion. The  treatise  Zohar  claims  the 
privilege,  or  admits  the  punishment, 
for  it  may  be  either,  of  transmigra- 
ting no  less  than  a  thousand  times ; 
on  these  grounds  : — When  the  great 
Judge  causes  the  soul  of  a.  man  to 
transmigrate,  it  is  generally  because 
it  has  nut  prospered,  or  done  good, 
in  its  former  state.  It  is  then  that 
the  soul  is  torn  from  one  existence 
and  planted  in  the  form  of  another  ; 
and  this  is  called  the  "  changing  of 
the  place."  On  the  third  change,  it 
receives  a  new  appellative,  and  this 
is  called  the  "  changing  of  the  name." 
A  more  marked  stage  is  the  alter- 
ation to  a  new  form,  with  a  conse- 
quent alteration  of  all  the  objects, 
pursuits,  and  faculties  ;  this  is  called 


[April, 


the  "  changing  of  the  work."  But, 
"  how  often,"  asks  the  treatise,  "  may 
those  changes  take  place  ?  To  one 
thousand  times,"  is  the  answer. 

But  this  singular  doctrine  is  urged 
still  further,  and  is  made  to  compre- 
hend even  the  fallen  angels.      The 
treatise   Tuf  haraez  declares,   that, 
as  it  is  not  the  will  of  Providence 
that  any  Jew  should  be  lost,  and  the 
command  of  circumcision  was  given 
to  Abraham  ;  the  resource  of  trans- 
migration was   devised  for    the  as- 
sistance of  those  who  might  neglect 
that  essential  rite ;  as  thus,  instead  of 
being  utterly  cast  forth,  they  were 
to   be   only   temporarily    separated 
from  the  chosen  people,  being  sent 
to  transmigrate  through  a   series  of 
bodies,  until  their  due  purification 
should  be  accomplished.    Upon  the 
discovery  of  this  proviso,  the  treatise 
tells  us,  that  the  fallen  angels,  con- 
ceiving themselves  not  much  worse 
than   an   uncircumcised    Jew,    laid 
their    claim   to  a  similar  privilege. 
Sammael  and    his   seventy  princes 
pleaded  their  cause,  on  the  ground, 
that  as  they  were  the  work  of  crea- 
tion not  less  than  the  sons  of  Abra- 
ham, they,  fallen  as  they  might  be, 
deserved    the    same    consideration. 
"  For  what  had  Abraham  done,  that 
he  should  be   preferred   to   beings 
originally  so  much  his  superiors  ?" 
The  answer  was,  that  the  patriarch's 
merits  had  entitled  him  to  this  pri- 
vilege ;  "  that  he  had  gone  into  the 
fire  of  the  Chaldeans,"  to  prove  his 
zeal,  which  was  more  than  Sammael 
and   his   sev^ity  princes  had  ever 
thought  of  doing.     The  application 
was  closed  by  a  summary  command, 
that  it  should  not  be  repeated.  "  Ye 
have  not  hallowed  my  words;  there- 
fore speak  no  more,  good  or  bad." 

When  we  read  those  perversions 
of  Scripture,  which  seem  to  be  en- 
gendered of  the  most  wilful  igno- 
rance, and  the  blindest  infatuation, 
we  may  well  account  for  the  ear- 
nestness with  which  the  apostolical 
writers  warned  the  Christian  world 
against  the  traditionary  spirit  of  the 
Jews,  against  the  "  old  wives'  fables," 
the  entangled  genealogies,  and  the 
endless  mysticism.  We  here  have 
specimens  of  the  wisdom  of  the  proud 
and  stubborn  generation  which  re- 
jected the  Messiah,  and,  with  the 
oracles  of  divine  truth  in  their  hands, 
actually  loved  the  false,  the  extrava- 


U33.] 


Traditions  of  the  Italbins. 


g?  nt,  and  the  trifling.  We  may  well 
understand  the  force  of  the  caution 
at  ainst  "  will  worship,"  and  prying 
into  things  of  which  no  knowledge 
hits  been  vouchsafed  to  man,  the  na- 
ti  re  of  angels,  and  the  transactions 
ol  Heaven  ;  we  see  here  the  fantastic 
humility,  the  uncalled-for  mortifica- 
tion, the  unauthorized  homage  to  the 
li/ing  saints  or  the  dead.  It  is  not 
less  palpable,  that  the  propensity  to 
lead  Scriptural  truth  with  human 
inventions,  has  been  the  characteris- 
tic of  the  corruption  of  Christianity, 
not  less  than  of  Judaism  ;  and  that 
Rome  may  vie,  at  this  hour,  in  legen- 
dary extravagance,  the  worshipping 
oi' angels,  the  prayers  for  those  spirits 
who  are  beyond  all  human  interven- 
tion, the  homage  to  the  saints  and 
iiartyrs,  the  useless  and  frivolous 
rriracles,  and  the  misty,  fluctuating, 
and  irreverent  doctrines  suggested 
for  their  support,  with  the  wildest 
and  most  worthless  fabrications  of 
the  Rabbins. 

Like  all  Oriental  writings  on  theo- 
kgy,  the  Rabbinical  traditions  dis- 
cuss largely  the  glories,  wonders, 
and  delights  of  the  future  state.  The 
Sacred  Scriptures,  written  for  higher 
purposes  than  curiosity,  or  the  indul- 
gence of  an  extravagant  imagination, 
are  nearly  silent  on  the  subject,  pro- 
bably from  the  double  reason,  that 
sufficient  grounds  are  laid  down  for 
virtue  without  this  detail  of  its  re- 
wards, and  that  human  faculties  are 
si  ill  but  feebly  fitted  to  comprehend 
the  developeinent,  were  it  made. 
Yet  even  they  are  not  without  indi- 
cations of  the  peculiar  species  of 
happiness  reserved  for  the  immortal 
spirit.  They  give  us  statements  of 
the  temper  in  which  Paradise  will  be 
e  ijoyed,  the  combination  of  love, 
gratitude,  adoration,  ardour  of  spirit, 
arid  activity  of  powers,  which  will 
constitute  the  purified  nature;  and 
\*  hich,  if  it  existed  on  earth,  would 
niake  earth  itself,  with  all  its  incle- 
niencies  of  nature,  and  anxieties  of 
c  rcumstance,  almost  a  Paradise. 
£  nd,  in  those  declarations,  they  ex- 
hibit  the  same  wisdom,  and  the  same 
s  iblime  simplicity,  which  character- 
ise the  visible  operations  of  Provi- 
dence ;  for  they  give  us  the  principle 
o?  happiness,  without  embarrassing 
us  with  the  details  :  they  give  us  an 
incitement  to  the  vigorous  perform- 
ance of  our  human  duty,  by  suggest- 


641 

ing  a  magnificent  and  various  future, 
yet  of  which  neither  the  magnifi- 
cence is  suffered  to  dazzle,  nor  the 
variety  to  distract,  the  mind. 

But  the  famous  treatise  Niahmath 
Chajim  settles  all  questions  at  once, 
according  to  the  wisdom  of  the  sons 
of  Solomon.  After  announcing  that 
there  are  seven  regions,  or  dwellings, 
in  the  place  of  evil,  for  the  punish- 
ment of  the  wicked,  it  cheers  the 
true  believer,  by  telling  him  that  Pa- 
radise is  similarly  partitioned,  and 
equally  large.  The  discovery  is  made 
in  the  form  of  a  commission,  directed 
by  the  Rabbi  Gamaliel  to  the  Rabbi 
Jehoscha  ben  Levi,  a  renowned  name 
in  the  legendary  world,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  deciding  whether  any  of  the. 
Gojim  (Gentiles,  or  Infidels)  are  in 
Paradise,  and  whether  any  of  the 
children  of  Israel  are  in  hell.  The 
angel  of  death  bears  the  commission 
to  the  Rabbi,  and  the  Rabbi  sets  out 
immediately  on  his  inquisition.  The 
result  of  his  investigation,  is,  that 
Paradise  contains  seven  houses,  or 
general  receptacles  for  the  blissful. 
Those  houses  are  unquestionably 
adapted  for  a  large  population ;  for 
each  house  is  twelve  times  ten  thou- 
sand miles  long,  and  twelve  times 
ten  thousand  miles  broad,  or  120,000 
miles  square.  He  then  proceeds  to 
report  on  their  distinctions. 

The  first  house  fronts  the  first  gate 
of  Paradise,  and  is  inhabited  by  con- 
verts from  the  Infidels,  who  have 
voluntarily  embraced  the  Jewish 
faith.  The  walls  are  of  glass,  and 
the  timbers  cedar.  He  proposed  to 
give  accuracy  to  his  statement,  by 
actually  measuring  the  extent.  But 
the  converts,  probably  jealous  of  his 
superior  sanctity, and  conceiving  that 
he  was  about  to  eject  them,  began 
to  offer  opposition.  Fortunately,  Oba- 
diah  the  prophet,  their  superintend- 
ent saint,  happening  to  be  on  the 
spot,  he  remonstrated  with  them,  and 
the  measurement  was  suffered  to 
go  on  in  peace.  The  second  house 
fronts  the  second  gate  of  Paradise. 
Its  walls  are  of  silver,  and  its  beams 
cedar.  It  is  inhabited  by  those  who 
have  repented,  and  they  are  superin- 
tended by  a  penitent;  Manasseh,  the 
son  of  Hezekiah,  is  set  over  them. 
The  third  hou^e  is  opposite  to  the 
third  gate,  is  built  of  silver  and  gold, 
and  is  inhabited  by  Abraham,  Isaac, 
and  Jacob,  with  all  the  Israelites  who 


642 

came  out  of  Egypt,  and  all  that  were 
in  the  desert.  In  this  house,  also, 
dwell  David,  Solomon,  and  all  the 
other  sons  of  David,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Absalom.  But  those  do  not 
comprehend  the  whole  habitancy  of 
this  well-stocked  house.  It  contains, 
in  addition,  the  whole  succession  of 
the  kings  of  Judah,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Manasseh,  who,  as  we  have 
already  seen,  is  occupied  in  govern- 
ing the  second  house.  At  the  head 
of  this  dwelling  are  Moses  and  Aaron. 
The  Rabbi  now,  observing  that  this 
household  possessed  a  great  quantity 
of  handsome  furniture,  gold  and  sil- 
ver plate,  &c.,  and  that  the  chambers 
were  provided  with  beds,  couches, 
and  candlesticks  of  pearls  and  dia- 
monds, asked  David  the  purport  of 
this  opulence.  "  These,"  said  David, 
"  are  for  the  children  of  the  world 
from  whom  you  came."  The  Rabbi 
then  enquired  whether  any  of  the 
Gentiles,  or  of  the  children  of  Esau, 
were  there  ?  "  None,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "  Whatever  good  they  may  do, 
is  rewarded  in  the  world;  but  their 
natural  destiny  is  hell."  But  every 
one  who  is  wicked  among  the  chil- 
dren of  Israel,  is  punished  in  his 
lifetime,  but  obtains  the  life  to  come  ; 
as  it  is  written — "  He  repayeth  those 
that  hate  him." 

The  fourth  house  fronts  the  fourth 
gate  of  Paradise,  and  is  buiit,  as  the 
first  man  was  framed,  in  perfection. 
It  is  built  with  oil-tree  (olive)  wood. 
But  why  is  it  thus  built?  Because 
the  house  is  built  for  the  habitation 
of  the  perfectly  righteous,  and  their 
earthly  days  were  bitter,  like  the  oil- 
tree.  The  fifth  house  is  built  of 
silver,  fine  £old,  glass,  and  crystal: 
the  river  Gihon  flows  through  the 
midst  of  it.  The  framework  is  of 
gold  and  silver,  with  au  odour  far  ex- 
ceeding that  of  Lebanon  wood.  The 
couches  are  also  more  costly  than 
those  of  the  others  ;  being  formed  of 
gold,  silver,  spice,  and  scarlet  and 
blue  silk  which  was  woven  by  Eve; 
and  also  crimson  silk,  and  the  finest 
linen,  and  cioth  of  goats'  hair,  which 
was  woven  by  angels.  In  this  house 
dwell  Messiah  ben  David,  and  Elias 
of  blessed  memory  ;  and  to  the  cham- 
ber with  pillars  of  silver,  and  carpets 
of  scarlet,  where  Messiah  especially 
dwells,  with  Elias  perpetually  de- 
claring to  him — "  Be  at  ease ;  for  the 
end  is  at  hand,  when  thou  art  to 
redeem  Israel,"  Moses,  Aaron,  Da- 


Tradilions  of  the  Rabbins. 


[April, 


vid,  arid  Solomon,  with  the  kings  of 
Israel,  and  of  the  house  of  David, 
come  on  the  second  and  fifth  day  of 
every  week,  and  also  on  every  Sab- 
bath and  festival,  to  lament  with  him, 
and  comfort  him,  saying — "  Be  at 
ease,  rely  on  Heaven,  for  the  end  is 
at  hand." 

But  the  fourth  day  of  the  week  is 
reserved  for  a  different  assemblage. 
On  this  day,  Korah  and  his  company, 
with  Dathan  and  Abiram,cometohim, 
and  ask — "  When  will  be  the  end  of 
what  is  wonderful;  and  when  shall  we 
be  raised  from  death,  and  suffered  to 
come  out  of  the  abyss  of  the  earth?" 
And  duly  they  hear  the  same  scornful 
answer — "  Go  to  your  fathers,  and 
ask  them."  This  answer  is  decisive : 
they  are  overwhelmed  with  shame, 
shrink,  and  disappear.  Two  houses 
remain ;  but  description  has  been  ex- 
hausted, and  they  seem  to  be  yet 
either  inadequately  finished,  or  inade- 
quately filled.  The  sixth  is  for  those 
who  have  rigidly  walked  in  the  path 
of  the  commandments ;  the  seventh 
for  those  who  died,  whether  of  sor- 
row for  the  national  sins,  or  innocent 
and  undue  victims,  swept  away  in  the 
times  of  national  calamity. 

But  among  the  possessors  of  Pa- 
radise, independently  of  the  great 
historic  characters  of  the  race  of  Is- 
rael, there  are  ranks,  differing  in 
dignity  according  to  their  merits,  or 
the  circumstances  of  their  lives  or 
deaths.  The  first  order  consists  of 
those  who  suffered  death  for  the  ho- 
nour of  their  Law  and  nation,  by 
the  hands  of  Infidel  governments ; 
such  as  the  Rabbi  Akkiba  and  his 
disciples,  who  were  put  to  death  by 
the  Roman  authorities.  The  second 
order  consists  of  those  who  have 
been  drowned  at  sea.  The  third,  of 
the  famous  Rabbi  Ben  Saccai  and 
his  disciples  ;  the  fourth,  of  those 
on  whom  the  Shekinah,  or  glory,  has 
descended ;  the  fifih,  of  true  peni- 
tents, who  rank  with  the  perfectly 
righteous  ;  the  sixth,  of  those  who 
have  never  married,  yet  have  lived  a 
life  of  purity;  the  seventh,  of  those 
in  humble  life,  who  have  constantly 
exercised  themselves  in  the  Bible, 
and  the  study  of  the  Mishna,  and 
have  had  an  honest  vocation.  For 
each  order  there  is  a  distinct  abode. 
The  highest  order  is  that  of  the  mar- 
tyrs for  the  Law,  the  order  of  Akkiba 
and  his  disciples. 

The  decorations  assigned  to  those 


H33J 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


fortunate  classes  are  various ;  yet  as 
even  the  Rabbinical  imagination  can 
invent  nothing  finer  than  gold  and 
jewels,  the  diversity  is  not  marked 
with  sufficient  distinctness  to  gratify 
European  taste.  All,  however,  is  in 
the  true  Oriental  profusion.  Rabbi 
Jt  hoscha,  still  the  great  authority  for 
supramundane  affairs,  relates,  ac- 
crrding  to  the  Jalkut  Schimoni, 
"  That  at  the  two  ruby  gates  of 
Paradise,  stand  sixty  times  ten  thou- 
sand spirits  ministering,  and  that 
ths  countenance  of  each  of  them 
shines  like  the  brightness  of  the  fir- 
mament. On  the  arrival  of  one  of 
th  3  righteous  from  Earth,  those  spi- 
rits surround  him,  receive  him  with 
due  honours,  strip  him  of  his  grave- 
clothes,  and  robe  him  in  no  less  than 
ei^ht  garments  of  clouds  of  glory. 
Tl  ey  next  put  upon  his  head  two 
crowns,  one  of  pearls  and  diamonds, 
and  the  other  of  pure  gold,  and  put 
eig  lit  myrrh  branches  into  his  hands. 
They  then  sing  a  chorus  of  praise 
round  him,  and  bid  him  go  and  eat 
hi^  bread  in  joy  !  They  next  lead  him 
to  springs  of  water,  margined  with 
eight  hundred  species  of  roses  and 
ni}  rrh,where  to  each  of  the  righteous 
is  assigned  a  separate  canopy  from 
the  heat,  or  the  splendour,  or  both. 
From  the  springs  flow  four  rivers,  of 
miik,  wine,  balsam,  and  honey.  The 
cai  opies  are  crowned  and  lighted  by 
pearls,  each  of  which  gives  a  light 
equal  to  that  of  the  planet  Venus. 
Under  every  canopy  is  laid  a  table 
of  pearls  and  precious  stones.  And 
over  the  head  of  each  hover  a  group 
of  <  ngels,  who  say  to  him,  "  Go  now 
and  eat  honey  with  joy,  because  thou 
hast  studied  the  Law,  and  exercised 
thyself  therein ;  and  go  and  drink 
the  wine  which  is  preserved  from 
the  six  days  of  the  Creation." 

Among  the  righteous,  the  least 
handsome  are  like  Joseph  and  Rab- 
bi Jochanan  (who  was  celebrated 
for  his  beauty.)  No  night  comes 
there;  and  there  also  the  process  of 
bea  ity  and  beatification  is  a  matter 
of  a  few  hours.  In  the  time  of  the 
firsi  watch,  the  righteous  becomes 
an  infant  of  Paradise,  passes  into 
the  place  where  the  spirits  of  infants 
are,  and  feels  all  the  joyousness  be- 
long ing  to  infancy.  In  the  second 
watoh,  he  starts  into  Paradisaic 
youth,  passes  into  the  dwelling  of 
the  youthful  spirits,  and  enjoys  their 
pursuits  and  pastimes.  In  the  third 
watoh,  he  enters  into  the  state  of 


643 

Paradisaic  manhood ;  bis  perfection 
is  complete,  and  he  is  thenceforth 
master  of  all  the  faculties  and  enjoy- 
ments of  the  region  of  happiness. 

Paradise,  too,  retains  its  old  su- 
premacy over  all  gardens,  from  its 
abundance  of  trees,  of  which  the 
Rabbins  give  it  no  less  than  eighty 
times  ten  thousand  species  in  each 
of  the  quarters  of  this  famous  spot 
of  celestial  horticulture.  Angels  in 
abundance  are  also  provided,  either 
to  cultivate  or  to  admire  them ;  for 
there  are  600,000  in  each  quarter, 
floating  about,  or  guarding  the  fruit. 
The  tree  of  life  stands  there,  with 
its  branches  covering  the  whole  ex- 
tent of  Paradise,  and  with  fruits 
suitable  to  all  the  various  tastes  of 
the  righteous,  for  they  have  five 
hundred  thousand  several  flavours. 
Seven  clouds  of  glory  sit  above  it, 
and  at  every  wind  which  shakes  it, 
the  fragrance  passes  from  one  end 
of  the  world  to  the  other.  The  dis- 
ciples of  the  Sages  are  peculiarly 
favoured,  for  they  have  their  espe- 
cial seats  allotted  under  this  tree. 
Their  merit  is,  to  have  profoundly 
studied,  and  eloquently  explained 
the  Law. 

A  large  portion  of  the  Rabbinical 
writings  is  filled  with  those  descrip- 
tions of  lavish  and  fanciful  beauty, 
but  deformed  with  extravagancies, 
which  offend  even  against  the  wild- 
ness  of  Eastern  fiction.  The  light 
which  supplies  the  place  of  sun  to 
the  righteous,  occupies  a  large  space 
in  the  description.  The  treatise  A oo- 
dath  Hahkadesh,  after  saying  that 
the  extent  of  the  garden  is  immense, 
states,  that  there  stands^in  the  centre 
a  vast  laver,  filled  with  dew  from  the 
highest  celestial  region:  and  in  its 
centre  stands  a  light  incapable  of 
being  eclipsed  or  obscured,  it  being 
of  the  nature  of  that  which  was  ori- 
ginally given  for  the  use  of  Adam, 
and  by  which  he  was  enabled  to  see 
at  a  glance  from  one  end  of  the 
world  to  the  other.  But  the  ground 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  this  prodi- 
gious luminary  conduces  partially  to 
this  result,  as  it  is  an  entire  pave- 
ment of  precious  stones,  each  of 
which  gives  a  light  brilliant  as  that 
of  a  burning  torch ;  the  whole  form- 
ing an  illumination  of  indescribable 
lustre. 

It  is  obvious,  that  in  their  inven- 
tions, the  Traditionists  had  no  reluc- 
tance to  borrow  from  the  written 
letter.  They  seize  iust  enough  of  the 


644 

facts  of  Scriptufe  to  form  a  frame- 
work for  the  fiction,  and  over  this 
they  flourish  their  rambling  and  le- 
gendary conceptions.  But  as  they 
borrow  largely,  so  they  have  been 
prodigally  borrowed  from.  The  Ro- 
mish doctrines  of  supererogation, 
purgatory,  and  individual  interces- 
sion, are  not  the  work  of  Rome 
alone;  they  are  as  old  as  the  Rab- 
bins ;  and  the  only  merit  which  the 
Romish  adopters  can  claim  is,  that 
of  having  turned  a  play  of  imagina- 
tion into  a  principle  of  practice, 
made  a  rambling  tenet  a  profitable 
dogma,  and  fabricated  dreams  and 
visions  into  a  source  of  the  deepest 
corruption  that  ever  violated  the 
simplicity  of  religion,  revolted  hu- 
man reason,  and  stained  the  feeble 
purity  of  the  human  heart.  In  the 
Nismath  Chajim,  we  are  told,  that 
the  Rabbi  Akkiba,  their  great  doc- 
tor, one  day  as  he  was  going  to  be 
present  at  the  burial  of  one  of  his  dis- 
ciples, was  surprised  at  the  sight  of 
a  being  with  the  shape  of  a  man, 
running  with  an  enormous  pile  of 
wood  on  his  shoulders — yet  running 
with  the  speed  of  a  horse.  The  com- 
passionate Rabbi  stopped  his  cele- 
rity, and  perceiving  that  he  was  hu- 
man, asked  him  why  he  was  con- 
demned to  this  singular  labour,  add- 
ing, "  that  he  pitied  him  so  much, 
that  if  he  were  a  slave,  and  his  mas- 
ter would  be  content  to  sell  him,  he 
himself  would  i)e  the  purchaser,  in 
order  to  free  him  from  this  severity 
of  toil ;  or,  if  his  poverty  were  the 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


[April, 


patience;  he  struggled  to  break 
away,  but,  awed  by  the  power  of  the 
great  Akkiba,  he  could  not  move 
from  the  spot.  At  length  he  burst 
into  a  passionate  cry,  imploring  that 
he  might  be  suffered  to  go  on,  and 
fly  over  the  world,  bearing  his  me- 
lancholy burden.  The  Rabbi  was 
astonished,  but  he  now  began  to  per- 
ceive that  he  was  conversing  with  a 
being  not  of  this  world,  and  sternly 
demanded,  "Art  thou  man  or  devil?" 
The  unfortunate  being  in  agony  ex- 
claimed, "  I  have  past  away  from 
earth,  and  now  my  eternal  portion  is 
to  carry  fuel  to  the  Great  Fire."  The 
startled  Rabbi  asked  what  act  of  his 
life  could  have  plunged  him  into  this 
dreadful  calamity  ?  The  criminal  an- 
swered, that  he  had  been  a  collector 


of  the  public  taxes,  and  had  abused 
his  office,  by  favouring  the  rich  and 
oppressing  the  poor.  The  next  ques- 
tion was,  whether  he  had  ever  heard 
in  his  place  of  punishment,  that  there 
was  any  remedy  for  his  guilt  ?  The 
condemned  now  began  to  be  impa- 
tient, through  fear  of  increasing  his 
punishment  by  delaying  his  task,  and 
eagerly  implored  the  Rabbi  to  let 
him  go.  At  length,  acknowledging 
that  he  had  heard  of  one  redemp- 
tion, namely,  that  if  he  had  a  son, 
who  could  stand  forth  in  the  congre- 
gation, and  there  say  the  prayer  of  the 
Synagogue, beginning  with  "  Blessed 
be  the  blessed  Lord,"  he  might  be 
delivered  from  his  sentence.  On  his 
being  asked,  whether  he  had  a  son  ? 
he  answered  that  he  did  not  know ; 
that  he  had  left  his  widow  when  she 
was  about  to  have  a  child,  but  that 
he  now  could  not  know  whether  it 
was  a  son  or  a  daughter;  or,  if  a 
son,  whether  he  was  sufficiently  in- 
structed in  the  Law.  To  the  further 
enquiry,  where  his  family  were  to 
be  found  ?  he  answered,  that  his 
own  name  was  Akkiba,  his  wife's 
Susmira,  and  his  city  Alduca.  The 
man  was  now  suffered  to  recom- 
mence his  fearful  race  again.  And 
the  benevolent  Rabbi  began  a  pil- 
grimage from  city  to  city,  until  he 
found  the  due  place.  There  he  en- 
quired for  the  dwelling  of  the  hus- 
band. But  he  seems  to  have  been 
unpopular  among  his  countrymen, 
for  the  general  answer  to  the  Rabbi 
was,  "  May  his  bones  be  bruised  in 
hell."  The  perplexed  enquirer  now 
attempted  to  ascertain  the  fate  of 
the  widow,  but  she  appeared  to  be 
scarcely  more  fortunate  than  her 
husband ;  for  the  reply  was, "  Let  her 
name  be  rooted  out  of  the  world." 
His  sole  resource  now  was  the  son ; 
and  of  him  the  answer  was  not  much 
more  favourable.  "  He  was  not  cir- 
cumcised, his  parents  having  had  no 
regard  to  the  Covenant." 

But  the  Rabbi  was  not  to  be  re- 
pelled; he  discovered  the  boy  at  last, 
took  him  to  his  home,  found  him  a 
preternatural  dunce,  into  whom  the 
Law  could  not  by  possibility  make 
way;  and  was  driven  to  a  fast  of  forty 
days,  which  by  divine  aid  at  length 
accomplished  the  task  of  teaching 
him  the  Alphabet.  After  this  his 
education  advanced  to  the  extent  of 
reading  the  prayer  Shema.  (Deut. 
vi,  4.)  The  Rabbi  now  brought  for- 


J833.]' 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


645 


ward  his  pupil,  the  prayer  of  spiritual 
liberation  was  recited,  and  in  that 
hour  the  father  was  freed  from  his 
task.  He  soon  after  appeared  to  the 
llabbi  in  a  dream,  saying,  "  May  the 
i  est  of  Paradise  be  thy  portion,  be- 
c  ause  thou  hast  rescued  me  from  the 
j'unishment  of  hell."  Then  the  Rabbi 
I  urst  out  into  rejoicings,  and  repeat- 
ed a  holy  hymn  in  honour  of  the 
achievement. 

The  only  distinction  between  this 
pious  performance,  and  the  exploits 
of  later  times,  is  in  the  penance.  If 
t"ie  Rabbi  Akkiba  had  done  his  pur- 
gatorial work  at  Rome  instead  of  at 
Jsrusalem,  he  would  have  made 
others  fast  instead  of  mortifying  him- 
solf,  and  he  would  have  put  a  hand- 
some sum  into  his  purse  for  masses 
a  id  indulgences,  instead  of  incum- 
biring  himself  with  hospitality  to 
tl  e  tardy  subject  of  circumcision. 

Some  of  those  stories  are  publicly 
founded  on  the  facts  of  the  Jewish 
p  'rsecutions,  though  the  historian 
\\lio  would  take  them  in  their  pre- 
s(  nt  state,  for  authority,  would  tread 
u  >on- slippery  ground.  The  treatise 
Sanhedrin  gives  the  following  ac- 
count of  the  origin  of  the  celebrated 
book  Zohar. 

The  Rabbis  Jehuda,  Isaac,  and 
S'limeon  were  conversing,  when 
Jt  huda  ben  Gerim,  a  convert,  came 
tc  them.  On  Jehuda's  observing  that 
tte  Romans  excelled  in  buildings 
aid  public  works,  that  they  had 
erected  markets,  bridges,  and  baths, 
ths  Rabbi  Shimeon  contested  their 
m  3rit,  by  saying  that  they  had  done 
th^se  things  with  selfish  or  corrupt 
objects.  The  convert  was  clearly 
ur  worthy  of  hearing  so  much  wis- 
dc  m,  for  he  carried  the  conversation 
to  the  Imperial  ear,  and  sentence 
so  m  followed,  that  the  Rabbi  who 
had  spoken  contemptuously  of  the 
re  gning  power  should  be  slain,  and 
th .»  Rabbi  who  had  kept  silence 
sh  >uld  be  banished,  while  the  lau- 
dasory  Rabbi  should  be  promoted. 
On  this  announcement  the  Rabbi 
Shimeon,  the  chief  culprit,  fled  with 
his  son,  and  they  hid  themselves  in 
th<  school,  his  wife  bringing  them 
br<  ad  and  water  every  day.  But  the 
pu  -suitbecoming  close,  and  Shimeon 
ob  serving  to  his  son,  with  more  truth 
thi-n  gallantry,  that  women  were 
soi  aewhat  light-minded,  and  that  the 
lie  mans  might  tease  his  wife  into 
dig  covering  the  nlar.e  of  their  rp.trpnt. 


he  determined  to  put  this  casualty 
out  of  her  power,  by  hiding  in  a  cave. 
There  they  must  however  have  met 
with  a  fate  as  evil  as  the  Roman 
sword,  for  they  were  on  the  point  of 
famine  j  when  a  fruit-tree  and  a 
spring  were  created  for  their  sup- 
port. Here,  whether  for  comfort, 
concealment,  or  saving  their  clothes, 
they  undressed  themselves,  sat  up 
to  the  neck  in  sand,  and  spent  the 
day  in  study.  At  the  time  of  prayer, 
however,  they  recollected  the  de- 
corums of  their  law,  dressed  them- 
selves, performed  their  service,  and 
then  laid  aside  their  clothing  once 
more.  At  the  end  of  twelve  years 
of  this  life  of  nakedness  and  learn- 
ing, the  prophet  Elias  stood  at  the 
entrance  of  the  cave,  and  cried  aloud, 
"  Who  will  tell  the  son  of  Jochai  that 
the  Emperor  is  dead,  and  his  decree 
is  come  to  an  end  ?"  Then  went  out 
the  Rabbi  Shimeon  and  his  son.  But 
their  studies  had  rendered  them  un- 
fit for  the  easy  morality  of  the  world 
into  which  they  were  re-entering. 
They  saw  mankind  as  busy  as  ever 
with  their  worldly  affairs,  ploughing 
and  trading,  pursuing  wealth,  pas- 
sion, and  pleasure.  They  instantly 
exclaimed,  "  Behold  a  race  of  evil ! 
behold  a  people  who  neglect  eternal 
things  !"  Their  words  were  fearful, 
but  their  effect  was  more  fearful  still, 
for,  whatever  they  denounced,  or 
whatever  object  fell  beneath  their 
indignant  glance,  was  instantly  con- 
sumed with  flame.  But  this  dis- 
cipline would  have  thinned  mankind 
too  rapidly  to  be  suffered  long.  A 
voice  came  forth  from  the  clouds. 
"  Are  ye  come  out  only  to  destroy 
the  world  ?  Return  to  your  cave." 
The  hermits  were  not  disobedient  to 
the  high  admonition.  They  returned 
to  their  solitude,  and  there  abode  a 
whole  year.  At  the  end  of  that  pe- 
riod, the  Rabbi  Shimeon  lifted  up  his 
voice,  and  said, "  Even  in  hell  the 
wicked  are  punished  but  twelve 
months."  This  remonstrance  was 
graciously  listened  to.  The  voice 
was  heard  again,  commanding  that 
they  should  come  forth  from  the  cave. 
They  now  came  forth,  restraining 
their  wrath  at  the  incorrigible  world- 
linessof  man,  and  shutting  those  fiery 
eyes  whose  glances  consumed  all 
that  they  fell  upon,  like  flashes  of 
lightning.  They  suffered  the  world 
to  take  its  own  way,  they  took  theirs; 

and   thpnr'.p.fnrtli  livpd  in  nnniilaritv. 


646 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


[April, 


ate  their  bread  in  peace,  and  escaped 
the  turbulent  life  and  thankless  death 
of  those  who  trouble  themselves  with 
the  morals  of  their  neighbours.  But 
their  sojourn  in  the  cave  was  not 
unproductive;  for  their  wise  heads 
and  industrious  fingers  produced  the 
famous  treatise,  Zohar. 

With   those  conceptions   of   the 
power  of  man  and  angels,  it  may  be 
presumed  that  the  Rabbins  have  not 
neglected  the  space  offered  to  the 
imagination  in  the  kingdom  of  dark- 
ness. There  they  arrange,  distribute, 
and  define  all  kinds  of  faculties,  pur- 
suits, and  punishments,  in  the  most 
exuberant  and  sometimes  in  the  most 
striking  style.    Their  legends  exhibit 
all  the  characteristics  of  the  Oriental 
school,  and  are  alternately  feeble  and 
forcible,  absurd  and  interesting,  tri- 
vial and  sublime.  One  portion  of  the 
spirits  of  evil  they  conceive  to  pos- 
sess a  kind  of  middle  state  between 
the  worlds  of  nature  and  spirit.  They 
are  declared  to  resemble  angels  in 
three  things,  the  power  of  flight, 
foresight,  and  passing  from  one  end 
of  the  earth  to  the  other  with  instant 
and  angelic  speed.      To  the  humbler 
race  of  man  they  are  linked  also  by 
three  things,  by  feeling  the  necessity 
of  food,  by  being  increased  according 
to  human  generation,  and  by  being 
liable  to  death.     Those  evil  spirits 
know  no  Salic  law,  for  they  have  no 
less  than  four   Queens,  named  the 
LiliSy  the  Naama,  the  Igerith,  and  the 
Machalath;  each  of  these  formidable 
sovereigns  waving  the  sceptre  over 
bands  of  unclean  spirits,  utterly  be- 
yond calculation.  They  are  severally 
paramount,  each   presiding  over  a 
fourth  of  the  year,  but  in  this  period 
reigning  over  nature  only  from  the 
hour  of  sunset  till  midnight.     Once 
in  the  year  they  assemble  with  their 
dark  legions  on  the  heights  of  Nishpa, 
in  the  centre  of  the  mountains  of  the 
Equator.     But  over  them  all,  Solo- 
mon had  power.     Those  four  are, 
however,  the  wives  of  one,  the  Prince 
Sammael,  who  reigns  over  Esau  ;  to 
whom  the  Rabbins  have  a  peculiar 
aversion,  which  they  display  on  all 
occasions.      The  four   Queens  are 
among  the  inconveniences  which  be- 
set the  daily  life  of  the  Jew.     The 
Christian  peasantry  of  Europe  have 
their  unlucky  day,  Friday ;  and  the 
Moslem  are  not  without  their  day  of 
casualty.     But  the  Jew  must  be  a 
dexterous  steersman,  who  can  make 


his  way  through  any  of  the  seven 
days  of  the  week,  without  running 
foul  of  misfortune  regularly  laid 
down  in  the  Calendar.  The  Rabbi- 
nical caution  especially  lies  against 
venturing  out  alone  in  the  nights  of 
Thursdays  or  the  Sabbaths,  for  on 
those  nights  the  Igerith  is  especially 
abroad,  with  an  army  of  no  less  than 
180,000  evil  spirits,  ready  to  pluck 
the  truest  of  believers  from  the  face 
of  the  earth  at  the  instant  of  his  put- 
ting his  foot  beyond  the  threshold. 

But  the  Lilithy  or  Lilis,  is  the  lady 
of  romance.  When  Adam  was  first 
formed,  Lilis  was  his  wife,  she  was 
made  of  earth,  but  her  earthly  com- 
pound was  ill  suited  to  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  first  father  of  mankind. 
She  contested  his  right  of  being  mas- 
ter of  his  own  house,  and  then  began 
that  quarrel  which  has  been  so  often 
renewed  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world.  Lilis  would  not  recede  ; 
Adam  would  not  concede ;  and  there- 
suit  was,  as  in  later  times,  a  demand 
for  a  separate  maintenance.  Lilis 
pronounced  the  Shem  Hamphorash  ; 
wings  started  from  her  shoulders 
at  the  words,  and  she  darted  up- 
ward from  the  presence  of  her  as- 
tonished lord,  to  range  the  kingdoms 
of  the  air.  Adam  appealed  to  autho- 
rity ;  and  three  ange\s,Sensi,  Sansenoi, 
and  Sammangelof,  were  sent  in  full 
wing  after  her.  A  decree  was  issued, 
that  if  she  came  back  voluntarily,  all 
should  be  forgiven ;  but  if  she  refu- 
sed to  come,  one  hundred  of  her  chil- 
dren should  die  every  day!  But 
Lilis  had  already  felt  the  charms  of 
freedom,  and  she  resolved  to  enjoy 
them  to  her  utmost.  The  three  an- 

fels  supplicated  in  vain.  She  waved 
er  plumage  across  the  earth ;  they 
pursued.  She  fled  across  the  far- 
thest waters  of  the  ocean.  There, 
at  length,  she  was  overtaken.  She 
still  refused.  The  angels  threatened 
to  strip  her  of  her  wings,  to  plunge 
her  in  the  waters  which  rolled  be- 
neath them,  and  bind  her  in  chains 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  for  ever.  Still 
Lilis  was  inflexible,  and  she  even 
awed  them  with  the  declaration,  that 
she  had  been  created  with  the  espe- 
cial power  to  destroy  children,  the 
males  from  the  day  of  their  birth  to 
the  eighth  day  (the  day  of  circum- 
cision), but  the  females  until  the 
tenth  day.  This  menace  rendered  it 
only  the  more  indispensable, that  this 
formidable  truant  should  be  brought 


1833.] 

back  to  her  allegiance.  They  now 
proceeded  to  exert  their  powerful 
means ;  when  Lilis  offered  a  compro- 
mise, that  whenever  she  saw  any  of 
the  names  or  pictures  of  the  angels 
on  a  Kamea  (a  slip  of  parchment 
hung  round  a  child's  neck),  she 
would  spare  the  child.  The  subse- 
quent offspring  of  Lilis  were  evil 
•spirits,  of  whom  a  hundred  die  daily, 
but  unfortunately  the  produce  is 
more  rapid  than,  the  extinction.  But 
che  Doctors  of  the  Law  acknowledge 
the  value  of  the  agreement,  and  there- 
fore write  the  names  of  the  angels 
jpon  all  children's  necks,  that  Lilis 
may  be  equally  true  to  the  compact, 
and  spare  the  rising  generation  of 
[srael. 

Solomon,  the  perpetual  theme  of 
Oriental  story,  of  course  flourishes 
in  the  annals  of  those  inexhaustible 
dealers  in  prodigies.  One  of  the 
Chaldee  paraphrases  tells  us  of  a 
least  which  Solomon,  the  son  of 
David,  the  wise  and  holy,  gave  in 
the  days  of  his  glory,  and  to  which 
he  invited  all  the  kings  of  the  earth, 
from  east  to  west.  He  regaled  his 
guests  with  more  than  royal  magni- 
ficence; and  in  the  course  of  the 
banquet,  when  his  heart  was  high 
with  wine,  shewed  them  the  won- 
ders of  his  power.  He  first  order- 
«fl'  the  troops  of  minstrels  trained 
by  his  father,  to  enter  and  exhi- 
bit their  skill  on  the  harp,  cymbal, 
trumpet,  and  other  instruments. 
Nothing  could  be  more  exquisite. 
All  were  astonished  and  delighted. 
But  he  had  a  more  striking  display 
$a  reserve.  At  the  waving  of  his 
t-ceptre,  and  the  uttering  of  a  com- 
mand to  all  the  creatures  of  the  earth 
to  attend,  the  halls  of  the  immense 
palace  were  instantly  crowded  with 
.ar  concourse  of  all  the  kinds  of  ani- 
mals, from  the  lion  to  the  serpent, 
5  nd  from  the  eagle  to  the  smallest 
of  the  birds.  The  terror  of  his 
kingly  guests  was  at  first  excessive, 
but  it  was  changed  to  wonder  by 
\  eeing  the  whole  crowd  of  animals 
}  cknowledging  the  power  of  the 
man  of  wisdom;  uttering  voices  to 
Kim,  all  which  he  understood  and 
j  nswered,  and  displaying  all  their 
qualities  and  beauties,  in  homage  to 
the  mighty  monarch.  But  a  still 
more  astounding  spectacle  was  to 
iollow.  The  King  ordering  a  small 
cup  of  a  single  crysolite  to  be 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


647 


quid  of  a  dazzling  brightness,  till 
the  whole  cup  glowed  like  a  star ; 
and  a  flame  ascending  from  it,  shot 
forth  a  thousand  distinct  shafts  of 
fire  to  all  parts  of  the  horizon.     In 
a  short  time,  sounds  of  the  most 
fearful  kind  were  heard  in    earth 
and  air,  and  the  army  of  the  de- 
mons, night-spectres,  and   evil  spi- 
rits, submissive  to  his  will,  poured 
into  the  palace.     The  numbers  on 
this  public   occasion  may  be  ima- 
gined from  their  habits  of  congre- 
gating on  the  most    private   ones. 
The  Rabbins  hold  that  the  whole 
system  of  nature  is  so  crowded  with 
them,    that    a    true    believer    has 
scarcely  room  to  turn  on  his  heel 
without  treading  on   the  hoofs   of 
some  of  them.      The  Rabbi  Benja- 
min says,  that  if  a  man  is  not  cau- 
tious how  he  opens  his  eye,  there 
are  some  who  will  be  sure  to  get 
between    the  lids.     Others   assert, 
that  they  stand  round  us  as  thick 
as  the  fences  of  a  garden.   The  trea- 
tise Raf  Ham  gives  the  actual  num- 
ber that  molest  a  Rabbi,  an  occupa- 
tion in  which  they  naturally  take 
a   peculiar  pleasure;   this  number 
amounts  to  a  thousand  on  his  left 
side,  and,  by  some  curious  prefe- 
rence of  mischief,  ten  thousand  on 
his  right      The  treatise  Rabba  pro- 
ceeds to  solve  some  of  the  more  ob- 
vious earthly  inconveniences  which 
beset  the  Israelite  by  this  perverse 
presence.     Thus  the  thronging  and 
pressing  in    the  synagogue,   which 
produces   so    much   confusion-  and 
surprise,  when  every  one  seems  to 
perceive  that  there  is  room  enough 
for  all,  is  really  occasioned  by  those 
invisible  intruders,  who  are  so  fond 
of  hearing  the    discourses  of  the 
Jewish  priests,  that  they  fill  the  sy- 
nagogue to  suffocation.     The  whole 
fatigue  felt  in  the  service  also  pro- 
ceeds from   their  pressure.      Even 
the    tearing    and    wearing    of  the 
clothes   of  the   Israelites,  a  matter 
which  they  seem  to  feel  as  a  pecu- 
liar grievance,   proceeds   from   the 
restless  movement  and  remorseless 
rubbing  of  their  viewless  associates. 
But  on  this  feast  -day   of  their 
mighty  master,  none  dared  to  make 
experiments  on  his  sufferance.     All 
displayed  themselves  in  their  best 
points  of  view,  and  nothing  could  be 
more  strange,  more  wonderful,  or 
more  dazzling,  than  the  whole  mea- 


648 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins, 


[April, 


nether  world.  There  followed,  in 
long  march,  shapes  of  fire  ;  some 
flashing  beams,  keen  as  lightning; 
some  shedding  light,  soft  as  the  rain- 
bow ;  some  of  colossal  stature,  some 
of  the  smallest  dwarfishness ;  some 
in  the  naked  and  powerful  propor- 
tions of  the  antediluvian  giant  ;  some 
of  the  most  delicate  and  subtle  love- 
liness of  form,  clothed  in  silk  and  gold; 
some  wearing  armour,  royal  robes, 
coronets,  studded  with  stars,  small 
as  the  eye  of  a  mole,  yet'sparkling 
with  intolerable  brilliancy;  some  on 
the  wing ;  some  in  floating  chariots 
of  metals  unknown  on  earth,  yet  ex- 
ceeding the  gossamer  in  lightness, 
and  gold  in  splendour ;  some  riding 
coursers  of  the  most  inconceivable 
strength,  and  stupendous  magni- 
tude, tall  as  the  towers  of  a  city, 
and  beside  which  the  elephant  would 
have  looked  like  a  fawn ;  some  steer- 
ing barges,  entirely  formed  of  rich 
jewels,  through  the  air,  and  sweep- 
ing round  the  pillars  and  sculptures 
of  the  palace  with  infinite  velocity ; 
some  on  foot,  and  treading  on  tissues 
of  silver  and  scarlet,  which  continu- 
ally spread  wherever  they  trode,  and 
threw  up  living  roses  at  each  step; 
some  with  countenances  marked 
with  the  contortions  of  pain  and  ter- 
ror, but  some  of  an  exquisite  and  in- 
tense beauty,  which  at  once  fixed 
and  overwhelmed  the  eye.  All 
moved  to  the  sound  of  an  infinite 
number  of  instruments,  warlike,  pas- 
toral, and  choral,  according  to  their 
states  and  powers,  and  all  formed  the 
most  singular  and  wondrous  sight 
imaginable.  Yet,  though  all  the 
guests  confessed  that  they  had  never 
seen  the  equal  of  this  display,  they 
yet  acknowledged  that  it  inspired 
them  with  indescribable  fear.  They 
felt  that  they  were  in  an  evil  pre- 
sence ;  and  not  even  the  charm  of 
those  allurements  and  temptations 
which  still  remain  to  fallen  spirits, 
not  even  their  wisdom,  beauty,  and 
knowledge  of  the  secrets  of  nature, 
their  brilliant  intellect,  and  universal 
skill,  could  prevent  the  kings  from 
praying  Solomon  that  he  would  com- 
mand his  terrible  vassals,  the  tribes 
of  the  world  of  darkness,  to  depart 
from  the  palace.  The  King,  in  com- 
passion to  their  human  weakness, 
complied,  and  taking  up  the  cup  of 
crysolite,  poured  into  it  a  liquor  of 
the  colour  of  ebonv.  The  CUD  sud- 


thousand  shafts  of  darkness  shot  out 
from  it  to  all  parts  of  the  horizon. 
They  pierced  through  the  ranks  of 
the  evil  spirits  like  a  flight  of  arrows, 
and  instantly  the  whole  mighty  mul- 
titude broke  up,  and  scattered  in  all 
directions  through  the  air.  Their 
flight  was  long  seen  like  a  fall  of  fiery 
meteors;  and  their  yells, as  they  flew, 
were  heard  as  far  as  Babylon. 

Wolf,  the  missionary,  who  is  now 
rambling  through  Asia,  and  rejoicing 
in  the  perilous  encounter  of  Ra- 
jahs, tigers,  angry  Israelites,  and  dag- 
ger-bearing Moslems,  will  probably 
soon  give  a  new  public  interest  to 
one  of  the  most  popular  conceptions 
that  ever  fell  into  oblivion, — the 
existence  of  the  lost  tribes  of  Is- 
rael. The  present  object  of  this 
indefatigable  rambler  is  declaredly 
to  bring  to  light  the  retreats  of  the 
famous  revolters  of  Jeroboam.  What 
resources  for  the  discovery  he  may 
find  in  his  own  possession,  we  must 
leave  to  time.  But  if  he  should 
condescend  to  take  his  wisdom  from 
the  pages  of  the  Rabbins,  he  will 
find  them  ready  and  copious  in  sup- 
plying him  with  the  most  unhesi- 
tating information  on  every  point  of 
possible  curiosity.  The  Rabbi  Ben- 
jamin, in  his  work,  Massaoth  Shel 
Rabbi  Benjamin,  long  since  inform- 
ed the  wondering  world,  that  "  from 
the  city  Raabar,  formerly  called 
Pombeditha,  on  the  banks  of  the  Eu- 
phrates, it  is  exactly  twenty-one  days' 
journey  through  the  desert  of  Saba, 
in  the  direction  of  Sincar,  to  the 
frontier  of  the  country  called  that 
of  the  Rechabites.  Their  capital  is 
the  city  of  Tema,  where  the  Prince 
Chanan,  who  is  also  a  Rabbi,  governs 
the  nation.  The  city  is  of  large  di- 
mensions, and  the  territory  is  worthy 
of  the  capital.  It  extends  sixteen 
days'  journey  between  the  northern 
mountains.  The  people  are  nume- 
rous and  warlike,  yet  they  are  sub- 
ject to  the  Gojim,  a  gentile  power, 
which  forays  to  a  great  distance,  in 
company  with  some  hordes  of  wild 
Arabs,  who  live  on  their  northern 
boundary.  Those  Rechabite  Jews 
plough,  and  keep  cattle,  give  the 
tenth  of  their  possessions  to  the 
scribes  and  sages,  who  live  in  the 
schools,  and  to  the  poorer  Jews,  and 
especially  to  those  who  mourn  over 
Sion,  and  neither  eat  flesh  nor  drink 
wine,  but  who  DerDetually  wear 


1833.] 


Traditions  of  the  Ralbins. 


649 


rows  of  Jerusalem.  The  number  of 
the  people  living  in  Tema  and  Tili- 
ma, is  about  100,000.  And  thither 
come,  once  in  the  year,  Prince  So- 
lomon, and  his  brother  Chanan,  of 
the  line  of  David,  with  shattered 
clothing,  to  fast  forty  days,  and  pray 
for  the  miseries  of  those  Jews  who 
are  in  exile. 

"In  the  country  of  the  Prince 
who  thus  comes  periodically  to  fast 
with  the  Rechabites,the  people  seem 
to  be  tolerably  prosperous.  He  has 
fifty  cities,  two  hundred  villages,  and 
an  hundred  fortresses.  His  capital 
is  Thenaiy  remarkably  strong,  and  fif- 
teen miles  square,  containing  fields, 
gardens,  and  orchards.  Tilima  is 
also  a  very  strong  city,  seated  in  the 
mountains.  From  Tilima  it  is  three 
days'  journey  to  Kibar,  where  the 
people  declare  themselves  of  the 
tribes  Reuben,  Gad,  and  the  half 
tribe  of  Manasseh,  which  Shalma- 
nezer,  the  Assyrian,  carried  into  cap- 
tivity. They  are  a  singularly  belli- 
gerent race;  they  have  large  and 
strong  cities.  They  wage  constant 
hostilities  with  their  neighbours,  and 
are  almost  secure  of  impunity,  by 
having  in  their  frontier  a  desert  of 
eighteen  days'  journey,  utterly  un- 
inhabitable by  man.  The  city  of 
Kibar  also  is  large,  with  about  fifty 
thousand  Jews  among  the  inhabi- 
tants. They  carry  on  frequent  wars 
with  the  people  of  Sincar  and  the 
north.  The  other  Israelites  spread 
to  the  east ;  and  the  country  of  All- 
man  touches  even  the  borders  of  In- 
dia." We  are  in  some  fear  that  these 
names  will  not  be  found  in  the  mo- 
dern maps ;  but  the  detail  is  confi- 
dent, and  if  the  missionary  should 
blunder  in  the  regions  between  the 
Euxine  and  the  Caspian,  he  will 
have  the  satisfaction  of  blundering 
upon  high  Rabbinical  authority, 
s  But  it  was  to  be  presumed,  that  a 
tradition  which  had  so  long  excited 
popular  curiosity,  would  at  some  time 
or  other  be  adapted  for  the  purposes 
of  ingenious  imposture.  How  few 
instances  are  there  of  the  mysterious 
death  of  a  prince,  or  the  fall  of  a 
dynasty,  which  have  not  exhibited  a 
ready  succession  of  dexterous  pre- 
tenders ;  from  the  days  of  Sebastian 
of  Portugal  down  to  the  late  Dauphin, 
the  unfortunate  son  of  the  unfortu- 
nate Louis  XVI.  The  treatise  Shib- 
boleth gives  a  sketch  of  one  of  these 


bold  adventurers.  In  the  year  of  the 
world  the  1466th  after  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  second  temple,  (A.D. 
1534,)  there  appeared  in  Europe,  a 
man  from  a  distant  country,  who 
called  himself  Rabbi  David,  a  Reu- 
benite.  He  went  to  Rome,  where  he 
had  an  interview  with  Clement 
VII.,  and  was  favourably  received. 
On  being  questioned  by  the  Pontiff 
as  to  himself,  he  said,  that  he  was 
the  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  army 
of  the  King  of  Israel.  He  was  of  a 
Moorish  complexion,  short  in  sta- 
ture, and  about  forty-five  years  of 
age.  From  Rome  he  went  to  Por- 
tugal, where  he  was  received  by  the 
King;  and  understanding  only  He- 
brew and  Arabic,  spoke  generally  by 
an  interpreter.  He  declared  that  he 
was  sent  as  ambassador  from  the  Is- 
raelite Kings  of  Chalach,  Chabar, 
and  the  nations  on  the  river  Gozan,  to 
demand  assistance,  and  peculiarly 
cannon,  from  the  European  Princes, 
that  they,  the  Israelites,  might  be 
enabled  to  make  head  against  their 
infidel  enemies.  The  Rabbi  remain- 
ed for  a  considerable  time  in  Portu- 
gal, and  converted  to  Judaism  one  of 
the  King's  private  secretaries,  who, 
though  a  Christian,  was  of  Jewish, 
parents.  On  this  conversion,  the 
Kabbi  David  left  the  country,  and 
took  with  him  his  convert,  who  now 
bore  the  name  of  Solomon  Malco. 
The  convert  was  a  man  of  ability 
and  eloquence ;  and  though  he  had 
previously  no  knowledge-  of  the 
Law,  and  was  of  the  uncircumcised, 
yet,  when  he  came  among  his  new 
brethren,  he  preached  powerfully, 
especially  in  Italy,  where  his  ex- 
pounding both  the  written  and  the 
oral  law,  astonished  the  most  cele- 
brated teachers,  and  perplexed  the 
people,  who  wondered  , where  he 
could  have  found  his  singular  wis- 
dom. His  own  account  of  it  was 
satisfactory ;  he  had  been  endowed 
with  it  by  an  angel.  Solomon  Mal- 
co now  wrote  several  treatises  which 
increased  his  fame ;  he  next  decla- 
red himself  to  be  one  of  the  messen- 
gers of  the  Messiah.  He  was  re- 
markably handsome,  and  his  man- 
ners were  high-bred  and  courteous. 
Rabbi  David,  too,  had  his  share  of 
public  wonder,  for  he  fasted  for  six 
days  and  nights,  without  suffering 
any  thing  to  enter  his  lips, — a  fact 
proved  by  accurate  witnesses.  But 


<350 


Traditions  of  the  Rabbins. 


[April, 


the  career  of  the  more  aspiring  or 
more  active  missionary  was  to  have 
an  unhappy  close.  Rabbi  Solomon 
ventured  himself  within  the  pre- 
sence of  Charles  V.  at  Mantua.  To 
what  the  actual  conference  amount- 
ed, has  escaped  history,  but  the  re- 
sult was  an  order  that  he  should  be 
delivered  over  to  the  secular  arm. 
The  unfortunate  zealot  was  brought 
to  the  stake,  gagged,  through  fear, 
as  the  Jews  say,  of  his  using  some 
strong  spell,  or  form  of  words,  by 
which  he  might  escape  his  tormen- 
tors. His  life  was  offered  to  him, 
but  he  firmly  rejected  the  offer,  and 
died  without  shrinking.  Rabbi  Da- 
vid's career  was  extinguished  at  the 
same  time,  but  by  a  less  cruel  catas- 
trophe. He  was  sent  a  prisoner  into 
Spain,  where  he  died. 

Subsequent  narratives  state,  that 
the  two  missionaries  had  attempted 
to  convert  the  King  of  Portugal,  the 
Pope,  and  the  Emperor — an  attempt 
which  certainly  wanted  nothing  of 
the  boldness  of  proselytism ;  and 
that  the  Rabbi's  refusal  to  be  con- 
verted in  turn  was  the  immediate 
cause  of  the  sentence.  Solomon  was 
burned  in  Mantua,  A.  D.  1540. 

But  to  those  who  desire  a  more 
detailed  account  of  the  expatriated 
and  loag-hidden  nations,  let  the 
learned  Rabbi  Eldad  the  Danite 
supply  intelligence.  "  There,"  says 
this  faithful  topographer,  "  is  the 
tribe  of  Moses,  our  instructor,  the 
just,  and  the  servant  of  heaven. 
'Those  Jews  are  surrounded  with  the 
river  Sabbatajon,  the  compass  of 
which  is  as  much  as  one  can  walk 
in  three  months.  They  live  in  state- 
ly houses,  and  have  magnificent 
buildings  and  towers  erected  by 
themselves.  There  is  no  unclean 
thing  among  them  ;  no  scorpion,  no 
serpent,  no  wild  beast.  Their  flocks 
and  herds  bring  forth  twice  a-year. 
They  have  gardens  stocked  with  all 
kinds  of  fruits;  but  they  neither  sow 
nor  reap.  They  are  a  people  of 
faith,  and  well  instructed  in  the 
Mishna,  Gemara,  and  Aggada. 
Their  Talmud  is  written  in  the  He- 
brew tongue.  They  say,  our  fore- 
fathers have  taught  us  out  of  the 
mouth  of  Joshua,  out  of  th6  mouth 
of  Moses,  and  out  of  the  mouth  of 
God.  They  know  nothing  of  the 
Talmudic  doctrines  which  were  in 
being  in  the  time  of  the  second  tem- 


ple. They  lengthen  their  days  to  a 
hundred  and  twenty  years.  Neither 
sons  nor  daughters  die  in  the  life- 
time of  their  parents  ;  they  advance 
to  the  third  and  fourth  generation. 
A  child  drives  their  cattle  many 
days'  journey,  because  they  have 
neither  wild  beasts,  murderers,  nor 
evil  spirits  to  fear.  Their  Levites 
labour  in  the  Law  and  the  command- 
ments. They  see  no  man,  and  are 
seen  of  none,  except  the  four  tribes 
which  dwell  on  the  further  side  of 
the  river  of  Ethiopia,  Dan,  Naph- 
thali,  Gad,  and  Asser.  The  sand  of 
the  river  Sabbatajon  is  holy.  In  an 
hour-glass  it  runs  six  days  of  the 
week ;  but  on  the  seventh  it  is  im- 
movable. The  people  are  twice  as 
numerous  as  when  they  left  Judea." 
But  those  narratives  are  endless. 
Though  probably  containing  some 
fragments  of  truth,  the  fact  is  so  en- 
cumbered with  the  fiction,  that  they 
become  a  mere  matter  of  romance. 
But  the  graver  consideration  remains. 
Are  such  things  the  wisdom  of  the 
chosen  people  ?  Are  the  reveries  of 
the  Talmuds  the  study  by  which  the 
learned  of  the  Jews  at  this  hour  are 
to  be  advanced  in  sacred  know- 
ledge ?  Are  those  giddy  and  wan- 
dering inventions  to  be  the  substi- 
tute for  those  "  Oracles,"  which  the 
greatest  writer  of  their  nation,  even 
Saul  of  Tarsus,  pronounced  to  be 
the  pre-eminent  privilege  of  the  sons 
of  Israel?  Unhappily  the  question 
cannot  be  answered  in  the  negativei  )I 
The  Talmuds  are  at  this  hour  the 
fount  from  which  the  immense  mul- 
titude of  Judaism  draw  all  their 
knowledge  of  religion.  Some  learn- 
ed men  among  them  may  study  the 
learning  of  the  Scriptures.  Some 
holy  men  among  them — for  there  are 
those  even  in  the  community  of  Is- 
rael, who  have  not  been  utterly  for- 
saken by  the  light  of  truth— the 
seven  thousand  who  have  not  yet 
bowed  the  knee  to  Baal,  may  love 
the  wisdom  of  inspiration.  But  to 
the  majority,  the  Talmuds  are  the 
grand  obstruction  to  light  and  know- 
ledge, the  fatal  source  of  that  stub- 
born resistance  to  sacred  truth,  and 
to  the  severest  lessons  of  national 
suffering,  which,  even  in  all  the  a<3U  ad 
vances  of  later  times,  keeps  the  Jew' 
in  irremediable  darkness  and  inexo- 
rable chains. 

iioo  ion  Hiw  tnolbflfi!  iesnod 


1833.] 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


651 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  THE  MOVEMENT. 


INCIPIENT  PLUNDER  AND  SUBVERSION  OF  THE  IRISH  CHURCH. 


THE  Irish  Church  is  to  be  sacrifi- 
ced !  Ten  of  its  Bishops  cut  off  at 
one  blow!  Such  is  the  wholesome 
and  the  moderate  measure  upon 
which  the  Ministers  plume  them- 
selves ;  and  which  they  commend  to 
the  nation  as  a  sample  of  the  wisdom 
and  the  justice  to  be  expected  from 
a  Reformed  Parliament !  Does  this 
not  prove  the  progress  of  the  Move- 
ment? Does  it  not  give  damning 
confirmation  to  all  that  has  been  as- 
sorted respecting  the  dominion  of  the 
mob;  and  evince,  to  demonstration, 
tl  at  Ministers  are  but  the  puppets  of 
a  faction,  by  whom  they  will  be  cast 
ande  as  soon  as  they  have  served 
those  ulterior  purposes  upon  which 
the  faction  are  bent,  and  which  Re- 
form was  only  considered  valuable, 
in  as  much  as  it  was  calculated  to 
answer  ? 

With  the  reader's  leave,  we  will 
give  that  measure  which  either  is,  or 
is  about  to  be,  the  law  of  the  land,  a 
quiet  and  dispassionate  considera- 
tion. And  we  will,  before  we  pro- 
ceed to  other  matters,  take  the  liberty 
of  presenting  it  in  a  point  of  view  in 
which  it  did  not  enter  into  the  con- 
templation of  the  honourable  House, 
in  which  it  originated,  to  consider  it. 
It  has  been  called  a  measure  of  relief. 
Or'  relief  to  whom  ?  Not,  assuredly, 
to  the  suffering  poor.  And  yet  it  is 
on  their  behalf,  and  for  their  benefit, 
it  is  said  to  have  been  enacted. 

We  will  begin  with  that  important 
part  of  the  Bill,  which  proposes  to 
lighten  the  country  of  the  burden  of 
parish  cess. 

Parish  cess  is  a  species  of  taxation 
which  falls  upon  land  and  houses. 
All  prudent  persons,  when  they  are 
about  to  become  the  renters  of  land, 
or  the  occupants  of  houses,  make  as 
accurate  an  estimate  as  they  can  of 
tin;  various  imposts  to  which  they  are 
subject;  and,  as  these  are  high  or 
lo\v,  the  rent  is  low  or  high  accord- 
ingly. Thus,  if  a  farm  of  ten  acres 
be  worth  three  pounds  an  acre,  but 
subject  to  a  tax  for  parish  cess  of 
on  ;  pound  an  acre,  a  prudent  farmer 
will  not  offer,  and  we  may  add,  an 
honest  landlord  will  not  consent  to 


take  more  than  two.  The  same  with 
respect  to  houses.  If  a  house  be 
worth  forty  pounds  a-year,  and  be 
liable  to  a  tax  of  three  pounds  for 
parish  cess,  its  rent  will  be  but  thirty- 
seven.  Now,  what  must  be  the  effect 
of  abolishing  parish  cess  ?  Simply, 
that  the  rent  will  be  raised  by  pre- 
cisely that  amount.  And  who  will 
be  the  gainers  ?  The  landlords  !  the 
gentry  !  the  members  of  that  honour- 
able House  who  passed  the  Bill! 
Thus  it  is,  that  they  consider  the 
poor!  When  Judas  Iscariot  was 
about  to  betray  the  Saviour,  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  poor  were  on  his  lips, 
— but  what  was  in  his  heart  ?  Was 
it  mercy  ?  Was  it  charity  ?  Or,  was 
it  covetousness  and  plunder  ?  The 
Church  is  now  about  to  be  deprived 
of  a  large  portion  of  its  patrimony, 
upon  the  plea  of  relieving  the  dis- 
tresses of  the  labouring  classes.  And 
how  are  they  to  be  relieved  ?  Simply 
by  transferring  what  is  thus  taken  to 
the  coffers  of  these  who  do  not  want 
it! 

It  is  true,  during  the  currency  of 
present  leases,  the  middling  farmers 
will  have  the  benefit  of  the  measure. 
But  as  soon  as  ever  the  leases  have 
expired,  that  benefit  will  be  transfer- 
red to  the  landlord  ;  who  will  not  be 
such  a  fool  as  to  let  the  farmer  have 
the  ground  for  the  rent  with  which 
he  was  satisfied  while  it  was  liable 
to  parish  cess ;  as  it  will  not  be 
more  unreasonable  to  make  him  pay 
the  increased  rent,  when  the  cess 
has  been  removed,  than  it  would  be 
the  diminished  rent,  while  the  cess 
continued  in  existence. 

Now,  if  this  be  the  true  view  of 
the  question,  why  was  it  not  put 
upon  this  ground  in  Parliament? 
Why  did  not  the  patriots,  who  re- 
ceived it  with  so  much  joy,  give  it 
its  true  character  ?  Why  did  they 
not  tell  the  people  that  they  rejoiced 
in  it  simply  because  it  put  so  much 
money  into  their  own  pockets  ? 
They  may  have  a  reason  for  this,  but 
scarcely  an  honest  reason.  The 
people  were  to  be  deceived  into  the 
belief  that  they  were  to  be  the  gain- 
ers j  that  the  parish  cess  was  con- 


652 

ceded  as  a  boon  to  them;  that  they 
were  to  be  BO  much  the  richer, 
while  the  Church  became  so  much 
the  poorer.  And  nothing  was  far- 
ther from  their  thoughts  than  that 
the  whole  advantage  of  the  mea- 
sure would  be  intercepted  by  the 
framers ;  and  that  they  were  merely 
to  be  admitted  in  their  hunger  to 
the  sight  of  a  delicious  banquet, 
which  was  procured  by  contributions 
raised  for  the  relief  of  their  wants,  but 
devoured  even  in  their  presence,  by 
the  very  individuals  who  helped  to 
furnish  it  by  a  pathetic  representa- 
tion of  their  necessities ! 

We  live  in  strange  times.  The 
classes  who  are  thus  abused,  conti- 
nue deluded ;  and  are  satisfied  to 
furnish  the  excuse  for,  while  they 
are  denied  all  the  profits  of  Church 
plunder !  They  are  satisfied  to  have 
their  necessities  pleaded  in  justifica- 
tion of  an  act  which  strips  the  clergy 
of  a  large  portion  of  their  possessions , 
while,  in  the  disposal  of  the  property 
thus  seized,  their  necessities  are 
never  consulted;  and  instead  of 
being  a  measure  for  the  relief  of  po- 
verty, it  turns  out,  in  [reality,  to  be 
a  measure  for  the  augmentation  of 
wealth  !  And  this  is  one  of  the  bless- 
ings which  the  poor  may  expect  from 
a  Reformed  Parliament !  Kind,  mer- 
ciful, compassionate  benefactors ! 
In  what  words  can  we  convey  the 
feelings  of  gratitude  with  which  our 
hearts  are  enlarged,/or  the  care  you 
have  taken  of  yourselves  !  How  lite- 
rally have  they  chosen  the  proverb, 
"  if  thou  doest  good  unto  thyself, 
men  will  speak  well  of  thee."  It  is 
true,  a  day  of  reckoning  may  come. 
But,  by  that  time,  the  Habeas  Corpus 
Act  may  be  suspended ;  and  woe  be- 
tide those  who  then  dare  to  speak  ill 
of  the  dispensers  of  justice  in  the 
shape  of  robbery,  and  of  charity,  in 
the  guise  of  selfish  delusion,  and  al- 
most fraudulent  appropriation ! 

We  would  give  a  good  fee  for  a 
view  of  Cobbett's  face  while  this 
measure  is  going  forward.  With 
what  malignant  delight  must  the  old 
leveller  behold  his  Majesty's  Mini- 
sters so  earnestly  intent  upon  doing 
his  business !  What  a  tumult  of  tri- 
umphant emotions  must  possess  him 
as  "  he  grins  horrible  a  ghastly 
smile,"  while  those,  who  should  be 
the  conservators  of  all  that  remain  of 
our  national  institutions,  are  laying 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


[April, 


the  axe  to  the  root  of  the  monarchy 
of  England !  "  Ha,  ha,  gentlemen  ! 
Is  that  the  work  you  are  at  ?"  we 
think  we  hear  the  modern  "Bare- 
bones,"  the  great  apostle  of  anti- 
christian  legislation,  say,  "  by  and 
by  your  own  turn  will  come,  and  it 
will  be  in  vain  that  you  refuse  to 
partake  of  the  chalice  which  you 
now  commend  to  the  lips  of  the 
clergy,  and  compel  them  to  drink 
out  the  dregs.  Think  you  that  we 
will  listen  to  your  flimsy  pretexts  of 
vested  rights  and  private  property  ? 
You  have  shewn  us  the  value  you 
set  upon  them  yourselves  ;  and 
it  will  go  hard  with  us  if  we  do 
not  improve  upon  your  example." 
But  there  are  ears  which  are  dull  of 
hearing  in  politics,  as  well  as  in  reli- 
gion; and  Ministers  will  never  believe 
an  announcement  like  this,  until  it  is 
uttered  in  a  voice  of  thunder  which 
will  shake  the  isle  from  its  propriety. 
Assuredly  more  strange  things  have 
already  come  to  pass  than  that  Cob- 
bett  should  yet  enjoy  a  carnival  of 
liberalism,  and  live  even  to  the  mil- 
lennium of  his  revolutionary  antici- 
pations !  If  he  do  not,  it  will  not  be 
because  he  has  not  had  high  and 
mighty  pioneers,  who  did  all  that  in 
them  lay  to  prepare  the  way  before 
him.  They  have  set  him  a  pattern, 
which  he  has  only  to  follow,  with 
caution  and  steadiness,  to  ensure  all 
the  results  upon  which  his  heart  has 
been  set  since  his  last  return  from 
America.  Paine's  bones  were  the 
behest  which  he  then  brought  to  the 
people  of  this  country.  But  they 
would  have  continued  dry  bones,  had 
not  Ministers  breathed  over  them  a 
hellish  incantation,  by  virtue  of  which 
they  have  gathered  sinew  and  flesh, 
and  become  instinct  with  life  and 
energy.  Instead  of  a  little  moulder- 
ing dust,  which  in  a  short  time  must 
be  scattered  by  the  winds,  a  frightful 
phantom  rises  before  us  !  And  Fran- 
kenstein, in  all  his  terrors,  rules  the 
destinies  of  his  trembling  creators ! 
Ministers,  Ministers,  you  have  done 
this !  You  have  brought  these  evils 
upon  us  I  And  you  will  yet  be 
amongst  the  first  to  bewail,  with  an 
unavailing  bitterness,  the  dreadful 
consequences  of  infidel  policy  and 
Whig  ambition ! 

The  next  feature  of  the  new  mea- 
sure to  which  we  invite  the  attention 
of  the  reader,  is  that  which  respects 


1633.] 

the  Bishops' lands.   These  have  been 
always  held  by  lay  tenants  under 
le  ises  for  one-and-twenty  years,  re- 
nt wable  for  ever.    They  constituted 
a  species  of  property  regarded  near- 
ly as  valuable  as  freehold  estates; 
ar  d  which  descended  from  genera- 
tion to  generation,  with  an  equal 
fa3ility,  and  almost  an  equal  certain- 
ty, as  that  which  attends  the  trans- 
mission of  any  other  inheritance;  it 
bring    always  the   interest  of    the 
B  shop  to  renew  the  lease  upon  mo- 
dt  rate  terms.    But  all  this  is  now  to 
b(  changed.  The  Government  are  to 
assume  the  dominion  of  the  proper- 
ty, and  to  arrogate  to  themselves  a 
power  of  devising  it  in  fee  to  its 
pi  esent  or  other  proprietors  !  Pause 
w  3  for  one  moment,  to  consider  all 
that  is  implied  in  this.    Church  pro- 
pt  rty  at  once  changes  its  character ! 
It  becomes,  in  truth,  no  property  at 
all!      Great  proprietors    are    sud- 
denly divested  of  the  title-deeds  of 
their  estates;    and   converted  into 
st  pendiaries  to  be  subsisted  upon  a 
pittance  derived  from  their  own  pos- 
sessions !     We  know  no  difference, 
in  principle,  between  this  case  and 
the  compulsory  seizure  of  the  estate 
ot  the  Duke  of  Sutherland,  or  the 
Dike   of  Norfolk,  and   compelling 
these  noblemen  to  subsist  upon  cer- 
ta  n  rents  which  might  be  allocated 
for   their    maintenance  ;    those    by 
w  lorn  their  properties  had  been  for- 
cibly taken,  assuming  the  dominion 
o\  er  the  remainder  !     It  is,  in  point 
of  fact,  a  more  violent  and  arbitrary 
act  of  power  than  Henry  the  Eighth 
\v  is  guilty  of,  when  he  got  posses- 
sion  of  the  Abbey  lands.     For,  in 
e\  ery  instance  in  which  he  so  indul- 
ged his  rapacious  and  tyrannical  hu- 
mour, he  had  the  excuse  of  saying 
th  it  the  holders  of  these  lands  were 
formally   convicted    of    crimes  for 
w  rich  they  deserved  to  lose  them. 
But  he  was  not  even  satisfied  with 
tli  it.    He  required,  moreover,  a  so- 
le nn,and,  apparently,  voluntary  sur- 
re  ider  of  them  ;  and  could  not  feel 
secure  in  the  possession,  until  the 
ol.l  proprietors  stood  self-divested  of 
th.jir  rights  !     He  never  dreamt  of 
th  *  simple  and  summary  process  of 
L<  <rd  Althorp,  who,  not  only  without 
pretending   a    crime,    but    without 
assigning    a    cause,    unhesitatingly 
assumes  the  mastery  over  what  be- 
longed to  others,  and  even  contrives 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement.  65S 

to  confer  "  a  new  value"  upon  it,  by 
this  act  of  sacrilegious  appropria- 
tion !  And,  all  the  while,  he  tells  his 
delighted  and  wondering  hearers,  that 
there  is  no  new  principle  advanced, 
nothing  of  innovation  attempted, 
which  should  excite  a  scruple  in  the 
most  timid  alarmist ! 

But,  the  "new  value!"    Let  us 
bestow  upon  that  a  little  considera- 
tion.    It  is  clear,  in  the  first  place, 
that  the  property  is  not  to  have  any 
new  value  for  the  Church.     Its  old 
possessors  are  not  to  benefit  by  it. 
Sufficient  for  them  if  they  receive 
their  present  amount  of  income  out 
of  the  proceeds  of  the   estates  of 
which  they  will  now  have  been  strip- 
ped, in  order  that  they  may  be  im- 
proved by  this  magical  confiscation ! 
The  plain  fact  is  simply  this : — Those 
who  have  been,  hitherto,  trustees  of 
Church  property,  assume  the  domi- 
nion of  it,  and  treat  it,  in  all  respects, 
as  their  own ; — and,  having  rendered 
it  more  productive  than  it  was  be- 
fore, by  some  process  not  within  the 
competency  of  its  former  proprie- 
tors, consider  it  no  more  than  equi- 
table that  this  excess  of  value  should 
belong  to  them,  and  that  the  State 
and  not  the  Church  should  profit  by 
the  increased  proceeds  of  ecclesias- 
tical property  thus  augmented  !  Was 
ever  fiscal  jugglery  more  manifest, 
or  more  contemptible!  Would  Lord 
Althorp  act  thus  with  respect  to  the 
property  of  any  child,  of  whom  he 
might  be  the  guardian  ?    Would  any 
of  the  Ministers  act  thus  with  respect 
to  the  property  of  any  other  corpo- 
rate body  ?    No.    Because  common 
sense  and  common   honesty  would 
stare  them  in  the  face,  and  public 
indignation  would  scare  them  from 
an  attempt,  equally  odious  and  re- 
prehensible.    But  the  Church,  the 
poor,  proscribed,  insulted  Church, 
may  be  seized  upon,  and  submitted 
to  the  financial  dissecting  knife,  even 
with  the  applauses  of  those,  who,  if 
the  same  iniquitous  proceedings  were 
adopted  towards  themselves,  would 
be  loud  and  vehement  in  their  recri- 
minations ! 

Doubtless,  the  Ministers  will  ex- 
perience every  facility  in  the  appli- 
cation of  their  new  principle  to  the 
property  of  the  Church.  It  is  a 
concern  which  no  one  regards,  and 
the  clergy  are  meek  and  uncomplain- 
ing. Indeed,  we  are  very  well  aware 


654 

that  the  only  complaint  which  the 
Government  will  hear,  and  from 
which  they  are  likely  to  experience 
any  serious  embarrassment,  is,  that 
they  have  not  gone  far  enough.  And 
we  are  ready  to  give  them  credit  for 
the  degree  in  which  they  have  ab- 
stained from  exercising  their  power, 
against  a  body  so  completely  at  their 
mercy.  The  clergy  are  excluded, 
by  positive  enactment,  from  seats  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  which  is 
filled  with  their  active  and  malignant 
enemies;  who,  no  doubt,  feel  their 
power,  and  are  determined  to  use 
it. 

Lord  Althorp  tells  the  honourable 
House  that  any  one  may  agree  to 
the  measure  which  he  has  proposed, 
without  in  the  least  committing  him- 
self by  the  assertion  of  any  principle 
that  has  not  been  long  since  familiar 
and  approved.  Indeed!  But  that 
is  not  quite  so  plain  a  case  as  his 
Lordship  supposes.  Is  it  an  appro- 
ved and  familiar  principle  that  Go- 
vernment may  take  into  their  hands 
the  management  of  private  or  cor- 
porate property,  and  trade  upon  it 
for  their  own  advantage  ?  Is  that 
an  approved  and  familiar  principle  ? 
For  that  is  precisely  what  they 
have  done.  If  it  be,  the  "  terrarum 
domini"  may  well  tremble  for  their 
possessions !  For  there  is  not  a  noble- 
man or  gentleman  in  the  land  whose 
inheritance  may  not  thus  be  seized 
upon,  and  converted,  by  a  similar 
process,  to  the  uses  of  the  State,  as 
far  as  it  is  possible  that  it  could  be 
so  converted.  It  is  idle  to  say,  that 
it  is  not  very  likely  any  such  thing 
will  be  done  ;  that  no  Ministry  dare 
venture  thus  to  outrage  the  feelings 
of  the  people ;  that  the  very  instant 
any  such  demonstration  of  violence 
was  made  by  any  British  Govern- 
ment, the  whole  country  would  be 
up  in  arms  against  it ;  and  that  their 
power  would  not  last  a  single  day, 
when  it  became  manifest  that  it  was 
to  be  thus  dangerously  exerted.  We 
doubt  the  truth  of  all  this  ;  but,  false 
or  true,  it  is  nothing  to  the  purpose. 
We  only  at  present  contend  for  the 
applicability  of  a  principle,  not  for 
the  precise  time  when,  or  the  precise 
manner  in  which  it  is  to  be  applied. 
Only  let  the  principle  be  admitted, 
and  it  will  not  be  long  before  it  is 
practically  realized.  Let  men  be 
taught  that  it  is  reasonable  and 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


[April, 


proper  to  do  so  and  so  in  any  one 
instance,  and  they  will  very  soon 
learn  for  themselves,  that,  in  simi- 
lar instances,  the  lesson  may  be  re- 
peated. It  is  true  their  instructors 
may  intend  nothing  less  than  that 
their  own  doctrines  should,  ultimate- 
ly, be  turned  against  themselves. 
But  thus  it  is  that  men  are  ofttimes 
taken  "  in  the  crafty  wiliness  which 
they  have  imagined,"  as  it  were  by 
the  special  direction  of  a  retributive 
Providence;  thus  it  is,  that  they 
are  compelled  "  to  eat  the  bitter 
fruits  of  their  own  devices;"  that 
what  was  unjust  in  the  case  of  others, 
becomes,  in  their  case,  the  strictest 
justice;  and  that,  when  the  inventors 
and  promoters  of  crime  and  robbery, 
thus  become  the  victims  of  violence 
which  they  have  themselves  pro- 
voked and  stimulated,  all  men  will 
be  ready  to  exclaim,  "  Nee  ulla  lex 
sequior  est,  quam  fraudis  artificem 
arte  perire  sua." 

It  is  now,  it  seems,  an  approved 
and  familiar  principle,  that  all  which 
the  Government  can  make  of  any 
property  more  than  it  at  present  pro- 
duces, belongs  to  themselves !  That 
is,  that  the  State,  not  the  individual 
who  is  the  owner  of  the  property, 
may  claim  it.  Such  is  the  principle 
which  is  nakedly  and  glaringly  set 
forth,  and  acted  upon,  to  the  very 
letter,  with  a  most  reckless  hardi- 
hood and  impudent  daring  !  Come, 
then,  and  let  us  see  whether  it  does 
not  apply  to  other  cases,  besides  that 
of  the  property  of  the  clergy.  The 
Duke  of  Sutherland  possesses  an 
estate,  through  which  Government 
finds  it  expedient  to  run  a  canal,  or 
to  establish  a  rail-road.  Will  not  the 
value  of  that  estate  be  vastly  increa- 
sed by  such  an  improvement  ?  And 
to  whom  does  "  the  new  value"  be- 
long ?  To  the  Duke  of  Sutherland  ? 
No ;  it  is  not  he  that  has  produced 
it.  It  belongs^  according  to  the  new 
doctrine,  TO  THE  STATE  ;  for  it  is  by 
the  State  the  improvement  has  been 
effected.  Now,  would  the  nobility  or 
the  gentry  be  losers  or  gainers  by  the 
assertion  of  a  principle  such  as  this  ? 
For,  by  it,  they  must  be  content  to 
stand  or  fall.  They  cannot  be  per- 
mitted to  blow  hot  and  cold  with  the 
same  breath.  If  they  apply  it,  for 
their  own  purposes,  to  the  clergy, 
they  cannot  refuse  to  have  it  ap- 
plied, for  other  men's  purposes,  to 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


th emsel  ves.  If  it  be  good,  inasmuch 
as  it  serves  to  convert  the  estates  of 
the  Bishops  into  a  fund  for  the  pay- 
ment of  parish  cess,  it  must  be  good 
inasmuch  as  it  may  serve  to  convert 
the  estates  of  the  gentry  into  a  fund 
for  the  liquidation  of  the  National 
Debt!  And  when  those  whose  es- 
tates may  thus  be  converted  are  the 
vrry  individuals  who  have  employ- 
ed their  ingenuity  in  constructing 
this  drag-net  of  Ministerial  plunder, 
surely  there  are  not  many  who  can 
lament  that,  by  their  own  artifices, 
tl  ey  have  been  circumvented. 

There  is  another  point  of  view  in 
\v  hich  the  new  principle  may  be  recei- 
ved; and which,withall  due  deference, 
\ve  beg  to  submit  to  the  judgment, 
or  rather,  indeed,  to  the  conscience, 

0  '  Lord  Althorp.  If  the  Government 
are  entitled  to  pocket  all  that  they 
n  ay  make  by  improving  other  men's 
property,  are  they  not  fairly  liable 
to  all  the  losses  which  may  be  incur- 
red by  the  holders  of  such  property, 
through  their  negligence,  or  mal- ad- 
ministration ?     Assuredly  they  are. 
They  cannot  establish  the  right  in 
the  one  case,  without  acknowledg- 
ing the  responsibility  in  the  other. 

1  they  enter  into  any  partnership  at 
ail,  they  must  enter  into  it  "for  bet- 
ter for  worse."     If  they  lay  claim  to 
tlie  gains,  they  should  make  good 
the  losses.    They  cannot  say,  "  head, 
I  win  ;  harp,  you  lose."     They  can- 
not say,  "  our  contrivances  have  ef- 
focted  all  this,  profit;  therefore  we 
must  partake   of  it,"    without  also 
coming  forward  to  indentify  thepar- 
t:es  aggrieved  for  any  injuries  that 
may  have  been  occasioned  by  their 
culpable   neglect,  or  gross  misma- 
nagement.    Come,  then,  and  let  us 
see   whether,   while  Lord   Althorp 
Irandishes   his   new   principle,    for 
the  destruction  of  the  Church,  we 
may  not  avail  ourselves  of  a  corollary 
from  that  principle,  for  its  preserva- 
tion. 

What  is  it  that  has  occasioned 
the  rapid  depreciation  of  Church 
jroperty  in  Ireland,  during  the  two 
last  years?  The  outrageous  oppo- 
sition to  the  collection  of  tithes.  And 
what  caused  that  to  proceed  to  the 
dreadful  length  that  set  all  ordinary 
legal  remedies  at  defiance,  and  com- 
pelled his  Majesty's  Ministers  to 
Wing  in  a  bill,  during  the  operation 
of  which  the  Constitution  must  be 
suspended  ?  Manifestly,  the  supine- 


655 

ness  of  those  very  Ministers ;  their 
neglect  of  the  principle  "  obsta  prin- 
cipiis ;"  for  had  they,  as  they  were 
advised,  taken  prompt  and  early 
measures  to  subdue  the  resistance  to 
the  payment  of  tithes,  that  resistance 
would  never  have  become  formida- 
ble, and  the  property  would  be  as 
valuable  as  ever.  If,  therefore,  the 
depreciation  may  be  traced  to  their 
neglect,  or  even  to  an  error  in  judg- 
ment on  their  part,  Lord  Althorp's 
principle  makes  them  accountable 
to  that  amount  to  the  holders  of 
Church  property  in  Ireland ! 

Before,  therefore,  he  proceeds  to 
claim  the  benefit  to  which  he  con- 
siders himself  entitled,  for  the  pro- 
jected improvement  of  their  estates, 
let  him  settle  this  little  difference  in 
the  previous  account  which  subsists 
between  them.  His  Lordship  has 
the  reputation  of  an  honest  man ; — 
and  he  will  not,  we  trust,  at  all 
events,  act  like  a  sharper.  He  deals 
with  honest  and  honourable .  men 
who  have  been  humbled  by  calami- 
ties, of  which  his  measures  have 
been  the  principal  causes.  Let  him, 
then,  give  them  the  advantages 
which  flow  from  the  application  of 
his  principle,  in  the  one  case,  be- 
fore he  takes  advantage  of  it  in 
the  other.  Let  him  indemnify  them 
for  losses  and  injuries  already  sus- 
tained, and  they  will,  gladly,  relin- 
quish, for  the  uses  of  the  State,  all 
that  may  be  made  of  the  posses- 
sions of  the  Church,  above  what  they 
yield  to  their  present  holders. 

Is  not  this  fair; — is  not  this  rea- 
sonable ?  If  it  be  not,  there  is  nei- 
ther equity  nor  reason  in  the  propo- 
sition of  his  Lordship.  But  if  the 
character  of  that  proposition  is. to  be 
maintained, — if  a  Reformed  Parlia- 
ment, in  their  omnipotence,  resolve 
that  the  proposition  is  wise  and 
righteous,  they  can  scarcely  quarrel 
with  its  legitimate  offspring,  or  deny 
that  the  other  proposition,  so  clearly 
deducible  from  it,  is  wise  and  righte- 
ous also. 

His  Lordship,  therefore,  is  not  a 
subverter  of  the  Church  !  He  is 
not,  as  the  Radicals  boast,  or  the 
Conservatives  fear,  the  contriver  of 
an  expedient  for  its  overthrow ;  but 
the  originator  of  a  discovery  for  its 
security  and  preservation  !  "  He 
came  forth  with  an  intent  to  curse, 
and,  lo,  he  hath  blessed  it  alto* 

gether  I" 

gi  ji    tedj    jr 


656 

We  are  Hot,  however,  over-san- 
guine. Our  hopes  are  entirely  built 
upon  the  presumption,  that  Ministers 
will  abide  by  the  proposition  which 
they  have  advanced,  and  reason  ho- 
nestly from  their  own  principles. 
That  they  will  do  so,  as  far  as  it 
may  be  expedient,  that  is,  profi- 
table, we  can  have  no  doubt.  But 
we  cannot  calculate  that  they  will 
be  carried  very  far  by  their  abstract 
love  of  truth  and  justice,  where  other 
men's  interests  alone  are  concerned; 
and  we  very  much  fear  that  the 
clergy  must  even  put  up  with  their 
losses;  while  the  advantages  deri- 
vable from  the  new  principle  will  be 
solely  confined  to  the  fortunate  in- 
ventors. 

Proceed  we  now  to  another  fea- 
ture of  the  Bill.  The  property  of 
the  Irish  clergy  is  to  be  subjected  to 
a  graduated  income-tax,  varying  ac- 
cording to  the  value  of  the  prefer- 
ment, from  five  to  fifteen  per  cent! 
If  an#-  thing  could  be  regarded  as 
iniquitous  towards  a  body  whom  it 
would  seem  to  be  the  object  of  the 
Government  to  proscribe,  assuredly 
this  may.  It  is,  in  the  first  place, 
partial  in  its  operation.  It  violates 
that  principle,  which  in  no  other  in* 
stance  has  any  British  Minister  ever 
yet  intentionally  departed  from, — 
namely,  that  taxation  should  be  even- 
ly distributed,  and  not  press  with 
any  peculiar  severity  upon  one  class 
more  than  upon  another.  Here, 
where  the  object  is  one  of  general 
utility,  the  clergy  are  compelled  to 
bear  the  whole  of  the  burden ! 

But,  perhaps,  it  may  be  said,  that 
the  keeping  up  a  system  of  divine 
worship  is  not  a  general  object  /  that 
the  clergy  are  the  only  persons  whom 
it  particularly  concerns,  and  that,  as 
such,  they  should  support  it  at  their 
own  charges  !  If  this  be  said,  and  if 
this  be  insisted  on,  we  give  up  the 
question.  But  let  it  be  held  in  mind, 
the  State  cannot  hold  this  language, 
without  formally  abandoning  a  form 
of  national  religion,  without,  in  al- 
most express  terms,  saying  to  the 
community, "  You  may  worship  God 
as  you  please,  or  you  need  not  wor- 
ship him  at  all,  if  you  do  not  like  it. 
We  will  give  you  neither  instruction 
nor  advice  upon  the  subject;  follow 
the  bent  of  your  own  inclination,  and 
be,  as  it  listeth  you,  fanatics  or 
atheists."  Now,  if  this  language  may 


'The  Progress  of  the  Movement: 


[April, 


not  be  held,  the  proposition,  of  the 
perfect  indifferency  of  the  State  re- 
specting matters  of  religion,  cannot 
be  maintained,  and,  therefore,  the 
practice  of  taxing  a  particular  body 
for  the  support  of  a  system  which,  if 
maintained  at  all,  ought  to  be  main- 
tained at  the  expense,  as  it  is  main- 
tained for  the  benefit,  of  the  commu- 
nity at  large,  is  vicious  in  principle, 
and  cannot  be  defended. 

But,  perhaps,  the  tax  is  imposed 
upon  those  who  are  exempted  from 
other  taxes  ?  No.  The  clergy  bear 
their  full  share  of  all  other  public 
taxes ;  from  no  one  of  the  burdens 
rendered  necessary  by  the  exigen- 
cies of  the  State,  do  they  experience 
the  least  exemption ! 

Perhaps,  then,  they  are  better  able 
to  bear  it  than  others — they  may 
have  been  less  affected  by  the  fluc- 
tuations of  the  times?  Alas!  alas! 
what  bitter,  what  insulting  mockery ! 
Against  them,  and,  a*  yety  against 
them  almost  alone,  have  those  out- 
rages been  directed,  which  have  ren- 
dered property  valueless,  and  life 
insecure,  in  Ireland  !  And  it  is  while 
they  are  the  victims  of  a  system  of 
oppression  in  one  country,  which  has 
driven  them  from  their  homes,  and 
the  objects  of  commiseration  in  an- 
other, in  which  funds  have  been  cha- 
ritably raised  for  the  relief  of  their 
misery ;  it  is  while  the  hand  of  cala- 
mity is  thus  heavy  upon  them,  and 
they  are  compelled  to  appear  as 
mendicants  if  they  would  avoid  star- 
vation, that  the  Finance  Minister 
comes  forward,  and  avows  his  in- 
tention of  compelling  them  to  bear  an 
enormous  and  a  disproportioned 
share  of  the  public  burdens  !  The  ini- 
quity didnotrequire  this  aggravation! 
Nor  is  there,  we  are  persuaded,  a  hu- 
mane or  reflecting  mind  in  the  coun- 
try which  will  not  be  revolted  by  it. 
Truly  there  is  now  an  end  to  the  be- 
nefit of  clergy ;  unless  it  be  deemed 
a  benefit  to  belong  to  a  class  against 
whom  outrage  the  most  brutal  may 
be  perpetrated  with  impunity,  and 
only  be  regarded  as  furnishing  an 
excuse  for  injustice ! 

During  the  last  session  a  bill  was 
passed,  by  which  a  tax  of  fifteen  per 
cent  was  imposed  on  all  livings,  for 
the  benefit  of  the  landlords !  The 
gentry  are  thus  enabled  to  put  into 
their  own  pockets  so  much  of  the 
property  of  the  Church,  as  a  kind  of 


1633.] 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


657 


compensation  for  the  trouble  which 
they  may  have,  by  becoming  respon- 
sible for  the  payment  of  tithes.  It 
was,  we  believe,  imagined  by  the  Go- 
vernment, that  this  subduction  from 
the  incomes  of  the  clergy  would  not 
bo  much  more  than  that  to  which 
they  were  already  exposed,  from  bad 
d^bts  and  the  expenses  of  collection. 
But  it  does  not  appear  that  the  ex- 
panses of  collection  are  likely  to  be 
iruch  diminished  under  the  new 
system;  and  it  is  yet  to  be  seen, 
whether  they  will  not  be  quite  as 
great  sufferers  as  ever  from  bad 
dobts.  We  have  frequently  heard  it 
sfiid,  that  the  poor  used  always,  be- 
fc  re  this  accursed  system  of  combina- 
ti  on  began  to  take  effect,  to  pay  their 
dues  with  more  regularity  and  cheer- 
f  i  Iness  than  the  wealthy  proprietors. 
But,  be  this  as  it  may,  their  property 
was  taxed  by  an  act  passed  in  the 
last  year,  fifteen  per  cent;  and  all 
li  /ings  over  twelve  hundred  a-year, 
\\  ill  be  taxed  by  the  present  bill  fif- 
tc  en  per  cent  more  !  That  is,  within 
two  years,  Government  will  have 
c  lused,  with  respect  to  one  class  of 
p  :eferments,a  depreciation  of  Church 
property,  to  the  amount  of  THIRTY 
P3R  CENT  !  This,  by  positive  enact- 
ments! In  addition  to  that  depre- 
c  ation  which  must  be  the  natural 
consequence  of  the  insecurity  to 
which  it  is  exposed,  and  the  peculiar 
n  sanner  in  which  it  would  seem  mark- 
ed  out  for  spoliation !  Now,  this  we 
believe  to  be  perfectly  unprecedent- 
e  1  in  the  history  of  taxation  !  And, 
from  what  has  been  already  said,  it 
will  be  felt,  that  it  could  not  have 
come  upon  the  poor  Irish  clergy  at  a 
time  when  they  were  less  prepared 
tomeetit.  They  never  had,  at  best, 
a  ay  thing  more  than  a  life  interest  in 
t  leir  little  preferments.  Of  these 
t  icy  became  possessed,  in  most  in- 
s  ;ances,  late  in  life  ;  and,  even  if  their 
incomes  were  well  paid,  they  would 
Lave  found  it  difficult,  in  addition  to 
making  a  becoming  appearance  in 
tie  world,  to  lay  up  any  provision 
for  their  families.  Many  of  them, 
\'&  believe,  endeavoured  to  effect 
i  isurances,  which  would,  if  they  had 
leen  enabled  to  keep  them  up,  do 
something  towards  securing  against 
i/ant  those  whom  they  might  leave 
lehind  them!  But  the  state  of  pe- 
i  ury  to  which  they  have  been  re- 
i  uced  has  rendered  it  impossible 


for  a  great  majority  of  them  to  pay 
the  premiums  as  they  became  due ; 
so  that  the  advantages  which  had 
been  purchased,  as  they  thought,  by 
many  privations  and  sacrifices,  must 
be  lost,  and  their  wives  and  children 
exposed,  in  case  of  their  death,  to  ut- 
ter beggary,  unless  something  be 
speedily  done  for  them,  more  than 
they  can  do  for  themselves  !  Indeed, 
Lord  Althorp,  they  are  not,  just  at 
present,  the  individuals  upon  whom 
you  should  impose  additional  taxes. 
It  would  be  more  consistent  with 
British  humanity  to  come  forward 
with  a  proposition  for  their  benefit, 
and  to  rescue  them  and  their  child- 
ren from  a  calamity  which  was  not 
caused  by  any  fault  of  theirs,  than  to 
grind  them  down  by  exorbitant  ex- 
actions I  Come,  let  your  better 
nature  prevail.  Let  the  tax  be  com- 
muted for  a  largess.  Let  the  at- 
tention of  Parliament  be  called  to 
their  deplorable  condition.  Let  its 
benevolence  be  interested  by  their 
long  suffering,  their  helplessness,  and 
their  destitution.  And  even  the  ene- 
mies of  the  Church  will,  for  once, 
join  in  good  offices  towards  the  af- 
flicted clergy;  more  especially,  as 
you  may  assure  them,  that,  whatever 
may  be  done  for  their  immediate  re- 
lief, ample  care  has  been  taken  in 
other  parts  of  the  Bill,  that  their  race 
shall  soon  be  extinct  in  Ireland ! 

We  have,  hitherto,  considered  the 
operation  of  the  new  measure,  not 
as  it  is  likely  to  affect  the  spiritual 
interests  of  the  Church,  or  to  impair 
its  moral  efficiency,  (these  are  topics 
to  which  we  shall  advert  by  and  by,) 
but  as  it  is  calculated  to  work  injury 
to  society  at  large,  by  the  principles 
which  it  involves,  or  the  practices 
which  it  sanctions.  Let  us  advert, 
with  the  same  view,  to  the  contem- 
plated curtailment  of  the  Irish  Hier- 
archy, and  see  whether  that  curtail- 
ment is  likely  to  be  productive  of 
good  or  evil. 

We  will  consider  the  Bishops  as 
so  many  private  gentlemen  subsist- 
ing upon  their  own  estates  ;  (putting, 
for  a  moment,  their  spiritual  charac- 
ter entirely  out  of  the  question;) 
and,  we  ask,  is  there  any  good  reason 
why  their  property  should  be  con- 
fiscated, rather  than  the  property  of 
any  other  private  gentlemen,  to  an- 
swer purposes  which  equally  con- 
cern the  rest  of  the  community  ?  We 


658 

can  see  none.  They  stand  upon  an 
equal  footing  with  all  other  land 
proprietors ;  and  their  rights  should 
be  similarly  protected.  This  is  not 
the  case  of  a  tax,  which  has  been 
levied  by  the  Government  for  the 
payment  of  civil  or  military  services  ; 
the  receivers  of  which  are  consider- 
ed, strictly,  in  the  light  of  stipendi- 
aries, and  their  remuneration  regu- 
lated by  a  "  quantum  meruit"  con- 
sideration of  work  done,  or  to  be 
done.  The  clergy  are  the  hold- 
ers of  corporate  property,  which  is 
as  little  to  be  confounded  with  the 
money  that  goes  into  the  Treasury, 
as  any  other  private  property  in  the 
Kingdom  ; — and  the  fact  of  their 
giving  their  services,  in  virtue  of 
their  spiritual  calling  for  the  moral 
and  religious  instruction  of  the  com- 
munity, no  more  involves  them  in  a 
liability  to  be  classed  with  the  mere 
paid  servants  of  the  State,  than  the 
fact  of  Howard's  choosing  to  devote 
himself  to  a  life  of  philanthropy, 
would  justify  any  one  in  considering 
his  private  inheritance  as  a  salary 
paid  him  by  the  Government  for  his 
labour  of  love  !  Is  it  because  they 
are  useful  in  a  public  capacity,  that 
their  rights  are  not  to  be  protected 
in  a  private  ?  Is  it  because  they  are 
vnore  than  private  gentlemen  in  one 
respect,  that  they  should  be  con- 
sidered less  in  another  ?  This,  truly, 
is  strange  logic,  and  stranger  policy! 
A  logic,  which  far  transcends  that 
homely  thing  called  the  wisdom  of 
our  ancestors !  A  policy,  with  which 
neither  Bacon,  nor  Somers,  nor 
Burke,  nor  Pitt,  were  acquainted  ! 

But,  perhaps,  the  clergy  have  not 
been  as  useful  as  other  private 
gentlemen,  according  to  their  means ; 
they  have  been  more  frequently  ab- 
sentees; less  charitable;  worse  land- 
lords;— will  the  proscription  in  which 
they  are  now  involved  be  justified 
by  any  such  allegations  as  these  ? 
We  trow  not;  because  none  such 
could  be  supported.  They  are,  no- 
toriously, better  landlords,  more 
charitable,  less  frequently  absentees, 
than  proprietors  of  any  other  class, 
and  deserving  of  praise  rather  than 
blame,  for  the  exactness  and  fidelity 
with  which  they  discharge  all  their 
duties  as  citizens  and  subjects. 

But,  we  earnestly  ask,  what  can 
the  Government  mean  ?  Is  this  a 
season  during  which  they  ought  to 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


[April, 


diminish,  by  a  single  one,  that  portion 
of  the  aristocracy,  upon  which  alone 
they  can  confidently  calculate  in  the 
struggle  which  is  about  to  ensue? 
The  Irish  clergy,  and  particularly 
the  Bishops,  are,  in  spirit,  in  prin- 
ciples, by  education,  by  habit,  from 
duty,  devoted  to  a  connexion  with 
England.  By  it  they  are  determined 
to  stand  ; — with  it  they  know  they 
must  fall.  And  yet,  they  are  the 
very  class  selected  as  unworthy,  any 
longer,  the  favour,  or  even  the  pro- 
tection, of  the  British  Government; 
and  who  are  reputed  as  useless 
branches,  fit  only  to  be  cut  down, 
and  cast  into  the  fire  !  Was  ever  ex- 
hibited such  culpable  blindness  to 
the  signs  of  the  times !  Was  ever  po- 
litical stubbornness  or  stupidity, 
more  like  a  kind  of  judicial  infatua- 
tion ! 

Let  us  now  consider  the  Bishop- 
rics in  another,  and  still  strictly  se- 
cular point  of  view,  as  rewards  for 
lettered  men  of  respectable  charac- 
ter, whose  merits  are  their  only  re- 
commendation ;  as  so  many  prizes 
in  the  lottery  of  life,  which  are  open 
to  the  aspirations  of  all  ranks  and 
conditions  of  the  community.  And 
we  ask,  what  can  the  community 
at  large  gain  by  doing  them  away  '? 
Will  any  individual  consider  himself 
better  off,  because  his  son  or  his 
son-in-law,  or  his  nephew,  or  some 
near  connexion,  has  ten  chances  less 
than  he  had  before  of  attaining 
through  merit  to  rank  and  station V 
Who  was  the  late  Archbishop  of 
Dublin  ?  The  son  of  an  humble 
man.  Who  is  the  present?  A  re- 
spectable Oxford  Professor,  who  is 
indebted  altogether  to  his  talents  and 
character  for  his  preferment.  Who 
is  the  present  Archbishop  of  Cashel  ? 
One  who  maybe  described  in  the  same 
words.  Who  is  the  present  Bishop  of 
Cork  ?  One  who  may  be  described  in 
the  same  words,  except  that  the  scene 
of  his  collegiate  distinction  was  Dub- 
lin, and  not  Oxford.  Who  is  the  pre- 
sent Bishop  of  Cloyne  ?  The  great 
astronomer,  Brinkley,  who  is  better 
known  throughout  Europe  than  in 
these  countries,  and  who  owes  his 
preferment  solely  to  his  literary  at- 
tainments. Who  is  the  present 
Bishop  of  Limerick  ?  The  accom- 
plished and  amiable  Dr  Jebb,  the 
refined  and  elegant  author  of  "  Sa- 
cred  Literature)"  and  other  works. 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


which  will  perpetuate  his  name 
long  after  his  Bishoprick  is  extin- 
guished. Who  is  the  present  Bishop 
cf  Down  ?  Dr  Mant,  a  man  truly  wor- 
thy the  vocation  to  which  he  has 
been  called,  and  to  which  he  was 
recommended  solely  by  his  profes- 
sional qualifications.  Who  is  the 
present  Bishop  of  Ferns?  DrElring- 
ton;  —  the  son  of  a  stage-player, 
who  died  and  left  his  mother  an 
early  and  a  friendless  widow,  when 
ho  was  a  helpless  little  child.  She 
struggled  hard  to  give  him  educa- 
tion, of  which  he  failed  not  to  pro- 
fit; for  the  boy  was  apt,  and  of  a 
vigorous  and  energetic  character; 
a  id  when  his  school-days  were  over, 
Ii3  very  soon  distinguished  himself 
in  the  Dublin  University,  of  which, 
•R  e  believe,  he  became  a  fellow  be- 
fore he  was  one-and-twenty  years  of 
age.  From  that  period,  his  life  has 
b<?en  one  of  continued  prosperity, 
and,  we  may  add,  of  indefatigable 
labour;  and  when,  late  in  life,  he 
attained  the  station  which  he  now 
holds,  who  could  not  envy  the  feel- 
icgs  with  which  such  a  mother  must 
look  upon  such  a  son,  —  or  such  a  son 
upon  such  a  mother.  The  old  lady 
is,  we  believe,  still  alive;  and  if  wi- 
dowed cares,  and  early  maternal  so- 
lioitude,  could  be  adequately  reward- 
ed and  recompensed  upon  earth,  that 
reward  is  hers  in  the  palace  of  Ferns, 
where  she  is  surrounded  by  the  chil- 
dren and  the  grandchildren  of  him 
for  whom,  in  loneliness  and  destitu- 
tion, she  oftentimes  prayed  and  toil- 
ed, at  a  time  when  she  could  have 
lictle  anticipated  his  present  eleva- 
tion ! 

But,  my  Lord  Bishop  of  Ferns,  we 
h;ive  not  yet  done  with  you.  We  are 
about  to  do  you  a  violence,  but  you 
must  bear  it.  The  subject  absolute- 
ly requires  that  the  truth  should  be 
told.  Let  the  reader,  then,  under- 
stand that  this  man,  whose  promo- 
tion we  have  just  described,  has  been 
the  stay  and  the  support  of  his  suf- 
fering clergy,  His  diocese  is  that  in 
\\hich  the  notorious  Dr  Doyle  re- 
sides, by  whose  pastoral  instructions 
tie  peasantry  have  been  peculiarly 
iii  cited  to  withhold  their  tithes  ;  and 
we  may  very  well  suppose  that  the 
clergy  of  Ferns  have  not  been  the 
1<  ast  sufferers  at  the  present  appal- 
ling crisis.  But  they  are  blessed  in 
a  Bishop,  who  seems  to  have  consi- 

VOL,  XXXIII,    NO.  CCVII, 


dered  himself  but  a  steward,for  their 
benefit,  of  his  possessions;  and  by 
whom  their  wants  have  been  sup- 
plied with  an  unsparing  liberality, 
which  commands  their  gratitude  and 
admiration ; — a  liberality  equally  de- 
licate and  munificent ;  of  which  the 
most  shrinkingly  sensitive  may  par- 
take, without  any  painful  conscious- 
ness of  humiliation.  Let  one  instance 
suffice  to  exemplify  the  almost  daily 
benefactions  of  this  generous  and 
large-hearted  Prelate.  The  wife  of 
one  of  his  clergy  was  lately  confined 
of  her  fourteenth  child.  She  was  at- 
tended by  a  benevolent  physician, 
who  saw  the  penury  to  which  the 
family  were  reduced,  and  did  what 
in  him  lay  to  relieve  it.  A  paragraph 
in  the  newspaper,  inserted  by  his 
contrivance,  announcing  the  birth  of 
the  fourteenth  child,  met  the  eye  of 
the  Bishop  of  Ferns,  who  imme- 
diately despatched  a  special  messen- 
ger with  a  letter  containing  an  enclo- 
sure of  a  fifty-pound  note,  with  his 
compliments  for  "  the  young  stran- 
ger !"  Is  such  a  man  unworthy  of 
the  rank  which  he  holds,  or  the  pro- 
perty he  possesses  ?  And  he  would 
hold  no  rank,  if  there  were  not  Bish- 
oprics in  the  Church; — and  he  pos- 
sesses no  other  than  Church  proper- 
ty. May  the  blessing  of  God  descend 
upon  him  and  his,  for  ever  and 
ever! 

But  why  do  we  mention  these 
things  ?  Not  for  the  purpose  of  be- 
seeching Lord  Althorp  not  to  lay 
sacrilegious  hands  upon  property 
thus  doubly  consecrated  ; — conse- 
crated in  its  destination,  and  conse- 
crated in  its  employment.  Well  we 
know  that  any  such  supplication 
must  be  of  none  effect.  No.  But 
for  the  purpose  of  shewing  the  laity 
the  advantages,  even  in  a  temporal 
point  of  view,  of  these  Bishoprics,  and 
the  folly  of  supposing  that  they  can 
be  gainers  by  doing  them  away. 
Suppose  any  ten  of  the  great  estates 
in  the  kingdom,  instead  of  being,  as 
they  are,  entailed  as  family  inheri- 
tances, were  thrown  open  to  adven- 
turous  competition,  and  might  be- 
come the  property,  for  life,  of  enter- 
prising individuals  from  the  humbler 
classes,  who  should  be  thought  best 
deserving  of  them;  would  that  be, 
or  would  it  not  be,  an  advantage  ? 
Precisely  such  an  advantage  they 
now  possess,  and  they  are  about  to, 
2  u 


660 

throw  it  away  !    The  Bishoprics  are 
so  many  estates,  to  the  enjoyment  of 
which  they  and  theirs  may  attain,  by 
evincing  those  qualifications  which 
may  prove  them  worthy  of  such  a 
distinction.     It    has     been    shewn, 
without  going  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  Irish    Church,  or   of  the   pre- 
sent   time,    in    how  many   instan- 
ces humble  individuals  have  been 
raised  to  the  Episcopal  bench ;  and 
how    largely  the    honours    in    the 
Church  have  been  distributed,  for 
the  reward  of  merit  and  the  encou- 
ragement of  learning.     Nor  is  the 
profession  of  a  clergyman  the  only 
one  that  is  benefited  by  such  a  sys- 
tem.  Every  distinguished  individual 
who   is  thus  provided  for  may  be 
considered  as  one  withdrawn  from 
competition   in  some  of  the  other 
professions,    which    are    thus    less 
crowded  by  able  men,  and  their  ad- 
vantages in  consequence  compara- 
tively augmented.  What  should  have 
Erevented  Bishop  Jebb  from  being, 
ke  his  admirable  brother,  one  of 
the  Judges  in  Ireland  ?     Or  any  of 
the  other  individuals  whom  we  have 
enumerated,  from    attaining    equal 
eminence  in  any  other  walk  of  life 
to  which  they  might  have  chosen  to 
devote  themselves  ?   Nothing.  They 
possess  the  talents,  the  industry,  and 
the   character,  which  must  almost 
certainly  have  commanded  success; 
and  their  advancement  must  have 
been  at  least  as  rapid  had  they  gone 
to  the  bar,  or  practised  medicine,  or 
entered  the  army,  as  it  has  been  since 
they  entered  into  holy  orders.   The 
very  individuals,  therefore,  by  whom 
they  are  at  present  decried  and  per- 
secuted, may  be  wholly  indebted  to 
the  rank  and  station  which  they  have 
attained  in  the  courses  which  they 
have  severally  pursued,  to  the  ab- 
sence of  antagonists  by  whom  they 
might  have  been  easily  distanced;— 
that  absence  having  been  owing  to 
engagements    which    would    never 
have  been  entered  into  if  there  had 
not  been  such  a  thing  as  a  liberally 
endowed  Established  Church.    We 
consider,   therefore,   the   provision 
that  has  been  made  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  clergy,  not  only  a  be- 
nefit to  those  for  whom  it  has  been 
especially  provided,  but  also  a  re- 
lief to  those  who  enter  into  other 
professions,  where    their    progress 
must  be  so  much  more  free  and  un- 


The  Progress  of  tie  Movement. 


[April, 


impeded  than  it  would  be  if  so  large 
a  draught  of  talent  and  energy  as 
belongs  confessedly  to  the  class  of 
individuals  to  whom  we  have  allu- 
ded, had  not  been  diverted  into  an- 
other channel,  and  thereby  prevent- 
ed from  contending  with  them. 

We  come  now  to  by  far  the  most 
important  consideration  suggested 
by  the  new  BUI,— namely,  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  is  likely  to  affect  the 
spiritualities  of  the  Church  Establish- 
ment. In  the  first  place,  the  feeling 
of  general  insecurity  to  which  the 
present  measure  gives  rise,  must 
have  a  very  pernicious  influence ;  as 
well  in  causing  many  to  decline  the 
services  of  the  ministry,  as  in  em- 
barrassing and  distracting  the  minds 
of  those  who  had  previously  engaged 
in  them;  who  are  thus  prevented 
from  giving  that  entire  and  single- 
minded  attention  to  the  duties  of 
their  sacred  calling,  which  may  be 
pronounced  absolutely  necessary  for 
the  accomplishment  of  any  consider- 
able measure  of  clerical  utility.  They 
feel  like  men  stationed  upon  a  cita- 
del that  has  been  undermined,  and 
who  know  not  how  soon  the  match 
may  be  applied  and  the  train  fired 
that  is  to  bury  them  in  ruins ! 

In  the  next  place,  the  seizure  of 
Church  property  by  the  Government, 
and  the  assumption  of  the  principle, 
that  it  may  be  converted  to  the  ser- 
vice of  the  State,  puts  the  clergy  into 
a  position  essentially  different  from 
that  which  they  had  previously  oc- 
cupied, and  makes  their  subsistence, 
and  therefore  their  existence,  de- 
pendant upon  the  character  or  the 
circumstances  of  the  Minister  of  the 
day.  That  regular  supply  of  able 
and  learned  men,  who,  under  Divine 
Providence,  have  made  the  Church 
of  England  what  it  is,  can  no  longer 
be  expected.  Learning  requires 
leisure;  and  leisure  requires  a  set- 
tled competency,  which  can  be  cal- 
culated upon  only  as  long  as  the  pro- 
perty of  the  Church  is  "  dovetailed 
and  interwoven"  with  the  mass  of 
other  private  property,  and  thus 
put  beyond  the  reach  of  an  unprin- 
cipled Minister,  or  a  rapacious  Par- 
liament. We  may,  therefore,  set  it 
down  that  the  axe  has  been  laid  to 
the  root  of  clerical  utility  in  the 
Church  of  England.  Henceforth  she 
will  be  known  by  what  she  was,  not 
by  what  she  i§.  Her  worthies  will 


1833.] 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


no  longer  be  recognised  amongst  the 
religious  lights  of  the  Christian 
world,  in  which,  hitherto,  the  cham- 
pions whom  she  furnished  from  the 
armoury  of  faith,  have  always  been  so 
highly  distinguished. 

In  the  third  place,  the  dismantling 
of  ten  Sees  must  cause  a  frightful 
chasm  in  the  Church  of  Ireland.  In 
point  of  fact,  every  Irish  Bishop  had 
previously  too  much  to  do.  In  order 
to  fill  the  measure  of  his  duty,  he 
must  have  been  almost  incessantly 
occupied.  Those  who  are  not  con- 
versant in  such  matters  know  but 
little  what  is  implied  in  "  the  care 
of  all  the  churches."  Those  to  whom 
religion  itself  is  a  sinecure,  may  very 
well  consider  as  sinecures  the  high- 
est offices  in  the  Church !  The  first 
effect  of  the  proposed  reduction  in 
the  number  of  the  Irish  Bishops  must 
be,  so  to  overwhelm  those  who  are 
suffered  to  remain  with  a  perplexing 
multiplicity  of  business,  as  to  render 
it  impossible  that  any  portion  of 
their  duty  could  be  discharged  well. 
Where  too  much  is  imposed,  but 
little  can  be  expected. 

The  strangest  feature  in  the  con- 
duct of  his  Majesty's  Ministers,  upon 
this  occasion,  is,  that  their  measure 
has  been  adopted  without  enquiry. 
Yea,  they  seem  to  have  eschewed 
enquiry  as  carefully  as  it  would  be 
prosecuted  by  almost  any  other  men, 
previously  to  the  propounding  of  a 
system  which  so  materially  affects 
the  interests  of  the  Church.  Were 
they  not  bound  to  consult  the  Pri- 
mate as  to  the  extent  of  his  present 
episcopal  duties,  before  they  propo- 
sed to  saddle  him,  in  addition,  with 
the  superintendence  of  the  diocese 
of  Clougher  ?  Were  they  not  bound 
to  have  examined  the  Archbishop  of 
Dublin  respecting  the  extent  of  his 
duties,  before  they  resolved  to  super- 
add  the  superintendence  of  the  dio- 
cese of  Kildare  to  his  present  la- 
bours? We  mistake  much  if  they 
ivould  not  be  informed,  in  both  these 
instances,  that  the  Prelates  alluded 
;o  are  already  quite  sufficiently  oc- 
cupied ;  and  that  the  only  effect  of 
;heir  undertaking  moret  must  be  that 
they  can  perform  less. 

Sir  Robert  Peel  truly  observed, 
:hat  a  real  Church  Reform  ought  to 
be  something  the  very  opposite  of 
,hat  which  is  at  present  about  to  be 


661 

adopted.  It  ought  to  consist  in  a 
separation  of  dioceses  which  are 
at  present  united,  and  a  subdivision 
of  such  as  are  at  present  too  large, 
rather  than  the  contrary.  And  such 
would  be  the  case,  if  there  was  any 
sincere  disposition  to  raise  the  cha- 
racter, or  to  improve  the  circum- 
stances of  the  Church  j  if  the  ques- 
tion which  Ministers  proposed  to 
themselves  was,  how  the  present 
ecclesiastical  property  might  be  em- 
ployed to  most  advantage, — not, 
upon  how  small  a  portion  of  their 
revenues  the  clergy  might  continue 
to  subsist,  retaining  still  the  name 
of  a  Church  Establishment.  The 
reform  proposed,  therefore,  is  not 
one  by  which  their  interests  are  to 
be  advanced,  or  their  utility  increa- 
sed,— but,  a  reform  by  which,  while 
their  mere  existence  is  scantily  pro- 
vided for,  their  property  may  be 
abstracted  for  the  benefit  of  another 
class  of  his  Majesty's  subjects.  It 
is,  simply,  an  experiment  to  ascer- 
tain, upon  how  little  they  can  live, 
while  yet  they  may  appear  to  go 
through  the  ordinary  routine  of  their 
ministerial  functions !  Is  it  sur- 
prising, therefore,  that  such  a  reform 
should  be  hailed  with  delight  by 
O'Connell,  and  the  whole  faction, 
who  must  rejoice  in  the  destruction 
of  the  Church !  No.  As  that  de- 
magogue said  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, it  is  perhaps  a  better  measure 
than  he  would  have  himself  propo- 
sed, because  it  is  more  plausible; 
because  it  appears  to  aim  at  little, 
while  yet  it  accomplishes  much; 
and  involves  a  principle  which  must 
complete  the  ruin  that  may  be  for  a 
short  time  deferred,  but  cannot  final- 
ly be  averted ! 

That  the  reader  may  have  an  idea 
of  how  the  measure  must  actually 
work,  in  the  case  of  clergymen  with 
moderate  preferments,  we  subjoin 
an  abstract  of  the  incomings  and  out- 
goings of  a  gentleman  who  holds 
two  livings,  the  gross  value  of  which 
is  L.648  a-year.  They  are  situated, 
the  one  in  the  diocese  of  Meath ;  the 
other,  in  the  diocese  of  Dublin.  The 
account  stands  as  follows;  and,  to 
put  the  matter  beyond  all  doubt,  we 
subjoin  the  name  of  the  clergyman. 
He  is  the  Rev.  Mr  Heppenstal ;  one 
well  known  for  his  zeal  and  efficient 
cy  in  the  Church  of  Ireland. 


662  The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 

Living  in  the  diocese  of  Meath,  -  L.I 9*2 
Do.       in  do.      of  Dublin,       456 

<>t     ! 

Gross  amount  of  both,  «<•%) 


[April, 


L.648    0    0 


Before  this  income  becomes  available,  the  following  sums 
must  be  paid  : 

Quit-  rent,  to  the  Crown,  «  *>?  L.I  3  16  11 
Diocesan  school-master,  -  -  400 
Visitation  fees,  -  -•-  •  =  ••••'  <••-•'  3  0  0 
Deduction  by  landlords,  -  -  97  0  0 
Church-cess,  -  -  -  45  0  0 
Losses  and  bad  debts,  -  4Mt-v  -  30  0  0 
Two  curates,  -  -  -  -  180  0  0 


Proportion  paid,  as  part  of  the  salary 
of  a  perpetual  curacy,     jjigrf-i  ? 

Amounting  in  all  to  i 


Leaving  of  clear  income  to  the  Rector, 


L.388    4    5 
L.259  15    7 


Now,  we  ask,  could  Ministers,  if 
enquiry  had  in  this  instance  pre- 
ceded legislation,  have  been  guilty 
of  this  gross  injustice?  It  is  impos- 
sible !  They  knew  not  what  they 
were  about!  They  knew  not  how 
deeply  they  were  about  to  cut  into 
the  incomes  of  the  impoverished 
clergy!  Mr  Heppenstal  has,  in  the 
above  statement,  made  no  mention 
of  his  charities,  which  are  known  to 
be  large.  He  has  simply  stated, 
what  may  be  described  as  bonded 
debts ;  what  must  be  paid  to  others, 
before  his  income  becomes  available 
for  himself.  And  from  this,  it  ap- 
pears, that  the  enormous  sum  of 
L.388,  4s.  5d.,  must  be  extracted 
from  L.640,  before  a  single  farthing 
can  be  appropriated  to  the  subsis- 
tence of  his  family  !  It  may  not  yet 
be  too  late  to  remedy  this  iniquitous 
feature  of  the  Bill.  Let  the  repre- 
sentation which  we  have  laid  before 
the  reader,  be  submitted  to  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  the  case  is 
one  so  beseechingly  supplicatory  of 
justice  and  mercy,  that  we  doubt  if 
it  could  be  resisted  even  by  a  Re- 
formed Parliament ! 

We  have  alluded,  briefly,  to  the 
injury  which  the  Irish  Church  must 
suffer,  from  the  sense  of  general  in- 
security ;  to  the  manner  in  which  its 
best  interests  must  be  affected  by 
the  new  principle  which  is  now  so 
familiarly  adopted,  that  its  property 
is  now  to  be  regarded  as  the  pro- 
perty of  the  State;  to  the  serious 
loss  of  that  superintendence  to 
which  it  must  be  exposed,  by  the 


striking  off  of  ten  of  its  Bishops ;  but 
this  last  consideration  claims  a  more 
particular  attention. 

It  is  an  old  maxim,  that  as  are  the 
Bishops,  so  will  "be  the  Church." 
A  good  Church  may  sometimes  have 
had  Bishops ;— but  a  succession  of 
able  and  virtuous  Bishops  can  seldom 
have  an  inefficient  Church !  What 
Ulysses  says  of  the  office  of  a  Gene- 
ral, may  be,  almost  literally,  applied 
to  the  office  of  a  Bishop. 

"  When  that  the  Bishoit  is  not  like  the 

hive, 

To  which  the  foragers  shall  all  repair— . 
What  honey  is  expected  ?" 

We  would  not  be  thought  to  de- 
part from  that  honest  preference 
which  we  may  entertain  for  our  own 
form  of  church-government,  while 
we  regard,  with  complacency,  that 
very  different  form  that  subsists  at 
the  other  side  of  the  Tweed.  Both 
may  be  best  suitable  to  the  countries 
in  which  they  are  respectively  esta- 
blished;— but,  certain  we  are,  that 
any  diminution  in  the  numbers  of 
the  hierarchy  of  England  or  Ireland, 
or  any  curtailment  of  their  legiti- 
mate influence,  must  expose  the 
churches  in  these  countries  to  a 
want  of  good  government,  without 
which  scarcely  any  other  good  thing 
can  be  expected.  The  Bishop  is  the 
adviser,  the  regulator,  the  controller 
of  his  clergy.  He  is  the  individual 
to  whom  they  refer  in  their  difficul- 
ties ;  by  whom  their  zeal  may  be  di- 
rected or  restrained;  by  whom  they 
are  guided,  exhorted,  or  admonished 


1833.] 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


in  the  discharge  of  their  ministerial 
duties.  He  possesses  the  power  of  re- 
warding those  who  are  faithful  to 
their  trust ;  and  the  power  of  pun- 
ishing those  who  may  prove  negli- 
gent or  unfaithful.  It  has,  we  be- 
lieve, never  happened  that  a  Bishop 
cordially  devoted  himself  to  his 
high  and  holy  calling,  without  con- 
ferring the  highest  degree  of  benefit 
upon  the  diocese  over  which  he  pre- 
sided. And  what  must  be  the  ne- 
cessary effect  of  withdrawing  ten 
Bishops  from  the  Church  of  Ireland  ? 
That  ten  dioceses  must  be  neglect- 
ed !  That,  in  ten  dioceses,  the  clergy 
must  feel  "as  sheep  that  have  no 
shepherd  !"  And  that,  in  the  remain- 
ing twelve,  such  a  degree  of  laxity 
and  negligence  must  be  introduced 
into  the  administration  of  Ecclesias- 
tical affairs,  (from  the  simple  fact  of 
more  being  required  of  the  Bishops 
than  they  can  possibly  perform)  that 
these,  too,  may  be  considered  as  de- 
prived, in  a  great  part,  of  Episcopal 
.superintendence ! 

Those  who  believe  the  office  of 
;i  Bishop  to  be  of  Apostolical  ori- 
gin, must  feel,  with  still  deeper 
pungency,  the  evils  of  the  present 
system.  We  have  regarded  it, 
simply,  as  a  serious  injury  done  to 
1  he  discipline  of  the  Church ;  they 
must  regard  it  as  trenching  upon 
npiritual  authority  and  privileges, 
with  which  no  lay-government  has 
uny  business  to  interfere.  One  of 
ihe  offices  which  a  Bishop  has  to 
perform  is  confirmation.  For  this 
purpose,  at  stated  periods,  he  finds 
it  necessary  to  visit  every  part  of 
liis  diocese;  a  work  requiring  much 
time  and  considerable  labour ;  inso- 
much, that  if  it  were  increased  in  the 
manner  meditated  by  the  proposed 
rrrangement,  he  could,  in  some  in- 
stances, scarcely  perform  any  other 
duty, — it  must  necessarily  engross 
almost  the  whole  of  his  attention! 
-  s  not  this  a  matter  that  should  be 
taken  into  account  by  those  who 
profess  an  attachment  to  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Church  of  England  ?  And 
<  ould  such  a  measure  be  proposed 
1  >y  any  who  did  not  secretly  desire 
t  o  degrade  the  office,  as  well  as  to 
diminish  the  number  of  the  Bishops ; 
— a  measure  which,  at  the  same 
time,  lessens  their  influence,  and 
paralyses  their  functions! 

Another  of  the  offices  of  a  Bishop 
U  ordination,  St  Paul  enjoins  Ti- 


663 

mothy  to  "  lay  hands  suddenly  on 
no  man."  And  Bishops  have  always 
considered  it  their  duty  to  make  a 
strict  enquiry  into  the  lives  and  qua- 
lifications of  those  who  present  them- 
selves for  holy  orders.  This,  at  pre- 
sent, is  no  very  easy  matter ;  the  ex- 
tent of  every  diocese  being,  already, 
sufficiently  great,  to  render  it  impos- 
sible that  it  could  be,  by  any  one 
man,  more  than  adequately  superin- 
tended. But  what  must  be  the  diffi- 
culties of  ascertaining  all  that  may 
be  necessary  to  be  known  respect- 
ing those  who  present  themselves 
for  ordination,  when  the  Episcopal 
labour  in  this  respect  is  doubled, 
and  the  means  of  becoming  perso- 
nally acquainted  with  their  charac- 
ters and  pretensions  diminished  in  the 
same  proportion!  It  follows,  that 
the  Apostolical  injunction  cannot 
be  complied  with,  in  the  spirit  in 
which  it  was  given  ; — and  that  indi- 
viduals may  be  introduced  into  the 
ministry,  from  whom  the  Church 
may  suffer  more  injury  than  it  can 
reap  advantage ! 

Nor  is  it  to  be  forgotten,  by  Church 
of  England  Protestants,  that,  by  an- 
other provision  of  the  present  Bill, 
a  Lay  Board  of  Commissioners  is  to 
be  erected,  who  are  to  exercise  very 
extensive  powers,  not  merely  as  re- 
spects the  property,  but,  also,  as  re- 
spects the  spiritualities  of  the  Church 
of  Ireland.  They  are  to  be  invested 
with  an  authority  which  will  enable 
them  to  forbid  the  appointment  of 
any  clergyman  to  a  parish,  in  which 
divine  service  has  not  been  perform- 
ed for  a  certain  time  j  thus,  making 
it  the  interest  of  the  payers  of  tithe 
to  throw  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
such  performance ;  and  pronouncing, 
with  what  appears  to  us  a  degree  of 
awful  impiety,  that,  because  no  re- 
ligious improvement  has  hitherto 
taken  place,  no  religious  improve- 
ment shall,  for  the  future,  be 
permitted  to  take  place  in  such 
parish  !  That,  because  it  had  been 
abandoned  to  wickedness,  it  shall 
have  no  opportunity  of  repenting, 
and  turning  to  God  !  A  body  of  lay 
Commissioners,  to  watch  over  the 
lapses  of  ministerial  duty,  or  the 
declension  of  parochial  godliness, 
not  that  these  lapses  might  be  cor- 
rected, or  that  lack  of  godliness  sup- 
plied, but  that  those  who  have  been 
neglected  may  be  left  altogether 
without  religious  aid,  and  that  those 


664 

who  have  neglected  themselves  may 
be  deprived  of  even  a  chance  of 
amendment!  A  goodly  expedient, 
truly,  for  supplying  that  lack  of  care 
which  must  be  occasioned  by  the 
withdrawal  of  the  Bishops  !  Thus  it 
is  that  the  established  religion  is  to 
be  "  Burked"  in  Ireland  !  The  Mi- 
nisters first  deprive  it  of  its  natural 
protectors,  by  whose  wise  and  well 
directed  attention,  even  in  its  great- 
est weakness,  it  would  be  cherished 
and  supported ; — and  it  is  to  be  hand- 
ed over  to  unnatural  guardians,  who 
can  have  no  professional  sympathy 
Which  would  lead  them  to  take  care 
of  its  interests ;  and  who  must,  natu- 
rally, be  more  desirous  of  coming  in 
for  the  disposal  of  its  property,  than 
of  preserving  itself!  There  is  some- 
thing in  the  whole  scheme  most  mon- 
strously and  unnaturally  consistent ! 
We  have  called  it  ill  digested  ;  but, 
considering  what  may  not  unfairly 
be  presumed  to  be  its  real  object,  it 
is  not.  At  least,  it  wonderfully  con- 
spires with  the  views  of  those  who 
seem  bent  upon  pulling  down  the 
Church,  and  circumscribing  the  in- 
fluence of  true  religion.  For  this 
purpose,  Ministers  did  not  need 
much  enquiry.  They  knew  that  the 
Bishops  were  regarded  as  the  pillars 
of  the  Church,  which  must  fall  if  not 
thus  supported.  They  could  not, 
therefore,  err  in  their  dealing  with 
them.  And,  what  was  thus  so  hope- 
fully begun,  must  be  completed  by 
the  appointment  of  the  lay  Commis- 
sioners !  Indeed,  this  latter  feature 
of  the  Bill  seems  almost  a  work  of 
supererogation.  When  the  Bishop 
was  removed,  whose  duty  it  would 
be  to  see  that  certain  clerical  duties 
were  performed,  it  could  scarcely 
be  necessary  to  appoint  a  Board  of 
laymen,  to  see  that  they  were  not.  All 
that  the  most  decided  enemies  to  re- 
ligion could  desire,  must  necessarily 
follow,  and  that  speedily,  from  the 
defect  of  episcopal  superintendence. 
The  body  of  the  clergy  would  be 
uncheered,  dispirited,  neglected, 
scattered  abroad,  to  a  degree  that 
must  render  any  unity  or  energy  of 
operation,  on  their  part,  wholly  im- 
possible ;  and  make  them  altogether 
unable  to  bear  up  against  the  formi- 
dable and  well  directed  hostility  to 
which  Protestantism  is  exposed  in 
Ireland. 
What  would  the  Church  of  Scot- 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


[April, 


land,  what  would  the  people  of  Scot- 
land say,  if  the  functions  of  any  of 
their  Presbyteries  were  thus  inter- 
fered with  and  suspended  ?  History 
has  already  answered  that  question. 
They  would  indignantly  resist  such 
an  encroachment  upon  their  rights, 
and  make  the  Minister  feel  that  he 
could  not  at  will  abrogate  their  dear- 
est privileges.  What  would  the  Me- 
thodists say  if  their  Conference  were 
thus  assailed?  What  would  the  Mora- 
vians,— what  would  any  other  church 
or  sect  say  or  do,  if  the  same  arbi- 
trary usurpation  upon  their  acknow- 
ledged rights  were  attempted  ?  We 
believe  the  whole  dissenting  interest 
of  England,  Ireland,  and  Scotland, 
would  unite  to  resist  it,  and  a  force 
of  opposition  would  be  arrayed 
against  his  Majesty's  Ministers,  which 
would  compel  them  either  to  aban- 
don their  design,  or  to  quit  their 
places.  They  could  not  carry  into 
effect  the  same  measure  against  any 
other  the  most  insignificant  of  the 
subdivisions  of  dissent  in  the  Protes- 
tant community,  which  they  have  so 
boldly  undertaken  against  the  Esta- 
blished Church ! 

What  then  remains  for  the  Church 
to  do  ?  Why,  to  evince  that  she  is  A 
CHURCH  ;  and  not  a  mere  engine  of 
State  policy,  to  be  used  or  abused 
for  mere  political  purposes,  and  to 
be  employed,  or  not  employed,  as 
may  best  suit  the  Ministers'  conve- 
nience. Her  property  may  be  seized 
upon.  Against  that  she  can  merely 
protest.  When  might  prevails  against 
right,  her  Christian  duty  is  quite 
clear; — those  who  have  taken  her 
cloak,  may  have  her  coat  also.  BUT 

IT  WILL  BE  HER  OWN  ACT  AND 
DEED  IF  HER  FUNCTIONS  ARE  SUS- 
PENDED. She  may  be  reduced  to 
beggary  by  the  arbitrary  will  of  the 
Government;  but,  unless  she  herself 
be  a  consenting  party  to  their  ini- 
quity, SHE  CANNOT  BE  PARALYSED  ! 

Let  her,  therefore,  lose  no  time  in 
filling  up  the  number  of  her  Bishops. 
It  is  not  essential  that  those  who  fill 
that  office  should  always  be  endow- 
ed with  large  possessions.  But  those 
who  receive  the  creed,  and  who  adopt 
the  ritual  of  the  Church  of  England, 
must  hold  that  the  office  of  the  Bi- 
shop is  essential  to  the  being  of  the 
Church.  Whenever  a  vacancy  oc- 
curs, therefore,  let  that  office  be  sup- 
plied. Able  and  learned  men  cannot 


1833.] 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


l»e  wanting,  by  whom  it  will  be  un- 
dertaken with  cheerfulness,  notwith- 
standing the  privations  that  may  ac- 
(ompany  it;  and  executed  with  abi- 
lity, notwithstanding  the  difficulties 
by  which  it  may  be  surrounded.  If 
this  be  done,  the  worst  effects  to  be 
r  pprehended  from  the  present  mea- 
eure,  will  be  obviated.  The  Church 
nay  suffer  in  worldly  estimation  from 
the  loss  of  its  temporalities;  but  its 
spiritual  functions  will  not  cease. 
Its  candlestick  will  not  be  removed. 
The  fire  will  still  continue  to  burn 
i  pon  its  altars  : — and  although  the 
fame  may,  at  first,  be  feeble  and 
flickering,  it  will,  gradually,  wax 
s  tronger  and  brighter ;  and  the  very 
attempt  to  extinguish  an  enlightened 
r3ligion  in  that  benighted  land,  may 
be  only  the  providential  means  of 
cmsing  it  to  shine  forth,  until  the 
whole  country  is  irradiated  with  its 
brightness,  and  it  is  recognised,  by  all 
c  asses,  as  a  source  of  blessedness 
aid  illumination. 

If  what  we  have  proposed  be  not 
done,  the  contrary  of  all  this  must 
tuke  place.  The  Established  Church 
will  appear  to  be  a  mere  State  reli- 
g  on — a  mere  thing  created  by  act 
o '  Parliament !  The  Bishops  will  be 
consenting  parties  to  the  act  by 
which  not  only  its  property  will  have 
b<;en  confiscated,  but  its  functions 
paralysed.  Nay,  they  will  furnish 
tl  e  best  excuse  for  the  confiscation 
ol  its  property,  by  tacitly  consenting 
tc  the  suspension  of  its  functions  I 
F>r,  as  it  was  for  the  efficient  and 
d  gnified  discharge  of  the  latter,  that 
the  former  was  conferred,  it  does 
not  carry  the  appearance  of  great  in- 
justice to  say,  that  the  property  of  a 
*B  shop  may  be  withdrawn,  and  ap- 
plied  to  other  purposes,  when  the 
fu  nctions  of  a  Bishop  are  no  longer 
m  eded.  By  the  conduct  of  the  pre- 
sent  Episcopal  Bench  in  Ireland, 
therefore,  the  proceedings  of  the 
G  3vernment  will  be  either  condemn- 
e(  or  justified — condemned,  if  they 
act  as  we  advise,  and  fill  the  office 
whenever  a  vacancy  occurs,  in  all 
those  cases  where  it  is  at  present 
pioposed  by  Ministers  to  be  abo- 
lished. By  so  doing,  they  will  re- 
cord their  solemn  judgment,  that  the 
otlice  ought  not  to  be  suspended, 
ard,  consequently,  that  the  property 
ought  not  to  be  taken  away ; — Justi- 
ne J,  if  they  adopt  a  different  course, 


665 

and  make  the  wrong  which  they 
have  suffered  in  one  respect,  an  ex- 
cuse for  a  neglect  of  duty  in  another. 
In  this  latter  case,  it  would  appear  as 
if  they  only  valued  the  Bishopric  for 
the  sake  of  the  property ;  which 
would  be  to  afford  direct  confirma- 
tion to  the  vilest  calumny  of  their 
most  inveterate  enemies. 

And  here  we  cannot  avoid  record- 
ing a  tribute  of  admiration  to  the 
conduct,  in  this  respect,  of  the  Church 
of  Rome.  When  proscribed  and  per- 
secuted, when  outlawed  and  stigma- 
tized, when  deprived  of  property 
and  consideration ;  and  not  only 
without  worldly  estimation,  but  co- 
vered with  reproach  and  contume- 
ly, she  never  suffered  the  functions 
of  her  Bishops  to  be  suspended  in 
Ireland  !  Their  places  were  always 
filled,  although  in  many  cases  attend- 
ed with  danger.  And,  what  has  been 
the  consequence  ?  That  this  Church, 
such  as  it  is,  has  been  preserved — 
that  the  blessing  of  the  Rechabites 
seems  to  have  attended  them,  to 
whom,  notwithstanding  the  gross- 
ness  of  their  errors,  the  Divine  Be- 
ing was  pleased  to  say,  that,  because 
they  were  faithful  even  to  the  feeble 
and  imperfect  light  which  they  had, 
and  evinced  a  superstitious  adhe- 
rence to  what  they  believed  to  be 
their  religious  duty,  "  Jonadab,  the 
son  of  Rechab,  should  never  want  a 
man  to  stand  before  him  for  ever !" 

Now,  shall  the  professors  of  idola- 
try outdo  the  professors  of  true  reli- 
gion, in  their  obedience  to  the  Di- 
vine commands  ?  Shall  the  powers 
of  darkness  be  worshipped  with  a 
perseverance  and  devotedness  which 
is  not  to  be  found  amongst  the  wor- 
shippers of  the  powers  of  light  ?  If 
this  be  so,  melancholy  are  the  anti- 
cipations which  must  be  entertained 
for  the  moral  and  religious  condition 
of  Ireland !  Her  doom  would  seem 
to  be  sealed  !  She  would  appear  to 
be  given  over,  bound  hand  and  foot, 
to  the  apostles  of  error  and  infideli- 
ty !  But,  we  have  better  hopes.  The 
character  of  their  present  Primate  is 
a  pledge  to  us  that  the  best  interests 
of  the  Church  of  Ireland  will  not 
thus  be  abandoned.  There  are  others 
also  to  whom  we  look  with  confi- 
dence : — The  Bishop  of  Ferns,  reso- 
lute and  energetic: — the  Bishop  of 
Cork,  honest,  straightforward  and 
perseveripg  ;—the  Bishop  of  Down 


The  Progress  of  the  Movement. 


C66 

and  Connor,  the  not  unworthy  suc- 
cessor of  Jereftry  Taylor,  who  has 
evinced,  on   more   than   one   occa- 
sion, an  ardent  piety  and  a  temper- 
ed zeal,  characteristic   of   the  pu- 
rest days  of  primitive  Christianity; 
nor  will  we  omit  the  Archbishop  of 
Dublin   in  this  enumeration  of  the 
worthies     upon     whom,     humanly 
speaking,  the  salvation  of  the  Church 
of  Ireland  would  seem  to  depend. 
He  is  a  man  upon  whom,  in  an  emer- 
gency like  the  present,  we  are  per- 
suaded the  Church  may  calculate, 
for  doing  what  in  him  lies  to  ward 
off  impending  destruction.     And  if 
these    Prelates     sedulously    apply 
themselves  to  the  discovery  of    a 
means  for  still  preserving  the  integ- 
rity and  efficiency  of  their  order,  their 
labours,  we  are  sure,  will  not  be  un- 
attended with  the  Divine  blessing, 
or  without  the  happiest  effects.  One 
thing  is  certain.     Come  what  will, 
they  should  do  their  duty.   The  result 
will  be  in  the  hands  of  Providence. 
If  they  but  make  a  proper  use  of  the 
means,  HE  will  take  care  of  the  end  ; 
which  may  yet  be  more  consolatory 
and   more   glorious  than   any  that 
could  have  attended  a  career  of  more 
apparently  uninterrupted  prosperity. 
Once  again,  we  say,  only  let  the  Irish 
Bishops  do  their  duty,  and  all  will 
again  be  well.* 

'  Our  part  has  now  been  done.  We 
have,  at  all  events,  not  to  accuse 
ourselves  of  having  neglected  our 
duty.  The  times  are  awfully  full  of 
change.  Men's  minds  are  strangely 
unsettled.  An  appetite  for  destruc- 
tion has  been  excited  in  the  people 
of  England,  which  inspires  them  with 
a  headlong  zeal  for  the  overthrow  of 
all  their  institutions.  To  this  the 
Irish  Church  is  to  be  the  first  sacri- 
fice ;  and  the  measures  taken  for  en- 
suring its  complete  and  utter  ruin, 
argue  a  consummate  and  Machiave- 
lian  skill,  which,  while  it  excites  our 
horror,  provokes  our  admiration  !  By 
scarcely  any  thing  short  of  a  miracle 
can  it  be  defeated.  But  miracles 
have  been  wrought  for  purposes  less 
apparently  important,  and  we  do  not 
yet  despair.  A  profane  intermeddling 


[April, 


with  Divine  things  has  seldom  been 
unrebuked  by  some  signal  instance 
of  the  Divine  displeasure.  So  that, 
unless  the  Church  of  Ireland  has  al- 
ready become  spiritually  dead,  it  will 
yet  triumph  over  the  malice  of  its 
enemies.  And  if  it  be,  we  care  not 
what  becomes  of  it.  Let  it  even  be 
buried  with  the  burial  of  an  ass. 
Certain  we  are,  that  if  it  deserve  to 
live,  it  will  not  be  let  to  die  ;  and  if 
it  deserve  to  die,  nothing  that  either 
we  or  others  may  do,  can  prevent  its 
extinction.  It  is  only  where  the  car- 
cass is,  that  there  the  eagles  will  be 
gathered  together ! 

We  are  also  certain  that  the  most 
strenuous  efforts  of  the  Conservative 
party  should  be  made  in  defence  of 
the  Irish  Church.     If  they  succeed 
in  maintaining  the  outwork,  they  can 
defend  the  citadel;  but  if  the  out- 
work be  taken,  the  citadel  must  be 
abandoned.    We  are  reminded,  by 
the  measure  of  his  Majesty's  Mini- 
sters, of  the  method  lately  fallen 
upon    in   Canada    of  clearing    the 
country  of  timber.    The  settlers  no 
longer  employ  themselves  in  cutting 
down,   and   rooting  out   particular 
trees ;  they  are  satisfied  with  nick- 
ing them  round  near  the  root,  so  as 
to  separate  the  bark  from  the  source 
of  nutriment.     This,  at  once,  inter- 
rupts their  growth,  and  causes  them 
to  die.    From  flourishing  trees  at- 
tached to  the  soil  and  rejoicing  in 
the  sun,   they  are    converted    into 
long  poles   merely  stuck   into  the 
earth,  and  which  the   next   storm 
will  lay  prostrate.     Thus,  by  a  far 
less  tedious  and  more  effectual  pro- 
cess than  the  old  one,  forests  are 
felled  by  wholesale  in  a  few  years, 
which  would  otherwise  have  resisted 
the  labours  of  the  axe  for  ages.    It 
is  just  so  that  Ministers  have  pro- 
ceeded with  respect  to  the  Church 
of  Ireland.     There  the  work  of  de- 
struction  has    consisted   rather   in 
putting    the    Establishment  into   a 
condition  which  must  occasion  its 
fall,  than  in  doing  any  thing  which 
may  cause  its  immediate   destruc- 
tion ;  so  that  Ministers  may  secure 
to  themselves  all  the  advantages  of 


*  We  are  aware  that  the  Irish  Bishops  could  not,  themselves,  consecrate  to  an 
Irish  See,  without  an  appointment  by  the  Crown.  But  if  the  law  in  this  respect  was 
not  changed,  (and  changed  we  believe  it  would  be,  upon  a  proper  representation,) 
their  Bishops  might  be  consecrated  in  Scotland,  or  elsewhere.  If  they  were  obliged 
to  send  into  another  hemisphere,  they  should  not  leave  their  Church  unprovided. 


1833.' 


its  subversion,  without,  apparently, 
incurring  the  guilt  by  which  it  may 
be  overthrown.  They  have  done  their 
parts  well.  Let  the  Conservatives 
take  warning  by  them.  Let  their  mea- 
sures be  as  prompt  and  as  energetic 
for  the  preservation,  as  those  of  their 
adversaries  are  for  the  destruction 
of  the  Church ;  and  a  blessing  pro- 
portioned to  the  goodness  of  their 
cause  may  attend  their  patriotic  la- 


The  Fairy  Well  667 

bours.  The  waves  of  popular  fury 
may  be  stayed  ;  and  those  who  have 
stood  forward,  from  a  solemn  sense 
of  duty,  and  in  the  fear  of  God,  to 
resist  the  madness  of  a  deluded  po- 
pulace, may  yet  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  seeing  the  deceivers  rebuked 
and  confounded,  and  the  people  at 
length  brought  to  a  sense  of  their 
true  interest,  "  sitting,  and  clothed 
and  in  their  right  mind." 


THE  FAIRY  WELL.      BY  S,  FERGUSON,  ESQ. 


MOURNFULLY,  sing  mournfully — 
"  O  listen,  Ellen,  sister  dear, 

Is  there  no  help  at  all  for  me, 
But  only  ceaseless  sigh  and  tear? 
Why  did  not  he  who  left  me  here, 

With  stolen  hope  steal  memory? 

0  listen,  Ellen,  sister  dear, 
(Mournfully,  sing  mournfully) — 

I'll  go  away  to  Sleamish  hill, 
I'll  pluck  the  fairy  hawthorn-tree, 
And  let  the  spirits  work  their  will ; 

1  care  not  if  for  good  or  ill, 
So  they  but  lay  the  memory 

Which  all  my  heart  is  haunting  still ! 
(Mournfully,  sing  mournfully) — 

The  Fairies  are  a  silent  race, 
And  pale  as  lily  flowers  to  see  ; 

I  care  not  for  a  blanched  face, 

Nor  wandering  in  a  dreaming  place, 
So  I  but  banish  memory  : — 

I  wish  I  were  with  Anna  Grace!" 
Mournfully,  sing  mournfully ! 


All  alas  !  and  well  a  way  ! 

"  Oh,  sister  Ellen,  sister  sweet, 
Come  with  me  to  the  hill  I  pray, 

And  I  will  prove  that  blessed  freet !" 

They  rose  with  soft  and  silent  feet, 
They  left  their  mother  where  she  lay, 

Their  mother  and  her  care  discreet, 
(All,  alas  !  and  wellaway  !) 

And  soon  they  reached  the  Fairy  Well, 
The  mountain's  eye,  clear,  cold,  and  gray, 

Wide  open  in  the  dreary  fell ; 

How  long  they  stood  'twere  vain  to  tell, 
At  last,  upon  the  point  of  day, 

Baun  Una  bares  her  bosom's  swell, 
(All  alas!  and  wellaway!) 
Thrice  o'er  her  shrinking  breasts  she  laves 
The  gliding  glance  that  will  not  stay 

Of  subtly-streaming  fairy  waves  ; — 
And  now  the  charm  three  brackens  craves, 
She  plucks  them  in  their  fring'd  array; — 

Now  round  the  well  her  fate  she  braves. 
All  alas !  and  wellaway  !    ' 


Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe — 

'Twas  thus  to  weeping  Ellen  Con, 

Her  sister  said  in  accents  low, 
Her  only  sister,  Una  baun  : 
'Twas  in  their  bed  before  the  dawn, 

And  Ellen  ansvver'd  sad  and  slow, — 
"  Oh,  Una,  Una,  be  not  drawn 

(Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe)— 
To  this  unholy  grief  I  pray, 

Which  makes  me  sick  at  heart  to  know, 
And  I  will  help  you  if  I  may : 
—The  Fairy  Well  of  Lagnanay — 

Lie  nearer  me,  I  tremble  so, — 
Una,  I've  heard  wise  women  say 

(Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe)— 
That  if  before  the  dews  arise, 

True  maiden  in  its  icy  flow 
With  pure  hand  bathe  her  bosom  thrice, 
Three  lady-brackens  pluck  likewise, 

And  three  times  round  the  fountain  go, 
She    straight    forgets    her    tears  and 
sighs." 

Hearken  to  my  tal«  of  woe  ! 


Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall ! 

Ellen  sees  her  face  the  rim 
Twice  and  thrice,  and  that  is  all — 

Fount  and  hill  and  maiden  swim 

All  together  melting  dim  ! 
"  Una  !  Una  !"  thou  mayst  call, 

Sister  sad  !  but  lith  or  limb 
(Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall !) 

Never  again  of  Una  baun, 
Where  now  she  walks  in  dreamy  hall, 

Shall  eye  of  mortal  look  upon  ! 

Oh !   can  it  be  the  guard  was  gone, 
That  better  guard  than  shield  or  wall  ? 

Who  knows  on  earth    save   Jurlagh 

Daune  ? 
(Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall  !) 

Behold  the  banks  are  green  and  bare ; 
No  pit  is  here^vherein  to  fall : 

Aye — at  the  fount  you  well  may  stare  j 

But  nought  save  pebbles  smooth  is  there, 
And  small  straws  twirling  one  and  all : 
Hie  thee  home,  and  be  thy  pray'r, 
Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall ! 


668 


MotherweWs  Poems. 


[April, 


MOTHERWELL'S  POEMS.* 


TRUE  poetry  never  palls,  any  more 
than  true  beauty  on  the  face  of  na- 
ture or  of  woman.  So  far  from 
breeding  contempt,  familiarity  breeds 
admiration  and  love.  We  like — we 
delight — we  adore.  In  that  last  stage 
of  emotion,  where  we  "  set  up  our 
rest,"  in  true  poetry  we  instinct- 
ively see  a  thousand  charms  that  were 
hidden  under  the  veil  of  sense  at  the 
commencement,  and  during  much  of 
the  progress  of  our  blessed  journey 
towards  the  shrine  that  stands  within 
"  the  inner  circle  of  the  inspired 
wood."  The  atmosphere  grows 
rarer — the  light  more  essential — the 
flowers  exhale  a  sweeter  odour—- 
and every  breath  is  music  in  that 
region,  which  is  not  of  "  this  noisy 
world,  but  silent  and  divine." 

We  mean  simply  to  say,  that 
though  there  be  love  at  first  hearing, 
of  a  fine  poem,  just  as  there  is  love 
at  first  sight,  of  a  fine  female,  "  in- 
crease of  appetite  grows  with  what 
it  feeds  on,"  and  for  both  there  is 
not  only  enduring  but  still  increasing 
affection.  Passion,  indeed,  is  sub- 
dued by  perpetual  and  peaceful  pos- 
session and  perusal;  but  it  is  suc- 
ceeded by  a  temperate  vital  glow, 
that  invigorates  the  heart  beating 
equably  and  boldly  in  attachment. 

We  fear  we  have  not  said  our  say 
so  simply  as  we  wished;  but  we 
mean  no  more  than  this,  that  the  bet- 
ter you  know  true  poetry,  the  better 
you  love  it,  and  then  best  of  all, 
when  you  have  gotten  it  by  heart. 
Then  it  becomes  part  and  parcel  of 
yourself — and  shutting  your  eyes  and 
ears  to  all  outward  sights  and  sounds, 
you  see  and  hear  but  the  sunniest 
and  the  sweetest  inward  ones,  glad 
to  feel  that  they  all  belong  to  your 
own  Being.  Thus  may  your  spirit 
be  independent  of  mere  material 
substance,  and  rejoice,  in  spite  of 
chance,  fortune,  and  even  fate,  in  its 
own  visionary,  but  imperturbable 
and  indestructible  world. 

Even  yet,  not  so  simple  have  we 
been,  we  fear,  as  we  have  been  de- 
siring to  be ;  for  really  we  have  had 


no  intention  to  utter  any  more  re- 
condite truth  than  this,  that  people 
need  no  more  get  weary  or  tired 
of  poetry,  than  of  the  blue  heaven 
and  the  green  earth.  Why  should 
they  not  continue — all  three — always 
to  affect  us— as  our  Creator  designed 
they  should — with  a  thoughtful  joy  ? 
What  means  Wordsworth  by  saying 
in  his  address  to  Duty, 

"  Thou   dost  preserve    the   stars  from 

wrong, 
And  the  Eternal  Heavens  through  Thee 

are  fresh  and  strong  ?" 

His  meanings  may  be  many  and 
mysterious,as  they  often  are  with  him 
in  far  humbler  speech ;  but  one  of 
them  we  believe  is — that  all  the  on- 
goings of  Nature  seem  what  they  are 
— to  good  men — right.  To  their 
eyes  the  stars  keep  their  courses  for 
ever — fresh  and  strong  now  are  the 
heavens,  as  on  the  first  morn  in  Pa- 
radise. 

Scarcely  even  now  are  we  so 
simple  as  we  should  be ;  yet  we  feel 
that  you  understand  us.  Poetry  can 
never  lose  its  influence,  till  the  sense 
of  beauty,  greatness,  and  power,  by 
our  own  voluntary  course  of  adverse 
thought,  feeling,  or  action,  be  dulled, 
deadened,  or  destroyed  within  us. 
Then  'tis  "  as  a  picture  to  a  blind 
man's  eyes."  Nay,  then  it  fares  with 
us  far  worse.  For  in  our  mental—- 
our spiritual  darkness — we  think  has 
not  only  disappeared  but  died  all 
poetry  with 

"  Its  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
And  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky." 

They  who  complain  of  the  dearth 
of  genius,  ought  then  rather  to 
mourn  over  the  decay  or  extinction 
of  their  own  spiritual  perceptions. 
In  our  land  there  is  no  such  dearth. 
We  live,  and  breathe,  and  have  our 
being  in  the  midst  of  its  creations. 
Imagine  one  day  to  be  centuries 
long— from  morn  to  meridian— and 
no  thoughts  in  your  mind  of  night. 
Imagine  the  genius  of  a  people  that 
one  day — its  powers  and  faculties 


«  David  Robertson,  Glasgow ;  Oliver  and  Boyd,  Edinburgh ;  Longman  and  Co., 
London.  1833. 


1833.] 


MotherwelFs  Poems. 


669 


tl.e  spirits  of  the  elements.  What 
fluctuations  of 

"  Beautiful  uncertain  weather, 

When  gloom  and  glow  meet  together !" 

Dark  and  bright  hours,  that  is,  years, 
alternating !  Winter,  that  looks  as  if 
it  never  would  dissolve ;  when,  lo  ! 
n  ore  sudden  thanin  Greenland,  from 
snow  the  birth  of  Spring ! 

Genius  never  dies  till  men  are 
slaves.  But  we  are  free.  Look  over 
the  world  of  human  life,  and  say  you 
not  that  we  are  the  "  chartered  liber- 
tines" that  rule  even  the  air?  We 
S'md  our  souls,  like  our  ships,  over 
the  seas,  to  the  uttermost  ends  of 
the  earth,  and  there  are  none  to  say 
us — nay.  Or  away  they  waft  them- 
selves on  wings  unshorn  towards  the 
s  iin  like  young  eagles  looking  from 
tieir  eyries  to  assay  their  pinions 
i.'i  the  light,  or  the  old  birds  of  Jove 
fearless  in  their  might,  even  when 
storm-driven  to  distant  isles,  where 
under  the  lee  of  cliffs  they  alight  to 
p  rey  !  Liberty  of  speech  is  good — 
1  berty  of  action  better — but  liberty 
c  f  thought  best  of  all — for  the  worst 
of  all  shackles  are  those  riveted  into 
the  soul. 

The  light  of  poetry  is  now  over- 
f  owing  the  land.  It  gives  "  its  beau- 
ty to  the  grass,  its  glory  to  the 
flower."  But  if  your  eyes  are  dim,  so 
will  seem  all  they  look  upon — couch 
but  the  cataract,  and  again  dark  are 
you  "  with  excessive  bright."  Che- 
i  ish  the  apple  of  your  eye,  as  if  it 
were  the  core  of  your  heart,  and  the 
core  of  your  heart  as  if  it  were  the 
{vpple  of  your  eye,  and  the  spirit 
that  is  within  you  as  if  it  were  a  dearer 
and  a  holier  thing  than  both,  and 
never  will  you  mourn  over  the  death 
or  dearth  of  poetry — nor  yet  its  de- 
parture; for  should  you  think  you 
hear  at  night  the  sugh  of  flying-away 
angelic  wings,  fear  not  that  they  are 
but  in  wide  circle  sweeping  the  starry 
iky,  and  ere  the  moon  drop  behind 
:he  hill,  returning  will  you  hear  them 
through  purest  ether,winno  wing  their 
,vay  over  the  yellow  umbrage  of  the 
Did  woods ! 

Have  we  not  living  poets  of  inap- 
preciable worth  ?  Have  you  forgotten 
—ere  they  have  become  dust — the 
mighty  dead  ? 

So  much  for  an  introduction  to  our 
article,  Nor  is  it  inappropriate.  For 
nil  poets  belong  to  one  brotherhood, 


Looking  abroad,  we  see  many  of  the 
brethren.  We  know  them  by  "  their 
flashing  eyes;"  or  by  their  eyes 
composed  of  quiet  light,  deep  as 
wells.  We  know  them  by  their  fore- 
heads— "  the  dome  of  thought,  the 
palace  of  the  soul."  We  know  them 
by  their  lips,  round  which  gathers 
like  bees  a  swarm  of  murmuring  fan- 
cies. Kenspeckle  are  all  the  sons 
of  genius. 

We  called  not  long  ago  on  Alfred 
Tennyson.  We  singled  him  out  to 
do  him  honour.  And  thousands  on 
thousands  delighted  in  some  of  his 
strains,  who  might,  but  for  us,  never 
have  heard  their  music.  Maga  loves 
to  scatter  wide  over  the  world  the 
flowers  of  poetry — the  pearls  and  the 
diamonds.  Happier  is  she  in  that 
vocation,  than  in  heaping  up  for  her 
husband  gold,  yea,  much  fine  gold. 
Thus  enricheth  she  many,  without 
making  one  "  poor  indeed ;" 

"  Flowers  laugh  before  her  in  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  her  footing  treads  j" 

and  thus  her  breath  is  ever  as  the 
breath  of  violets,  and  hers  a  perpe- 
tual spring.  Strong  sunlight  she  sees 
falling  now  on  another  worshipper 
of  Nature,  and  she  beckons  him  to 
stand  forward, 

"  And,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
He  hears  her  breathe  his  name." 

A  good  name  it  is,  in  itself,  and  en- 
nobled by  the  wearer — it  speaks  of  a 
source  of  clear  thoughts,  and  pure 
feelings,  and  fine  fancies-— of  a  pe- 
rennial spring — parent  of  many  lucid 
rills  that  sparkle  their  way  in  "  green 
radiance"  along  the  gladed  woods. 
MOTHERWELL  is  the  name  —  and  it 
will  continue  to  "  shine  well  where  it 
stands"  at  the  place  assigned  it  by 
nature  on  the  roll  of  the  poets  of 
Scotland. 

Mr  Motherwell  has  for  some  years 
been  winning  his  way  to  public  fa- 
vour and  to  fame.  He  has  hitherto 
been  satisfied  to  shew  himself  in  mis- 
cellanies ;  and  in  several  of  the  An- 
nuals his  "fulgent  head  star-bright 
appeared."  It  has  been  fortunate  with 
him  that  he  belongs  to  no  coterie. 
He  is  a  provincial,  yet  has  not  been 
spoiled  by  praise.  The  adulation  of 
a  set  has  not  touched  or  turned  his 
brain,  as  would  seem,  from  some  late 
manifestations,  to  be  unhappily  the 
case  with  Alfred  Tennyson,  though 


G70 


MotUerweW s  Poems. 


[April, 


he  be  a  metropolitan  poet,  the  new 
star,  no  less,  of  Little  Britain.  Alfred 
says  in  an  epigram,  with  no  more  tail 
than  an  ape,  no  more  sting  than  a 
drone,  that  he  can  pardon  our  blame, 
but  not  our  praise.  'Twould  have 
been  more  magnanimous  to  swallow 
both  and  be  thankful  ,•  for  if  he  ex- 
clude from  the  circle  of  privileged 
admirers,  all  equally  unworthy  with 
ourselves  to  worship  his  rising  ge- 
nius, his  audience,  however  "fit," 
will  be  found  "  fe  w ;"  and  like  a  caged 
lark  hung  out  on  a  tree  in  a  city- 
court  or  churchyard,  he  will  be  left 
to  himself  to  "pipe  solitary  anguish." 
Alfred  is  a  gentleman ;  but  he  forgot 
what  was  due  to  himself  in  that  cha- 
racter, when  he  said  untruly  that 
he  could  not  forgive  Maga's  praise, 
on  hearing  from  whom  it  came — for 
he  must  remember  the  inscription  on 
a  certain  presentation  copy.  William 
Motherwell,  a  stronger-minded  man 
by  far  and  away  than  Alfred  Tenny- 
son, and  of  equal  genius,  will  esti- 
mate our  praise  at  its  real  value, 
gladdened  but  not  unduly  elated  by 
it,  knowing,  as  all  who  know  us  must 
do,  that  we  scorn  all  airs  of  patron- 
age, and  that  our  praise  always  flows 
freely  from  the  gushing  fountain  of 
admiration  and  love. 

We  have  said  that  he  is  a  poet. 
All  his  perceptions  are  clear,  for  all 
his  senses  are  sound ;  he  has  fine  and 
strong  sensibilities,  and  a  powerful 
intellect.  He  has  been  led  by  the 
natural  bent  of  his  genius  to  the  old 
haunts  of  inspiration,  the  woods  and 
glens  of  his  native  country,  and  his 
ears  delight  to  drink  the  music  of 
her  old  songs.  Many  a  beautiful 
ballad  has  blended  its  pensive  and 
plaintive  pathos  with  his  day-dreams ; 
and  while  reading  some  of  his  hap- 
piest effusions,  we  feel, 

"  The  ancient  spirit  is  not  dead, 

Old  times,  we  say,  are  breathing  there." 

His  style  is  simple,  but  in  his  ten- 
derest  movements,  masculine;  he 
strikes  a  few  bold  knocks  at  the  door 
of  the  heart,  which  is  instantly  open- 
ed by  the  master  or  mistress  of  the 
house,  or  by  son  or  daughter,  and 
the  welcome  visitor  at  once  becomes 
one  of  the  family.- 

We  shall  shew  what  Motherwell 
can  do  in  three  departments  of  poe- 
try— in  spirit- stirring  war  song;— 
in  the  pathetic  strain  that  breathes 


some  elementary  feeiing,  such  as 
simple  human  grief,  pity,  or  love  ;— • 
in  the  description  of  Nature,  where 
every  image  has  its  emotion,  and  we 
reap 

"  The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  its  own  heart." 

There  are  three  fine  poems  be- 
longing to  the  first  of  these  classes 
—The  Flag  of  Sigurd,  The  Wooing 
Song  of  Jaii  Egill  Skallagrim,  and 
The  Sword  Chant  of  Thorstein 
Raudi, — which  are  intended — says 
our  Scald  (in  his  affectionate  dedi- 
cation  to  his  ingenious  friend  Kenne- 
dy, the  author  of  that  elegant  poem, 
"  The  Arrow  and  the  Rose,")  "  to 
be  a  faint  [read  vivid]  shadowing 
forth  of  something  like  the  form 
and  spirit  of  Norse  poetry,  but  all 
that  is  historical  about  them  is 
contained  in  the  proper  names. 
The  first,  *  Sigurd's  Battle  Flag,' 
does  not  follow  the  story  as  given  in 
the  Northern  Sagas,  but  only  adopts 
the  incident  of  the  Magic  Standard, 
which  carried  victory  to  the  party 
by  whom  it  was  displayed,but  certain 
death  to  its  bearer.  *  Jarl  Egill 
Skallagrim's  Wooing  Song/  is  en- 
tirely a  creation,  and  nothing  of  it  is 
purely  historical,  save  the  preser- 
ving of  the  name  of  that  warrior 
and  Scald.  From  the  memorials, 
however,  he  has  left  us  of  himself, 
I  think  he  could  not  well  have 
wooed  in  a  different  fashion  from  that 
which  I  have  chosen  to  describe.  As 
for  *  Thorstein  Raudi,'  or  the  Red, 
that  is  a  name  which  occurs  in 
Northern  history ;  but,  as  may  well 
be  supposed,  he  never  said  so  much 
in  all  his  life  about  his  sword  or  him- 
self, as  I  have  taken  the  fancy  of 
putting  into  his  mouth.  The  allusions 
made  to  Northern  Mythology  are,  or 
*  should  be,  familiar  to  almost  every 
one." 

We  shall  quote  two  of  those  trum- 
pet-tongued,  drum-breasted  poems. 
They  "  raise  our  corruption"  in  these 
"  piping  times  of  peace."  Our  Scald, 
while  conceiving  them,  must  have 
been  "an  ugly  customer."  They  shew 
the  bone  and  muscle  of  the  old  Norse- 
men. They  breathe  and  burn  with 
that  lust  of  fight,  which  blended  with 
all  other  fierce  passions  in  the  hearts 
of  those  Sea-kings,  who  fiercely 
ploughed  the  bloody  plains  as  their 
ships  the  foaming  seas,  The  imagery  is 


1333.] 


Motherw?Ws  Poems. 


not  various;  'tis  the  poetry  of  passion 
rather  than  of  imagination;  and  pas- 
sion dwells  on  what  it  heaps  up, 
rejoicing  as  it  accumulates,  even  as 
in  battle  the  hero  piles  up  slaughter, 
but  notes  them  not  curiously,  though 
eyeing  grim  all  the  ghastly  wounds. 
On  the  voyage,  we  hear  the  flap- 
ping of  canvass — the  straining  of 
cordage — the  creaking  of  bulkheads 
— the  quivering  of  planks  —  the 
groaning  of  knee-timbers — 

"  The  shouting  and  the  jolly  cheers, 
The  bustle  of  the  mariners, 
In  stillness  and  in  storm." 

And  high  overhead,  like  a  lurid  me- 
teor that  will  not  forsake  the  trou- 
bled atmosphere  in  which  the  ship 
rejoices,  "  Sigurd's  Battle  Flag," 
ti  aging  the  black  aspect  of  the  sea 
with  blood. 

THE  BATTLE-FLAG  OF   SIGURD. 

The  eagle  hearts  of  all  the  North 

Have  left  their  stormy  strand  ; 

The  warriors  of  the  world  are  forth 

To  choose  another  land! 

Again,  their  long  keels  sheer  the 
wave, 

Their  broad  sheets  court  the  breeze ; 

Again,  the  reckless  and  the  brave, 

Ride  lords  of  weltering  seas. 

Nor  swifter  from  the  well-bent  bow 

Can  feathered  shaft  be  sped, 

Than  o'er  the  ocean's  flood  of  snow 

Their  snoring  galleys  tread. 

Then  lift  the  can  to  bearded  lip, 

And  smite  each  sounding  shield, 

Wassaile  !  to  every  dark-ribbed  ship, 

To  every  battle-field! 
Sj  proudly  the  Scalds  raise  their  voices 

of  triumph, 

As  the  Northmen  ride  over  the  broad- 
bosom'd  billow. 

Aloft,  Sigurdir's  battle-flag 

Streams  onward  to  the  land, 

Well  may  the  taint  of  slaughter  lag 

On  yonder  glorious  strand. 

The  waters  of  the  mighty  deep,  4  sW 

The  wild  birds  of  the  sky, 

Hear  it  like  vengeance  shoreward 

sweep, 

Where  moody  men  must  die. 
The  waves  wax  wroth  beneath  our 

keel— 

The  clouds  above  us  lower, 
Theykno»v  the  battle-sign,  and  feel 
All  its  resistless  power  ! 
Who  now  uprears  Sigurdir's  flag, 
Nor  shuns  an  early  tomb? 
Who  shoreward  through  the  swelling 

surge, 


Shall  bear  the  scroll  of  doom  ? 
So  shout  the  Scalds,  as  the  long  ships 

are  nearing 
The  low-lying  shores  of  a  beautiful  land. 

Silent  the  Self-devoted  stood 

Beside  the  massive  tree ; 

His  image  mirror'd  in  the  flood 

Was  terrible  to  see  ! 

As  leaning  on  his  gleaming  axe, 

And  gazing  on  the  wave, 

His  fearless  soul  was  churning  up 

The  death-rune  of  the  brave. 

Upheaving  then  his  giant  form 

Upon  the  brown  bark's  prow, 

And  tossing  back  the  yellow  storm 

Of  hair  from  his  broad  brow ; 

The  lips  of  song  burst  open,  and 

The  words  of  fire  rushed  out, 

And  thundering  through  that  martial 

crew 

Pealed  Harald's  battle  shout  ;— 
It  is  Harald  the  Dauntless  that  lifteth  his 

great  voice, 

As  the  Northmen  roll  on  with  the  Doom- 
written  banner. 

"  I  bear  Sigurdir's  battle-flag 

Through  sunshine,  or  through  gloom  ; 

Through    swelling    surge    on   bloody 
strand 

I  plant  the  scroll  of  doom  ! 

On  Scandia's  lonest,  bleakest  waste, 

Beneath  a  starless  sky, 

The   Shadowy   Three    like  meteors 
passed, 

And  bad  young  Harald  die  ;— 

They  sang  the  war-deeds  of  his  sires, 

And  pointed  to  their  tomb  ; 

They  told  him  that  this  glory-flag 

Was  his  by  right  of  doom. 

Since  then,  where  hath  young  Harald 
been, 

But  where  Jarl's  son  should  be  ? 

'Mid  war  and  waves— the  combat  keen 

That  raged  on  land  or  sea." 
So  sings  the  fierce  Harald,  the  thirster  for 

glory, 

As  his  hand  bears  aloft  the  dark  death- 
laden  banner.  .  .  „ , 

"  Mine  own  death's  in  this  clenched 

hand! 

I  know  the  noble  trust ; 
These  limbs   must  rot  on  yonder 

strand—- 
These lips  must  lick  its  dust; 
But  shall  this  dusky  standard  quail 
In  the  red  slaughter  day, 
Or  shall  this  heart  its  purpose  fail— 
This  arm  forget  to  slay  ? 
I  trample  down  such  idle  doubt ; 
Harald's  high  blood  hath  sprung 
From  sires  whose  hands  in  martial  bout 
Have  ne'er  b'":?  -their  tongue ; 


672 


MotherweWs  Poems. 


[April, 


Nor  keener  from  their  castled  rock 
Rush  eagles  on  their  prey, 
Than,  panting  for  the  battle-shock, 
Young  Harald  leads  the  way." 
It  is  thus  that  tall  Harald,  in  terrible 

beauty, ' 

Pours  forth  his  big  soul  to  the  joyaunce 
of  heroes. 

"  The    ship-borne    warriors    of   the 

North, 

The  sons  of  Woden's  race, 
To  battle  as  to  feast  go  forth, 
With  stern,  and  changeless  face ; 
And  I  the  last  of  a  great  line — 
The  Self-devoted,  long 
To  lift  on  high  the  Runic  sign 
Which  gives  my  name  to  song. 
In  battle-field  young  Harald  falls 
Amid  a  slaughtered  foe, 
But  backward  never  bears  this  flag, 
While  streams  to  ocean  flow;— 
On,  on  above  the  crowded  dead 
This  Runic  scroll  shall  flare, 
And  round  it  shall  the  lightnings 

spread, 
From  swords  that  never  spare." 

So  rush  the  hero- words  from  the  Death- 
doomed  one, 

While  Scalds  harp  aloud  the  renown  of 
his  fathers. 

"  Flag !  from  your  folds,  and  fiercely 
wake 

War-music  on  the  wind, 

Lest  tenderest  thoughts  should  rise  to 
shake 

The  sternness  of  my  mind ; 

Brynhilda,  maiden  meek  and  fair, 

Pale  watcher  by  the  sea, 

I  hear  thy  wail  ings  on  the  air, 

Thy  heart's  dirge  sung  for  me ; — 

In  vain  thy  milk-white  hands  are  wrung 

Above  the  salt  sea  foam  ; 

The  wave  that  bears  me  from  thy  bower, 

Shall  never  bear  me  home ; 

Brynhilda !  seek  another  leve, 

But  ne'er  wed  one  like  me, — 

Who  death-foredoomed  from  above, 

Joys  in  his  destiny." 
Thus  mourned  young  Haraldas  he  thought 

on  Brynhilda, 

While  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  which 
glittered,  but  fell  not. 

"  On  sweeps  Sigurdir's  battle-flag, 

The  scourge  of  far  frem  sfibre  ; 

It  dashes  through  the  seething  foam, 

But  I  return  no  more! 

Wedded  unto  a  fatal  bride — 

Boune  for  a  bloody  bed — 

And  battling  for  her,  side  by  side, 

Young  Harald 's  do9m  is  sped  ! 


In  starkest  fight,  where  kemp  on  kemp 

Reel  headlong  to  the  grave, 

There  Harald's  axe   shall  ponderous 

ring, 

There  Sigurd's  flag  shall  wave ; — 
Yes,  underneath  this  standard  tall, 
Beside  this  fateful  scroll, 
Down  shall  the  tower-like  prison  fall 
Of  Harald's  haughty  soul." 
So  sings  the  Death-seeker,  while  nearer 

and  nearer 
The  fleet  of  the  Northmen  bears  down  to 

the  shore. 

"  Green  lie   those    thickly   timbered 

shores 

Fair  sloping  to  the  sea ; 
They're  cumbered   with  the  harvest 

stores 

That  wave  but  for  the  free; 
Our  sickle  is  the  gleaming  sword, 
Our  garner  the  broad  shield- 
Let  peasants  sow,  but  still  he's  lord 
Who's  master  of  the  field ; 
Let  them  come  on,  the  bastard- born, 
Each  soil-stain'd  churle ! — alack  ! 
What  gain  they  but  a  splitten  skull, 
A  sod  for  their  base  back? 
They  sow  for  us  these  goodly  lands, 
We  reap  them  in  our  might, 
Scorning  all  title  but  the  brands 
That  triumph  in  the  fight." 
It  was  thus  the  land-winners  of  old  gained 

their  glory, 
And  grey  stones  voiced  their  praise  in  the 

bays  of  far  isles. 

"  The  rivers  of  yon  island  low, 

Gla'nce  redly  in  the  sun, 

But  ruddier  still  they're  doom'd   to 

glow, 

And  deeper  shall  they  run  ; 
The  torrent  of  proud  life  shall  swell 
Each  river  to  the  brim, 
And  in  that  spate  of  blood,  how  well 
The  headless  corpse  will  swim  ! 
The  smoke  of  many  a  shepherd's  cot 
Curls  from  each  peopled  glen  ; 
And,  hark !  the  song  of  maidens  mild, 
The  shout  of  joyous  men  ! 
But  one  may  hew  the  oaken  tree, 
The  other  shape  the  shroud : 
As  the  LANDEYDA  o'er  the  sea 
Sweeps  like  a  tempest  cloud  !" 
So  shouteth  fierce  Harald — so  echo  the 

Northmen, 
As  shoreward  their  ships  like  mad  steeds 

are  careering. 

"  Sigurdir's  battle-flag  is  spread 
Abroad  to  the  blue  sky, 
And  spectral  visions  of  the  dead 
Are  trooping  grimly  by ; 


Motherwdfs  Poems. 


673 


The  spirit  heralds  rush  before 

Harald's  destroying  brand, 

They  hover  o'er  yon  fated  shore 

And  death-devoted  band. 

Marshal,  stout  Jarls,  your  battle  fast ! 

And  fire  each  beacon  height, 

Our  galleys  anchor  in  the  sound, 

Our  banner  heaves  in  sight! 

And  through   the   surge   and  arrowy 

shower 

That  rains  on  this  broad  shield, 
Harald  uplifts  the  sign  of  power 
Which  rules  the  battle-field  !" 

So  cries  the  Death-doomed  on  the  red 
strand  of  slaughter, 

While  the  helmets  of  heroes  like  anvils 
are  ringing. 

On  rolled  the  Northmen's  war,  above 

The  Raven  Standard  flew, 

Nor  tide  rior  tempest  ever  strove 

With  vengeance  half  so  true. 

'Tis  Harald — 'tis  the  Sire-bereaved — 

Who  goads  the  dread  career, 

And  high  amid  the  flashing  storm 

The  flag  of  Doom  doth  rear. 

"  On,  on,"  the  tall  Death-seeker  cries, 

"  These  earth-worms  soil  our  heel, 

Their  spear-points  crash  like  crisping 

ice, 

On  ribs  of  stubborn  steel !" 
Hurra!  hurra!  their  whirlwinds  sweep, 
And  Harald's  fate  is  sped; 
Bear  on  the  flag — he  goes  to  sleep 
With  the  life-scorning  dead. 
Thus  fell  the  young  Harald,  as  of  old  fell 

his  sires, 
And  the  bright  hall  of  heroes  bade  hail  to 

his  spirit ! 

That— we  say— is  first-rate  fight- 
ing. Cutting  and  thrusting — stab- 
bing and  splitting  —  hewing  and 
cleaving — and  all  in  a  spirit  of  bois- 
terous revelry,  love  of  fame  free- 
dom and  females,  pride  of  land  the 
birth-place,  and  of  sea  the  cradle  of 
heroes,  and  to  make  its  passion 
thick  and  "  slab"  as  it  overboils,  the 
lust  of  blood. 

Now  for  the  "  Sword  Song,"  al- 
ready not  a  little  famous — for  we 
have  heard  it  chanted  by  one  who 
troubles  not  his  head  about  poetry, 
but  who  clove  skull-cap  and  skull  of 
more  than  one  cuirassier  at  Water- 
loo. 

THE  SWORD  CHANT  OF  THOR  STEIN  RAUDI. 

'Tis  not  the  grey  hawk's  flight 

O'er  mountain  and  mere ; 
'Tis  not  the  fleet  hound's  course 

Tracking  the  deer ; 
'Tis  not  the  light  hoof  print 


Of  black  steed  or  grey, 
Though  sweltering  it  gallop 

A  long  summer's  day  ; 
Which  mete  forth  the  lordships 

I  challenge  as  mine  ; 
Ha  !  ha !   'tis  the  good  brand 
I  clutch  in  my  strong  hand, 
That  can  their  broad  marches 

And  numbers  define. 
LAND  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

Dull  builders  of  houses, 

Base  tillers  of  earth, 
Gaping,  ask  me  what  lordships 

I  own'd  at  my  birth  ; 
But  the  pale  fools  wax  mute 

When  I  point  with  my  sword 
East,  west,  north,  and  south, 

Shouting,  "  There  am  I  Lord!" 
Wold  and  waste,  town  and  tower, 

Hill,  valley,  and  stream, 
Trembling,  bow  to  my  sway 
In  the  fierce  battle  fray, 
When  the  star  that  rules  Fate,  is 

This  falchion's  red  gleam. 
MIGHT  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

I've  heard  great  harps  sounding, 

In  brave  bower  and  hall, 
I've  drank  the  sweet  music 

That  bright  lips  let  fall, 
I've  hunted  in  greenwood, 

And  heard  small  birds  sing ; 
But  away  with  this  idle 

And  cold  jargoning  ; 
The  music  I  love,  is 

The  shout  of  the  brave, 
The  yell  of  the  dying, 
The  scream  of  the  flying, 
When  this  arm  wield's  Death's  sickle, 

And  garners  the  grave. 
JOY  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

Far  isles  of  the  ocean 

Thy  lightning  have  known, 
And  wide  o'er  the  main  land 

Thy  honors  have  shone. 
Great  sword  of  my  father, 

Stern  joy  of  his  hand, 
Thou  hast  carved  his  name  deep  on 

The  stranger's  red  strand, 
And  won  him  the  glory 

Of  undying  song. 
Keen  cleaver  of  gay  crests, 
Sharp  piercer  of  broad  breasts, 
Grim  slayer  of  heroes, 

And  courage  of  the  strong. 
FAME  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

In  a  love  more  abiding 

Than  that  the  heart  knows, 

For  maiden  more  lovely 
Than  summer's  first  rose, 

My  heart's  kbit  to  thine, 
And  lives  but  for  thee  j 


674 

In  dreamings  of  gladness, 

Thou'rt  dancing  with  me, 
Brave  measures  of  madness 

In  some  battle-field, 
Where  armour  is  ringing, 
And  noble  blood  springing, 
And  cloven,  yawn  helmet, 

Stout  hauberk  and  shield. 
0    DEATH  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

The  smile  of  a  maiden's  eye 

Soon  may  depart; 
And  light  is  the  faith  of 

Fair  woman's  heart ; 
Changeful  as  light  clouds, 

And  wayward  as  wind, 
Be  the  passions  that  govern 

Weak  woman's  mind. 
But  thy  metal's  as  true 

As  its  polish  is  bright ; 
When  ills  wax  in  number, 
Thy  love  will  not  slumber, 
But,  starlike,  burns  fiercer, 

The  darker  the  night. 
HEART  GLADENER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

My  kindred  have  perishM 

By  war  or  by  wave- 
Now,  childless  and  sireless, 

I  long  for  the  grave. 
When  the  path  of  our  glory 

Is  shadow'd  in  death, 
With  me  thou  wift  slumber 
Below  the  brown  heath ; 
Thou  wilt  rest  on  my  bosom 

And  with  it  decay : 

While  harps  shall  be  ringing, 
And  Scalds  shall  be  singing 
The  deeds  we  have  done  in 

Our  old  fearless  day. 
SONG  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 
The  transition  is  pleasant  from 
storm  to  calm— so  turn  we  now  to 
the  Pathetic— another  kind  of  poetry 
m  which  Motherwell  excels.  Yea 
—excels.  Wordsworth  speaks  of 
"  old  songs  that  are  the  music  of  the 
heart,  and  they  overflow  Scotland. 
Some  are  mirthful— but  more  are 
melancholy— and  many  so  sad- 
airs  and  all— that  a  sobbing  will  at 
times  interrupt  the  voice  of  the 
maiden  at  her  wheel,  singing  to  her- 

"  Of  sorrows  suffer'd  long  ago." 
Motherwell  has  imbibed  the  very 
soul  of  such  strains  as  these-nor  is 
he  here  inferior— we  say  it  advised- 
ly--to  Burns.  Has  either  the  Shep- 
herd or  Allan  Cuninghame,  in  their 
happiest  veins,  surpaavtd  Mother- 
well  in  his  "  Jeanie  Morrison  ?" 


MothenvdV s  Poems. 


[April, 


JEANN1E  MORRISON. 
I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way: 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day  ! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltan«  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeannie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears  : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part; 
Sweet  time— sad  time  !  twa  bairns  at 
scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear  ; 
And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were 
shed, 

Remember'd  evermair. 


I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek   touchin'   cheek,   loof  lock'd 
loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think  ? 
When  baith  bent  doun   ower  ae  braid 

™  -,  page' 

Wi  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 


in 


Oh,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 
How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 


And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 
(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon), 

When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes— 
The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about. 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  scule-lime  and  o'  thee. 
Oh,  mornin'  life  !  oh,  mornin'  luve  ! 

Oh  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

-Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang  ! 

Oh  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  water's  croon  ? 


1833.] 

The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads 
The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 

And  in  the  gloamin  o'  the  wood, 
The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knoweabune  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek, 
Uke  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yetnane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gush'd  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

]  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi*  earliest  thochts, 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 
Oh  !  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ; 
Oh  !  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne  ? 

I've  wander'd  east,  I've  wander'd  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wand'rings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart, 

Still  travels  on  its  way ; 
And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue  ; 
I5ut  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  die, 
])id  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dream'd 

O'  bygane  days  and  me  !" 

Nor  are  the  lines  which  follow  less 
touching;  indeed  their  sadness  is 
more  profound — and  it  would  be 
almost  painful,  but  for  the  exqui- 
site simplicity  of  the  language,  in 
which  there  is  a  charm  that  softens  * 
the  "  pathos  too  severe."  'Tis  an 
old  story ; 

"  Familiar  matter  of  to-day, 
Which  has  been  and  will  be  again; 

tut  never  before  told  more  affecting- 
ly,  or  so  as  to  waken  more  overflow- 
ingly  from  their  deepest  fount  all  our 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCVII. 


MotherwelVs  Poems. 


675 


tenderest  human  sympathies  for  the 
Christian  sufferer.  Love  stronger  than 
life,  and  unchanged  while  life  is  dimly 
fading  away,  possesses  the  bosom  of 
the  poor  forgiving  girl,  along  with  pity 
for  his  sake  almost  overcoming  sorrow 
for  her  own,  with  keen  self-reproach 
and  humble  penitence  for  the  guilt 
into  which  they  two  had  been  be- 
trayed— once  too  happy  in  their  in- 
nocence. 'Tis  not  the  voice  of  com- 
plaint but  of  contrition  ;  and  through 
her  trouble  there  are  glimpses  of 
peace.  In  that  anguish  we  hear  the 
breathings  of  a  pure  spirit — pure 
though  frail — and  delicate  though 
fallen— and  feel  in  such  ruin  how- 
fatal  indeed  is  sin.  It  is  utterly 
mournful. 

MY  HEID  IS  LIKE  TO  REND,  WILLIE. 
My  iieid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie, 

My  heart  is  like  to  break — 
I'm  wearin'  aff  my  feet,  Willie, 

I'm  dyin'  for  your  sake  ! 
Oh  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

Your  hand  on  my  briest-bane— 
Oh  say  ye'll  think  on  me,  Willie, 

When  I  am  deid  and  gane  ! 

It's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie, 

Sair  grief  maun  ha'e  its  will — 
But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briesf, 

To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 
Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair, 
And  look  into  the  face,  Willie, 

I  never  sail  see  mair  ! 

I'm  sittin'  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

For  the  last  time  in  my  life — 
A  puir  heart-broken  thing,  Willie, 

A  mither,  yet  nae  wife. 
Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart, 

And  press  it  mair  and  mair — 
Or  it  will  burst  the  silken  twine, 

Sae  strang  is  its  despair ! 

Oh  wae's  me  for  the  hour,  Willie, 

When  we  thegither  met — 
Oh  wae's  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set ! 
Oh  wae's  me  for  the  loanin'  green 

Where  we  were  wont  to  gae — 
And  wae's  me  for  the  destinie, 

That  gart  me  luve  thee  sae  ! 

Oh  !  dinna  mind  my  words,  Willie, 

I  dovvna  seek  to  blame — 
But  oh  !  it's  hard  to  live,  Willie, 

And  dree  a  warld's  shame ! 
Het  tears  are  hailin'  ower  your  cheek, 

And  hailin'  ower  your  chin; 
Why  weep  ye  sae  for  worthlessness, 

For  sorrow  and  for  sin  ? 
2x 


676 

I'm  weary  o*  this  wafld,  Willie, 

And  sick  wi'  a'  I  see — 
I  canna  live  as  I  ha'e  lived, 

Or  be  as  I  should  be. 
But  fauld  unto  your  heart,  Willie, 

The  heart  that  still  is  thine— 
And  kiss  ance  mair  the   white,  white 
cheek, 

Ye  said  was  red  langsyne. 

A  stoun'  gaes  through  my  held,  Willie, 

A  sair  stoun'  through  my  heart — 
Oh  !  baud  me  up,  and  let  me  kiss 

Thy  brow  ere  we  twa  pairt. 
Anither,  and  anither  yet ! — 

How  fast  my  life-strings  break  ! — 
Fareweel !  fareweel !  through  yon  kirk- 
yaird 

Step  lichtly  for  my  sake  ! 

The  lav'rock  in  the  lift,  Willie, 

That  lilts  far  ower  our  heid, 
Will  sing  the  morn  as  merrilie 

Abune  the  clay-cauld  deid  ; 
And  this  green  turf  we're  sittin'  on, 

'Wi'  dew-draps  shimmerin'  sheen, 
Will  hap  the  heart  that  luvit  thee 

As  warld  has  seldom  seen. 

But  oh  !  remember  me,  Willie, 

On  land  where'er  ye  be — 
And  oh !  think  on  the  leal,  leal  heart 

That  ne'er  luvit  ane  but  thee  ! 
And  oh!  think  on  the  cauld,  cauld  mools, 

That  file  my  yellow  hair — 
That  kiss  the  cheek,  and  kiss  the  chin, 

Ye  never  sail  kiss  mair ! 

The  poems  are  partly  narrative 
and  partly  lyrical,  and  among  the 
lyrical  are  thirty  songs.  Some  of 
them  are  of  a  kindred  spirit  with 
the  lines  we  have  now  been  quoting ; 
others  of  a  gay  and  lively  tone  ;  and 
the  rest  of  that  mixed  character  of 
feeling  and  fancy,  when  the  heart 
takes  pleasure  in  what  may  be  called 
moonlight  moods,  when  the  shadow 
seems  itself  a  softened  light,  and 
melancholy  melts  away  into  mirth — 
and  mirth  soon  relapses  into  melan- 
choly. We  quote  one  sad — and  one 
happy  song — from  which  you  may 
guess  the  rest. 

THE  PARTING. 

OH  !  is  it  thus  we  part, 
And  thus  we  say  farewell, 
As  if  in  neither  heart 
Affection  e'er  did  dwell  ? 
And  is  it  thus  we  sunder 
Without  or  sigh  or  tear, 
As  if  it  were  a  wonder 
We  e'er  held  other  dear  ? 


MotJierweWs  Poems. 


[April, 


We  part  upon  the  spot, 
With  cold  and  clouded  hrow, 
Where  first  it  was  our  lot 
To  hreathe  love's  fondest  vow  ! 
The  vow  both  then  did  tender 
Within  this  hallowed  shade — 
That  vow,  we  now  surrender, 
Heart-bankrupts  both  are  made  ! 
Thy  hand  is  cold  as  mine, 
As  lustreless  thine  eye  ; 
Thy  bosom  gives  no  sign 
'    That  it  could  ever  sigh  ! 

Well,  well !  adieu's  soon  spoken, 
'Tis  but  a  parting  phrase, 
Yet  said,  I  fear,  heart-broken 
We'll  live  our  after  days ! 

Thine  eye  no  tear  will  shed, 
Mine  is  as  proudly  dry  ; 
But  many  an  aching  head 
Is  ours  before  wejdie  ! 
From  pride  we  both  can  borrow- 
To  part  we  both  may  dare — 
But  the  heart-break  of  to-morrow, 
Nor  you  nor  1  can  bear ! 

THE  VOICE  OF  LOVE. 

When  shadows  o'er  the  landscape  creep, 
And  twinkling  stars  pale  vigils  keep  ; 
When  flower-cups   all  with    dew-drops 

gleam, 
And  moonshine  floweth  like  a  stream  j 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  hearts  which  love  no  longer  dream— 

.  Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power  ! 

When  shamefaced   moonbeams  kiss  the 

lake, 

And  amorous  leaves  sweet  music  wake  ; 
When  slumber  steals  o'er  every  eye, 
And  Dian's  self  shines  drowsily ; 

Then  is  the  hour 
Thatheartswhichlove  with  rapture  sigh — 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power  ! 

When  surly  mastiffs  stint  their  howl, 
And  swathed  in  moonshine  nods  the  owl ; 
When  cottage-hearths areglimmeringlow, 
And  warder  cocks  forget  to  crow ; 

Then  is  the  hour 

That  hearts  feel  passion's  overflow- 
Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power  ! 

When  stilly  night  seems  earth's  vast  grave, 
Nor  murmur  comes  from  wood  or  wave  ; 
When  land  and  sea,  in  wedlock  bound 
By  silence,  sleep  in  bliss  profound ; 

Then  is  the  hour 

That    hearts    like   living    well  -  springs 
sound — 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power  f 


1833.] 

'Tis  no  easy  thing  to  write  a  song. 
If  you  doubt  it,  try.  A  song  is  some- 
thing like  a  sonnet.  There  must  be 
one  pervading  Feeling  in  a  song ;  and 
so  too,  for  the  most  part,  in  a  son- 
not — but  often  in  a  sonnet  it  is  rather 
a  pervading  Thought,  which  of  course 
h;is  its  own  feeling,  as  an  accompa- 
n  rnent.  The  one  pervading  Feel- 
irg  expands  itself  during  a  song, 
li  <e  a  wild-flower  in  the  breath  and 
d'3w  of  morning,  which  before  was 
but  a  bud,  and  we  are  touched  with 
a  sweet  sense  of  beauty,  at  the  full 
d  sclosure.  As  a  song  should  always 
bo  simple — the  flower  we  liken  it  to 
is  the  lily  or  the  violet.  The  leaves 
of  the  lily  are  white,  but  'tis  not  a 
monotonous  whiteness — the  leaves 
oi  the  violet,  sometimes  dim  as  "  the 
Ills  of  Cytherea's  eyes" — for  Shak- 
speare  has  said  so — are,  when  well 
and  happy,  blue  as  her  eyes  them- 
selves while  they  looked  languish- 
ingly  on  Adonis.  Yet  the  exquisite 
colour  seems  of  different  shades  in 
it  s  rarest  richness ;  and  evenso  as  lily 
or  violet,  shiftingly  the  same,  should 
be  a  song,  in  its  simplicity,  variously 
tinged  with  fine,  distinctions  of  the 
one  colour  of  that  pervading  Feeling, 
BOW  brighter  now  dimmer,  as  open 
and  shut  the  valves  of  that  mystery 
—the  heart ! 

It  will  not  do  to  indite  stanza 
after  stanza,  each  with  a  pretty 
and  perhaps  natural  image  of  its 
c  wn,  or  a  fanciful ;  to  drop  a  feeling 
\  ere  and  there ;  or  let  in  suddenly  a 
f'3w  rays  or  a  larger  light; — and  cal- 


MotherwelFs  Poems.  677 

attached  to  them,  say  Burns.  Is  it 
not  so  with  that  beautiful  and  blessed 
song  of  his, 


"  O'  a*  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  lo'e  the  west  ; 
For  there  the  bonny  lassie  leeves, 

The  lass  that  I  lo'e  best  !" 

But  we  must  return,  if  possible, 
to  the  Book  ;  and  shall  quote  a  few 
fine  things  from  the  third  class  of 
poetry,  to  which  we  adverted  above, 
namely,  description  of  Nature,  im- 
bued with  sentiment.  There  are  a 
thousand  ways  of  dealing  in  descrip- 
tion with  Nature,  so  as  to  make  her 
poetical  ;  but  sentiment  there  always 
must  be,  else  you  have  but  prose 
—  and  very  poor  prose,  too,  we 
fear  —  a  multiplication  of  vain 
words.  You  may  infuse  the  sen- 
timent by  a  single  touch  —  by  a  ray 
of  light  no  thicker,  nor  one  thou- 
sandth part  so  thick,  as  the  finest 
needle  ever  silk-threaded  by  a  lady's 
finger  ;  or  you  may  dance  it  in  with 
a  flutter  of  sunbeams  ;  or  you  may 
splash  it  in  as  with  a  gorgeous  cloud- 
stain  stolen  from  sunset;  or  you 
may  bathe  it  in  with  a  shred  of  the 
rainbow.  Perhaps  the  highest  power 
of  all  possessed  by  the  sons  of  song, 
is,  to  breathe  it  in  with  the  breath,  to 
let  it  slip  in  with  the  light,  of  the 
common  day  ! 

Then  some  poets  there  are,  who 
shew  you  a  scene  all  of  a  sudden,  by 
means  of  a  few  magical  words  — 
just  as  if  you  opened  your  eyes  at 
their  bidding  —  and  in  place  of  a  blank, 


«<3«v    10.^0    UJL    aicugci.  JLI  gnu  ,— — a  LIU.  i^ai-        uJtJll  UlUUIIJg— a.uuii_HJiav,o  tri  a.  uiauiv, 

1  ng  that  a  song,  get  it  set  to  music,    lo!  a  world.    Others,  again,  as  good 


and  placed  before  a  young  lady  at 
her  harpsichord  that  she  may  warble 
you  into  marriage,  by  a  spell  to 
which  you  have  yourself  given  more 
tian  half  the  charm,  as  you  may 
i  nagine.  It  is  no  song.  And  if  the 
c  ivertisement  be  "  No  Song  no  Sup- 
I  er,"  you  go  hungry  to  bed. 

A  song  is  a  composition.  But  it 
i  s  composed,  unconsciously  as  near 
j  s  may  be,  as  far  as  there  is  art;  and 
{ 11  that  the  Maker's  heart  has  to  do, 
i  s  to  keep  true  to  the  inspiration  that 
prompted  it  to  breathe  a  song,  and 
irue  it  will  keep,  if  strong  be  the 
•  lelight.  Some  songs  are  of  affec- 
tion— some  of  passion — and  some  of 
l)0th— and  these  last,  when  perfect, 
!  eem  self-existent — as  if  they  had 
vritten  themselves — and  had  after- 
wards had  the  name  of  some  poet 


and  as  great,  create  their  world,  gra- 
dually, before  your  eyes,  for  the  de- 
light of  your  soul  that  loves  to  gaze 
on  the  growing  glory  ;  but  delight  ip 
lost  in  wonder,  and  you  know  that 
they,  too,  are  warlocks.  Some  heap 
image  upon  image,  piles  of  imagery 
on  piles  of  imagery,  as  if  they  were 
ransacking  and  robbing  and  red- 
reavering  earth,  sea,  and  sky;  yet 
all  things  there  are  consentaneous 
with  one  grand  design,  which,  when 
consummated,  is  a  whole  that  seems 
to  typify  the  universe.  Others  give 
you  but  fragments — but  such  as  awa- 
ken imaginations  of  beauty  and  of 
power  transcendent,  like  that  famous 
Torso.  And  some  show  you  Nature 
glimmering  beneath  a  veil,  whicty, 
nunlike,  she  has  religiously  taken; 
and,  oh !  call  not  Nature  ideal  only, 


678  MotherweWs  Poems. 

in  that  holy  twilight,  for  then  it  is 
that  she  is  spiritual,  and  we  who 
belong  to  her  feel  that  we  shall  live 
for  ever ! 

Thus  — and  in  other  wondrous 
ways — the  great  poets  are  the  great 
painters,  and  so  are  they  the  great 
musicians.  But  how  they  are  so, 
some  other  time  may  we  tell ;  suffice 
it  now  to  say,  that  as  we  listen  to 
the  mighty  masters — "  sole  or  re- 
sponsive to  each  other's  voice"— 

"  Now  'tis  like  all  instruments, 

Now  like  a  lonely  lute  ; 
And  now  'tis  like  an  angel's  song 

That  bids  the  heavens  be  mute  !" 


Then,  oh !  why  will  so  many  my- 
riads of  men  and  women,  denied  by 
nature  "  the  vision  and  the  faculty 
divine,"  persist  in  the  delusion  that 
they  are  poetizing,  while  they  are 
but  versifying,  "  this  bright  and  brea- 
thing world  ?"  They  have  not  learn- 
ed even  the  use  of  their  very  eyes. 
They  truly  see  not  so  much  as  the 
outward  objects  of  sight.  But  of 
all  the  rare  affinities  and  relation- 
ships in  Nature,  visible  or  audible  to 
Fine-ear-and-Far-Eye  the  Poet,  not 
a  whisper — not  a  glimpse  have  they 
ever  heard  or  seen,  any  more  than 
had  they  been  born  deaf-blind ! 

They  paint  a  landscape,  but  no- 
thing "  prates  of  their  whereabouts," 
while  they  were  sitting  on  a  tripod, 
with  their  paper  on  their  knees,  draw- 
ing— their  breath.  For,  in  the  front 
ground,  is  a  castle,  against  which, 
if  you  offer  to  stir  a  step,  you  infal- 
libly break  your  head,  unless  provi- 
dentially stopped  by  that  extraordi- 
nary vegetable-looking  substance, 
perhaps  a  tree,  growing  bolt  up- 
right, out  of  an  intermediate  stone, 
that  has  wedged  itself  in  long  after 
there  had  ceased  to  be  even  standing 
room  in  that  strange  theatre  of  na- 
ture. But  down  from  "  the  swelling 
instep  of  a  mountain's  foot,"  that  has 
protruded  itself  through  a  wood, 
while  the  body  of  the  mountain  pru- 
dently remains  in  the  extreme  dis- 
tance, descends  on  you,  ere  you  have 
recovered  from  your  unexpected  en- 
counter with  the  old  Roman  cement, 
an  unconscionable  cataract.  There 
stands  a  deer  or  goat,  or,  at  least, 
some  beast  with  horns,  "  strictly 
anonymous,"  placed  for  effect  con- 
trary to  all  cause,  in  a  place  where 
it  seems  as  uncertain  how  he  got  in 


[April, 

as  it  is  certain  that  he  never  can  get 
out  till  he  becomes  a  hippogriff. 

But  we  really  must  return  to  our 
esteemed  friend,  Motherwell.  He 
learned  early  in  life, 

"  To  muse  on  Nature  with  a  poet's  eye  ;" 

and  now  when  he  lets  down  the  lids, 
he  sees  her  still,  just  as  well,  per- 
haps better  than  when  they  were 
up ;  for  in  that  deep,  earnest,  inward 
gaze  the  fluctuating  sea  of  scenery 
subsides  into  a  settled  calm,  where  all 
is  harmony  as  well  as  beauty — order 
as  well  as  peace.  What  though  the 
poet  have  been  fated,  through  youth 
and  manhood, to  dwell  in  city  smoke  ? 
His  childhood — his  boyhood — were 
overhung  with  trees,  and  through  its 
heart  went  the  murmur  of  waters. 
Then  it  is,  we  verily  believe,  that  in 
all  poets,  is  filled  with  images  up  to 
the  brim,  Imagination's  treasury. 
Genius,  growing,  and  grown  up  to 
maturity,  is  still  a  prodigal.  But  he 
draws  on  the  Bank  of  Youth.  His 
bills,  whether  at  a  short  or  long  date, 
are  never  dishonoured;  nay,  made 
payable  at  sight,  they  are  good  as 
gold.  Nor  cares  that  Bank  for  a 
run,  made  even  in  a  panic,  for,  be- 
sides, bars  and  billets,  and  wedges 
and  blocks  of  gold,  there  are,  unap- 
preciable  beyond  the  riches  which, 
against  a  time  of  trouble, 

"  The    Sultaun  hides  in  his  ancestral 

tombs," 
jewels  and  diamonds  sufficient 

"  To  ransom  great  kings  from  capti- 
vity." 

We  sometimes  think  that  the  power 
of  painting  Nature  to  the  life,  whether 
in  her  real  or  ideal  beauty  (both  have 
life\  is  seldom  evolved  to  its  utmost, 
until  the  mind  possessing  it  is  with- 
drawn in  the  body  from  all  rural  en- 
vironment. It  has  not  been  so  with 
Wordsworth,  but  it  was  so  with  Mil- 
ton. The  descriptive  poetry  in  Comus 
is  indeed  rich  as  rich  may  be,  but 
certainly  not  so  great,  perhaps  not  so 
beautiful,  as  that  in  Paradise  Lost. 

It  would  seem  to  be  so  with  all  of 
us,  small  as  well  as  great ;  and  were 
we — Christopher  North — to  compose 
a  poem  on  Loch  Skene,  two  thou- 
sand feet  or  so  above  the  level  of 
the  sea,  and  some  miles  from  a  house, 
we  should  desire  to  do  so  in  a  me- 
tropolitan cellar.  Desire  springs 
from  separation.  The  spirit  seeks  to 


1833.] 


MotherwtWs  Poems. 


679 


unite  itself  to  the  beauty  it  loves, 
Ihe  grandeur  it  admires,  the  sublimi- 
ty it  almost  fears ;  and  all  these  being 
o'er  the  hills  and  far  away,  or  on  the 
hills,  but  cloud-hidden,  why  it — the 
spirit — makes  itself  wings — or  rather 
they  grow  up  of  themselves  in  its 
passion,  and  nature- wards  it  flies  like 
;i  dove  or  an  eagle.  People  looking  at 
is  believe  us  present,  but  they  never 
were  so  far  mistaken  in  their  lives,  for 
m  the  Seamew  are  we  sailing  with 
the  tide  through  the  moonshine  on 
LochEtive;  orhangingo'erthatgulph 
of  peril  on  the  bosom  of  Skyroura. 
Mother  well  has,  manifestly,  commun- 
ed with  Nature,  not  so  much  among 
mountains,  as  among  gentle  slopes 
ind  swells,  hedgerowed  fields  of 
laughing  labour,  "  green  silent  pas- 
tures," and  the  "  bosoms,  nooks, 
and  bays"  of  such  rivers  as  the  Cart 
and  the  Clyde,  crowned  with  such 
castles  as  Cruikstone  and  Bothwell, 
and  winding  their  way,  when  wea- 
ried of  sunshine,  through  the  woods. 
There  he  hears  the  hymns  of  the 
mavis  and  the  throstle— there  he 
sees  the  silent  worship  of  the  prim- 
rose and  the  violet,  and  with  them 
holds  Sabbath. 


A    SABBATH  SUMMER  NOON. 

THE  calmness  of  this  noontide  hour, 

The  shadow  of  this  wood, 
The  fragrance  of  each  wilding  flower, 

Are  marvellously  good  ; 
Oh,  here  crazed  spirits  breathe  the  balm 

Of  nature's  solitude  ! 

It  is  a  most  delicious  calm 

That  resteth  everywhere — 
The  holiness  of  soul-sung  psalm, 

Of  felt  but  voiceless  prayer  ! 
With  hearts  too  full  to  speak  their  bliss, 

God's  creatures  silent  are. 

They  silent  are  ;  but  not  the  less, 

In  this  most  tranquil  hour 
Of  deep  unbroken  dreaminess, 

They  own  that  Love  and  Power 
Which,  like  the  softest  sunshine,  rests 

On  every  leaf  and  flower. 

How  silent  are  the  song-filled  nests 
That  crowd  this  drowsy  tree — 

How  mute  is  every  feathered  breast 
That  swelled  with  melody  ! 

And  yet  bright  bead-like  eyes  declare 
This  hour  is  ecstasy. 


Heart  forth!  as  uncaged  bird  through 
air, 

And  mingle  in  the  tide 
Of  blessed  things  that,  lacking  care, 

Now  full  of  beauty  glide 
Around  thee,  in  their  angel  hues 

Of  joy  and  sinless  pride. 

Here,  on  this  green  bank  that  o'er-views 

The  far  retreating  glen, 
Beneath  the  spreading  beech-tree  muse, 

On  all  within  thy  ken ; 
For  lovelier  scene  shall  never  break 

On  thy  dimmed  sight  again. 

Slow  stealing  from  the  tangled  brake 

That  skirts  the  distant  hill, 
With  noiseless  hoof  two  bright    fawns 
make 

For  yonder  lapsing  rill ; 
Meek  children  of  the  forest  gloom, 

Drink  on,  and  fear  no  ill ! 

And  buried  in  the  yellow  broom 

That  crowns  the  neighbouring  height, 

Couches  a  loutish  shepherd  groom, 
With  all  his  flocks  in  sight ; 

Which  dot  the  green  braes  gloriously 
With  spots  of  living  light. 

It  is  a  sight  that  filleth  me 

With  meditative  joy, 
To  mark  these  dumb  things  curiously, 

Crowd  round  their  guardian  boy  j 
As  if  they  felt  this  Sabbath  hour 

Of  bliss  lacked  all  alloy. 

I  bend  me  towards  the  tiny  flower, 

That  underneath  this  tree 
Opens  its  little  breast  of  sweets 

In  meekest  modesty, 
And  breathes  the  eloquence  of  love 

In  muteness,  Lord  !  to  thee. 

There  is  no  breath  of  wind  to  move 
The  flag-like  leaves,  that  spread 

Their  grateful  shadow  far  above 
This  turf-supported  head  ; 

All  sounds  are  gone — all  murmurings 
With  living  nature  wed. 

The  babbling  of  the  clear  well-springs, 
The  whisperings  of  the  trees, 

And  all  the  cheerful  jargon  ings 
Of  feathered  hearts  at  ease, 

That  whilome  filled  the  vocal  wood, 
Have  hushed  their  minstrelsies. 

The  silentness  of  night  doth  brood 
O'er  this  bright  summer  noon  ; 

And  nature,  in  her  holiest  mood, 
Doth  all  things  well  attune 

To  joy,  in  the  religious  dreams 
Of  green  and  leafy  June. 


680 


MotherweWs  Poems. 


[April, 


Far  down  the  glen  in  distance  gleams 

The  hamlet's  tapering  spire, 
And  glittering  in  meridial  beams, 

Its  vane  is  tongued  with  fire ; 
And  hark  how  sweet  its  silvery  bell— 

And  hark  the  rustic  choir ! 

The  holy  sounds  float  up  the  dell 

To  fill  my  ravished  ear, 
And  now  the  glorious  anthems  swell 

Of  worshippers  sincere — 
Of  hearts  bowed  in  the  dust,  that  shed 

Faith's  penitential  tear. 

Dear  Lord !  thy  shadow  is  forth  spread 

On  all  mine  eye  can  see  ; 
And  filled  at  the  pure  fountain-head 

Of  deepest  piety, 
My  heart  loves  all  created  things, 

And  travels  home  to  thee. 

Around  me  while  the  sunshine  flings 

A  flood  of  mocky  gold, 
My  chastened  spirit  once  more  sings 

As  it  was  wont  of  old, 
That  lay  of  gratitude  which  burst 

From  young  heart  uncontrolled. 

When,  in  the  midst  of  nature  nursed, 

Sweet  influences  fell 
On  childly  hearts  that  were  athirst, 

Like  soft  dews  in  the  bell 
Of  tender  flowers  that  bowed  their  heads, 

And  breathed  a  fresher  smell. 

So,  even  now  this  hour  hath  sped 
In  rapturous  thought  o'er  me, 

Feeling  myself  with  nature  wed— 
A  holy  mystery — 

A  part  of  earth,  a  part  of  heaven, 
A  part,  great  God !  of  Thee. 

That  i8  very  soft,  very  sweet,  and 
very  Scottish — breathing  a  lowland 
spirit  of  Sabbatic  repose  and  rest. 
Simple,  serene,  and  fervent  is  the 
piety  that  shrouds  the  scene  in  pen- 
sive beauty,  as  by  some  sacred  spell ; 
revealed  as  well  as  natural  religion  is 
there ;  the  love  and  the  awe  confess 
the  Being  who  saved,  as  well  as  Him 
who  made  us;  'tis  the  poem  of  a 
Christian. 

Reluctantly  we  leave  so  sweet  and 
solemn  a  strain ;  but  the  name  of  the 
following  little  poem  is  delightful; 
and  the  poem  itself  full  of  the  dew 
of  "  primy  nature."  Sure  it  is,  that 

"  All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 

All  are  but  ministers'of  love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame." 


And  on  May-morn,  all  the  most 
innocent  "ministers  of  love"  are 
floating  in  the  air,  inspiring  youthful 
bosoms  that  begin  to  beat  then,  for 
the  first  time,  with  pulsations  that, 
ere  the  full  June  moon  looks  down 
on  the  yellow  couch  spread  aloft  by 
the  midsummer  woods,  will  have 
ripened  into  panting  passion,  desirous 
in  vain  of  the  bliss  for  which,  whe- 
ther it  be  life-in- death  or  death-in- 
life,  so  many  millions  of  beautiful 
insects,  men,  women,  and  butterflies, 
go  careering  together  up  into  the 
sunny  air  ot  existence,  but  to  drop 
down  into  dust. 

But  this  joyous  little  poem  has 
nothing  to  do  with  dust,  but  with  the 
"  morn  and  liquid  dew  of  youth," 
when,  though  "  contagious  blast- 
ments  be  most  imminent,  the  sweet- 
est flowers  do  yet  escape  them 
wholly,"  and  live  to  die  with  gradual 
decay  of  beauty,  in  almost  unper- 
ceived — almost  unfelt  decay. 

MAY  MORN  SONG. 

THE  grass  is  wet  with  shining  dews, 

Their  silver  bells  hang  on  each  tree, 
While  opening  flower  and  bursting  bud 

Breathe  incense  forth  unceasingly  ; 
The  mavis  pipes  in  greenwood  shaw, 

The  throstle  glads  the  spreading  thorn, 
And  cheerily  the  blythsome  lark 
Salutes  the  rosy  face  of  morn. 
'Tis  early  prime  ; 

And  hark  !  hark  !  hark ! 
His  merry  chime 

Chirrups  the  lark  : 
Chirrup  !  chirrup !   he  heralds  in 
The  jolly  sun  with  matin  hymn. 

Come,  'come,  my  love  !  and   May -dews 

shake 

In  pail fuls  from  each  drooping  bough, 
They'll  give  fresh  lustre  to  the  bloom 

That  breaks  upon  thy  young  cheek  now. 
O'er  hill  and  dale,  o'er  waste  and  wood, 

Aurora's  smiles  are  streaming  free  ; 
With  earth  it  seems  brave  holyday, 
In  heaven  it  looks  high  jubilee. 
And  it  is  right, 

For  mark,  love,  mark  ! 
How  bathed  in  light 
Chirrups  the  lark  : 
Chirrup  !   chirrup  !   he  upward  flies, 
Like  holy  thoughts  to  cloudless  skies. 

They  lack  all  heart  who  cannot  feel 
The  voice  of  heaven  within  them  thrill, 

In  summer  morn,  when  mounting  high, 
This  merry  minstrel  sings  his  till. 


1833.]  Motherwell's  Poems.  681 

Now  let  us  seek  yon  bosky  dell  and  where  she  was  buried  we  never 
Where  brightest  wild-flowers   choose  knew — but  it  was  somewhere,  we 
to  be,  had  reason  to  believe,  among  the 
And  where  its  clear  stream  murmurs  on,  upland  parishes   of  the    Lowlands, 
Meet  type  of  our  love's  purity  j  where  they  melt  away  into  the  West- 
No  witness  there,  ern  Highlands.    Thoughts  that  had 
And  o'er  us,  hark .  evanished  from  our  hearts,  like  young 
High  in  the  air  birds  that  fly  away  from  their  nest  and 

•  ^iS?  i  :  return  never  more,  came  fluttering 

Chirrup  !  chirrup  !  away  soars  he,  about  jt  m  ^  hugh  ^  ensued  Q* 

Bearing  to  heaven  my  vows  to  thee !  ^  pleasant  perusal  of  these  lively 

It  is  a  many  long — long  ages  ago  lines,  and  for  a  moment  we  saw  a 
since  we  were  in  love — but  we  re-  face,  the  face  of  a  Phantom  smiling 
member,  if  not  so  distinctly,  at  least  upon  us,  with  eyes  lifelike  as  if  they 
far  more  indistinctly  than  if  it  had  had  never  been  shut  but  in  sleep ! 
been  yesterday,  our  emotions,  one  'Tis  one  of  the  functions  of  the 
May-morning,  while  walking  through  Poet  to  awaken  such  reminiscences ; 
a  hill-side  wood,  and  sometimes  but  with  some  beautiful  verses  of  a 
sitting,  with  a  maiden  of  the  sweet  different  mood,  we  bid  Mr  Mother- 
name  of  Mary.  Years  afterwards  well  and  his  delightful  volume  fare- 
she  took  a  consumption — so  we  heard  well, 
when  at  a  great  distance — and  died— 

THEY  COME  !  THE  MERRY  SUMMER  MONTHS. 

They  come !  the  merry  summer  months  of  Beauty,  Song,  and  Flowers  j 
They  come !  the  gladsome  months  that  bring  thick  leanness  to  bowers. 
Up,  up,  my  heart !  and  walk  abroad,  fling  cark  and  care  aside, 
Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peaceful  waters  glide  ; 
Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast  of  patriarchal  tree* 
Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in  rapt  tranquillity* 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful  to  the  hand, 
And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze  is  sweet  and  bland ; 
The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding  courteously, 
It  stirs  their  blood,  with  kindest  love,  to  bless  and  welcome  thee ; 
And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks — they  now  are  silvery  grey- 
That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whispering  "  Be  gay  !" 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of  yon  sky, 

But  hath  its  own  winged  mariners  to  give  it  melody : 

Thou  see'st  their  glittering  fans  outspread  all  gleaming  like  red  gold, 

And  hark !  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their  merry  course  they  hold. 

God  bless  them  all,  these  little  ones,  who  far  above  this  earth, 

Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a  nobler  mirth. 

But  soft !  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound,  from  yonder  wood  it  came  ; 

The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did  breathe  his  own  glad  name  ;— 

Yes,  it  is  he  !  the  hermit  bird,  that  apart  from  all  his  kind, 

Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the  soft  western  wind  ; 

Cuckoo  !   Cuckoo !  he  sings  again — his  notes  are  void  of  art, 

But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound  the  deep  founts  of  the  heart ! 

Good  Lord  !  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  thought-crazed  wight  like  me, 
To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath  this  summer  tree! 
To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their  little  souls  away, 
And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of  youth's  bright  summer  day, 
When,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the  reckless  truant  boy, 
Wandered  through  green  woods  all  day  long,  a  mighty  heart  of  joy! 

I'm  sadder  now,  I  have  had  cause ;  but  oh  !   I'm  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount  loved  of  yore,  I  yet  delight  to  drink  ;— - 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the  calm  unclouded  sky, 
Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the  days  gone  by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light  fall  round  me  dark  and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse— a  heart  that  hath  waxed  old  ! 


The  Sketcher,  No.  1. 


[April, 


THE  SKETCHER. 

No   I. 


"  QUJE  regie  in  terris  nostri  non  plena 
laboris  ?"  What  region  is  not  witness 
to  my  toils  ?  Sketching  tourists,  an- 
tiquarians, geologists,  and  travellers 
by  profession,  complacently  smiling 
over  their  portfolios,  their  coins,  and 
their  cotton-bedded  fragments  of  Ich- 
thiosauri,  or  large-margined  quartos, 
in  their  conceit  of  their  labours  often 
think,  if  they  do  not  utter,  these  words, 
of  the  cold-hearted  Phrygian,  in 
Queen  Dido's  picture  gallery.  I 
have  been  a  Sketching  Tourist ;  but 
it  would  be  more  becoming  modesty, 
were  I,  as  an  ingenious  friend  thus 
commenced  the  catalogue  of  his  li- 
brary— a  list  of  books  I  have  not  got 
— to  put  down  where  I  have  not  been, 
that  the  motto  in  the  end  bring  no 
shame.  Imprimis,  I  have  not  even 
seen  Scotland,  and  have  therefore 
little  reason,  in  the  eyes  of  Maga  and 
the  world,  to  boast  of  my  search 
after  the  picturesque.  But  after  a 
few  years  more  of  improvement,  and 
why  not  further  improvement  ? — for 
an  old  man  of  my  village  has  told  me 
that  his  constitution  is  just  beginning 
to  get  strong,  having  been  of  the 
weakest  in  his  youth,  and  he  is  83 — 
and  Cato  learned  Greek  at  I  know 
not  what  age.  It  is  then  no  pre- 
sumption to  hope  for  improvement. 
Cato  expected  to  talk  with  Homer, 
and  Hesiod,  and  Pindar,  in  the  other 
world,  and  therefore  learned  their 
language, and  why  may  we  not  fondly 
hope,  that  every  improvement  we 
make  will  advance  our  position  else- 
where, that  taste  is  with  us  and  im- 
mortal? Has  heaven  no  music,  no 
poetry  ?  Perhaps  we  have  here  given 
us  but  the  smallest  atom  of  the  great 
whole,  of  which  our  souls  may  be 
made  capacious,  and  that  the  great- 
est gift  of  human  genius  is  but  the 
minutest  particle  from  the  infinite 
celestial  storehouse.  While  he  thinks 
of  this,  the  enthusiast  is  more  ardent 
in  his  pursuit.  At  least,  it  makes  me 
thankful  in  my  pleasures— and  this 
gratitude  to  the  Giver,  heightened  by 
prospective  views,  sanctifies  amuse- 
ment; I  can  walk  the  hills  and  the 
rallies  with  a  step  elastic  with  the 
dignity  of  duty — why  should  not  I 
then  seek  improvement,  till  I  can  say 
with  Corregio,  "  Anche  io  sou  Pit- 


tore  ?"  And  then  I  shall  visit  Scotland, 
its  lakes,  mountains,  neither  as  Pis- 
cator  nor  Geologist,  to  whip  the  one, 
or  tomahawk  the  other,  but  as  Sketch- 
er ;  and  besides,  there  is  another 
point  of  ambition — When  in  the 
Queendom  of  Maga,  I  may  be  admit- 
ted at  court,  and  be  one  of  the  elected 
at  a  Noctes.  There  is  a  scope  to  aim 
at!  "The most  accomplished  Chris- 
topher" is  awful,  and  I  am  determi- 
ned not  to  open  my  portfolio  before 
Tickler,  though  my  performances 
have  often  been  thought  very  pretty 
by  ladies,  even  when  looked  at  up- 
side down.  After  this  great  defect 
in  my  title,  it  may  be  allowed  me  to 
say  what  are  my  pretensions  to  make 
any  remarks  upon  nature  and  art,  as 
I  intend  doing.  I  have  visited  the 
lakes  of  Cumberland,  more  than  once 
pedestrianised  Wales,  been  refused 
admittance  to  an  inn  "  that  did  not 
take  in  trampers,"  been  questioned 
as  a  pedlar  by  mountain  lasses,  eye- 
ing my  large  portfolio,  if  I  had  laces 
to  sell ;  have  run  through  the  wild 
Irish  and  escaped,  penetrated  Wick- 
low,  stood  onM'Gilly  Cuddy's  Reeks, 
and  threaded  the  Lakes  of  Killarney, 
and  dropped  a  pencil  into  the  Devil's 
Punchbowl.  These  and  sundry  othejt 
places  in  our  Island  might  entitle  me 
to  be  a  member  of  the  Stainers'  Com- 
pany. But  the  pilgrim's  staff  has 
taken  me  further.  My  portfolio  has 
been  opened  on  the  blue  Leman ;  can 
with  accuracy  that  requires  no  oath, 
illustrate  poem,  or  ornament  Annual, 
with  minute  views  of  Vevay,  Castle 
of  Chill  on,  and  Rousseau's  romantic 
Meillerie.  I  have  crossed  the  Alps 
winter  and  summer,  and,  like  Hanni- 
bal, besieged  nature  in  her  strong- 
holds, though  "  opposuit  natura  Al- 
pemque  nivemque,"  descended  into 
Italy  and  mapped  Tivoli,  and  sought 
inspiration  in  Neptune's  Grotto  and 
the  Sybil's  Temple,  conversed  with 
Horace  in  his  own  Villa — have  dared 
the  thundering  cataracts  of  Terni — ta- 
ken castles  and  villages  with  and  with- 
out fortifications — "  Urbes  montibus 
impositas" — nearly  lost  my  life  by 
stepping  over  the  top  wall  of  the  Colli- 
seum,  and  leaving  the  saints  within 
unworshipped — "  Egressum  magna 
me  accepit  Aricia  Roma,"  and  thence 


1 833.} 


The  Sketcher,  No.  I. 


68 


and  Curiatii.  In  the  service  of  the 
arts,  have  run  the  gauntlet  among 
robbers,  between  Rome  and  Naples, 
extinguished  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius 
\vith  my  foot,  and  been  stripped  to 
the  very  skin  by  banditti  in  Calabria, 
yet  even  after  that,  replenished  my 
box  (Smith  and  Warner)  with  lake 
and  vermilion  for  the  double  roses  of 
Prestum,  trampled  on  by  herds  of 
hideous  reforming  buffaloes  ;  for  all 
Hesperides  have  their  monsters.  But 
oh  !  the  infinity  of  Nature,  how  wide 
her  domain,  to  be  looked  at  with 
both  ends  of  the  telescope!  here 
comes  the  humiliation,  though  in  the 
portfolios  there  be  stores  laid  up  for 
many  years;  yet  to  suppose  that  from 
any  of  these  places,  the  numerous, 
untranslatable  riches  and  beauties 
have  been  brought  away,would  argue 
ihe  conceit  of  a  Political  Reformer, 
Economist,  and  Utilitarian,  who  think 
they  have  surveyed  the  whole  fabric 
of  a  constitution,  when  they  have 
only  discovered  a  mousehole  in  the 
•idifice,  or  that  they  know  the  whole 
will  of  heaven  by  their  superintend- 
ence of  a  parish  register. 

Perhaps  my  next  confession  will 
bedeemedadisqualification — a  whole 
generation  of  artists  will  scorn  my 
presumption— I  have  not  visited  that 
great  mart  of  intellect,  and  depot  of 
excellence,  London,  these  ten  years ; 
and  consequently  cannot  talk  learn- 
edly of  any  exhibitions,  oil  or  water 
colours,  nor  of  public  nor  private 
collections.  I  would  have  been  Ig- 
aoramus,  but  that  the  name  has  been 
adopted  by  one  who  knows  more 
than  most  of  us.  If  within  these 
dozen  years,  or  so,  any  great  artist 
has  started  into  existence,  he  will 
3iot  want  my  praise,  and  will  pardon 
my  silence  after  this  confession.  I 
know  little  of  modern  actual  per- 
formances of  art,  and  only  judge  of  a 
part,  and  such  as  I  can  see  in  Annuals, 
and  engravings  in  the  shop  windows 
of  a  country  town;  and  some  of 
t  hese  things  are  astonishing  enough, 
too  astonishing,  much  too  astonish- 
ing, and  beyond  the  taste  of  common 
intellect,  whose  hobbling  pace  has 
not  marched  up  to  them.  Are  there 
any  landscape  painters  yet  living 
in  the  world?  He  of  Nineveh  and 
JSabylon  is  great;  but  "  Flumina 
amem  sylvas  inglorius."  Thunder, 
lightning,  hail,  and  rain,  death  and 


destruction  ;  metamorphoses  of  ele- 
ments, cloud  into  solid  rock,  and 
earth  into  air,  and  water  into  fire, 
confusion  and  chaos,  powerful  as  the 
genius  is  that  has  there  been  dealing 
with  them,  satisfy  not  me  but  in  cer- 
tain imaginative  moods  that  are  not 
permanent,  and  like  vapours  pass 
away.  I  would  be  of  Hamlet's  advice 
to  the  players,  "in  the  very  torrent, 
tempest,  and  (as  I  may  say)  whirl- 
wind of  your  passion,  you  must  ac- 
quire and  beget  a  temperance  that 
may  give  it  smoothness."  I  like  na- 
ture in  her  placid  smiling  or  evenly 
dignified  mood,  not  in  convulsions, 
hysterics,  and  in  her  parturition  of 
monsters.  I  had  rather  see  the  earth 
peopled  with  Pan  and  Sylvanus,  with 
the  accompaniment  of  wood  nymphs, 
be  they  not  spoiled  of  their  fair  pro- 
portions, than  giants  and  dwarfs. 
Ovid  himself  keeps  some  measure, 
and  brings,  artfully  enough,  his  beau- 
tiful extravagancies  within  the  scope 
of  human  probabilities, — and  there- 
fore is  delightful.  Apollo  was  a 
better  shepherd  than  Polyphemus, 
and  more  became  the  pastoral. 
Poetry,  poetry,  poetry,  if  it  be  not  in 
the  soul  of  a  painter,  let  him  adver- 
tise to  paint  signs ;  but  even  then,  let 
him  never  attempt  above  a  red  lion, 
or,  in  his  ecstatic  moments,  a  jolly 
Bacchus  astride  a  tun.  But  a  pic- 
ture of  contortions,  or  of  vulgarities, 
landscape  or  figures,  is  like  moral 
vice,  and  would  be  punishable  with 
death  in  the  justice  hall  of  Queen 
Maga. 

In  sketching  then  from  nature, 
your  eyes  must  see  what  is  be- 
fore them,  but  the  mind's  eye  must 
be  in  the  middle  of  your  forehead, 
to  command  the  wanderings  of  the 
other  two,  and  to  select  and  reject ; 
hence  may  taste  be  termed  livn^ov 
o/tftet,  the  new  eye — new  sense — new 
perception.  Poetry  of  nature,  what 
is  it?  All  nature  is  poetry,  is  full 
of  it,  yet  may  you  not  have  the  power 
to  extract  an  atom,  any  more  than 
you  can  extract  sunbeams  from  cu- 
cumbers. Question  yourself  well  on 
this  point,  and  if  it  be  so,  you  are  not 
of  the  art  divine.  *  When  you  sketch 
from  nature,  if  you  find,  on  examin- 
ing your  portfolio,  you  have  brought 
back  nothing  but  views,  and  that  it 
is  a  remembrancer  of  localities,  as 
your  almanack  is  of  dates,  there  is  so 
little  dignity  in  your  employment, 


684 


The  Sketcher,  No.  L 


[April, 


it  will  not  be  amiss  if  you  quit  it. 
So,  if  you  paint,  and  do  no  more 
than  manufacture  views,  you  are 
only  fit  to  ornament  musical  snuff- 
boxes, and  beautify  albums.  If  you 
can  see  no  poetry  in  nature  beyond 
what  is  on  the  retina  of  your  eye, 
you  want  the  mind's  eye  to  consti- 
tute the  painter;  you  must  be  the 
poet,  or  discard  the  whole  concern  ; 
you  must  have  a  convertible  power, 
and  have  enjoyed  visions  of  Fairy- 
Land;  and  you  must  people  your 
pastoral,  or  your  romantic,  or  your 
poetical,  with  beings  that  are  not  on 
the  poor's  books; — you  must  remove, 
as  it  were,  the  curse  from  the  earth, 
and  from  man,  for  whose  sake  it  was 
under  it — separate  the  free  beauties 
from  detestable  toil  and  labour,  and 
from  all  idea  of  the  dire  punishment 
and  necessity  of  "  eating  our  bread 
by  the  sweat  of  our  brows."  Give 
your  scenes  the  charm  of  the  *  dolce 
far  njente,'  let  the  verdure  be  fit  for 
the  gentle  feet  of  Astraea,  still  bless- 
ing humanity  with  her  intercourse. 
Kay,  let  your  almost  aerial  moun- 
tain-perch' d  towns  and  villages,  be 
in  a  sweet  repose  as  under  her  divine 
government,  and  your  figures  shall 
be  of  them,  and  you  shall  see  that 
they  have  homes  and  all  social  affec- 
tions, and  lead  lives  of  delightful 
leisure,  unconscious  of  the  fatal 
curse,  that  some  see  alone  dominant 
on  the  earth.  Take  not  your  Chan- 
cery suit  into  your  silvan  nooks, 
mar  them  not  with  bailiff,  beadle,  cul- 
prit, insensible  clown,  or  workers  of 
spinning  jennies, — all  are  of  the  curse. 
Disturb  not  your  latitat  with  a  power 
of  attorney.  Yet  I  would  not  limit 
your  genius;  it  is  impossible  to  say 
what  new  paths  genius  may  wander 
into,  and  what  delightful  wonders 
yet  bring  home  from  its  own  unex- 
plored lands.  Yet,  pause  awhile  to 
ask  what  you  are  about ; — how  many 
landscape  painters  have  there  been 
in  the  world  as  yet,  not  counting 
what  this  Annus  Mirabilis  may  pro* 
duce  ?  A  painter  of  docks  and 
thistles  is  not  one ;  far  less  of  barns 
and  pigsties;  such  artificers  should 
all  be  put  in  the  stocks,  and  have 
their  kindred  grunting  swine  rub 
their  fellowship  against  them.  And 
always  remember  that  repose  is  the 
beauty  of  landscape.  The  scene 
should  be  a  poetical  shelter  from  the 
world,  and  if  in  any  thing  partaking 
of  it,  it  should  be  only  so  much  so 


as  would  shew  it  to  be  a  part  and 
parcel  of  the  "  debateable  land"  that 
lies  between  Fairy  Land  and  the 
cold  Utilitarian  world.  As  it  is  to  be 
a  shelter,  remember  repose,  and  let 
not  the  glorious  sun  himself  act  the 
impertinent  intruder,  and  stare  you 
ever  in  the  face  like  a  Polyphemus, 
stationed  in  mid  heaven,  hid  with  a 
cerulean  curtain,  all  but  his  eye. 

There  are  modern  pictures  that 
would  make  you  long  for  a  parasol, 
and  put  you  in  fear  of  the  yellow 
fever,  and  into  a  suspicion  of  the 
jaundice ;  scenes  pretending  too  to  be 
Fairy  Land  that  are  hot  as  capsicum, 
terribly  tropical,  "  sub  curru  nimium 
propinqui  solis," — where  an  Undine 
would  be  dried  and  withered,  and 
you  would  long  more  for  an  icicle 
than  Lalage,  and  would  cry  out  for 
the  shades  of  Erebus  to  hide  you  in. 
Horace  says,  "  place  me  under  the 
chariot  of  the  too  near  sun,  in  a  land 
unblest  of  houses."  Yet  do  artists 
in  defiance  build  their  structures 
under  the  blaze  of  the  sweltering 
orb,  and  then  perhaps  give  you  a 
river,  where  even  a  Niobe  could  not 
squeeze  out  the  moisture  of  a  tear. 
Then  are  you  astonished  at  the  skill 
of  the  artist,  and  detest  his  work, 
and  require  a  green  shade  over  your 
eyes  for  a  week,  and  dread  an  oph- 
thalmia. The  true  worship  of  na- 
ture is  a  greater  mystery ;  the  idol 
demands  not  the  cauldron  and  the 
fiery  furnace ;  would  she  were  the 
Mater  Cybele  to  unyoke  the  lion 
from  her  car,  and  drive  the  mad  re- 
cusant back  into  the  woods.  You 
cannot  open  an  Annual  without  the 
flaring  sun  in  the  middle  of  the  page; 
all  imitate  the  wonder.  We  are 
tired  of  quietness  of  repose,  we  must 
be  revolutionizing  every  thing,  this 
green  earth  must  be  new  peppered 
and  deviled,  and  Phoebus  re-dosed 
with  brimstone  and  cayenne.  We 
must  be  astonished,  not  pleased. 
Paganmi  has  kicked  simple  Pan  out 
of  the  woods,  as  if  extravagances, 
that  with  Johnson  one  would  wish 
impossible,  were  the  only  "  didicisse 
Jideliter  artes  ingenuas."  We  have 
no  blessed  medium  of  repose,  soft 
light,  and  refreshing  shade.  We 
must  plunge  in  the  thrice  sooty 
Acheron,  or  dance  in  the  furnace ;  and 
where  is  the  divine  Poesy  of  Paint- 
ing all  this  while?  She  has  withdrawn, 
and  refused  to  be  dragged  on  the 
excursion  into  Chaos,  and  hides  her- 


1833.] 


The  SketcJier,  No.  I. 


self  iii  abhorrence  of  conflagration. 
The  old  masters  of  landscape  never 
painted  extraordinary  effects ;  they 
aimed  more  at  permanent  and  gene- 
ral nature,  than  accidental  and  eva- 
nescent beauties.  Rubens  indeed 
painted  rainbows,  but  he  was  only 
a  colourist  in  landscape.  Claude 
and  Poussin  never,  that  I  am  aware 
of,  attempted  it,  and  their  pictures 
bear  looking  at  the  longer.  You  are 
not  waiting  and  wondering  that  the 
aerial  beauty  does  not  depart ;  and 
from  being  nailed,  as  it  were,  to  the 
canvass,  the  delusion  is  over;  and  be- 
sides, these  effects  by  their  attrac- 
tion tend  to  destroy  the  character  of 
the  scenery.  You  no  longer  think 
how  delightful  it  must  be  to  wander 
in  the  paths,  or  recline  on  banks  and 
in  secluded  nooks,  but  you  stand 
agape,  and  the  picture  is  a  peculia- 
rity, not  the  sentiment  of  the  whole. 
Performances  of  this  kind  you  see 
once  with  surprise,  but  you  cannot 
be  for  ever  surprised.  Repetition 
weakens  the  charm,  till  your  eye  is 
weary  of  the  attempt,  and  becomes 
suspicious  of  a  cheat. 

It  maybe  said  in  reply, that  Claude 
did  dare  even  to  represent  the  body 
of  the  sun  in  the  mid  sky.  True,  he 
did  so  sometimes,  but  still  subdued 
tones  prevail,  and  successful  at- 
tempts are  not  in  his  landscapes, 
but  in  his  marine  pieces.  And  there 
lay  his  peculiar  forte.  Nothing  can  ex- 
ceed the  beauties  of  his  marine  pieces. 
His  buildings,  his  figures,  sea  and 
sky,  all  are  in  exquisite  accordance. 
All  is  poetical  history.  The  grandest 
perhaps  of  this  class  is  the  Embarka- 
tion of  St  Ursula ;  and  I  have  one  in 
my  recollection,  I  know  not  to  whom 
belonging,  the  Burning  of  the  Trojan 
Ships.  These  pictures  are  really 
magnificent.  They  make  vulgarity 
stand  dumb.  But  they  do  not,  strict- 
ly speaking,  belong  to  landscape. 
In  that  department,  though  there  is 
with  him  always  a  certain  cast  of  ele- 
gance, and  pastoral  elegance,  it  is  of 
an  age  far  posterior  to  the  golden. 
If  not  actual  every  day  nature,  there  is 
but  a  slight  aim  above  it;  nor  is  there 
much  knowledge  of  composition,  the 
artificial  composition  of  lines.  In 
this  he,  and  all  other  artists  per- 
haps that  ever  existed,  must  yield 
the  palm  to  Gaspar  Poussin.  Gas- 
par  is  indeed  the  only  truly  pas- 
toral painter.  Whatever  his  pencil 
touches  has  au  air  of  freedom ;  there 


685 

is  all  the  unrestrained  beauty  of  na- 
ture. His  foliage  lies,  or  waves,  as 
Anacreon  would  have  his  mistress's 
locks,  us  &SXB« — And  who  ever  better 
understood  the  placid  stream,  the 
deep  tarn  or  mountain  river  in  its 
life  and  motion,  from  the  first  gush- 
ing, through  all  its  course  and  rests? 
.  So  his  figures  are  all  disengaged  and 
free,  are  beings  of  leisure,  they  are 
of  robust  growth,  natural  vigour  of 
limb  and  understanding,  of  a  race 
sprung  from  the  very  woods  and 
rocks,  untamed  and  untameable  to 
the  treddle  and  spinning  jenny — of 
no  artificial  elegance,  the  very  re- 
verse of  the  smirking,  piping,  cock- 
ed hat,  and  flowered  shepherds  of 
French  crockery,  (how  the  artist 
must  have  detested  them  !)  but  all 
of  the  simple  elegance  of  pastoral 
freedom  and  leisure,  a  part  with  and 
influenced  by  the  whole  scenery — 
not  as  if  they  commanded  it,  or 
could  command  it,  or  would  twist 
aside  the  streams,  or  cut  a  twig  in 
all  their  land.  Even  the  peculiarity 
of  undress  is  entirely  appropriate. 
It  makes  them  of  the  pastoral  age, 
and  such  as  never  can  belong  to  any 
other.  Like  their  fraternal  trees, 
they  are  not  ashamed  to  shew  their 
rind.  They  live  in  no  dressed  para- 
dise ;  all  that  is  of  the  formal  cast, 
as  belonging  to  another  beauty,  the 
poetical  painter  rejects.  All  his  pic- 
tures are,  therefore,  a  just  whole. 
Though  he  saw  the  beauty,  as  one 
who  could  be  insensible  to  it,  of  the 
solemn  cypress  and  pine,  he  would 
not  overawe  the  simple  youth  and 
freedom  of  his  foliage  by  their  for- 
bidding dictatorial  cast.  And  it  is 
remarkable  that  all  his  trees  are  in, 
or  rather  under  than  past,  their  vi- 
gorous growth.  They  are  of  youth 
and  freshness  like  the  fabled  wood- 
Nymph  and  Faun  that  never  grow 
old.  Scarce  any  have  attained  the 
girt  of  timber  to  invite  the  axe,  that 
the  most  avaricious  eye  shall  never 
calculate  their  top  and  lop.  They 
have  the  life  of  pastoral  poetry  in 
themselves,  and  are  therefore  eter- 
nal in  undying  youth  and  vigour. 
And  to  make  this  his  natural  ideal 
perfect,  nothing  is  introduced  to  dis- 
turb this  serene  life,  unless,  indeed, 
he  paints  a  storm,  and  then  who 
ever  tossed  his  foliage  about  like 
him,  as  if  he  were  familiar  with  the 
winds,  and  knew  all  their  ways,  and 
played  with  and  limited  their  po  wer  ? 


C86 

for  you  still  see,  that  there  is  but  an 
occasional  irruption  of  violence,  that 
will  pass  away,  to  uproot  and  tear 
away  perhaps  some  discordant  ob- 
jects, and  that  gentle  Peace  had  but 
retired  to  the  shelter  of  the  shep- 
herd's homes,  and  would  again  soon 
walk  forth  in  uninjured  beauty. 
But  in  the  whole  landscape,  no  too 
rugged  form,  and  no  awful  sublimity, 
is  introduced,  to  mar,  as  it  may  be 
termed,  the  natural  ideal.  Accessi- 
bility is  a  striking  character  in  all 
his  compositions.  There  is  not  a 
height  or  a  depth  unapproachable ; 
and  this  accessibility  is  marked 
throughout,  or  carefully  indicated, 
by  path,  or  road,  or  building,  or 
figure.  The  whole  terrene  is  for 
the  inhabitants,  and  the  inhabitants 
for  the  terrene,  and  all  are  free  "  to 
wander  where  they  will."  The  ac- 
cessibility is  perfect,  and  it  is  of  a 
home  character,  for  all  the  lines  tend 
into  the  scene,  none  out.  The  paths 
entice  you  within,  where  you  may 
eat  of  the  lotus,  and  never  dream  of 
departure.  Then,  again,  his  archi- 
tecture, since  termed  Poussinesque, 
is  of  the  same  free  character,  and 
which  is,  in  fact,  the  great  charm  of 
Italian  architecture  j  (query,  are  the 
Italians  indebted  to  the  painters  for 
it?)  all  the  lines,  however  varied, 
are  in  admirable  consent,  assisting 
each  other,  apparently  unconfined 
by  rule.  Part  seems  added  to  part, 
not  the  one  to  match  its  opposite, 
but  where  utility  may  have  direct- 
ed ;  and  hence  the  eye  is  presented 
with  great  variety,  the  horizontal 
and  perpendicular  lines  of  them- 
selves being  a  sufficient  contrast  to 
the  looser  lines  of  foliage  and  rock ; 
and  from  this  very  variety,  the  more 
falling  into,  and  forming  a  part  of 
the  ground  on  which  the  buildings 
are  raised ;  and  which  union  the  for- 
mality of  architecture  would  other- 
wise forbid,  and  thus  the  very  build- 
ings, of  no  domineering  pretensions, 
are  appropriate  to  the  land  and  its 
inhabitants,  that  land  of  recognised 
peace,  that  lies  between  Fairy  Land 
and  our  common  working  world. 
Poussinesque  buildings  are  the  very 
perfection  of  landscape  architecture. 
The  lines  are  simple,  and  do  not,  by 
a  thousand  wavings  and  turnings, 
vie  with  the  undulations  of  the  ex- 
ternal scenery  about  it.  And  for  this 
reason,  painters  who  affect  the  Go- 
thic in  their  landscape  miserably 


The  8ketcher>  No.  L 


[April, 


fail;  it  never  does  amid  rock  and 
wood.  If  the  propriety  of  Gothic 
in  landscape,  or  in  the  country, 
for  it  is  nearly  the  same  thing,  can 
be  questioned,  it  must  be  in  flat 
scenery,  where  the  building  may  per- 
haps be  the  principal,  and  not  the 
accessary;  where  tower  and  pinnacle 
may  be  allowed,  with  a  solemn  ma- 
jesty to  burst  from  the  level  into  the 
sky.  In  such  a  situation,  even  the 
wood  with  its  tall  trees  that  sur- 
round, make  a  part  rise  with,  and  do 
not  form  a  contrast  to  the  building. 
And  what  is  all  the  tracery  and  in- 
tricacy of  ornament  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture amid  the  profuse  entangle- 
ment and  garniture  of  nature,  shrub 
and  foliage,  where  pride  and  vanity 
would  be  ashamed  to  exhibit  their 
festoons,  their  lace,  and  furniture? — 
Gothic  architecture  in  its  pride  is 
not  for  external  nature.  They  will 
not  associate,  and  in  such  situations 
can  only  there  look  well,  where  it 
completes  the  sentiment,  by  giving 
the  triumph  to  nature,  and  weaving 
the  garland  of  her  victory  around  it 
in  ruins.  This  is,  however,  quite 
another  thing  in  towns  ;  there  it  is 
always  beautiful.  It  throws  a  sanc- 
tity, a  religious  protection  over  the 
lower  buildings ;  it  presents  a  refuge 
from  the  known  cares  and  turmoils, 
disgusting  sin,  and  iniquities  of 
cities  ;  it  subdues  man's  turbulence 
to  the  Divine  will — in  some  degree 
sanctifies  humanity,  and  shows  that 
the  greater  labour  of  man's  hands 
has  been  applied  in  gratitude  to  raise 
a  temple  to  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
without  whose  keep  of  the  city  "  the 
watchmen  waketh  but  in  vain." 

But  to  return  to  Gaspar  Poussin. 
Even  the  admissible  circumstance  of 
ruin  would  not  suit  his  free,  fresh,  and 
youthful  ideal.  You  see  not,  therefore, 
withhim  eventhemagnificenttemples 
in  decay  which  Claude  occasionally 
delights  in.  Poussin  may  sometimes 
exhibit  the  Sybil's  temple,  but  it  is 
subordinate  and  distant.  He  delights 
not  in  the  past;  he  would  not  let 
you  conjecture  the  scene  was  ever 
better ;  it  is  of  its  best  days.  Maud- 
lin melancholy  and  retrospection 
shun  his  placid  scenes.  His  reclin- 
ing figures  are  in  ease  and  happiness, 
they  will  neither  hang  nor  drown. 
They  are  not  Virgil's  Fortunati,  with 
an  O  and  an  if, "  sua  si  bona  norint." 
They  know  well  all  their  blessings, 
and  the  brawling  of  the  demagogue ; 


1883.] 


The  Sketcher,  No.  I. 


687 


find  a  lying  press  have  not  introdu- 
c  ed  among  them  the  craving  for  re- 
form, that  would  set  all  their  towers, 
find  villages,  and  woods,  and  every 
verdant  thing  in  conflagration.  When 
Thomson  speaks  of  learned  Pous- 
fcin,  I  very  much  suspect  he  means 
his  brother-in-law  Nicholas,  whose 
name  he  took ;  but,  in  fact,  speaking 
only  with  respect  to  landscape,  Gas- 
par  was  by  far  the  most  learned  of 
the  two. 

I  doubt  if  ever  there  was  an  art- 
ist that  understood  the  art  and  mys- 
tery of  .composition  in  any  degree  as 
lie  did ;  many  have  indeed  apparent- 
ly, from  some  feeling,  hit  upon  pro- 
priety of  lines,  but  Gaspar  studied 
it  as  an  art,  worked  upon  it  as  a  prin- 
ciple. I  once  heard  a  person  object 
to  Gaspar  Poussin,  that  there  was 
too  much  in  his  pictures ;  yet  this 
person  had  not  an  eye  for  the  whole, 
in  the  forming  of  which  the  artist  is 
KO  admirable.  Yet  I  understand 
what  he  meant.  Gaspar,  by  his 
knowledge  of  the  art  of  composi- 
tion, was  perfect  master  of  all  parts 
of  his  landscape,  could  make  the 
most  of  them,  and  all  tell  upon  any 
given  space,  hence  he  could  intro- 
duce a  great  deal,  the  point  objected 
to,  as  1  observed.  He  could  raise 
or  lower,  as  he  pleased,  by  the  sim- 
plest operation  of  his  hand.  Now 
this  principle  of  his  working  I  think 
I  have  discovered — nay,  I  am  certain 
of  it — and  thus  it  happened.  I  was 
etching  one  of  his  pictures.  Per- 
haps the  reader  may  have  seen  it.  (I 
etched  from  a  copy  painted  by  my- 
self of  the  size  of  the  original.)  It 
was  once  in  the  possession  of  Mr 
Beckford,  and,  I  believe,  came  to  this 
country  with  the  Altieri  Claudes,  and 
with  these  two  is  now  in  the  fine  col- 
lection of  P.  J.  Miles,  Esq.  of  Leigh 
Court.  The  picture  is  an  upright, 
a  truly  beautiful  scene,  mountainous, 
rocky,  and  well  covered  with  foliage, 
refreshing  water  gushing  out  from 
the  rocks,  and  flowing  in  profusion 
throughout,  terminating  in  a  clear 
yet  shallow  stream,  that  runs  -into 
the  foreground,  where  are  two  re- 
clining figures,  and  to  the  corner  of 
the  picture.  On  a  rocky  height  in 
the  second  distance  are  some  beau- 
tiful buildings,  behind  which  is  a 
ravine,  whose  depth  is  hid  by  the 
buildings,  and  by  the  adjacent  ground, 
which  winds  round,  connecting  it- 


self with  a  further  distance,  and  that 
again  by  a  rising  rock,  with  the  more 
distant  range  ot  woody  hills,  on  the 
first  slope  of  whose  summit  is  a  small 
town.  This  more  distant  range  of 
hills  running  nearly  across  the  pic- 
ture, being  only  interrupted  by  the 
foliage  of  a  tree  rising  from  the  fore- 
ground, was  the  first  object  I  etched ; 
and  when  I  had  the  outline  of  it  on 
the  wax,  with  some  adjacent  parts, 
I  could  scarcely  trust  to  the  correct- 
ness of  my  hand,  and  thought  it  ne- 
cessary to  examine  and  compare  my 
work  with  the  picture.  That  which 
in  the  original  appeared  so  elevated, 
and  of  so  large  consequence  on  the 
canvass,  appeared  quite  insignifi- 
cant ;  nor  could  I  rest  satisfied,  until 
I  had  discovered  by  what  means  he 
had  effected  the  charm.  When  I 
had  put  in  all  my  lines,  and  carefully 
studied  them,  with  such  as  were 
formed  solely  by  shade,  where  the 
form  could  not  bend  to  his  purpose, 
the  secret  was  out — the  mystery 
cleared.  On  examining  other  com- 
positions of  the  same  master,  I  al- 
most invariably  saw  the  application 
of  the  same  principle  or  rule.  But 
I  will  endeavour  to.describe  it  as  it 
was  in  this  picture,  and  regret  only 
that  imperative  Maga  will  not  allow 
me  to  exhibit  the  matter  more  clear- 
ly, by  an  outline  of  the  picture,  and 
references  to  its  parts. 

I  found  the  highest  part  of  the 
mountain  to  be  immediately  above 
its  lowest  depth,  to  which  the  adja- 
cent lines  subtended — so  the  clouds 
likewise  fall,  so  as  to  let  the  summit 
rise ;  and  this  was  attended  to  in  the 
minor  parts,  whatever  was  the  direc- 
tion of  the  objects  as  forming  a 
whole ;  and  a  more  precipitous  line 
was  formed  by  a  shadow,  than  the 
bare  outline  of  the  mountain  could 
have  admitted ;  and  by  this  manage- 
ment the  greater  part  of  the  sky  and 
more  distant  part  of  the  mountains 
fall  into  each  other,  forming  one 
mass,  as  the  shady  and  near  part  of 
the  hills  did  another.  As  the  moun- 
tain lowered  in  the  picture,  the  other 
objects  rose  ;  and  where  the  moun- 
tains were  lowest,  the  rock  and  build- 
ings of  the  middle  distance  elevated 
themselves,  and  acquired  a  conse- 
quence which  they  could  not  have 
gained  had  they  been  placed  where 
lines  would  have  risen  above  them. 
In  the  foreground  stands  a  high  tree 


G88 

in  shade,  reaching  nearly  to  the  top 
of  the  picture,  and  as  much  as  it  is 
short  of  the  top,  so  is  it  interrupted 
at  the  bottom  by  the  introduction  of 
a  stone  and  some  leaves  ;  and  this  is 
the  highest  object  in  the  piece.  The 
next  is  the  summit  of  the  mountain; 
the  point  then  under  it  to  which  the 
eye  is  to  be  directed  is  the  second 
depth,  of  course  somewhat  higher  in 
the  picture,  as  the  summit  is  lower 
than  the  top  of  the  tree  j  but  to  di- 
rect the  eye  to  this  point,  so  that  it 
should  measure,  as  it  were,  the 
height,  was  a  difficulty,  as  the  space 
was  occupied  by  a  running  stream, 
whose  lines  of  course  ran  still  down- 
wards, and  in  a  contrary  direction ; 
to  manage  this,  however,  the  painter 
bestows  but  little  work'  on  that  part 
of  the  water,  which  is  not  very  dis- 
tinguishable ;  and  by  running  a  light 
directly  across  the  water,  and  ob- 
liquely, as  if  at  an  angle,  that  would 
meet  the  falling  lines  of  the  moun- 
tain at  a  central  horizontal  line,  and 
therefore  in  apparent  relation  to  it ; 
and  by  a  sharper  light  just  at  the 
point,  you  cannot  but  connect  the 
elevation  above  with  it.  Then,  again, 
the  fine  clouds  over  the  summits  of 
the  range  of  hills,  such  as 

"  Rode  royally  about  the  sky, 
A  grand  and  glorious  line, 

As  it  were  Nature's  holyday, 

And  all  were  proud  and  tine," 
run  up  towards  the  foliage  of  the 
tree,  in  a  direction  opposing  the  line 
of  shadow  above  mentioned  ;  and  on 
the  other  side  of  the  summit,  where 
the  lines  fall,  the  clouds  proportion- 
ally rise,  and  this  is  so  artificially 
managed,  that  where  the  lowering 
line  of  the  hill  is  broken  by  a  town, 
a  building  of  which  is  a  little  elevated 
though  in  accordance  with  the  gene- 
ral fall  of  lines  of  the  hill,  and  those 
of  the  clouds  rise,  yet  is  a  notch  made 
in  them,  that  the  building  should  have 
its  corresponding  lowering  object. 
View  the  picture  laterally,  the  same 
principle  prevails ;  whatever  recedes, 
and  whatever  projects,  has  its  op- 
posite receding  and  projecting  ob- 
jects and  lines  to  meet  or  retire  from 
thence.  Yet  this  end  is  not  always, 
though  commonly  attained  by  the 
forms  and  outlines  of  the  objects 
themselves,  but  by  touches  of  light 
or  of  shadow,  which  may  direct  the 
eye  as  the  principle  may  require— 
and  by  this  means,  the  art,  which 


The  Sketcher,  No.  t 


[April, 


were  it  invariably  in  outline  of  ob- 
jects would  be  too  conspicuous,  is 
concealed ;  for  the  artist  forgets  not 
the  golden  rule,  "  Ars  est  celare  art- 
em."  As  in  the  circle,  while  one  way 
the  parts  continually  approach  each 
other,  the  ppposites  are  most  dis- 
tant ;  so  it  is  in  the  composition  of 
the  picture,  leaving  thereby  the  great- 
est space  for  whatever  the  painter 
may  be  inclined  to  introduce.  And 
thus  it  is  that  it  has  been  said,  Caspar 
has  so  much  in  his  pictures,  for  he 
had  the  greatest  power  over  a  given 
space.  Without  knowing  the  prin- 
ciple on  which  this  great  painter 
worked;  were  you  to  sketch  your 
recollection  of  his  pictures,  (this  one 
I  am  sure  of,)  you  would  raise  your 
mountains  higher  than  they  are,  and 
leave  no  room  for  the  clouds,  which 
with  him  find  ample  space  to  sport 
in,  and  are  so  consonant  to  the  beauty 
of  the  whole.  And  his  foliage  that 
so  hangs  over,  bough  meeting  bough, 
and  receding  hollow  having  its  cor- 
respondent receding  hollow,  giving 
the  greater  character,  and  almost  sen- 
timent to  the,  as  it  were,  instinctively 
meeting  branches,  not  only  are  great 
natural  beauties,  but  most  essentially 
benefit  the  painter  in  his  composi- 
tion. I  have  dwelt  so  long  on  this 
admirable  painter,  that  I  can  now 
make  no  remark  on  any  other ;  I  hope 
I  have  made  my  self  intelligible — if  so, 
let  the  painter,  amateur,  or  profes- 
sional, examine  his  pictures,  and  if 
they  see  in  them  the  principle  of 
composition,  he  will  find  he  has  dis- 
covered a  great  assistance  to  his  ge- 
nius, I  shall  be  amply  repaid,  and  he 
will  not  despise  information,  though 
it  come  from  one  far  inferior  to  Igno- 
ramus, and  remember  the  homely  re- 
monstrance of  the  poor  servant,  to 
the  Lord  Abbot  of  Canterbury. 

"  Did  you  never  hear  yet, 

That  a  fool  might  teach  a  wise  man  wit." 

I  purposed  to  enter  more  largely  in 
this  paper  into  the  art  and  mystery 
of  sketching,  but  my  admiration  of 
the  great  Painter  of  landscape  has  led 
me  somewhat  from  my  purpose ;  and 
yet  scarcely  so,  for  what  is  more  to 
the  purpose  of  sketching,  than  to  dis- 
cover the  principle  on  which  such  a 
painter  built  his  undying  fame  ?  And 
thus  I  conclude  for  the  present— 
"  To-morrow  to  fresh  fields  and  pas* 
tures  new." 


18S3.] 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.     No.  1. 


DEVONSHIRE  AND  CORNWALL  ILLUSTRATED. 


No.  I. 


DEVONSHIRE  is  one  of  the  most 
dalightful — some  would  say  the  most 
delightful  of  all  the  delightful  coun- 
ties of  the  most  delightful  country 
in  the  whole  world — merry  Eng- 
knd.  The  Bristol  and  English  Chan- 
nels skirt  it  on  the  north  and  south, 
so  far  inland,  though  you  may  be,  in 
some  season  of  calm  weather  ascend 
some  natural  watch-tower,  and  you 
sue  fleets  or  squadrons  or  single 
ships,  or  perhaps 

"  One  ship  on  some  calm  day, 
In  sunshine  sailing  far  away; 
Some  glittering  ship  that  hath  the  plain 
Of  ocean  for  her  own  domain !" 

On  the  west  it  is  bounded,  and 
almost  separated  from  Cornwall,  a 
pleasant  land,  by  the  beautiful-bank- 
ed river  Tamar,  with  its  rocky  woods. 
On  the  east  it  is  flanked  by  Somer- 
setshire and  Dorsetshire,  them  selves 
paragons ;  and  there  you  have  a  cir- 
cumference of  some  three  hundred 
niles,  upwards  of  a  million  and  a 
half  acres,  nearly  three  hundred  pa- 
rishes, and  forty  market  towns,  with 
half  a  million  of  inhabitants,  the 
I  rightest  and  boldest  of  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  liberty.  Are  you  a 
]  'ainter  or  a  Poet  ?  There  may  you 
feast  on  the  beautiful,  the  pictu- 
resque, and  the  romantic.  Are  you 
£n  antiquary?  Many  are  the  re- 
mains. A  geologist  ?  Lo !  the  Tors. 
A  Freeman  ?  Plant  your  foot  on  Ply- 
mouth Breakwater,  and  sing 

"  Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  wave, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep !" 

Devonshire  may  be  said  to  be 
divided  into  three  great  districts. 
The  central  part  of  the  western,  ex- 
1  ending  from  the  Vale  of  Exeter  to 
1he  Banks  of  the  Tamar,  consists 
<  hiefly  of  that  barren  and  unculti- 
-  ed  tract  of  land,  called  Dartmoor. 
t  includes  '^Dartmoor  Forest,  a 
:  nighty  waste  of  some  three  hundred 
thousand  acres — a  stern  and  savage 
f  olitude  ;  yet  even  there  "  Beauty 
pitches  her  tents  before  us,"  and 
!liolds  her  court  in  the  streamy  wil- 
derness. The  north-centre  division, 


or  the  Vale  of  Exeter,  contains  an 
area  of  two  hundred  square  miles, 
and  is  bounded  by  undulating  hills, 
gentle  eminences,  or  mountainous 
ridges,  itself  rejoicing  in  richest  cul- 
tivation beautifying  the  bosom  of 
nature.  Bounded  on  the  north  by 
Dartmoor  and  the  Heights  of  Chud- 
leigh ;  on  the  west  by  the  river  Plym 
and  Plymouth  Sound ;  on  the  east  by 
Torbayj  and  on  the  south  by  the 
English  Channel  —  comprising  an 
area  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  square 
miles,  including  the  valleys  of  the 
Dart,  the  Teign,  the  Avon,  and  the 
Earme,  and  abounding  in  all  kinds  of 
the  richest  scenery,  and  likewise  in 
the  wildest  of  the  wild,  and  culti- 
vated to  the  utmost  perfection,  there 
lies  South  Hams,  the  glorious  gar- 
den of  England.  West  Devonshire  is 
that  large  tract  of  land  comprised  be- 
tween the  Dartmoor  mountains,  the 
rivers  Tamar  and  Plym,  and  the  Ply- 
mouth Sound;  and  illustrious  for  the 
number,  narrowness,  and  depth  of 
the  larger  valleys,  whose  banks  gene- 
rally rise  into  a  flat  ascent  from  the 
banks  of  the  dividing  streams,  and 
for  many  downlike  swells,  and  many 
strangely-fractured  hills,  you  may 
know  how  dear  this  district  was  to 
us,  last  time  we  wandered  through 
its  delights,  when  we  tell  you  that 
we  often  forgot  where  we  were  wan- 
dering, and  believed  that  we  were 
holydaying  it  in  one  of  the  half-low- 
land half-highland  regions,  among 
the  blue  bonnets  of  Auld  Scotland. 

Let  us  drop  down — from  our  bal- 
loon— on  Dartmoor;  we  have  no- 
thing like  it  in  Scotland. '  Our  moor 
of  Rannoch  is  a  vast  flat.  In  its 
bogs  might  sink  millions  of  armies 
—a  burial-place  wide  enough  for 
the  whole  world.  But  Dartmoor  is 
no  flat.  It  is  indeed  an  elevated 
table-land;  but  its  undulations  are 
endless ;  there  are  no  separate  single 
masses,  nor  can  it  be  called  moun- 
tainous; but  it  is  as  if  a  huge  mountain 
had  been  squeezed  down,  and  in  the 
process  had  split  asunder,  till  the 
whole  was  one  hilly  wilderness, 
shewing  ever  and  anon  strange  half* 
buried  shapes  striving  to  uplift  them- 


690 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated*    Afo.  7.  [April, 

We  are  growing  into 


selves  towards  the  sky.    These  they 
call   Tors;    but   their  character   is 
various ;  and  it  is  well  described  in 
one  of  the  notes  to  Carrington's  fine 
Poem,  now  in  our  pocket, — "Some  ri- 
sing like  pillars  or  turrets,  others  com- 
posed of  blocks  piled  together,  others 
divided  into  horizontal  or  perpendi- 
cular strata,  and  others  so  symme- 
trically arranged  as  to  resemble  the 
ruins  of  ancient  castles.     Innumer- 
able masses  of  stone,  more  or  less 
rounded  and  smoothed,  lie;  scattered 
over  the  general  surface.  To  a  person 
standing  on  some  lofty  point  of  the 
moor,  it  wears  the  appearance  of  an 
irregular  broken  waste,  which  may 
be  best  assimilated  to  the  long  rolling 
waves  of  a  tempestuous  ocean,  fixed 
into  solidity  by  some  instantaneous 
and  powerful  impulse."    Not  a  tree, 
nay,    not    a    shrub — and    that   can 
hardly  be  a  house ;  no,  'tis  a  stone. 
For,  though  a  hundred  streams  have 
here  their  birth,  not  one  of  them  all 
opens  its  lips.    In  drought  they  are 
dumb.     Ears  are  superfluous  in  such 
utter  stillness ;  and  we  wish  that  bee 
would  murmur.     What  is  the  crea- 
ture doing  here  ?    In  the  brown  and 
dark  peat  no  flower  in  its  senses 
would  attempt  to  grow.     Aye,  Dart- 
moor-forest-bees can  hum  after  their 
own  fashion  ;   but  never  heard   we 
any  thing  so  feeble ;  nor  for  such 
an  honey-bag  as  his  must  be,  would 
we  ensure  his  life  home  to  his  hive. 
It  is  not  a  bee,  but  a  speck,  and  ima- 
gination made  the  murmur.  No  brown 
burdie  hops  about — frogs  there  are 
none — and  this  is  no  soil  for   that 
sleek  miner  the  mole.     In  all  other 
air  but  this — at  midsummer  mid-day 
hour — one  sees  insectsxthe  glancing 
dance  of  loving  and  dying  epheme- 
rals.    Butterflies  are  here  rare  as 
birds  of  Paradise.    Stamp — but  runs 
away  no  spider. 

Let  us  see  what  kind  of  a  Poem 
Carrington  has  contrived  to  compose 
on  this  oppressive  latitude.  Soul 
and  sense  are  sinking  under  the  cir- 
cumambient, and  superincumbent, 
stillness;  and  to  relieve  the  pres- 
sure, suppose  we  spout.  Here  it 
goes— 

"  Lovely  Devonia  t  land  of  flowers  and 
songs !" 

O,  dear !  what  could  induce  us  to 
Jet    out   gas    when    floating    over 


Dartmoor  ! 
a  Tor. 

"  Be  mine  to  taste 
The  freshness  of  the  moorland  gale;  'tis 

life 
To  breathe  it,  though  it  bears  not  on  its 

wing 
Hyblaean  sweets,  nor  cheers  the  grateful 

brow, 
With  the  warm,  fragrant,  and  luxurious 

kiss 

Of  the  soft  zephyrs  in  the  vale!" 
Hyblsean  sweets !  land  of  flowers 


and  songs!  Oh!  that  we  were  in 
the  South  Hams!  Oh!  for  a  few 
gallons  of  cider  !  Why,  there  is  go- 
ing to  be  thunder.  Big  drops  fall 
heavily — "  like  the  first  of  a  thunder 
shower" — as  Byron  says  of  the  dying 
gladiator.  They  are  beads  of  sweat 
from  the  brows  of  a  dying  editor,  as 
big  as  marbles.  But  we  have  more 
geological  science  than  to  shelter 
ourselves  from  heat  under  that 
stone.  He  is  a  primitive-lookiug 
old  gentleman,  and  as  hot  himself 
as  that  place  which  is  never  men- 
tioned before  ears  polite — so  we 
smoke  him,  and  cry  "  Old  Huncks 
tu  Romane  caveto  /"  But  some  more 
Carrington — 

"  Dartmoor !  thou  wert  to  me  in  child- 
hood's hour, 
A  wild  and  wondrous  region.     Day  by 

day, 

Arose  upon  my  youthful  eyes  thy  belt 
Of  hills  mysterious,  shadowy,  clasping  all 
The  green  and  cheerful  landscape  sweet- 
ly spread 

Around  my  home,  and  with  a  stern  de- 
light 
I  gazed  on  Thee !    How  often  on  the 

speech 

Of  the  half-savage  peasant  have  I  hung, 
To  hear  of  rock-crown'd  heights,  on 

which  the  clouds 
For  ever  rest ;    and  wild,   stupendous, 

swept 
By  mightiest  storms;  of  glen,  and  gorge, 

and  cliff 
Terrific,  beetling  o'er  the  stone-strewed 

vale  ; 

And  giant  masses  by  the  midnight  flash 
Struck  from  the  mountain's  hissing  brow, 

and  hurled 

Into  the  foaming  torrent.  And  of  forms 
That  rose  amid  the  desert,  rudely  shaped 
By  superstitious  hands  when  time  was 

young; 
And  of  the  dead,  the  warrior-dead  who 

sleep 
Beneath  the  hallowed  cairn!" 


1833.] 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.     No.  /. 


691 


These  are  very  passable  lines — so 
wo  let  them  pass.  The  moor  has 
many  minstrelsies,  we  perceive  the 
PC  et  tells  us,  for  those  who  trace  its 
hundred  brooks  to  their  mountain- 
source.  Away  they  go  to  fructify 
fai:-off  fields— 

"  Whilst  thou 
Ti  e  source  of  half  the  beauty,  wearest 

still 

Tt  rough  centuries,  upon  thy  blasted  brow, 
Tie  curse  of  barrenness." 

In  this  region,  now  seeming  as 
"Arabian  drought,"  there  are  not 
fewer  than  five  principal  rivers  — 
twenty-four  secondary  rivers,  fifteen 
brooks,  with  names,  and  several  ano- 
nymous contributors,  two  lakes,  and 
seven  heads — or,  altogether,  fifty- 
three  streams  !  The  most  fertilizing 
of  deserts.  And  almost  within  arm's- 
leiigth  there  is  a  well — Fice's  well. 
Waat  a  strange  little  edifice  !  Inte- 
rior and  sides  of  granite — inscription 
(which  must  be  a  lie,)  1168,  built 
doubtless  in  gratitude  to  the  Naiad, 
to  *uard  her  from  rape  by  Apollo. 

"  Dartmoor  silent  desert!"  is  not 
all  silent. 

"  Through  the  rock 

'  Of  ages,  hills  abrupt,  and  caverns  deep, 
Til  3  railway  leads  its  mazy  track.      The 

will 

Of  science  guides  its  vast  meanders  on, 
From  Plym's  broad  union  with  the  ocean 

wave, 
To  Dartmoor's   silent  forest  j  and  the 

depths 

Of  solitude  primeval  now  resound 
With  the  glad  voice  of  man.    The  daunt- 
less grasp 

Of  Industry  assails  yon  mighty  Tors 
Of  the  dread  wilderness,  and  soon  they 

lift 
Th2ir  awful  heads  no  more.     Ye  rose 

sublime, 

Ye  monuments  of  the  past  world,  ye  rose 
Sublimely  on  the  view,  but  fate  has  struck 
Tha  inexorable  hour,  and  ye  that  bore, 
Wi  d  and  unshatter'd  as  ye  are,  unmoved, 
Th.j  brunts  of  many  thousand  stormyyears, 
And  awed  the  mind  by  your  majestic 

forms, 
Ard  told  strange  tales  of  the  departed 

times, 
Mi  st  bend  your  hoary  brows,  and  strew 

the  hills 
Wi  th  venerable  ruin  r 

Lo  !  along  the  iron  way 
Tli  e  rocks  gigantic  slide  !     The  peasant 

views 
VOL.  XXXJH,  NO.  CCVJI. 


Amazed,   the  masses  of  the  wild  moor 

move 
Swift  to  the  destined  port.     The  busy 

pier 
Groans  'neath  the  giant  spoil ;  the  future 

pile 

Is  there,  the  portal  vast,  the  column  tall, 
The  tower,  the  temple,  and  the  mighty 

arch 
That  yet  shall  span  the  torrent." 

That  is  almost — if  not  quite — it  is 
poetry.  Carrington  goes  on  prophesy- 
ing that  the  wilderness,no  longer  rock- 
strewed,  shall  blossom  like  the  rose 
— that  a  thousand  cots,  fair-sprinkled 
over  the  sward,  shall  delight  the 
eye,  where  the  old  desert  howled— 
high-cultured  fields  smile  all  around 
— flower-fringed  streams  flow  with 
melodies — merry  woodlands  wake 
their  varied  lays  enchanting — 

"  While  the  voice 

Of  man  is  heard  amid  the  general  burst 
Of  soul-inspiring  sounds." 

This  is  midsummer  madness.  The 
railway  was  a  noble  undertaking, 
the  total  length  of  line  being  twenty- 
five  miles  from  King  Tor  to  Sutton 
Pool,  Plymouth,  and  much  lime, 
coals,  timber,  &c.  were  at  one  time 
conveyed  up,  (how  is  it  now  ?)  and 
granite,  &c.  brought  down ;  but  Dart- 
moor is  still  Dartmoor,  and  will  be 
till  Doomsday. 

"  Shalt  Thou  alone  ! 
Dartmoor !  in  this  fair  land,  where  all 

beside 

Is  life  and  beauty,  sleep  the  sleep  of  death) 
And  shame  the  Map  of  England  ?" 

Perhaps  it  serves,  as  it  is,  the  gra- 
cious purposes  of  Providence.  The 
Poet  has  already  called  it "  the  source 
of  half  the  beauty  "  of  Devon's  aus- 
tral plains  j  and  we  see  his  amiota- 
tor  says,  and  truly,  "  that  such  a  su- 
perabundance of  water— upwards  of 
fifty  streams — arises  from  the  mo- 
rasses or  bogs  so  extensive  on  the 
moor,  the  spongy  soil  of  which  re- 
tains the  rains,  or  rather  torrents, 
when  they  fall,  until  gradually  dealt 
out  in  rivulets,  brooks,  and  rivers,  to 
the  fertilization  and  ornament  of  the 
surrounding  and  distant  country." 
Drain  Dartmoor,  and  you  dry  up  the 
Dart  and  the  Teign,  and  heaven 
knows  how  many  other  fair  flowings, 
that  now 

•     "  Scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land." 
2  Y 


^Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.     No.  I. 


[April, 


Besides  it  would  never  pay.  Nor  is 
that  an  unpoetical  view  of  the  mat- 
ter, for  poetry  can  have  no  pleasure  in 
beholding  human  labour  vainly  wasted 
even  to  increase  human  happiness. 
All  good  poets  are  good  Political 
Economists — and  they  never  fight 
against  nature — though  they  exult  to 
see  her  tamed  from  her  pristine 
wildness,  and  subservient,  in  her  own 
brighter  lustre,  to  the  necessities  and 
the  enjoyments  of  man. 

Why,  here  is  expression  given  to 
the  feeling  of  this  still  lonesomeness 
as  good  as  our  own — perhaps  better 
— and  the  versification  is  very  musi- 
cal. 

<«  Devonia's  dreary  Alps !  and  now  I  feel 
The  influence  of  that  impressive  calm 
That  rests  upon  them.    Nothing  that  has 

life 

Is  visible  ;  no  solitary  flock, 
At   wide  will  ranging  through   the  silent 

moors, 

Breaks  the  deep-felt  monotony,  and  all 
Is  motionless,  save  where  the  giant  shades 
Flung  by  the  passing  cloud,  glide  slowly 

o'er 
The  grey  and  gloomy  wild.     With  pen- 

sive  step, 

Delayed  full  oft  to  mark  thy  lovely  mead, 
Northampton,  I  ascend  the  toiling  hill, 
And  now  upon  thy  wind-swept  ridge  I 

stand  -. 

The  south,  the  west,  with  all  their  mil- 
lion fields, 

In  sweet  confusion  mingled,  lie  below. 
Above  me  frowns  the  Tor." 

That  is  poetry.  Nothing  can  be 
better  than  the  image  in  italics.  The 
expression  is  perfect.  It  brings  to 
our  mind  two  lines  of  Walter  Savage 
Landor,  which  are  wonderfully  fine. 
Speaking  of  the  Egyptian  Desert,  near 
the  Pyramids,  he  says— 

"  And  hoofless  camels,  in  long  single  line, 
Troop  on,  with  foreheads   level  to  the 
sky." 

Nor  is  the  effect  injured,  but  in- 
creased, by  Carrington,  when  look- 
ing at  and  seeing  in  his  solitary 
awe, "  Above  me  hangs  the  Tor,"  he 
asks — 

"  Art  not  thou  old 
As  the  aged  sun,  and  did  not  his  first 


Glance  on  thy  new-formed  forehead;  or 

art  thou 
But  born  of  the  Deluge,  mighty  one  ?  Thy 

birth 
Is  blended  with  the  unfathomable  past." 


But  what  sees  he  now  ?  Another 
Tor,  far  off;— North-Brent  Tor— not 
far  from  the  beautiful  Tavistock. 
Why,  we  remember,  many  long  years 
ago,  seeing  it  through  a  telescope 
seven  leagues  out  at  sea  in  our 
schooner,  with  its  church  at  the  top. 
And  it  forms,  we  have  been  told,  a 
useful  guide  to  mariners  for  entering 
Plymouth  Sound.  It  looks  like,  and 
we  believe  is,  an  extinct  volcano. 
For  its  shape  is  conical,  and  the  rock 
is  porous — used  in  the  walls  of  Lid- 
ford  Castle.  The  church  and  sur- 
rounding yard,  in  which  there  is 
hardly  earth  sufficient  for  burying 
of  the  dead,  nearly  occupy  the  apex. 
The  tradition  is,  that  a  merchant,  ex- 
posed to  a  violent  storm,  vowed  to 
build  a  church  to  St  Michael,  if  his 
life  was  spared,  and  this  Tor  having 
been  the  means  of  directing  the 
steersman  into  harbour,  the  vow  was 
duly  performed,  by  the  erection  of 
this  structure.  Thus— 

"  From  yon  plain 

Brent  Tor  uprushes.  Even  now,  when  all 
Is  light,  and  life,  and  joy  on  Tamar's  bank, 
Even  now  that  solitary  mass  is  dark, 
Dark  in  the  glorious  sunshine.  But  when 

night 
With  raven  wing  broods  o'er  it,  and  the 

storm 
Of  winter  sweeps  the  moor,  such  sounds 

are  heard 

Around  that  lonely  rock,  as  village  seers 
Almost  unearthly  deem.  In  truth  it  wears 
A  joyless  aspect ;  yet  the  very  brow 
Uplifts  a  chapel ;  and  Devotion  breathes 
Oft,  in  the  region  of  the  cloud,  her  hymn 
Of  touching  melody.     Impressive  spot 
For  fair  Religion's  dome !   and  sure,  if 

aught 
Can  prompt  to  holiest  feeling,  and  give 

wings 

To  disembodied  thought,  it  is  to  bend 
The  knee  where  erst  the  daring  eagle 

perched ; 
And  while,  with  all  its  grossness,  all  its 

care, 
Earth  waits,  far,  far  below,  to  worship 

there, 
There,  on  the  wild  van  of  the  wildest 

rock 
That  Dartmoor  lifts  on  high." 

One  ought  not  to  be  too  hasty  in 
judging  either  of  men's  or  moor's 
characters.  How  often  do  dismally 
dull  men,  as  we  had  disposed  of 
them  at  first  introduction,  after  fa- 
miliar intercourse, break,  brighten,  or 
burst  out  into  something  absolutely 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.    Afo.  I. 


1833.] 

lintle  short  of  genius  !  One,  who 
w  as  so  shy  and  silent,  that  you  could 
neither  extract  nor  pump  out  of  him 
a  dissyllable,  shews  in  the  tail  of  his 
eye  a  lurking  sly  humour,  and  by 
and  by  begins  to  prate  in  an  inter- 
mitting slow  fever  of  fun  that  makes 
y«m  restless  till  you  have  positively 
ascertained  that  the  man  has  wit. 
Tiie  truth  is,  that  he  has  been  long 
known  as  a  geg.  And  much  amuse- 
ment "had  he  been  giving  to  his  own 
cl  oice  set  by  his  kitcats  of  your- 
self spiritedly  drawn,  and  coloured 
to  the  life,  with  a  certain  droll  kind 
of  irresistible  dry  humour.  Another, 


693 


(for  what  else  can  you  call  him)  looks 
over  your  shoulder  as  you  take  away 
all  likeness  from  a  glen,— which  ma- 
king a  sudden  wheel  with  all  its  old 
woods,  crowned  with  a  castle  old  as 
themselves,  and  almost  of  the  same 
colour — shews  you  what  is  called  we 
believe  a  Vista,  that  is,  a  long  glim- 
mering gloomy  glory  of  wood,  rock, 
and  waterfall,  as  the  river  keeps  leap- 
ing like  a  madman  from  mountain 
to  sea,  rock-bound  as  in  chains,  but 
free,  in  spite  of  bondage  which  he 
breaks,  or  hurries  howling  and  roar- 
ing on  to  the  clank  of  his  chains 
echoing  through  chasms  in  the  cliffs, 


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wiio  merely  nodded  or  shook  his  head    as  if  in  many  a  mad-house  replied 


in  apparent  acquiescence  or  dubiety, 
w  lile  you  were  mouthing  it  away  in 
m  mologue,  like  a  Lake  Poet  in  a 
parlour,  before  the  end  of  the  week 
grisps  the  earliest  opportunity  of 
getting  your  head  into  a  cloven  stick, 
perhaps  on  the  question  of  mediate 
or  immediate  emancipation  of  the 
blacks,  and  like  a  Borthwick  bela- 
bouring a  Thompson,  or  vice  versa, 
w  th  blow  on  blow 

"  j  ledoubled  and  redoubled,  a  wild  scene 
Of  mirth  and  jocund  din," 

he  does  so  bother  your  brains,  that  you 
begin  to  doubt  your  personal  identity, 
and  to  believe  yourself  some  block- 
head half-beaten  to  death  in  Black- 
wood's  Magazine.  A  third,  who  has 
ni|;ht  after  nightnot  only  seconded  the 
m«  ition  made  by  the  lady  of  the  house, 
f o  •  a  song  from  you,  the  mellifluous, 
th  ;  melodious,  and  the  harmonious, 
but  likened  you  at  the  fall  of  "  The 
St  )rm"  to  Incledon,  confessing  to  a 
good  ear  and  a  passion  for  music, 
but  denying  all  voice,  like  a  martyr 
at  the  stake,  some  evening,  when  the 
dr  i wing-room  is  full  of  the  flowers  of 
th  *  field  and  the  forest  and  the  square 
and  the  court,  the  moment  after  you 
ha  ye,  in  your  usual  style,  murdered 
Arid  Robin  Gray,  volunteers — or 
pe  rhaps  'tis  at  a  beck  from  Beckie— 
an  air !  And  to  your  discomfiture 
an  i  despair,  to  a  man  of  your  sensi- 
bil  ity  a  thousand  degrees  worse  than 
death,  while  the  audience  are  hush- 
ed in  admiration  and  delight,  he 
ke  ?ps  warbling  one  of  Scotia's  most 
he  ivenly  melodies,  as  if  he  were  a 
lin  net,  a  lark,  a  mavis,  and  a  night- 
in<  ale  all  in  one,  or  almost  a  Thomas 
Mc  Gill,  who  certainly  is  the  sweetest 
sh  ger  in  Scotland.  A  fourth  impostor 


the  lunatics, — he  looks  smilingly  over 
your  shoulder  we  say,  and  on  your 
asking  him,  in  all  the  conscious  pride 
of  art,  "  if  he  does  any  thing  in  that 
way"  replies,  "  Not  at  all — not  the 
least  in  the  world" — but  waiting  till 
you  are  done,  and  the  vista  done  for, 
he  slowly  extracts  from  the  inside 
pocket  of  his  jacket,  on  the  left 
side  of  his  breast,  which  seemed  to 
contain  but  a  bandana,  a  "  wee  bit 
byuckie,"  about  eight  inches  long, 
six  broad,  and  one  thick,  pa^e 
after  page  rich  with  the  magic 
powers  of  pen  and  pencil,  containing 
within  those  brass  clasps  seemingly 
all  that  is  worth  looking  at  in  Scot- 
land,— and  ere  you  have  recovered 
from  your  astonishment  and  shame, 
he  outs  carelessly  with  another  duo- 
decimo delineating  half  of  the  North 
of  Italy  and  all  Switzerland. 

We  apply  our  illustration  to  Dart- 
moor. We  abused  it  in  good  set 
terms  a  little  ago,  for  being  barren ; 
nor  could  we  believe  that  "  yon" 
was  a  bee.  But  Carrington  corrects 
us  j  and  looking  about,  we  see  many 
bees,  and  some  birds,  and  birds  too 
of  the  right  sort,  and  butterflies  too, 
likewise,  and  also,  not  in  mere  ones 
or  twos,  or  threes,  but  of  the  smaller 
and  smallest  size,  in  numbers  with- 
out number  numberless — call  them 
mid-day  moths  if  you  choose — and 
of  the  larger,  if  not  the  largest  size, 
as  many  as  can  reasonably  be  ex- 
pected, and  more  in  a  moor — and 
confound  us  if  that  one  be  not  very 
like  the  Emperor  of  Morocco. 

We  give  our  palinode  in  the  words 
of  the  poet. 

"  There  Spring  leaves  not 
Her   emerald  mantle  on  the  vales,  her 

breath 


694 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.     2?o.  I. 


Upon  the  breeze,  but  all  the  seasons  pass 
In  sad  procession  o'er  the  changeless  earth; 
The  hills  arise  monotonous  ;  from  one 
Dark  hue,  one  dreary  hue  is  on  them  all ; 
And   through  the  faithless  dark  morass 

below 

The  sluggish  waters  creep.  Yet  even  here 
The  voice  of  joy  resounds.  The  moorland 

lark, 

Sole  bird  that  breaks  the  unnatural  repose, 
Springs  from  the  heathery  wilds  and 

pours  a  song 

Inspiring ;   and  though  o'er  his  breeze- 
swept  nest     . 
There  bends  no  cheerful  grass,  nor  in  the 

gale 
Of  Summer  strips  the  golden  corn,  he 

owns 
The  influence  of  the  vernal  hour,  and 

makes 
Heaven's  concave  echo  with  a  lovelier 

song 

Than  swells  above  the  flowery  mead.    Be- 
hold 

How  swiftly  up  the  aerial  way  he  climbs, 
Nor  intermits  his  strains,  but  sings  and 

mounts, 

Untired,  till  love  recall  him  to  the  breast 
Of  the  dark  moor.  O  dear  to  him  that 

moor 
Beyond  the  most  luxuriant  spot  which 

earth 
Boasts  in  her  ample  round  ;  for  there  his 

mate, 

Listening  his  lay,  expectant  sits,  and  there, 
From  morn  to  eve  incessant,  claiming 

food, 
In  mossy  circles  swathed,  his  nurslings 

rest. 

Bird,  bee,  and  butterfly,  the  fairest  three 
That  meet  us  ever  on  the  Summer  path ! 
And  what,  with  all  their  forms  and  hues 

divine, 
Could  Summer  be  without  them?  Though 

the  skies 
Were  blue,  and  blue  the  streams,   and 

fresh  the  fields, 

And  beautiful,  as  now,  the  waving  woods, 
And  exquisite  the  flowers  ;  and  though 

the  sun 
Roamed  from  his  cloudless  throne  from 

day  to  day, 
And,  with  the  haze  and  shower,  more 

loveliness 
Shed  o'er  this  lovely  world  ;  yet  all  would 

want 

A  charm,  if  those  sweet  denizens  of  earth 
And  air,  made  not  the  great  creation  teem 
With  beauty,  grace,  and  motion  !  Who 

would  bless 

The  landscape,  if  upon  his  morning  walk, 
He  greeted  not  the  feathery  nations, 

perched 
For  love  or  song  amid  the  dancing  leaves ; 


[April, 

Or  wantoning  in  flight  from   bough  to 

bough, 
From  field  to  field  ;  ah  !   who  would  bless 

thee,  June, 

If  silent,  songless,  were  the  groves,  un- 
heard 
The  lark  in  heaven  ?    And  he  who  meets 

the  bee 
Rifling  the  bloom,  and  listless  hears  his 

hum, 
Incessant   singing  through   the  glowing 

day; 
Or  loves  not   the  gay  butterfly   which 

swims  —  „ 

Before  him  in  the  ardent  noon,  arrayed 
In  crimson,  azure,  emerald,  and  gold  ; 
With  more  magnificence  upon  his  wing, 
His  little  wing,  than  ever  graced  the  robe 
Gorgeous  of  royalty  ;  like  the  kine 
That  wanders  'mid  the  flowers  which  gem 

our  meads, 
Unconscious  of  their  beauty." 

There  is  much  beauty  here;  and 
we  begin  to  wish  we  had  a  cottage 
in  this  very  Dartmoor  Forest.  Dark 
as  it  is,  it  has  many  a  dell  green 
enough  "  in  the  season  of  the  year ;" 
and  we  dare  say  flowers  are  to  be 
had  for  the  seeking — "  sweet  flowers 
whose  home  is  everywhere," — and 
we  might  even  try  a  few  exotics — 
in  rivalry  with  the  natives  of  the 
wild.  At  our  time  of  life,  we  could 
not  hope  to  walk ;  but  we  might  hope 
to  sit,  or,  at  the  least,  to  lie  under 
trees  of  our  own  planting — say  a  few 
pines.  We  know  there  are  here  and 
there  pretty  little  gardens  round 
about,  or  before  or  behind  the  cots 
of  the  moor-men — and  ours  should 
soon  be  the  prettiest  of  them  all, 
with  its  bee-hives  murmuring  in 
the  honey-sun — in  the  honey-moon 
silent — and  sugar-fed  after  the  death 
of  the  heather-bells.  We  shall  bring 
a  large  wicker-cage  to  Tor-cot,  with 
a  blackbird  and  a  mavis,  who  will 
hop  in  and  out  at  their  "  own  sweet 
will,"  nor  ever  wish  to  venture  away 
into  the  wilds.  The  site  of  our  pigmy 
palace  shall  be  among  the  deepest 
heather — 
"  For  though  the  unsparing  cultivator's 

hand 

Crushes  the  lowly  flowerets  of  the  moor, 
There  many  a  vagrant  wing  light  waves 

around 

Thy  purple  bells,  Erica !  'Tis  from  thee 
The  hermit-birds,  that  love  the  desert, 

find 

Shelter  and  food." 

Rover  and  Fang  must  be  inmates ; 
and  they  may  go  by  themselves  after 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated*    No.  I. 


695 


the  flappers  on  the  plashy  moors,  or 
flash  a  stray  woodcock  in  the  half 
dead  "  Wood  of  Wistman." 

"  How  heavily 
Tl  at  old  wood  sleeps  in  the  sunshine ; 

not  a  leaf 

Is  twinkling,  not  a  wing  is  seen  to  move 
W  thin  it;  but  below,  a  mountain  stream, 
Conflicting  with  the  rocks,  is  ever  heard, 
Cheering  the  drowsy  noon.  Thy  guardian 

oaks, 

My  country,  are  thy  boast, — a  giant  race, 
Ar  d  undegenerate  still ;  but  of  this  grove, 
The  pigmy  grove, — not  one  has  climb'd 

the  air 

So  emulously  that  its  loftiest  branch 
May  reach  the  hawthorn's  brow.     The 

twisted  roots 
Hi.ve  clasp'd,  in  want  of  nourishment, 

the  rocks, 
And  straggled  wide,  and  pierced  the  stony 

soil 

In  vain  ;  denied  maternal  summer,  here 
A  dwarfish  race  has  risen.     Round  the 

boughs 

Hoary  and  feeble,  and  around  the  trunks, 
With  grasp  destructive,  feeding  on  the  life 
That  lingers  yet,  the  ivy  winds,  and  moss 
Of  growth  enormous.  E'en  the  dark  vile 

weed 

Has  fix'd  itself  upon  the  very  crown 
Of  many  an  ancient  oak ;  and  thus,  re- 
fused 

By  kindly  nature's  aid,  dishonoured,  old, 
Dreary  in  aspect,  silently  decays 
The  lonely  Wood  of  Wistman." 

Tor-Cot  must  command  such  a 
view  as  we  see  here,  poring  on  this 
pa  *e  ;  as  we  see  there,  gazing  on  the 
original  of  the  poetic  picture, 

"  How  strangely  on  yon  silent  slopes  the 

rocks 
Are  piled;  and  as  I  musing  stray,  they 

take 
Successive    forms  deceptive.     Sun   and 

shower, 

Ar  d  breeze,   and  storm,  and  haply  an- 
cient thrones 
Of  this  our  mother  earth  have  moulded 

them 
To  shapes  of  beauty  and  of  grandeur; 

thus, 

And  fancy,  all  creative,  musters  up 
Apt  semblances.      Upon  the  very  edge 
O)   yonder  cliff,   seem  frowning  o'er  the 

vale, 
Time-hallow'd  battlements  with  rugged 

chasms 

F<  arfully  yawning  ;  and  up'on  the  brow 
OJ  yonder  dreary  hill  are  towers  sublime, 
Lifted  as  by  the    lightning    stroke,    or 
struck 


By  war's  resistless  bolts.  The  mouldering 

arch, 
The   long-withdrawing   aisle,   the  shat- 

ter'd  shrine, 
The  altar  gray  with   age,    the    sainted 

niche, 
The  choir,  breeze  swept,  where  once  the 

solemn  hymn 
Upswell'd,  the  tottering  column,  pile  on 

pile 

Fantastic,  the  imagination  shapes 
Around    their   breasts   enormous.      But 

'tis  o'er — 

The  dream  is  o'er,  and  reason  dissipates 
The  fair  illusions.  Yet  in  truth  ye  wear, 
Rocks  of  the  desert,  forms  that  on  the 

eye 

In  column  and  mysterious  grandeur  rise  ! 
And  even  now,  though  near  the  mountain 

seems 
Strew'd  with  innumerous  fragments,  as 

when  fate 

Mysterious,  in  some  unexpected  hour, 
Inexorably  cast,  at  one  fell  blow, 
Fenced  cities  into  ruinous  heap.      O'er 

all, 
The    rude  but    many  -  colour'd    lichen, 

creeps ; 

And  on  the  airy  summit  of  yon  hill, 
Clasping  the  Tor's  majestic  brow,  is  seen 
The  dark  funereal  ivy,  cheerless  plant ! 
While    Death    and   Desolation    breathe 

around 
Their  haggard  brows  for  ever." 

And  we  must  take  with  us  to  Tor- 
Cot  a  wife — for  here  in  winter  the 
nights  will  be  bitter  cold — and  no 
additional  number  of  blankets  will 
ever  be  found  of  themselves  to  pro- 
duce the  desired  effect — as  long  as 
you  continue  a  chaste  bachelor.  Why, 
here  in  our  breeches'  pocket  is  an 
"  Essay  on  Woman,  in  three  parts, 
by  Nicholas  Michell,  author  of  the 
Siege  of  Constantinople."  Perhaps 
it  may  assist  us  in  our  choice  of  a 
couch-companion  for  life.  We  are 
a  bold  man  on  so  vital  an  affair  to 
consult  Old  Nick. 

"    Hail,  Woman  !  bane  and   blessing 

here  below ! 

From  thee  what  ills,  what  streams  of  rap- 
ture, flow  ! 
Virtue  and  love,  in  lands  where  Man  is 

free, 

Form  the  fair  throne  of  thy  ascendency. 
O'er  strength  prevails  each  finer  mental 

charm, 

Thy  smile  can  win,  thy  sorrow  can  dis- 
arm ; 
Thy  warm  caress  bids  Man's  cold  reason 

yield, 

And  e'en  thy  weakness  guards  thee  like  a 
shield." 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.    2Vb.  /. 


696 

"  What  streams  of  rapture  flow  !" 
a  picturesque  image.  "  Thy  warm 
caress  bids  Man's  cold  reason  yield." 
We  are  not  so  sure  of  the  meaning 
of  that.  To  what  had  he  been  object- 
ing ?  Not  surely  to  give  her  a  kiss  ? 
Man's  coldest  reason  could  never 
have  found  fault  with  that — nor  in- 
deed allowed  the  lady  to  put  herself 
to  the  trouble  of  a  "  warm  caress." 
But  the  fact  is,  that  reason  is  not 
cold.  Reason  is  of  a  warm — we  had 
almost  said — an  amorous  tempera- 
ment. Thus,  as  it  is  universally  ad- 
mitted, that  there  is  "  reason  in  the 
roasting  of  eggs,"  so  is  there  reason 
in  marrying  rather  than  in  burning  ; 
but  reason  in  neither  case  yields,  but 
in  both  "  rules  the  roast."  Yet,  ma- 
king all  due  allowance  for  these,  and 
a  few  other  imperfections,  the  pas- 
sage is  pretty,  and  meets  with  our 
most  unqualified  approbation — with 
the  farther  exception  of  "  Hail,  wo- 
man !  bane  and  blessing,"  which  is 
not  gallant.  No  gentleman,  however 
philosophically  disposed,  ought  on 
any  account  whatever  to  use  such 
language  to  a  lady.  Woman  never  is 
"  bane  here  below"— and  if  we  had 
her  °  here  above,"  we  should  tell 
her  so,  and  prove  it,  in  spite  of  Old 
Nick. 

"  Anger,  Self-love,  Ambition,  thirst  of 

Praise, 
Perturb  Man's  soul  and  darken  half  his 

days; 

Envy  and  Slander,  Jealousy  and  Pride, 
On  Woman  wait,  foul  spectres  by  her  side; 
Yet  these,   Oh    Virtues!    bid  you  beam 

more  bright, 
As   stars    shine  fairest   on   the  darkest 

night." 

Whew !  whew  I  whew !  That  is  silly 
about  the  stars.  The  simile  is  of  the 
kind  Canning  exemplified  in  the  fol- 
lowing lines — 

"  As  Sampson  lost  his  strength  by  cutting 

off  his  hair, 
So  I  regain  my  strength — by  breathing 


On  beauty  Nicholas  writes  well, 
informing  us,  that 

"  Beauty  of  love's  fair  fabric  forms  the 
base." 

Now  «  love's  fair  fabric"  is  woman. 
Her  base,  therefore,  is  beauty— and 
much  is  the  bustle  made  about  it  in 
these  days.  Beauty  has  laws,  but 
no  certain  code. 


[April, 

"  But  Beauty's  laws  how  vague  and 

undefined! 

Taste  ever  varying,  Custom  ever  blind : 
What  pleases  one  offends  another  eye, 
What  this  thinks  grace  that  deems  de- 
formity ; 
In  Grecian  Isles  doth  Beauty's  standard 

shine? 
Spain    answers — No!    whilst    England 

cries — 'Tis  mine  ! 
The  swarthy  Negro  and  the  white-haired 

Swede, 

Tall  Patagonian,  pigmy  Samoyede  ; 
Each  clasps  his  own  dear  image  in  his 

arms, 
And  thinks  the  sun  beholds  no  heaven- 

lier  charms." 

We  see  nothing  strange  in  all  this 
—nothing  that  requires  Old  Nick 
to  solve  it.  "  Custom  ever  blind" 
is  a  mysterious  line.  Does  it  mean 
that  a  man  gets  so  accustomed  to 
ugliness  that  he  thinks  it  beauty,  and 
vice  versa?  But  we  must  not  be 
hypercritical;— and  here  is  a  passage 
that  may  safely  bid  criticism  de- 
fiance. We  recommend  it  to  the 
especial  admiration  of  Tom  Cringle, 
Captain  Marryatt,  and  Captain  Cha- 
mier.  It  beats  their  best  hits  hol- 
low. 

"  On  love's  wild  wave,  no  compass  and 

no  chart, 
When  long  hath  tost  the  vessel  of  the 

heart ; 
By  Hope's  fair  gale  now  swiftly  onward 

borne, 
Now  lock'd   within  the  ice  of  fancied 

Scorn ; 
While  oft  black  Doubt  hangs  clouds  along 

the  sky, 

And  flash  thy  lightnings,  withering  jea- 
lousy ! 
How  sweet,  each  trial  o'er,  each   peril 

past, 

To  enter  Wedlock's  tranquil  port  at  last." 
"  In  wedlock's  tranquil  port,"  we 
find  "Hymen's  Bower,"  inhabited, 
some  say  —  but  falsely  —  by  the 
"  serpent  discord."  Nicholas  then 
brings  forward  a  "  convent  maid," 
to  prove,  by  her  confession  of  the 
woes  of  single  blessedness,  that 
there  is  no  blessing  in  this  life  like 
a  husband. 

"  '  Alas  !'  she  sighs,  '  on  me  must  never 

more 

Affection  smile,  or  these  cold  eyes  adore. 
.2Vb  cherub  babe  will  e'er  my  fondness 

claim, 
Smile  in  my  arms,  and  lisp  a  mother's 

name ; 


'Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.    No.  L 


1833.] 

I  ut  here  in  barren  sorrow  must  I  dwell, 
My  couch  cold  stone,  my  world  a  dreary 

cell.' " 

What  a  contrast  to  this  other  pic- 
ture ! 

"  Girt  by  a  silent  Hymeneal  band, 
£  efore  the  altar  Clare  and  Ivor  stand ; 
He  looks  to  heav'n,  and  now,  in  joy  and 

pride, 
Surveys   the   dazzling   beauties    of    his 

bride. 
Her  eyes,  like  violets,  droop  in  timid 

grace, 
E'er  modest  thoughts  send  crimson  to 

her  face ; 
£  ow  softly-sweet  she  breathes  her  vows 

of  love ! 
Angels    might    stoop    and    listen   from 

above; 
He  scarce  can  hear  or  feel,  so  lost  in 

bliss ; 
But  now  her  hand  of  snow  reclines  in 

his— 

The  rites  conclude  midst  smiles  and  rap- 
turous tears ! 
Prosperous  their  lot,  and  happy  be  their 

years !" 

Old  Nick — we  offer  to  bet  a  pound 
—is  like  Old  Kit— a  Benedick.  He 
knows  nothing  of  the  feelings  of  a 
Bridegroom  on  his  wedding-day. 
"  He  scarce  can  hear  or  feel,  so  lost  in 
bliss." 

We  maintain  that  he  can  hear  the 
slightest  whisper.  We  maintain  that 
he  hears  every  syllable  of  the  mar- 
riage service — and  at  some  parts  can 
scarcely  hold  down  the  beating  in 
his  breast.  The  Bride  hears  too — 
his  and  her  own  heart  knocking — or 
il  that  be  too  strong  an  expression — 
going  pit-a-pat.  We  have  often  been 
'*  lost  in  bliss,"  and  as  often  been 
found  again,  without  having  been 
a  Ivertised  in  the  Hue  and  Cry ;  but 
n  ever  so  as  "  scarce  to  feel."  We 
s  irewdly  suspect  that  the  feeling  is 
the  marrow  of  the  bliss — and  that 
to  be  lost  in  bliss  without  feeling  it, 
sterns  incompatible  with  the  laws  of 
o  ir  constitution. 

We  perceive  that  one  of  the  prin- 
c  pal  pleasures  of  a  married  man  is 
tc  >  sit  of  an  evening  in  a  woodbine 
biwer  with  his  wife,  and  play  the 
flute.  A  simpleton  never  looks  so 
s:  Uy  and  so  sweet,  as  when  puffing 
a  vay  on  that  instrument — more  es- 
pecially when  double-tonguing  in 
tie  florid  style.  And  now,  we  be- 
liove,  we  have  extracted  for  our  own 
in  struction  and  delight  in  the  Moor, 


697 

in    this 
subject 


all  the  wisdom  and  wit 
"Essay  on  Woman."  The 
would  scarcely  seem  to  be  exhausted; 
and  we  think  we  shall  try  our  own 
hand  on  it  one  of  these  days — imme- 
diately after  the  adjournment,  or 
prorogation,  or 'dissolution  of  Par- 
liament. 

But  here  is  a  sonnet  on  Winder- 
mere, — 

"  Thy  calm,  romantic  beauty  who  can  see, 
The  woods  of  green  that  slope  to  kiss 

thy  tide, 
Thy  bowery  isles  that  smile  in  verdure^ 

pride, 
Nor  grow   enamoured,  lovely   lake,    of 

thee? 
At  dewy  dawn  to  roam  the  mountains 

o'er, 

That  gird  thee  'round  like  gloomy  sen- 
tinels, 
Whilst  far  beneath  thy  purple  bosom 

swells : 
At    sultry   noon   to  seek   thy  cavern'd 

shore, 
There  woo  the  freshness  of  the  perfumed 

gale, 
List    the    wild     cascade    murmuring 

down  thy  rocks, 
The  hum  of  bees  and  bleat  of  sportive 

flocks : 
At  eve  to  skim  thy  wave  with  noiseless 

sail, 
And  watch  Day's  dying  radiance  fire  thy 

breast : 

Thus,  thus  to  live,  were  surely  to  be 
blest." 

We  think  we  should  know  Win- 
dermere  well,  having  lived  on  its 
banks  weeks  together,  on  visits  to 
the  Professor  at  Elleray.  In  spite 
again  of  Old  Nick,  we  deny  that 
Windermere  is  girded  round  with 
mountains;  we  deny,  that  at  dewy 
dawn,  the  mountains  are  "  gloomy 
sentinels ;"  we  deny,  that  there  are 
as  many  as  one  cavern  in  her  "  ca- 
vern'd shore;"  we  deny  that  so  many 
as  one  cascade  murmurs  down  her 
rocks ;  and  we  affirm,  that  Old  Nick, 
when  there,  must,  like  the  bride- 

froom  he  describes  at  the  halter, 
ave  been  so  "  lost  in  bliss,"  as 
"  scarce  to  hear  or  feel,"  or  see; 
though  we  daresay  that,  neverthe- 
less, after  "  skimming  at  even  the 
wave  with  noiseless  sail,"  he  played 
such  a  knife  and  fork  as  had  seldom, 
if  ever,  been  seen  in  that  village,  to 
the  astonishment  even  of  the  Bow- 
ness  Bass-kites. 

But  Old  Nick,  like  Old  Kitt,  loves 


698 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.     No.  I. 


[April, 


the  desert;  and  here  is  his  picture 
of  one, — 

"  Give  me  the  Desert,  limitless  and  lone, 

Eternity  outfigured  to  the  eye; 

Where    Grandeur    rears   her   undivided 
throne, 

And  silence  listens  to  the  eagle's  cry  ; 

Where  the  vast  hills  seem  pillars  of  the 
sky, 

Shrine  of  sublimity !  no  bounds  control, 

Meet  for  the  worship  of  the  Deity, 

When  tlieir  loud  hymn  the  solemn  thun- 
ders roll, 

And  lightnings  speak  His  power,  and  lift 

the  awe-struck  soul." 
We   defy  a   desert  to   outfigure 

eternity.     Space  is  not  time — as  the 

poet  knew  when  he  cried, 

"  Ye  gods !  annihilate  but  space  and  time, 

And  make  two  lovers  happy." 

Having  asked  for  a  desert  "  limit- 
less," you  should  not  add,  "  no 
bounds  control ;"  for  nature  abhors 
a  vacuum  in  the  heads  of  her  tauto- 
logical children.  Why  has  grandeur 
a  "  throne,"  and  sublimity  only  a 
"  shrine  ?"  It  will  puzzle  Old  Nick 
to  give  "  the  reason  why."  Is  a 
desert,  in  thunder  and  lightning, 
more  "meet  for  the  worship  of  the 
Deity,"  than  in  calm  ?  No ;  and  what 
soul,  when  "  awe-struck,"  was  ever 
"  lifted"  by  what  laid  it  prostrate  ? 

But  what  is  this  hard  in  our  other 
breeches'-pocket  ?  "  Lyric  Leaves, 
by  Cornelius  Webbe."  The  little 
volume  opens  of  its  own  accord,  at 
Summer  Morning.  Ho  !  ho  !  we  see 
at  a  glance  that  he  is  a  very  differ- 
ent person ;  that  he  has  feeling  and 
fancy — an  eye  and  a  heart  for  nature. 
It  is  pleasant,  here  in  this  lone  high 
rude  moor,  to  peruse  poetry  breath- 
ing the  spirit  of  the  lonely  cultivated 
lowlands,  as  they  are  sleeping  in  the 
unlabouring  and  leisureful  hour  of 
noon.  It  sinks  "  like  music  on  our 
heart." 

Mr  Webbe  has  studied  Cowper  and 
Wordsworth.  And  he  not  only  un- 
derstands their  spirit,  but  has  learn- 
ed, in  his  worship,  to  make  it  his 
own,  and  on  it  to  look  at  the  same 
nature  that  gave  them  their  inspira- 
tion. He  borrows  no  words  from 
them — yet  his  language  is  coloured 
by  the  breath  of  theirs ;  he  borrows 
no  images  from  them,  yet  his  descrip- 
tions are  interfused  with  the  same 
feelings  as  theirs;  he  borrows  no 


subjects  from  them,  but  looking  with 
his  own  eyes  over  external  being, 
andintothe"moodsofhis  own  mind," 
he  selects  the  same  or  similar  things 
and  thoughts  as  theirs ;  and  this  it 
is,  rationally  speaking,  to  belong  to 
the  same  school  as  theirs — he  being 
a  docile,  apt,  and  loving  pupil,  they 
being  learned,  wise,  and  humane 
masters.  Nor  is  Cornelius  the  less 
original,  because  he  is  taught  of  such 
teachers.  They,  too,  had  theirs — 
Milton,  and  Shakspeare,  and  Spenser, 
and  the  other  illustrious  sons  of  im- 
mortal song.  And  these  had  also 
theirs — for  high  and  low  all  belong 
to  one  school — the  school  of  nature 
— a  Sabbath  as  well  as  week-day 
school — and  the  Teachers  are  the 
gracious  Muses. 

We  shall  be  happy  when  we  have 
built  it  to  see  Mr  Webbe  at  Tor  Cot- 
tage— should  he  visit  Scotland  before 
then,  at  Buchanan  Lodge.  We  be- 
lieve he  lives  in  "  city  or  suburban," 
and  we  have  been  rather  uncivilly 
told,  that  some  dozen  years  ago  we 
called  him  Cockney.  We  have  no 
recollection  of  that  most  grievous  of- 
fence ;  but  this  we  know,  though  it 
may  appear  both  paradoxical  and 
heterodox,  that  among  Cockneys  are 
many  thousands  of  excellent  men, 
women,  and  children.  Almost  all 
people  wax  Cockneyish  as  they  get 
old;  and  we  freely  confess  here, 
where  there  are  none  to  overhear  us 
but  these  Tors,  and  they  will  be 
mum,  that  we  are  conscious  of  a 
creeping  Cockneyfication  over  our 
character.  Yes,  Christopher  North 
— hear  it,  ye  Heavens  !  and  give  ear, 
thou  Earth  !  is  a  Cockney  !  We  shall 
return  Mr  Webbe's  visit ;  and  hope 
it  will  be  at  the  house-warming  of 
"  Fancy's  Home."  At  present  it  is 
a  very  pretty  poem. 

"  FANCY'S  HOME. 

"  My  cot  should  stand  in  some  lone  dale  ; 
Its  windows,  brightening  with  the  East, 
Should  hear  the  wakeful  Nightingale 
When  every  song  but  her's  has  ceased. 
And  there  should  be,  to  hear  it  too, 
A  heart  all  tenderness  and  truth, 
And  eyes  that  shine  like  morning-dew, 
And  lips  of  love,  and  looks  of  youth. 

"  My  cot  should  have  a  garden  bower, 
With  fruit  and  flowers,  for  bud  and  bee, 
To  balm  and  freshen  evening's  hour, 
And  fill  the  air  with  fragrancy  ; — 


1833.] 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.     No.  L 


699 


And  there  my  Mary's  harp  should  ring 
Sweet  tones  that  make  the  pulses  thrill, 
The  heart  unconsciously  to  sing, 
And  as  unconsciously  to  still. 

•'  A  little  lake,  nor  loud  nor  deep, 
Should  from  my  door  to  distance  spread, 
Where  we  might  hear  the  light  fish  leap, 
Or  see  them  nestle  in  their  bed  ; — 
And  it  should  sleep  between  two  hills, 
Shut  from  the  sweeping  storm's  career, 
Calm  as  the  heart  when  laughter  stills, 
And  bright  as  joy's  delicious  tear. 

"  And  there  my  little  white-sailed  boat, 
Should  lie  in  golden-sanded  cove, 
Or  on  the  silver  waters  float, 
Freighted  by  Beauty  and  glad  Love, 
And  thus  might  we  laugh,  sing,  and  play, 
And  let  the  months  like  minutes  wing  ; 
And  life  be  all  a  summer's  day, 
And  death  a  dark,  but  dreadless  thing  !" 

What  has  become — we  wonder — 
of  Dartmoor  Prison?  During  that 
long  war  its  huge  and  hideous  bulk 
was  filled  with  Frenchmen — aye— 
"  Men  of  all  climes — attached  to  none — 

were  there;" 

— a  desperate  race — robbers  and 
reavers,  and  ruffians  and  rapers, 
and  pirates  and  murderers  —  min- 
gled with  the  heroes  who,  fired  by 
freedom,  had  fought  for  the  land 
of  lilies,  with  its  vine-vales  and 
"  hills  of  sweet  myrtle" — doomed  to 
die  in  captivity,  immured  in  that 
doleful  mansion  on  this  sullen  moor. 
There  thousands  pined  and  wore 
away  and  wasted,  when  at  last "  hope, 
that  comes  to  all,"  came  not  to  them 
— and  when  not  another  groan  re- 
mained within  the  bones  of  their 
breasts,  they  gave  up  the  ghost.  Young 
heroes  prematurely  old  in  baffled 
passions — life's  best  and  strongest 
passions  that  scorned  to  go  to  sleep 
but  in  the  sleep  of  death.  These 
died  in  their  golden  prime.  With 
them  went  down  into  unpitied  and 
unhonoured  graves — for  pity  and 
honour  dwell  not  in  houses  so  haunt- 
ed— veterans  in  their  iron  age — some 
self-smitten  with  ghastly  wounds 
that  let  life  finally  bubble  out  of  si- 
newy neck  or  shaggy  bosom — or  the 
poison-bowl  convulsed  their  giant 
limbs  into  unquivering  rest.  Yet 
there  you  saw  a  wild  strange  tumult 
of  troubled  happiness — which,  as 
you  looked  into  its  heart,  was  trans- 
figured into  misery.  There  volatile 
spirits  fluttered  in  their  cage,  like 


birds  that  seem  not  to  hate  nor  to 
be  unhappy  in  confinement,  but  hang- 
ing by  beak  or  claws,  to  be  often 
playing    with  the    glittering   wires 
—to  be  amusing  themselves,  so  it 
seems,  with  drawing  up,  by  small 
enginery, their  food  and  drink,  which 
soon    sickens,    however,    on    their 
stomachs,  till,  with  ruffled  plumage, 
they  are  often  found  in  the  morning 
lying  on  their  backs,  with  clenched 
feet,  and  neck  bent  as  if  twisted,  on  the 
scribbled  sand,  stone-dead.     There 
you  saw  pale  youths,  boys  almost 
like  girls,  so  delicate  looked  they  in 
that  hot  infected  air,  which,  ventilate 
it  as  you  will,  is  never  felt  to  breathe 
on  the  face  like  the  fresh  air  of  li- 
berty,— once  bold  and  bright  mid- 
shipmen in  frigate  or  first-rater,  and 
saved  by  being  picked   up  by  the 
boats  of  the  ship  that  had  sunk  her  by 
one  double-shotted  broadside,  or  sent 
her  in  one  explosion  splintering  into 
the  sky,  and  splashing  into  the  sea,  in 
less  than  a  minute  the  thunder  silent, 
and  the  fiery  shower  over  and  gone, 
— there  you  saw  such  lads  as  these, 
who  used  almost  to  weep  if  they  got 
not  duly  the  dear-desired  letter  from 
sister  or  sweetheart,  and  when  they 
did  duly  get  it,  opened  it  with  trem- 
bling fingers,  and  even  then  let  drop 
some  natural  tears — there,  we  say, 
you  saw  them  leaping  and  dancing 
with  gross  gesticulations  and  horrid 
oaths    obscene,  with   grim  outcasts 
from    nature,    whose   moustachio'd 
mouths  were  rank  with  sin  and  pol- 
lution— monsters  for  whom  hell  was 
yawning — their  mortal  mire  already 
possessed  with  a  demon.      There, 
wretched,  woe-begone,  and  wearied 
out  with  recklessness  and  desperation, 
many  wooed  Chance  and  Fortune, 
who  they  hoped  might  yet  listen  to 
their  prayers  — and  kept  rattling  the 
dice — damning  them  that  gave  the 
indulgence — even  in  tfceir   cells  of 
punishment  for  disobedience  or  mu- 
tiny.   There  you  saw  some,  who,  in 
the  crowded  courts,  "sat  apart  re- 
tired," — bringing  the  practised  skill 
that  once   supported,  or  the  native 
genius  that  once  adorned  life,  to  bear 
on  beautiful  contrivances  and  fan- 
cies    elaborately     executed     with 
meanest    instruments,    till  they  ri- 
valled or  outdid  the  work  of  art  as- 
sisted by  all  the  ministries  of  science. 
And  thus  won  they  a  poor  pittance 
wherewithal  to  purchase  some  little 


700 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.    No.  1. 


comfort  or  luxury,  or  ornament  to 
their  persons ;  for  vanity  had  not  for- 
saken some  in  their  rusty  squalor,  and 
they  sought  to  please  her  their  mis- 
tress or  their  bride.  There  you  saw 
accomplished  men  conjuring  before 
their  eyes,  on  the  paper  or  the  can- 
vass, to  feed  the  longings  of  their 
souls,  the  lights  and  the  shadows  of 
the  dear  days  that  far  away  were  beau- 
tifying some  sacred  spot  of  "  la  belle 
France" — perhaps  some  festal  scene, 
for  love  in  sorrow  is  still  true  to  re- 
membered joy,  where  once  with 
youths  and  maidens, 

"  They  led   the   dance  beside  the  mur- 
muring Loire." 

There  you  heard — and  hushed  then 
was  all  the  hubbub — some  clear  sil- 
ver voice,  sweet  almost  as  woman's, 
yet  full  of  manhood  in  its  depths, 
singing  to  the  gay  guitar,  touch- 
ed, though  the  musician  was  of  the 
best  and  noblest  blood  of  France, 
with  a  master's  hand,  "  La  belle  Ga- 
brielle!"  And  there  might  be  seen 
in  the  solitude  of  their  own  abstrac- 
tions, men  with  minds  that  had  sound- 
ed the  profounds  of  science,  and 
seemingly  undisturbed  by  all  that  cla- 
mour, pursuing  the  mysteries  of  lines 
and  numbers — conversing  with  the 
harmonious  and  lofty  stars  of  heaven, 
deaf  to  all  the  discord  and  despair  of 
earth.  Or  religious  still  ever  more  than 
they,  for  those  were  mental,  these 
spiritual,  you  beheld  there  men, 
whose  heads  before  their  time  were 
becoming  grey,  meditating  on  their 
own  souls,  and  in  holy  hope  and 
humble  trust  in  their  Redeemer, 
if  not  yet  prepared,  perpetually  pre- 
paring themselves  for  the  world  to 
come! 

Here  is  a  lament  for  young  Au- 
gustin. 


"  Farewell,  France  ! 
sigh'd,  as   for   the  gentle 


The    captive 

breeze 
Of  balmy    Provence,  loudly"  round   him 

howl'd 
The  chill,  moist  gale  of  Dartmoor.  Where 

are  now 
The   blushing  bowers,  the  groves  with 

fruituge  hung 

Voluptuous,  the  music  of  the  bough 
From  birds  that  love  bright  climes,  the 

perfumed  morn, 

The  golden  day,  the  visionary  eve, 
The  walk,  the  interchange  of  soul,  too 

well, 


{April, 

Too  well  remembered  ?  Exile !  think  no 

more, 
There's  madness  in  the  cup  that  memory 

holds 
To  thy  inebriate  lip  ! 

Yet  rise  they  will, 
Dear  visions  of  thy  home !  The  birds  will 

sing, 
The  streams  will  flow,  the  grass  will  wave, 

the  flowers 
Will  bloom,  and  through  the  leafage  of  the 

wood 
The  blue  smoke  curl ;   thy  cot  is  there, 

thy  cot, 

Poor  Exile  !  and  the  secret  mighty  power, 
The   Local  Love,  that    o'er    the    wide- 
spread earth 
Binds  man  to  one  dear,  cherished,  sacred 

spot, 

His  home,  is  with  thy  spirit,  and  will  oft 
Throw  round  its  dear  enchantments,  and 

awake, 
For  distant  scenes  beloved  the  deep-felt 

sigh, 
And  prompt  th'unbidden  tear. 

Oh  !  who  that  drags 
A  captive's  chain,  would  feel  his  soul  re- 

fresh'd, 
Though  scenes  like  those  of  Eden  should 

arise 
Around  his  hated  cage  !    But  here  green 

youth 
Lost   all    its   freshness,  manhood  all  its 

prime, 
And  age  sank  to  the  tomb,  ere  Peace  her 

trump 

Exulting  blew;  and  still  upon  the  eye, 
In  dead  monotony,  at  morn,  noon,  eve, 
Arose  the  Moor,  the  Moor ! 
But  now  terrific  rumours  reach'd  his  ear 
Of  fierce  commotions,  insurrections,  feuds 
Intestine,  making  home  Aceldama. 

Men  became 

Brutal,  infuriate  ;  from  the  scaffold  thrill'd 
The  female  shriek,  and  (O  eternal  shame 
To  France  !)  within  the  deep  and  gulfy 

wave 
They  sank,  all  wildly  mix'd,  the  son,  the 

sire, 

The  mother,  and  the  gentle  virgin,  all 
In  one  dark  watery  grave  ! 

And  she  was  one, 
The   hapless    Genevieve,   on   whom   the 

surge 
Had  thus   untimely  closed  !   Her  lover 

heard, 

Silently,  sternly,  heard  the  blasting  tale, 
And   wept  not;    never  more   refreshing 

tears 
Moisten'd  his  eyelids,  and  with  desperate 

zeal 

He  nourish'd  his  despair,  till  on  his  heart 
The  vulture  of  consumption  gnaw'd  1 
He  sleeps 
Beneath  yon  hillock ;  not  a  stone  records 


1333.]  Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated. 

"Vvhere  poor  Augustin  rests ;  yet  there  is 


No.  I.  701 

Still  the  naked  hill 


V'ho  knows  the  spot,  and  often  turns  aside 
Lone  wandering  o'er  the  bleak  and  silent 

Moor, 
lo  view  the  stranger's  gravel" 

Is  that  Crockern  Tor  ?  It  is.  Much 
]» ive  many  antiquaries  written  about 
it,  though  but  few  have  seen  it,  and 
h  jre  in  a  note  is  some  account  of 
thi  e  grey  antiquity.  We  see  it  more 
d  stinctly  in  the  vignette — for  'tis 
within  an  inch  of  our  nose — than 
glimmering  yonder  in  the  blue 
hazy  distance,  an  undistinguishable 
c?  irn-like  heap.  The  President's,  or 
Judge's  chair,  part  of  the  bench  for 
t\  e  jurors,  and  three  irregular  steps, 
are  still  partially  visible,  but  'tis  in 
a  >ad  state  of  delapidation.  'Tis  in- 
d  ;ed  one  of  the  most  interesting 
r<  lies  extant  of  old  British  manners 
— memorial  of  the  Saxon  Witena- 
g(  mot,  which,  like  the  Stannary  Par- 
linment,  was  held  in  the  open  air. 

"  tfor  waving  crops,  nor  leaf,  nor  flowers 

adorn 

Tliy  sides,  deserted  Crockern !  Over  thee 
The  winds  have  ever  held  dominion;  thou 
A  -t  still  their  heritage,  and  fierce  they 

sweep 

Thy  solitary  hill,  what  time  the  storm 
H  >wls   o'er  the  shrinking  moor.      The 

scowling  gales 

This  moment  slumber,  and  a  dreary  calm 
Pi  evails,  the  calm  of  death ;  the  listless 

eye 
Ttirns  from  thy  utter  loneliness*     Yet 

man, 
In   days  long  flown,  upon  the  mount's 

high  crest 
H,',s  braved  the  highland  gale,  and  made 

the  rocks 

lit -echo  with  his  voice.  Not  always  thus 
Hi  s  hover'd,  Crockern,  o'er  thy  leafless 

scalp, 

Tl  e  silence  and  the  solitude  that  now 
Oj  presses  the  crush'd  spirit ;  for  I  stand, 
\V  icre  once  the  Fathers  of  the  Forest  held 
(A  i  iron  race)  the  Parliament  that  gave 
Th  a  forest  law.      Ye  legislators,  nursed 
In  lap  of  modern  luxury,  revere 
Th  3  venerable  spot,  where,  simply  clad, 
Ar  d  breathing  mountain  breezes,  sternly 

sat 
Th  3  hardy  mountain  council.     O'er  them 

bent 
No  other  dome  but  that  in  which  the 

cloud 
Sai  s,  the  blue  dome  of  heaven.     The  ivy 

hung 
Its  festoons  round  the  Tor,  and  at  the 

foot 
Of  that  rude  fabric  piled   by   nature* 


The  heath- flower. 

uprears 

Sublime  its  granite  pyramid,  and  while 
The  statue,  and  the  column,  and  the  fane 
Superb,  the  boast  of  man,  in  fairer  climes, 
Crockern,  than  thine,  have  strew'd  the 

groaning  earth 

With  beauteous  ruin,  the  enduring  Tor, 
Baffling  the  elements  and  fate,  remains. 
Claiming  our  reverence,  that  proudly 

lower'd 
Of  old,  above  the  Senate  of  the  Moor." 

That  Dartmoor  and  its  borders 
were  once  rather  thickly  inhabited, 
agrees  with  tradition,  and  is  obvious 
from  the  many  remains  of  rude 
houses,  standing  singly,  but  more 
or  less  near  each  other,  generally  on 
the  sides  of  the  hills,  built  of  un- 
wrought  stones  placed  upon  each 
other,  in  the  simplest  manner,  with- 
out cement,  having  entrances,  but 
now  no  roof,and  varying  in  diameter, 
the  largest  being  about  twelve  feet. 
Fosbrook,  in  his  Architectural  Anti- 
quities, gives  the  representation  of 
a  dwelling  of  the  ancient  Britons, 
which  corresponds  with  the  remains 
on  the  moor.  We  agree  with  the 
annotator  on  this  poem,  (is  it  the 
author  or  his  ingenious  son  ?)  that 
it  is  absurd  to  suppose  as  some  have 
supposed,  that  these  small  and  incon- 
venient houses  were  used  for  pen- 
ning sheep,  and  preserving  them  dur- 
ing the  night  from  wild  beasts.  We 
believe  with  him  that  they  were  the 
residences  of  shepherd  men.  The 
Britons  retiring  before  the  Romans 
who  evidently  had  permanent  foot- 
ing both  in  Devon  and  Cornwall, 
found  a  place  of  shelter  in  Dartmoor. 
And  there  are  many  erect  stones, 
some  inscribed,  and  some  not,  on 
and  near  the  moor,  which  he  conjec- 
tures plausibly  might  have  been 
erected  to  perpetuate  the  memory 
of  Athelstane's  victorious  advance 
when  he  assumed  the  title  of  King 
of  all  Britain,  after  having  driven 
the  natives  across  the  Tamar,  at  a 
time  when  Cornwall  and  Anglo-Cor- 
nubia,  (under  the  heptarchy,)  com- 
prehended half  of  the  city  of  Exe- 
ter, Totness,  and  all  westward. 

Many  an  old  remain  would  lose 
ninety- nine  parts  of  its  hundred 
Druid  power  over  us,  did  we  know 
for  certain  that  a  Druid  had  ever 
brained  there  a  human  victim  on 
the  stone  of  sacrifice.  'Tis  right 
to  write  all  sorts  of  things  about 
all  sorts  of  ruins.  No  fear  of  as- 
certaining the  truth.  They  are  en-. 


702 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.     No.  I. 


glooms;  and  therefore  are  they  haunt- 
ed. All  the  thin  ghosts  of  buried 
generations  would  go,  if  they  thought 
we  knew  in  what  age  they  had  drop- 
ped the  dust.  They  inhabit  oblivion; 
and  to  them  it  is  oblivion,  when  the 
Past  mocks  the  living  with  the  faint 
Apparition  of  Time  who  is  now  their 
Monarch,  having  succeeded,  nobody 
knows  when,  to  Death.  But  the 
Poet  peoples  those  huts  on  the  moor 
— th  ose  roofless  huts,  with  their  feeble 
walls,  solitary,  and  decayed  amid  the 
silent  flight  of  ages — he  peoples 
them  with  the  fierce  Danmonii — 

fiving  the  phantoms   both — "  local 
abitation  and  a  name." 

"  With  filial  awe 
I  stand,  where  erst  my  brave  forefathers 

stood, 
Where  now  they  sleep 

other  days ! 

How  swiftly  do  you  crowd  upon  my  soul. 
Those  silent  vales  have  swarm'd  with 

human  life, 
Those  hills  have  echoed  to  the  hunter's 

voice, 
When  rang  the  chace,  the  battle  burn'd, 

the  notes 

Of  silvan  joy  at  high  festivities 
Awoke  the  soul  to  gladness.     Dear  to 

him 

His  native  hill,  in  simple  garb  attired, 
The  mountaineer  here  roam'd,  and  oft 

attain'd 
That  hale  and  happy  age,  which  blesses 

still 
His     vigorous     descendants,     scattered 

round 
The  moor's  cold  edge.     Detested  be  the 

hand, 

The  sacrilegious  hand,  that  would  destroy 
These  mouldering  huts,  which  time  has 

kindly  spared 

To  this  late  hour ;  and  long  from  fierce  as- 
saults 
Of  the  loud  wintry  storm,  from  whelming 

rush 
Of  mountain-torrent,  chief  from  human 

grasp 

Rapacious  be  each  sacred  pile  preserved  ; 
To  bless  his  wanderings  who  delights  to 

steal 
From  yonder  world,  and  in  the  deepening 

noon 

Wind  o'er  the  noiseless  moor  his  thought- 
less way." 

Hush!  we  do,  indeed,  hear  the 
voice  of  streams.  Is  it  of  streams  ? 
A  faint,  far,  multitudinous  mur- 
mur, very  spiritual,  as  if  the  air 
between  the  moon  and  the  moun- 
tainous clouds  were  a  living  exist- 
ence, and  awaking  from  his  mid- 
day sleep,  were  breathing  a  grateful 


[April, 

hymn  of  inarticulate  joy  wide  over 
the  whole  wilderness  !  But  intensely 
listening,  we  perceive  that  it  has  fine 
modulations  in  its  melody  ;  for  it  is 
the  voice  of  streams,  and  each  is 
singing,  with  a  somewhat  different 
voice,  the  same  serene  tune,  accom- 
panied with  a  "  stilly  sound"  even 
more  etherial,  which  can  be  nothing 
else,  surely,  than  one  echo  compo- 
sed of  many  echoes,  some  of  them 
wild  and  sweet,  from  the  mystery  of 
the  Tors.  We  can  dream  down  each 
desert-born  from  source  to  sea. 

Not  one  of  them  all  trips  it  more 
deftly,  "  on  light  fantastic  toe," 
while  yet  in  his  childish  glee  among 
the  moorlands,  than  the  TEIGN  ;  not 
one  of  them  all  sooner  flows  into  a 
statelier  beauty — among  wooded  hills 
Ye  thoughts  of  — or  bare  granite  rocks — till  at  High 
Bridge,  near  Drewsteignton  antiqui- 
ties, it  finds  its  way  between  moun- 
tainous ridges — and  ere  long  we  be- 
hold— 

"  The  hoary  Cromlech  wildly  raised 
Above  the  nameless  dead." 

Tradition  generally  magnifies  what 
it  mystifies;  but  this  Cromlech  is 
called  the  Spinster's  Rock.  It  was 
believed  that  three  spinsters,  or  un- 
married women,  erected  it  one  morn- 
ing before  breakfast  for  their  amuse- 
ment. Perhaps  they  were  the  Fates — 

"  And  near  the  edge 
Of  the  loud  howling  stream  a   LOGAK 

stands, 
Haply  self-poised,   for   Nature  loves  to 

work 

Such  miracles  as  these  amid  the  depths 
Of  forest  solitudes.     Her  magic  hand 
With  silent  chisel    fashion'd  the  rough 

rock, 

And  placed  the  central  weight  so  tenderly, 
That  almost  to  the  passing  breeze  it 

yields 

Submissive  motion." 
Many  auxiliar  brooks  soon  swell 
thee,  Teign  !  into  no  unnoble  river, 
and  many  a  merry  mansion  laughs 
towards  thee  on  thy  silvan  course, 
from  lawn  bedropt  with  trees, "  each 
in  itself  a  grove."  And  we  see  thee 
passing  that  pleasant  picture  of  a 
town,  glad,  but  not  impatient  to 
bear  dancing  on  thy  back  or  bosom, 
with  twinkling  oar  or  red-dyed  sail, 
a  flock  of  fishing, — or  are  they  all 
pleasure-boats  ?— in  among  the  bil- 
lows of  the  bay  that  in  its  homefelt 
quietude  hardly  seems  belonging  to 
the  sea. 

Is  it  from  the  Urn  of  Cranmere, 
the  urn  that  lies  guarded  from  the 


.1833.] 


Devnoshire  and  Cornwall  [Illustrated.    JVo.  7. 


jiill-ponies  leaping  like  roes,  by 
many  quaking  bogs,  which  to  ventu- 
rous footsteps  send  up  a  long  low 
muttering  groan,  as  if  to  say,— - 

"  Procul,  procul,  este  profani  /" 

that  thou,  sweet  DART  !  dost  in 
truth  draw  thy  mysterious  birth  ? 
The  Mere  of  Cranes  !  with  its  earth- 
quake-planted pillar,  tall  as  Gog  or 
Magog  ! — Well  dost  thou  deserve 
thy  name;  for  while  the  desert  above 
tliee  lifts  his  Tors,  thou  art 
'•  Swift  as  an  arrow  from  the  Tartar's 

bow." 

But  after  a  mad  conflict  of  cataracts 
v/ith  cliffs,  sometimes  in  the  open 
air,  and  sometimes  in  the  gloom  of 
voods,  thou  seem'st  to  take  breath 
among  the  lovely  enclosures  near 
Koine  Chase,  and  flowing  apparently 
s^ow,  but  really  swift,  through  Ash- 
barton's  charming  valley,  softening 
a;>  if  thou  fain  would'st  linger  there, 
lotness  rejoices  in  thy  margin  so 
baautifully  fringed  with  woods,  and 
thence,  varying  thy  character  with  a 
g  ly  inconstancy,  sinuous  and  insinu- 
a:  ing  as  a  serpent,  thou  expandest 
tl  yself  gradually  into  grandeur,  and 
with  a  good  offing  between  Berry- 
Head  and  the  Start  in  squally  wea- 
ther the  ship-boy  sees  thee  from  the 
giddy  mast  ending  thy  career  in  the 
lee-shore  foam. 

Oh  !  that  we  had  been  born  many 
c(  nturies  ago,  and  had  been  a  monk 
of  Tavistock.  To  our  ears, by  that  Ab- 
bey's mouldering  walls,  seems  now 
the  silver  Tavy  to  be  complainingly 
fl(  wing  on ;  but  ere  long 
"  In  bays  indenting  all  the  bowery 

shore," 

he  gathers  gladness  from  mead-min- 
gled woods,  till  he  clasps  the  "  Vir- 
tu«msLady"  in  his  arms,  and  then,  as 
if  afraid  of  her  frowns,  lays  himself 
doivn  wimpling  at  her  haughty  feet. 
Bit  lo!  the  Walkham, 
"  {  wollen  by  fresh  brooklets  from  the 

deep-seam'd  hills," 

in  twilight  gloom  is  mingling  with 
his  clearer  waters,  and  we  pause 

"  In  yonder  dome, 

Al  3ve  whose  aged  tower  the  leafy  elm 
Lit  s  its  tall  head,    the  hand  of  genius 

graves 
Th-i  deathless  name  of  ELLIOT.     For  the 

brave 
Demand  our  homage,  and  with  pensive 

step, 
As  slow  we  follow  where  the  devious 

flood 

Alii  ires,  with  reverence  mark  the 
spot 


703 

Where   erst,    all  danger  past,    in  silvan 

scene, 
Reposed  immortal  DRAKE." 

Buckland  Abbey !  A  square  mas- 
sive tower,  a  turret  in  the  court-yard, 
and  a  few  trifling  vestiges-— all  that 
remains  of  the  old  structure !  wildly 
wreathed  with  the  funeral  ivy — the 
richest  we  ever  saw — mosses  and 
lichens  in  which  ages  are  softly  imbed- 
ded— a  dream  of  old  undisturbed  and 
undisturbable  among  the  newnesses, 
not  ungraceful,  of  the  modern  day  ! 

Son  of  the  Brave !  thyself  as  brave ! 
wilt  thou,  when  sailing  in  thy  ship 
along  the  Indian  seas,  (Hyacinth  on 
hyacinth,)  sometimes  remember  the 
day  we  wandered,  each  following  his 
own  fancies,  but  seldom  far  apart, 
among  the  sweet  secrecies  of  those 
many-coloured  woods  !  Here  are 
some  lines  that  might  almost  seem  to 
have  been  written  for  or  by  ourselves ; 
except  that  the  fits  of  melancholy 
amid  our  mirth  were  almost  imper- 
ceptible, as  the  faint  shadows  of  the 
fleecy  clouds  on  the  sunshine  that 
kept  dancing  round  our  feet,  as  thou, 
in  the  pride  of  youthful  manhood, 
and  the  stately  strength  of  thy  prime, 
we  "  somewhat  declined,  yet  that  not 
much,"  (oh  !  say  it  not,  "into  the  vale 
of  years  I")  like  a  young  and  an  old 
stag  bounded  together,  along  long 
high  green  Walkham  Common,  nor 
sought  the  shelter  of  that  crowning 
grove,  though  lured  thither  by  temp- 
tation that  hath  drawn  many  men  of 
all  ages  from  the  safe  high-way  of 
love  and  fealty  to  the  image  that  in 
their  souls  they  adored ! 

"  Few  months  have  passed, 
Francisco,  since  1  wander'd  here  with 

thee, 

In  converse  sweet,  through  all  the  sum- 
mer-day ; 
How  brief  that  day !  The  bird  was  on  the 

bough, 

The  butterfly  was  kissing  every  flower, 
The  bee  was  wandering  by  with  lulling 

hum, 

And  eve  almost  unnoticed,  came,  as  still 
We  traced  the  Tavey's  course.    The  fare- 
well song 
Of  grove  and  sky  arose ;  and,  while  those 

strains 

Swell'd  on  the  ear,  the  river  lifted  high 
Her  voice  responsive.     Soon   the  lofty 

bank 

Refreshed  magnificently,  tree  on  tree 
Ascending  emulously  to  the  brow, 
One  noble  sheet  of  leaf,  save  where  the 

rock 

(Shew'd  its  grey  naked  scalp,    But  swift 
on  all 


704 


Devonshire  and  Cornwall  Illustrated.    No.  f. 


Fall  evening's  anxious  shade;  and  ere  we 

stood 
Where  Maristowe  o'er  Tamar  throws  the 

glance 

To  hills  Cornubian,  on  the  western  steep 
Hover'd   the  sinking  orb;    and,   as   the 

groves 
Of  Warleigh  glttter'd  with  his  last  fond 

smile, 
He  dyed  with  thousand  tints  the  mingling 

floods, 
And  threw  supernal  glories  on  the  scene." 

Dartmoor  !  Thou  art  the  Father 
of  Plymouth — for  thou  art  the  Father 
of  PJym.  We  hear  thee  rushing  by 
Sheepstore's  Dark-browed  rock— 
Sheepstore,  where  is  a  cavern,  so  be- 
lieve the  rural  dwellers,  the  Palace 
of  the  Pixies — the  Devonshire  Fairies. 
Seats  like  those  of  art,  but  to  our 
eyes  liker  those  of  nature — and  a 
spring  of  purest  water  1  The  imagi- 
native dark-eyed  daughters  of  Devon 
never  visit  it,  with  their  sweethearts 
on  a  holyday,  without  leaving  some 
offering  of  moss  or  eatables  for  the 
"  Silent  People."  Beneath  the  Tor 
lies  the  village  of  the  same  name—- 
with its  fine  foamy  cascade.  Then 
comes  the  Meavy  from  that  part  of 
the  Moor  where  once  stood  Si  ward's 
Cross,  and  with  its  tributaries  takes 
the  name  of  Plym.  There  stands 
the  Dead-alive  Meavy  Oak !  Now 
he  is  hollow-hearted — for  Time  with 
his  scythe  has  scooped  a  cavity  that 
once  accommodated  nine  persons  at 
a  dinner  party,  but  is  now  used  as  a 
turf-house.  Wide  enough  to  shelter 
a  flock  of  sheep  is  the  canopy  of  the 
lower  and  living  branches — but  the 
.top  is  singed,  and  blasted,  and  bald, 
and  black,  save  where  the  outer  part 
of  the  wood  has  mouldered  off  in  the 
stormy  rains,  and  left  a  preternatural 
whiteness,  which,  when  seen  glim- 
mering against  the  back  ground  of  a 
serene  evening  sky,  has  a  melancholy 
aspect,  like  the  ghost  of  a  giant. 
Comes  now  the  ever-howling  Cad,  to 
join  the  Plym  "  near  thy  bridge,  ro- 
mantic Shaugh!"  nor  far  from  De- 
wei  stone,  with  its  hawks  and  ravens 
— a  rock-mountain  split  by  thunder- 
bolts— yet  beautiful,  in  his  terrors, 
with  a  passionate  profusion  of  clasp- 
ing ivy,  and  a  loving  flush  of  flowers 
happy  in  the  crevices  of  the  cliffs. 
We  have  a  vision,  the  Lara  Bridge, 
and  hear  the  billowy  surge  broken 


[April, 

against     the     Breakwater,     within 

which    the    little    waves,     like    so 

many  lambs,  lay  themselves  down 

"  Upon  the  anchor'd  vessel's  side.'* 

But  that  vision  will  rise  again,  at 
our  bidding,  in  all  its  magnificence 
— and  now  we  turn  to  take  farewell 
of  the  Moor.  And  it  shall  be  in  the 
words  of  Carrington,  whom,  in  gra- 
titude, we  pronounce  a  Poet — 

"  On  the  very  edge 

Of  the  vast  moorland,  startling  every  eye, 

A  shape  enormous  rises  !  High  it  towers 

Above  the  hill's  bold  brow,  and  seen 
from  far, 

Assumes  the  human  form  ;  a  Granite 
God! 

To  whom,  in  days  long  flown,  the  sup- 
pliant knee 

In  trembling  homage  bow'd.  The  ham- 
lets near 

Have  legends  rude  connected  with  the 
spot, 

(Wild  swept  by  every  wind,)  on  which  he 
stands, 

The  giant  of  the  Moor.  Unnumbered 
shapes 

By  nature  strangely  form'd,  fantastic, 
vast, 

The  silent  desert  throng.  'Tis  said  that 
here 

The  Druid  wander'd.  Haply  have  those 
hills 

With  shouts  ferocious,  and  the  mingled 
shriek 

Resounded,  when  to  Jupiter  upflamed 

The  human  catacomb.     The  frantic  Seer 

There  built  his  sacred  circle  ;  for  he  loved 

To  worship  on  the  mountain's  breast  su- 
blime, 

The  earth  his  altar,  and  the  bending 
heaven 

His  canopy  magnificent.     The  rocks 

That  crest  the  grove-crowned  hill  he 
scooped  to  hold 

The  lustral  waters;  and  to  wondering 
crowds 

And  ignorant,  with  fearful  hand  he 
rock'd 

The  yielding  Logan.  Practised  to  de- 
ceive, 

Himself  deceived,  he  swayed  the  fear- 
struck  throng 

By  craftiest  stratagems ;  and  (falsely  deem- 
ed 

The  minister  of  heaven)  with  bloodiest 
rites 

He  awed  the  prostrate  isle,  and  held  the 
mind 

From  age  to  age  with  superstition's 
spells." 


Frinted  by  Eallantyne  and  Company,  Paul's  Work, 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCVIIL 


MAY,  1833. 


VOL.  XXXIII. 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  KING  ON  THE  IRISH  CHURCH  BILL. 


SIRE— I  approach  your  Majesty 
with  all  the  deference  due  to  the 
possessor  of  the  throne,  and  to  the 
rightful  head  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land. No  subject  of  your  Majesty 
can  feel  a  deeper  veneration  for  your 
rank  as  the  Sovereign,  or  a  more 
loyal  and  unshaken  zeal  for  the  sup- 
po'rt  of  all  your  royal  privileges.  If 
I  now  presume  to  address  your  Ma- 
jesty in  person,  as  the  third  estate 
and  final  voice  in  the  decisions  of 
t\n>  Legislature,  it  is  only  from  an 
earnest  desire  to  see  those  privileges 
retained  in  their  full  exercise,  your 
constitutional  power  still  standing 
forth,  as  of  old,  the  sure  refuge  to 
your  people,  and  your  throne  guard- 
ed from  assaults,  which  no  honour- 
able or  religious  mind  can  contem- 
plate without  the  strongest  abhor- 
rence and  indignation. 

A  Bill  has  been  brought  forward 
in  Parliament,  enacting  a  series  of 
chrnges  in  that  branch  of  the  British 
Protestant  Church  which  yet  exists 
in  Ireland.  The  Bill  has  been  brought 
in  by  your  Majesty's  Ministers.  I 
ma  <e  no  charge  against  those  Mini- 
ster. They  are  men  of  character, 
soLie  of  distinguished  name,  all  of 
mu-^h  popularity.  In  those  they 
have  great  materials  of  public  good 
and  evil.  Their  intentions  are  in 
their  own  breasts.  They  may  be  un- 
couscious  of  the  extent  of  their  Bill, 

VOL.  XXXIII,  NO.  CCVIII. 


But  I  shall  tell  your  Majesty,  that  the 
simple  announcement  of  the  measure 
has  raised  a  tumult  of  congratula- 
tion through  the  lowest  depths  of 
Jacobinism  in  the  land.  That  the 
whole  faction  of  the  hostile  to  Go- 
vernment, the  rapacious  for  plunder, 
and  the  malignant  against  religion, 
have  rejoiced  throughout  all  their 
borders.  That  the  enemies  of  your 
Majesty's  line  have  heard  it  as  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet  to  awake  them 
from  their  sleep,  to  put  them  in 
array  for  the  day  of  revolt,  and 
march  to  the  assault  of  every  great 
protecting  institution  of  the  Empire. 
Those  men  are  wise  in  their  gene- 
ration. They  speculate  at  a  distance 
upon  their  effect.  They  do  not  strike 
in  the  first  instance  at  those  things 
which  rouse  national  alarm.  They 
leave  the  warehouses  of  the  mer- 
chant yet  untouched.  They  have 
yet  but  half  avowed  their  determina- 
tion against  the  lands  of  the  Nobles. 
They  have  not  gone  much  beyond  a 
sneer  at  the  throne ;  but  they  dig 
into  the  foundations  of  the  Church. 
There  they  lay  their  combustibles. 
They  call  the  people  to  look  on  and 
applaud  their  labours  in  preparing 
the  fall,  of  what  they  pronounce  the 
cumberer  of  the  land.  When  all  is. 
ready  then  will  come  the  explosion ; 
the  Church  will  sink  into  the  gulf, 
and  the  whole  loosened  fabric  of 
3  A 


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724 

society  will  follow  it,  from  the  pin- 
nacle to  the  foundation. 

By  this  faction  has  the  Bill  been 
received  with  shouts  of  exultation 
and  revenge,  as  if  over  the  corpse  of 
an  enemy.  Itbasbeeii  instantly  hailed 
by  the  whole  body  of  traitors  to  your 
Majesty  and  the  State.  It  forms  the 
triumphant  theme  of  those  Political 
Unions  which  are  already  the  tyrants 
of  the  multitude,  and  of  more  than 
the  multitude.  The  Irish  assassin, 
reeking  from  the  murder  of  his  coun- 
trymen, receives  it  as  a  boon ;  the 
Irish  Jacobin,  insulting  the  British 
Legislature,  receives  it  as  a  boon; 
the  grim  Atheist  in  his  closet,  the 
furious  agitator  in  the  streets,  every 
avowed  hater  of  order,  joins  in 
a  common  shout  of  victory.  They 
regard  the  measure  as  only  a  preli- 
minary, a  promise  of  fiercer  innova- 
tion, sure  and  soon  to  come;  in  their 
own  jargon,  it  is  but  a  "  means  to  an 
end."  Their  "  All  hail,"  but  the  first 
welcome  to  a  shape  of  blood  and 
ruin,  a  prediction  of  its  consumma- 
ted career  in  the  highest  places  of  the 
land. 

The  question  of  the  uses  of  an 
Established  Church  is  perfectly 
clear.  When  the  nation  already  has 
a  Church,  and  has  to  choose  a  go- 
Ternment,  it  naturally  chooses  a  Go- 
vernment friendly  to  its  opinions. 
"Where  it  has  a  Government,  and  has 
to  choose  a  Church,  that  duty,  like 
all  the  other  leading  duties,  devolves 
on  the  Government.  The  State 
chooses  the  Church  fittest  for  the 
support  of  society,  which  is  the  first 
purpose  of  all  Government.  And  that 
Church  it  sustains  by  its  bounty,  by 
its  patronage,  and  by  its  power.  If 
the  nation  have  not  already  possess- 
ed a  religion,  the  most  necessary  act 
of  Government  is  to  give  it  one ;  for 
without  a  religion  no  Government 
can  be  secure.  Fear  may  produce  a 
temporary  submission.  But  the  only 
solid  foundation  of  obedience  to 
Kings  is  homage  to  the  Deity.  This 
homage  the  State  must  take  upon  it- 
self, for  it  cannot  be  left  to  the  way- 
wardness of  the  human  heart.  The 
forms  of  this  homage  must  be  pre- 
scribed, the  support  of  these  forms 
must  be  provided  for,  a  class  of  fit- 
ting Ministers  must  be  appointed  for 
the  service  of  the  altar,  and  the  in- 
struction of  the  people.  In  other 
words,  there  must  be  an  Established 


[May, 


Church  :  For  what  part  of  this  pro- 
vision can  be  left  to  the  wandering 
impulses  of  the  multitude;  to  the 
profligate,  who  deny  all  religion  ;  to 
the  penurious,  who  refuse  all  contri- 
bution; to  the  thoughtless,  who 
shrink  from  all  memory  of  the  graver 
duties  of  life ;  or  to  the  Jacobin,  who, 
on  system,  rejoices  in  the  general 
blackening  of  all  its  obligations? 
Leave  the  support  of  religion  to  the 
caprice  of  the  crowd,  and  it  is  either 
perverted  by  furious  fanaticism,  or 
lost  by  frigid  neglect ;  it  becomes  the 
reflection  of  ignorant,  presumptuous, 
and  erratic  minds,  or  it  is  famished 
out  of  the  land.  But  place  it  under 
the  protection  of  the  State;  give  it 
the  solidity  of  that  public  pledge  to 
its  continuance;  give  the  commu- 
nity the  assurance,  that  their  sons, 
destined  for  the  service  of  the  altar, 
will  not  be  cast  loose  on  the  precari- 
ous charity  of  the  people  ;  that  the 
doctrines  which  they  honour  as  the 
truth,  will  not  be  suddenly  exchan- 
ged for  the  ravings  of  fanaticism,  or 
the  sullen  sophisms  of  infidelity, 
and  you  will  have  a  succession  of 
educated  men,  prepared  by  their 
knowledge,  by  their  principles,  and  • 
by  the  example  of  their  predeces- 
sors, for  the  religious  teaching  of  the 
people.  You  will  have  a  great  Insti- 
tute, to  which  the  pious  look  up  wit,h 
reverence  for  its  sacredness,  and  the 
poor  with  gratitude  for  its  benefac- 
tion, a  noble  rectifier  of  the  wander- 
ings  of  human  opinion,  by  continual- 
ly presenting  to  man  a  standard  of 
the  highest  of  all  truth;  and  a  noble 
safeguard  of  all  Government,  by  con- 
secrating the  state,  spirit,  and  body 
to  Heaven. 

With  an  Established  Church,  Eng- 
land has  risen  from  a  feeble  and  dis- 
tracted country  into  the  full  vigour 
of  empire;  has  passed  from  darkness 
into  light;  has  made  the  most  magni- 
ficent accumulations  of  wealth,  Eu- 
ropean influence,  commanding  lite- 
rature, unalloyed  liberty,  and  pure 
religion.  In  polity,  she  has  risen 
from  a  field  of  civil  blood  into  the 
solid  security  of  a  legitimate  and  ba- 
lanced government.  In  learning, 
from  a  rude  borrower  of  the  ele- 
ments of  knowledge  from  foreigners, 
into  the  foremost  possessor  of  all 
that  bears  the  name  of  intellectual 
distinction ;  and,  in  religion,  she  has 
torn  the  sullen  robe  of  Rome  from 


A  Letter  to  the  Kiny  on  the  Irish  Church  J5UL 


he  r  limbs,  and  stands  forth  the  cham- 
pion of  Christianity  to  the  world. 

America  is  governed  without  an 
Established  Church.  But  are  we  to 
compare  tire  ancient  and  massive 
fabric  of  the  British  government  with 
tha  fluctuating  and  fugitive  shelter 
under  which  American  legislation 
thrust  its  head  ?  or  the  prescriptive 
mijesty  of  our  national  worship  with 
tha  rambling  sectarianism  of  religion 
in  a  country  where  the  pulpit  is  only 
th-3  more  foul  and  furious  conduit 
of  every  absurdity  of  the  brain,  or 
paroxysm  of  the  passions;  the  land 
of  camp-meetings  and  convulsion- 
naires,  of  corruption  under  the  name 
of  conversion,  and  of  political  raving 
under  the  name  of  Scriptural  illumi- 
nation ?  We  might  as  well  compare 
th(i  forest  wigwam  with  the  palace, 
or  its  tenant  with  the  sages  and 
statesmen  of  Europe. 

But  what  is  the  actual  object  of  the 
faction  ?  Is  it  the  purification  of  the 
Church  ?  This  they  scorn  to  assert. 
They  have  the  candour  of  the  full 
sense  of  power.  They  have  found 
no  such  word  in  their  Gallic  code  as 
renovation.  Their  object,  open  and 
declared,  is  to  destroy  the  Church. 
They  have  a  further  object, — parti- 
ally withheld,  but  on  which  their 
determination  is  fully  formed.  The 
outcry  against  the  Church  is  only  the 
covering  of  their  warfare  against  the 
Constitution.  They  will  use  the 
ruins  of  the  Establishment  to  fill  up 
thr  ditch,  and  having  broken  through 
the,  grand  outwork,  they  will  have 
nothing  more  to  do  than  to  sit  down 
before  the  citadel.  Upon  your  Ma- 
jesty's decision  may  depend' interests 
ihnt  will  dispose  of  the  empire. 

I  shall  not  enter  into  the  details  of 
tin  Bill.  My  business  is  with  its  spi- 
rit. It  is  a  twofold  seizure  of  Church 
property;— the  one  a  perpetual  tax 
on  the  clergy,  from  five  to  fifteen  pel- 
cent;  the  other  a  perpetual  aliena- 
tion of  the  Bishops'  lands  ; — the 
foi  mer,  a  burden  galling  the  neck  of 
the  clergy  from  year  to  year  for  ever; 
the  other  a  sweeping  spoil,  a  seizure 
of  property  given  for  the  exclusive 
support  of  the  Church,  holding  by  a 
till  3  as  sacred  as  that  of  youV  Majes- 
ty' .;  crown,  and  much  more  ancient; 
— both  confiscation,  without  the  sha- 
do  Y  of  a  crime;  property  torn  away 
wh  tch  was  consecrated  to  God,  and 
totally  incapable  of  being  converted 


725 

to  the  secular  purposes  of  individuals 
or  the  State1,  without  bringing  down 
the  heavy  curse  of  God.  This  I  shall 
prove  as  I  proceed. 

The  question  is  disengaged  from 
all  difficulty  by  the  open  nature  of  its 
provisions.  There  might  be  some 
speciousness  in  the  proposal  of 
changes  of  form  in  the  Church,  of 
more  or  fewer  dignities,  or  of  the 
equalization  of  incomes.  On  all 
these  points  a  wise  legislator,  aware 
of  the  hazards  of  all  changes  in  an- 
cient things,  would  feel  himself 
bound  to  pause  before  he  fairly 
planted  his  foot  on  the  perilous 
ground  of  public  innovation.  But 
the  fondest  enthusiast  for  the  golden 
age  of  change  cannot  be  deceived 
now.  If  he  tread,  it  is  at  his  peril. 
The  pitfall  lies  open  before  him.  Those 
two  clauses  are  sufficient  to  lay  bare 
the  whole  transaction.  They  are  a  de- 
clared seizure  of  property,  which  no 
legislature  can  have  a  right  to  touch, 
except  under  those  circumstances 
of  public  extremity  which  subvert 
all  rights  alike.  In  the  utter  famine 
of  the  State,  men  may  eat  the  bread 
from  the  altar.  In  the  final  battle  of 
the  State,  they  may  turn  the  ruins  of 
the  Church  into  a  rampart  for  their 
bodies.  But  those  hours  of  terrible 
paroxysm  are  not  more  remote 
from  the  healthful  and  peaceful  ex- 
istence of  empire,  than  those  fierce 
rights  of  despair  from  the  present 
plunder  of  the  old  and  legitimate 
institutions  of  the  empire. 

On  this  point  I  demand,  where  is 
the  public  necessity  ?  Where  is  ru- 
inous defeat  and  the  national  bank- 
ruptcy, or  even  the  failing  harvest  ? 
Where  any  one  of  those  public  cala- 
mities that  might  serve  as  a  pretext 
for  public  plunder  ?  I  see  none.  I 
look  round  the  horizon,  even  to  the 
extremities  of  Europe — all  is  quiet. 
I  hear  your  Majesty's  speech  pro- 
nouncing that  you  are  on  friendly 
terms  with  all  nations.  1  see  com- 
merce as  usual  pushing  its  branches 
through  all  the  channels  of  enter- 
prise in  the  world.  I  see  England 
covered  daily  with  canals,  railways, 
and  all  the  fine  inventions  that  imply 
at  once  individual  capital  and  public 
spirit.  The  bounty  of  Heaven  has 
given  us  the  most  exuberant  harvest 
within  memory.  And  it  is  at  this 
time,  when  the  country  is  hourly 
congratulated  by  men  in  authority 


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7-26 

on  her  increasing  strength,  that  we 
are  called  on  to  consummate  an  act 
which  could  be  justified  by  nothing 
but  the  worst  sufferings  of  the  worst 
times,  which,  even  in  those  times, 
could  be  safely  done,  only  with  a 
solemn  determination  to  restore  the 
sacred  things  the  moment  that  the 
necessity  had  passed  by,  and  render 
unto  God  the  things  that  are  God's. 
I  can  see  nothing  in  the  natural 
impulses  of  your  Majesty's  Minis- 
ters, to  account  for  an  act  which 
must  revolt  their  feelings  as  gentle- 
men, regretting  the  privations  of  gen- 
tlemen like  themselves.  I  can  see 
nothing  but  the  one  fierce  and  bitter 
faction  which  has  grown  into  fatal 
power  in  the  State;  which,  contempt- 
ible in  its  individual  members,  has 
been  suffered  to  become  formidable 
as  a  mass  ;  and  which  now  by  a  sys- 
tem of  perpetual  scorn  of  the  law, 
perpetual  defiance  of  principle,  and 
perpetual  appeal  to  all  the  bad  pas- 
sions, carries  the  rabble  with  them, 
and  floods  the  land  with  revolution. 
This  faction  began  with  Ireland. 
There  they  found  the  soil  prepared 
by  a  giddy  Government,  and  a  profli- 
gate superstition  ;  they  sowed  the 
seeds  of  bloodshed,  and  left  them  to 
the  natural  care  of  those  sure  influ- 
ences. The  crop  has  duly  followed  ; 
and  Ireland,  at  this  hour,  presents  a 
scene  of  misgovernmentand  misery, 
unequalled  in  the  globe.  The  san- 
guinary despotism  of  Turkey  has  no- 
thing like  it;  the  barbarism  of  Russia 
is  civilized  to  it.  The  roving  Arabs 
exhibit  a  more  reverent  respect  for 
life  and  property.  The  dweller  in 
an  Indian  forest,  or  a  Tartar  wilder- 
ness, is  safer  in  his  house,  than  the 
Irish  landlord,  living  under  the  safe- 
guard of  the  British  laws ;  and  even 
fortified  within  a  circle  of  British 
bayonets.  That  faction  has  been  im- 
ported among  us.  The  pilots  who 
steered  that  vessel  of  ill- omen,  are 
now  loudest  in  their  remorse,  for  a 
service,  at  once  the  basest,  the  most 
disastrous,  and  the  most  marked  by 
retributive  justice  on  their  own 
heads,  of  any  act  within  record. 
They  now  resist,  and  point  to  the 
coming  ruin.  But  they  have  strip- 
ped themselves  of  the  alliance  of  all 
honest  men,  and  they  declaim  to  the 
winds.  The  Cassandras,  who  part 
with  their  virtue  for  their  knowledge, 
will  find  that  they  have  purchased 


[May, 


nothing  but  prophecies  that  all  men 
disregard ;  and  that  their  only  dis- 
tinction is  to  be  more  conspicuously 
spurned. 

This  faction,  the  representative  of 
the  ignorance  of  Ireland,  comes  over 
with  it  to  confound  the  wisdom  of 
England ;  rouses  Ireland  to  madness, 
to  make  the  madness  a  charge  against 
England;  covers  Ireland  with  civil 
war,  and  then  bids  England  turn  her 
ear  to  the  sound ;  points  to  the  con- 
flagration, lighted  by  its  own  hands, 
in  a  country  of  superstition,  barba- 
rism, and  revolt;  and  then  bids  us 
see,  in  the  reddening  horizon,  the 
example  of  our  "  own  funeral  pyre." 
Can  it  be  a  question,  whether  we 
are  to  resist  or  to  yield  ?  Are  we  to 
commit  the  criminal  absurdity  of 
protecting  our  civil  existence,  by 
joining  in  a  conspiracy  against  all 
civil  right;  or  attempting  to  save 
Protestantism  in  England,  by  throw- 
ing Irish  Protestantism  to  be  mangled 
and  trampled  in  their  advance  to  na- 
tional ruin  ? 

Your  Majesty  is  not  ignorant  that 
this  faction  hates  you, — hates  your 
name, — your  principles, — and  your 
house  ; — is  stung  with  the  most  fu- 
rious malice  at  your  Sovereignty ; — 
hates  you  and  yours  as  a  Protestant, 
as  a  Brunswick,  as  a  man,  and  as  a 
King.  That  it  has  sworn  on  its  al- 
tars never  to  rest,  until  it  rooted  the 
last  branch  of  the  House  of  Hanover 
out  of  the  Empire ;  and  that,  for  this 
purpose,  it  is  resolved  to  compass 
heaven  and  earth.  That  it  will  swear 
to  all  parties,  or  betray  all ;  lick  the 
feet  of  all  Ministers,  or  menace  them ; 
lean  down  to  the  follies  of  all  ga- 
therings of  the  rabble,  or  stir  their 
passions  into  frenzy ;  if  it  can  but 
carry  its  point — and  that  point  the 
downfall  of  the  Protestantism  of 
England;— and  as  its  preliminary, 
the  expulsion  of  the  Protestant  line 
from  the  English  throne.  That  it 
will  be  totally  indifferent  whether 
this  be  accomplished  by  force  or 
fraud ;  and  whether  its  results  be  to 
send  your  dynasty  across  the  Chan- 
nel, or  through  the  grave. 

At  this  moment  it  is  exulting  in  the 
snare  which  it  had  laid  for  entrap- 
ping your  Majesty's  Ministers  into 
acts,  which,  if  suffered  to  succeed, 
it  boasts,  must  strip  authority  in- 
stantly of  its  whole  strength  in  Ire- 
land, startle  every  Protestant  in  Eng- 


J833.] 


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727 


land,  make  loyal  men  examine  the 
£  rounds  of  their  attachment  to  the 
Throne,  make  religious  men  shrink 
from  a  cause  which  seems  volun- 
tarily to  abandon  the  path  of  all  that 
they  have  hitherto  honoured;  and 
e  ven,  in  the  most  worldly  point  of 
A  iew,  must  unsettle  every  feeling 
tiat  belongs  to  reliance  on  ancient 
right,  acknowledged  property,  blame- 
less conduct,  and  legitimate  posses- 
sion. 

The  question  narrows  itself  to  the 
s  ngle  point  of  plunder.  The  Church 
may  be  a  fit  subject  of  regulation, 
like  every  thing  else;  but  regulation 
\i  for  improvement;  robbery  is  for 
weakness, confusion, extinction.  This 
is-  beyond  the  power  of  law,  for  no 
law  can  authorize  injustice,  as  no 
scheme  of  improvement  can  succeed 
b  jr  ruin.  The  rule  is  the  simplest  of 
aA  principles.  Purify  as  we  will, 
cat  off  excrescences,  but  do  this  only 
to  return  the  sap  of  the  tree  to  the 
tiunk; — do  not  lay  the  axe  to  the 
root.  A  wise  legislator,  instead  of 
b  ^ginning  his  change  by  the  rash  ope- 
ration of  extinguishing  the  Irish 
Bench,  would  have  considered  what 
hi  could  do  for  the  increase  of 
Christian  knowledge  among  the 
people;  he  would  have  tried  what 
was  to  be  done  by  some  more 
fi  ting  distribution.  His  last  expe- 
dient would  be  the  destruction  of 
any  thing.  He  would  have  consi- 
dered, whether,  in  a  land,  overrun 
b;r  her  hideous  crimes,  and  impuri- 
ti  is,  and  Popery,  it  was  not  a  matter 
oi  Christian  wisdom  to  strengthen 
ai;d  multiply  the  outposts  of  Protest- 
antism; to  fix  as  many  able  men, 
with  means  and  authority  in  their 
hf  nds,  as  he  could  find;  for  the  ex- 
pi  ess  purpose  of  maintaining  the  re- 
ligion of  truth  and  loyalty,  he  would 
discover,  in  the  depth  of  that  Pagan 
d{  rkness,  a  reason,  not  for  extin- 
guishing his  lamps,  but  for  enlarging 
atd  extending  their  illumination. 

The  State  has  the  power  of  re- 
foi-ming  the  Church,  but  not  of  de- 
stroying. The  rapacity  which  alien- 
ates the  property  of  the  Church  to 
th  i  uses  of  the  State,  will  be  brought 
to  a  bitter  account  for  its  crime. 
This  is  the  testimony  of  history  in 
all  lands  and  all  times.  I  shall 
look  only  to  the  annals  of  England: 
Hi  nry  VIII.  seized  the  Church  re- 
venues, and  divided  large  portions 


of  them  between  the  Crown  and  the 
nobles.  The  Church  which  he  had 
overthrown  was  impure.  He  had 
done  a  great  act  of  national  good  in 
its  overthrow.  But  his  rapine  sullied 
the  whole  merit  of  his  reform. — 
Cranmer,  and  the  leading  clergy  of 
the  Protestants,  supplicated  to  leave 
for  the  works  of  God  what  had  been 
consecrated  to  God.  It  had  been 
given  originally  by  holy  men  for 
holy  purposes.  Its  abuse  by  monks 
and  Romish  priests,  could  not  justify 
its  alienation  from  the  works  of 
mercy,  knowledge,  and  virtue.  But 
the  courtiers  were  craving,  the  mi- 
nisters were  worthless,  and  the  King 
was  rapacious.  Passion  and  prodi- 
gality rioted  in  the  spoil;  and  the 
noblest  of  all  opportunities  was 
thrown  away, — the  opportunity  of 
spreading  religious  knowledge  to 
every  corner  of  the  realm.  The  of- 
fence was  soon  and  terribly  avenged. 
From  1543  to  1547,  Henry  had  con- 
tinued his  system  of  confiscation. 
Yet  it  was  not  total.  He  had  given 
up  a  part  of  his  plunder,  from  time 
to  time,  for  the  uses  of  the  purified 
Church;  he  had  even  established  six 
new  Bishoprics;  added  Deaneries  and 
Chapters  to  eight  already  existing ; 
endowed  Professorships  in  both  the 
Universities;  and  erected  Christ's 
Church  and  Trinity  Colleges  in  Ox- 
ford and  Cambridge.  But  he  had 
alienated  a  vast  portion ;  his  nobles 
had  grown  rich  by  the  poverty  of 
the  Church.  The  same  system  was 
pursued  under  the  Protector  So- 
merset, in  the  minority  of  Edward 
VI.  Somerset  himself  seized  on  a 
Deanery,  with  four  Prebendal  stalls. 
In  1553,  the  punishment  began. 

Nations  must  be  punished  in  this 
world,  for  they  have  no  future.  The 
Reformation  was  suddenly  stopped. 
The  whole  career  of  vigour,  personal 
freedom,  and  public  prosperity,  to 
which  every  man  in  England  looked 
forward,  was  covered  with  clouds. 
The  fires  of  persecution,  which  seem- 
ed to  have  been  extinguished  for 
ever,  were  suddenly  lighted.  The 
old  religion  returned  in  ferocious 
triumph ;  every  step  that  it  trode,  was 
in  the  heart' s-blood  of  England.  Nine 
thousand  of  the  clergy  were  deprived 
of  their  benefices;  eleven  bishops 
were  degraded ;  crowds  of  the  most 
learned  men  of  England  were  driven 
into  exile ;  and,  by  Lord  Clarendon's 


A  Letter  to  the  King  on  the  Irish  Church 


728 


account,  nearly  eight  hundred  peo- 
ple, of  all  ranks  and  professions,  suf- 
fered martyrdom.  The  Reformation 
was  thus  vitiated  by  the  crimes  of  its 
founder,  and  the  participation  of  his 
people.  Its  career  from  that  hour 
was  a  struggle  for  fifty  years.  The 
poverty  of  the  Church  deprived  it  of 
the  power  of  being  a  public  benefac- 
tor. Education  languished.'  The 
people,  left  by  the  scanty  revenues 
of  the  Church  to  the  chance  liberality 
of  the  country,  lost  the  knowledge 
which  the  Church  would  have  re- 
joiced to  give,  had  it  been  enabled  to 
more  than  exist.  Even  the  princely 
spirit  of  Elizabeth  was  forced  to  seek 
in  severity  an  expedient  against  the 
evils  that  .followed  the  confiscation 
of  the  Church  Estates  and  the  Esta- 
blishment. Instead  of  being  the  great 
support  of  the  poor,  the  founder  of 
hospitals,  the  munificent  mother  of 
the  whole  system  of  national  charity 
was  stricken  into  pauperism. 

The  punishment  was  not  yet  com- 
plete. Out  of  the  pauperism  of  the 
Church  grew  Puritanism.  The  Es- 
tablished clergy,  ground  to  the  dust 
by  the  difficulties  of  life,  were  unable 
to  overthrow  this  new  and  violent 
incursion,  alike  on  the  Church  and 
the  Government,  and  the  new  repub- 
licanism of  religion  prevailed.  If 
the  ancient  revenues  had  been  left, 
England,  three  hundred  years  ago, 
would  have  been  the  most  learned, 
intelligent,  and  powerful  nation  that 
the  earth  has  seen.  The  Church , 
would  have  planted  a  college  in  every 
county,  Avould  have  endowed  found- 
ations for  the  support  of  learning 
in  its  earlier  stages,  and  have  made 
provision  for  the  continued  support 
of  those  learned  men,  who  have  been 
for  the  last  three  hundred  years 
driven  to  perish  in  obscure  heart- 
breaking labours  for  their  daily 
bread.  Germany  at  this  hour  owes 
almost  the  entire  of  her  literary  dis- 
tinctions to  those  numerous  little 
annuities  and  provisions  attached  to 
her  courts  and  cathedrals  for  learn- 
ed men ;  provisions  totally  wanting 
in  England,  except  in  the  Fellowships 
of  her  Colleges,  scanty  and  few  as 
they  are.  The  Establishment,  unde- 
spoiled,  would  have  built  a  place  of 
worship  in  every  parish,  with  a  resi- 
dence which  would  ensure  the  pre- 
sence of  a  clergyman.  All  that  is 
evil  in  pluralities  would  have  been 


[May, 


at  an  end,  for  pluralities  have  grown 
out  of  tbo  wnnt  of  habitation  for  the 
rlergy.  The  people  would  not  have 
had  to  traverse  miles  across  the 
country  to  find  a  place  of  worship, 
or  not  worship  at  all.  They  would 
have  had  a  church  at  their  doors. 
We  should  not  have  seen  an  Esta- 
blishment, in  which  three-fourths  of 
the  clergy  are  little  above  the  pea- 
sants round  them,  or  four  thousand 
livings  under  a  hundred  pounds  a- 
year,  with  deductions  for  taxes  and 
fees,  diminishing  even  that  pittance 
by  a  fourth.  We  should  not  see  a 
crowd  of  the  orphans  of  those  gen- 
tlemen daily  driven  to  find  their 
common  education  in  public  chari- 
ties, and  scattered  through  the  most 
obscure  and  menial  employments  of 
the  most  obscure  trades,  instead  of 
emulating  the  attainments  of  the  class 
in  which  they  were  born,  and  giving 
the  contribution  of  their  hereditary 
learning  and  piety  to  the  nation. 

The  Puritans  appealed  to  the  po- 
pular passions.  The  King,  in  his 
extremity,  appealed  to  the  Esta- 
blished clergy.  They  were  loyal, 
but  they  were  now  powerless.  As 
Mary  had  been  raised  to  scourge  the 
Reformation,  Cromwell  was  raised 
to  crush  the  throne. 

In  all  lands,  the  confiscator  has 
been  punished.  The  scourge  may 
have  been  laid  on  by  different  hands, 
but  the  blood  has  alike  followed  the 
blow.  Fifty  years  ago,  Joseph  the  Se- 
cond of  Austria  confiscated  the  lands 
of  some  of  the  monasteries  in  the 
Austrian  Netherlands^  the  revenues 
were  applied  to  the  service  of  the 
state.  The  monasteries  may  have 
been  useless,  indolent,  or  even  im- 
pure, but  their  wealth  was  not  cri- 
minal ;  and  its  first  and  last  designa- 
tion should  have  been  to  the  service 
of  Heaven,  by  giving  knowledge  and 
teaching  virtue.  It  went  to  clerks 
and  secretaries,  to  squadrons  of 
horse,  and  battalions  of  infantry.  The 
crime  was  instantly  smitten.  Politi- 
cians, in  their  shortsightedness,  can 
see  nothing  but  what  lies  on  the 
ground  at  their  feet.  To  other  men, 
the  Heaven  is  spread"  above  their 
heads,  and  they  see  in  its  signs  the 
shapes  of  vengeance  for  the  guilt  of 
men.  A  furious  insurrection  arose 
in  the  Netherlands  ;  not  a  monkish 
tumult  for  monkish  injuries,  but  a 
Jadbbiu  determination  to  abjure  all 


A  Letter  to  the  King  on  ike  Irish  Church  Bill 


authority.  The  Emperor  found  him- 
seif  suddenly  plunged  into  war,  and 
war  with  his  own  subjects,  whose 
victory  and  defeat  were  equally  and 
hourly  draining  the  national  blood. 
But  a  no\v  enemy  soon  rushed  into 
the  field.  Republican  France  threw 
her  sword  into  the  scale;  and  the 
Netherlands,  the  appanage  of  Austria 
for  almost  three  centuries,  were  cut 
away  from  her  for  ever. 

Another  memorable  instance  stands 
before  the  eyes  of  Europe,  to  teach 
her  sovereigns  wisdom.  The  first 
act  of  the  French  Revolution  was  to 
sei^e  upon  the  property  of  the 
Church.  Are  we  to  follow  her  ex- 
ample, at  the  risk  of  her  punish- 
ment ?  Is  England  prepared  to  un- 
dergo the  long  agonies  of  France  ? 
Arc,  her  nobles  ready  for  exile,  her 
people  for  her  chains  and  the  con- 
scription ;  her  palaces  for  the  revel- 
ry of  her  Mob,  and  her  Churches  for 
the  pollutions  of  Jacobinism?  The 
form  of  her  vengeance  may  be  dif- 
ferent, but  justice  will  not  sleep, 
and  if  England  lay  but  a  finger  on 
the  consecrated  property,  heavy  will 
be  her  visitation,  and  the  heavier  for 
her  warning,  for  her  experience,  and 
for  her  consciousness  of  the  guilt  of 
the  sacrilege.  If  the  Irish  Church  is 
given  over  to  the  plunder  of  its  ene- 
mies, the  punishment  will  come,  and 
woe  be  to  the  nation  that  abets  the 
guilt  and  shares  the  spoil. 

The  history  of  the  Reformation  in 
Ireland  is  full  of  the  same  moral.  It 
shows  us  the  noblest  effort  ever 
made  to  introduce  light  and  religion 
into  the  body  of  a  nation  frustrated 
by  the  spirit  of  spoil.  It  shows  us 
the  punishment  inflicted  in  retribu- 
tion, and  it  assigns  the  cause  why 
Ireland  has  been  for  the  last  three 
ceniuries  a  source  of  toil,  anxiety, 
waete,  and  weakness  to  England,  if 
she  is  not  finally  destined  to  be  her 
ruin.  The  Reformation  fixed  its  foot 
in  Ireland  about  nine  years  before 
the  ieath  of  Henry  the  Eighth.  It 
made  way  rapidly  through  the  coun- 
try. The  Romish  superstitions  dis- 
appeared before  it.  The  power  of 
the  Pope  was  trampled  under  its 
step  It  went  on  like  the  original 
revelation,  strong  in  its  simplicity, 
morcj  highly  adorned  in  its  naked- 
ness than  the  pompous  and  embroi- 
dered superstition  that  it  came  to 
displace  or  to  purify.  It  went  on 


with  the  nation  following  in  its  train, 
till  it  took  possession  of  the  temple, 
and  signalized  at  once  its  spirit  and 
its  power,  by  driving  out  the  money- 
changers, the  old  hereditary  mono- 
poly that  had  used  holiness  only  as 
a  cover  for  usurpation.    The  house 
of  God  was  a  den  of  thieves  no  more. 
A  few  years  would  have  spread  the 
Reformation  from  end  to  end  of  the 
island,  but  its  progress  was  suddenly 
stopped  by  royal  rapacity.    The  king 
laid  his  hands  on  the  revenues  of  the 
Church.    Henry  had  a  right  to  over- 
throw the   Romish   hierarchy  as  a 
corruption  of  religion ;   he  had  no 
right  to  alienate  its  property  from 
the  service  of  all  religion.     The  Ro- 
mish priesthood   had  been  corrupt 
stewards,  and  they  deserved  to  be 
stripped  of  their  stewardship.     But 
the  guilt  of  the  servants  could  not 
criminate  the  estate.     It  was  given 
for  the  purposes  of  God,  it  had  been 
abused  to  the  purposes  of  the  priest; 
and  now,  instead  of  being  restored  to 
its  original  sacredness,  it  was  abused 
to  the  purposes  of  the  king.     The 
rapacity  which  had  broken  short  the 
strength  of  the  Reformation  in  Eng- 
land proceeded  the  greater  lengths 
of  power,  safe  from  public  scrutiny, 
in  an  island  little  regarded  by  the 
English  Parliaments  or  people.  One- 
half  of  the  entire  revenue  of  the  con- 
verted Church   was    seized.      The 
crown  confiscated  to  its  own  use,  or 
that   of  its   dependents,  five    hun- 
dred and  sixty-two  rectories,  with 
one  hundred  and  eighteen  additional 
parishes,    in  all,    six  hundred   and 
eighty  parishes  !     The  great  nobles, 
their  relatives,  every  man  who  com- 
manded influence  with  the  Govern- 
ment, rushed  to  this  general  distri- 
bution of  sacrilege.  The  tithes,  alien- 
ated to  laymen,  amounted  to  three 
hundred    thousand  pounds    a-year  I 
But  rapacity  did  riot  stop  here.    A 
fresh  seizure  was  made  of  the  glebe 
lands.     They  were  still  able  to  fur- 
nish a  meal  for  those  wholesale  de- 
vourers.    They  seized  upon  fourteen 
hundred  and  eighty  glebes  !     A  curse 
fell   instantly  upon  the  transaction. 
The  Reformation  suddenly  stopped 
— it  was    all    but  strangled  in  the 
birth.      The  Protestant  clergy,   the 
stronghold  of  English  allegiance,  de- 
cayed out  of  the  land,  or  struggled 
for  a  meagre  and  failing  subsistence. 
The  churches  fell  into  ruin ;  vast  dish 


730 


A  Letter  to  the  King  on  the  Irish  Church  BUI. 


[May, 


tricts  were  left  without  education, 
without  protection,  without  a  know- 
ledge of  the  simplest  rudiments  of 
religion.  English  feelings  died  ;  fu- 
rious animosities  rose  up  in  their 
place.  The  English  language  was 
again  superseded  by  the  dialect  of 
the  country.  The  Romish  supersti- 
tions again  flooded  the  land,  pervert- 
ing all  its  admirable  powers  into  the 
materials  of  national  ruin ;  degrading 
its  courage  into  ferocity,  its  feelings 
into  savage  revenge;  its  allegiance 
into  a  wild  clanship  of  blood  and 
plunder;  its  ability  into  the  subtle- 
ties and  stratagems  of  obscure,  but 
perpetual  and  sanguinary  rebellion. 
The  whole  tempest  fell  upon  the 
unhappy  victims  of  royal  rapacity 
with  a  weight  of  ruin  unexampled  in 
the  records  of  Europe.  The  Refor- 
mation, the  cause  of  truth  and  Eng- 
land, perished  under  the  knife.  Mas- 
sacre was  the  retribution  on  the  Go- 
vernment and  the  nation,  which  had 
rioted  in  the  spoils  of  the  Church  of 
Ireland.  The  immediate  sufferers 
were  the  Protestants  of  Ireland  ;  but. 
the  blow  fell  deepest  upon  England. 
The  pangs  of  the  murdered  were 
soon  done.  But  the  lasting  ven- 
geance was  on  that  Government,  and 
that  country  to  which  Ireland,  from 
that  hour  to  this,  has  been  a  source 
of  restless  anxiety;  a  refuge  for 
every  desperate  principle,  the  fort- 
ress of  a  religion  hostile  to  her  be- 
lief, and  to  her  allegiance ;  a  port  for 
the  sails  of  every  enemy ;  an  open 
province  for  the  career  of  every 
tierce  passion  and  envenomed  con- 
spiracy; disaffection  growing  with 
its  growth,  until  we  reckon  the  le- 
vies of  rebellion  by  millions,  and 
hear  from  two  thousand  darkened 
altars  the  cry  of  "  Down  with  Eng- 
land!" 

Or  let  us  look  to  a  single  instance 
in  this  long  history  of  wretchedness, 
the  results  of  a  single  crime ;  a  single 
feature  in  the  physiognomy  where  all 
is  convulsion.  In  the  middle  of  the 
last  century,  the  Irish  Parliament 
committed  a  new  act  of  spoliation  in 
the  Irish  Church.  In  the  lapse  of 
years  the  chief  part  of  the  land  had 
fallen  into  pasture.  The  great  land- 
holders now  determined  to  seize  up- 
on the  tithes  of  this  pasture,  thus 
depriving  the  impoverished  clergy  of 
nearly  the  whole  of  that  portion  of 
their  income,  paid  by  the  nobles  and 


gentry  of  the  land.  Their  argument 
for  this  atrocious  robbery  was  the 
argument  which  we  hear  at  this  hour. 
"  The  clergy  are  few ;  the  country  is 
naked  of  religious  teachers ;  the 
Churches  are  in  ruins ;  and  therefore 
we  must  despoil."  It  was  in  vain 
urged  uj)on  the  legislature,  that  the 
remedy  for  the  national  evils  was  not 
to  despoil,  but  to  restore.  To  build 
Churches,  to  enable  the  churchmen 
to  reside ;  to  give  back  the  sacred 
property,  without  which,  knowledge, 
loyalty,  and  religion  must  perish. 
These  were  the  arguments  of  truth 
and  sound  policy.  The  arguments 
of  power  and  peculation  were  might- 
ier, and  they  prevailed.  The  unresist- 
ing church  was  plundered.  An  act  of 
Parliament  declared  that  the  "  tithe 
of  agistment"  was  claimable  no  long- 
er, and,  with  that  last  contemptuous 
violation  of  right,  which  acknowledges 
that  it  acts  in  scorn  of  law,  Parlia- 
ment actually  prohibited  all  Barris- 
ters from  pleading  in  any  action  for 
the  tithe  of  pasture  land.  Thus  the 
Church  was  not  simply  robbed,  but 
commanded  to  abstain  from  exclaim- 
ing against  the  robbery;  not  simply 
stripped  of  its  chief  possession,  but 
laid  under  ban  for  seeking  the  com- 
mon defence  of  the  beggar  against 
his  injurer. 

But  let  us  look  to  the  sequel.  The 
Church  was  unresisting,  and  the  act 
had  its  full  sweep.  The  great  land- 
holders in  Parliament  rejoiced  in 
their  plunder  of  a  feeble  opponent. 
But  they  soon  had  another  enemy  to 
deal  with.  A  furious  peasant  insur- 
rection arose  in  those  pasture  provin- 
ces. The  lives  and  properties  of  the 
landlords  were  suddenly  at  the  mercy 
of  the  pike  and  the  firebrand.  White- 
boyisrn,  the  concentration  of  the  re- 
venge, the  avarice,  the  riot,  and  the 
superstition  of  the  multitude,  tore 
and  ravaged  the  whole  south  of  Ire- 
land. The  clergy  suffered  in  the 
common  war  against  all  property. 
But  the  national  devastation  amount- 
ed to  millions  in  money,  and  more 
than  millions  in  the  check  of  com- 
merce and  civilisation,  in  the  renew- 
ed barbarism  of  the  popular  mind,  in 
the  degradation  of  the  national  cha- 
racter, and  the  utter  disgrace  of  go- 
vernment, This  insurrection  lasted 
fifty  years  !  Nominally  a  war  against 
tithes,  it  was  a  furious  revolt  against 
all  law,  for  the  plunder  of  all  pro- 


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1833.] 

perty.  During  this  fatal  period,  Ire- 
land was  held  in  perpetual  terror. 
All  the  activity  of  a  repentant  legis- 
lature was  useless  against  a  form  of 
h  utility  that  perpetually  defied  its 
g  -asp  ;  that  was  visible  only  in  its 
Invoc  ;  that  made  its  voice  heard  on- 
ly in  the  arteries  of  the  country 
which  it  convulsed  and  tore.  Law 
followed  it,  marking  every  step  with 
blood — but  followed  it,  only  to  see 
fi'3sh  ravages  starting  up  hourly  in 
ib»  track.  Armies  followed  it,  and 
they  might  as  well  have  chased  the 
cbuds  on  the  ridges  of  the  hills, 
w.iere  the  peasant  avengers  of  a 
cause,  of  which  they  knew  nothing, 
stood  scoffing  at  the  hopelessness  of 
pi  rsuit.  Misery  overspread  the  most 
fe /tile  portion  of  Ireland.  The  prison- 
ships  were  freighted  with  the  Insur- 
gents; the  jails  were  crowded,  the 
scuff  old  groaned ;  but  the  Insurgency 
Wf  a  not  put  down.  It  even  spread 
under  the  pressure  of  government. 
From  the  south,  it  flowed  into  the 
ce:itre  and  the  north  of  Ireland. 
Banditti,  under  various  names,  car- 
ried fire  and  sword  through  the 
est  ates  of  the  nobles,  until  the  time  was 
ripe  for  the  catastrophe.  A  new  ma- 
teriel was  then  thrown  in  to  rouse  the 
popular  combustion  to  a  flame.  The 
Fnnch  Revolution  was  thesummoner 
of  the  new  spirit  of  evil.  Political  folly 
and  atheist  fury  were  flung  blazing  in- 
to the  heap  which  had  been  smoulder- 
ing for  fifty  years.  The  peasant  pas- 
sions were  roused  by  French  parti- 
sanship. The  hatred  of  the  Church 
and  the  landlord  were  swelled  into 
hat/ed  of  all  that  bore  the  name  of 
authority.  A  republican  Directory 
was  now  arrayed  against  the 
Cr<  wn.  A  rebel  army  stood  in  the 
field  against  the  King's  troops;  bat- 
tles were  fought,  towns  were  sack- 
ed, prisoners  burned  alive,  five  pro- 
vinces were  desolated,  a  million  of 
moi  ey  was  wasted  in  the  suppres- 
sior.  of  the  rebellion;  the  banish- 
mei  t  of  multitudes,  the  utter  im- 
pov  'rishment  of  multitudes;  and  the 
bon  ;s  of  ten  thousand  of  the  unfor- 
tunj  te  peasantry  mingled  with  those 
of  rr  any  a  gallant  soldier  of  the  King's 
troo  33,  bleaching  on  fields  of  obscure 
but  >loody  encounters,  were  the  con- 
sum  nation  of  an  act  of  Government, 
that,  like  its  predecessor  a  century 
before,  began  in  rapine  and  was 
pimi  ihed  in  massacre* 


But  the  enemies  of  the  Church 
and  of  your  Majesty  have  pronoun- 
ced that  an  Establishment,  above 
beggary,  is  injurious  to  nations,  and 
hostile  to  Religion.  The  argument  is 
the  logic  of  party  for  the  purposes 
of  gain, — against  nature,  against  his- 
tory,— the  perversion  of  fact  for 
the  perversion  of  the  understand- 
ing, —  a  vulgar  and  insolent  so- 
phism. It  confounds  the  superfluity 
of  the  individual  with  the  opulence 
of  the  whole ;  finds  the  virtues  of 
the  Church  guilty  of  the  vices  of  the 
priest,  and  brands  with  the  same  ac- 
cusation the  piety  of  the  altar  and  the 
luxury  of  the  servant  who  defrauds 
the  altar. 

But  by  whom  was  founded  the 
most  magnificent  Establishment  that 
the  world  has  ever  seen  ?  By  whom 
was  that  worship  ordained,  to  which 
every  individual  of  the  nation,  or  of 
the  blood  of  the  nation,  far  or  near, 
gave  his  yearly  tribute;— to  whose 
service  a  twelfth  tribe  of  the  nation 
was  devoted,  with  more  than  a  tenth 
part  of  the  whole  income  of  the  land? 
The  Jewish  Establishment  was  the 
express  work  of  inspiration,  the  off- 
spring, not  of  the  fears  and  vanities 
of  kings  or  priests,  but  of  the  direct 
command  of  the  Creator.  But  the 
proportion  is  stronger  still.  The 
tribe  of  Levi,  to  which  was  appro- 
priated, by  the  Divine  command,  a 
tenth  of  the  whole  produce  of  Ju- 
dea, — animals  of  pasture,  corn,  oil, 
wine,  and  fruits, — was  not  even  a 
twelfth  part  of  the  population.  In 
the  most  populous  period  of  the 
Jewish  government,  under  its  Kings, 
the  males  of  the  Tribe,  from  thirty 
years  old,  were  calculated  at  no  more 
than  thirty- eight  thousand,  in  a  po- 
pulation of  about  six  millions ;  or, 
allowing  for  women,  children,  and 
the  aged,  scarcely  a  fortieth  of  the 
male  population  of  Israel.  The 
priests,  a  class  chosen  from  among 
the  Levites,  and  sharing  in  their  in- 
come, received,  in  addition,  offerings 
of  first  fruits,  and  contributions  of 
other  provision  for  their  peculiar  use. 
And  of  this  no  part  was  given  for 
the  poor,  an  additional  tithe  of  the 
produce  of  the  land  being  allotted 
for  their  subsistence.  Thirty-eight 
thousand  men  devoted  to  the  temple 
service  in  a  population  not  the  third 
of  Great  Britain.  And  by  whom  was 
this  appointed  ?  The  same  autho* 


73-i 


A  Letter  to  the  King  on,  the  Irish  Church  Bill. 


[May, 


rity  which  has  given  Revelation  to 
man. 

The  outcry  now  is  against  Tithes. 
They  are  declaimed  against  by  all 
the  orators  of  the  clubs,  as  a  public 
plunder.  They  are  written  against 
by  all  the  political  economists,  those 
philosophers  of  confusion,  and  pro- 
nounced to  be,  by  the  very  nature  of 
things,  ruinous  to  the  growth  of  pro- 
perty, and  especially  fatal  to  agri- 
culture. But  by  what  authority  was 
the  whole  income  of  the  Jewish  na- 
tion placed  under  tithe  ?  Was  it  by 
an  authority  ignorant  of  the  working 
of  its  own  principles,  or  desirous  to 
break  down  the  nation  which  it  had 
rescued  ?  While  we  are  told  that 
tithe  is  the  very  bane  of  all  industry, 
the  utter  enemy  of  all  improvement, 
especially  in  the  cultivation  of  the 
ground;  what  are  the  facts?  The 
whole  property  of  Judea  was  agri- 
cultural. She  had  neither  mines  nor 
manufactures  of  any  moment,  nei- 
ther colony  nor  commerce  of  any 
extent.  Yet  it  was  on  this  agricul- 
tural country  that  a  universal  sys- 
tem of  tithe  was  laid,  and  laid  by 
the  command  of  that  Power  which 
supremely  willed  the  happiness  of 
the  Land  ;  which,  knowing  what  was 
worst  and  best  for  the  nation,  enact- 
ed a  system  of  contribution  to  its 
church,  more  extensive,  unremitted, 
and  munificent,  than  ever  was  seen 
on  Earth,  before  or  since,  and  which 
exhibited  the  soundness  of  the  prin- 
ciple, and  the  safety  of  the  measure, 
in  the  most  singular  productiveness 
and  splendid  luxuriance  of  a  soil 
owing  so  little  to  nature,  that  it  owed 
nearly  all  to  industry. 

Such  is  the  true  answer  to  the  half- 
witted oratory  of  the  popular  de- 
claimer,  and  to  the  solemn  ignorance 
of  the  dreaming  philosopher.  The 
first  example  of  a  church  was  by 
the  express  will  of  the  Deity,  de- 
clared amid  the  thunderings  and 
lightnings  of  Sinai.  That  church 
was  appointed  an  Established  Church, 
a  great  Religious  Institute,  con- 
joined with  the  Government  of  the 
Stale,  each  sustaining  and  influen- 
cing the  other ;  the  Church  consecra- 
ting the  State,  the  State  defending 
the  civil  rights  of  the  Church.  That 
Established  Church  was  appointed  to 
derive  its  support  from  tithes,  and 
those  tithes  were  laid  exclusively 
upon,  the  produce  of  the  soil.  Can 


demonstration  go  further  ?  or  can  it 
be  possible  to  doubt  that  the  Great 
Author  of  this  code  was  not  master 
of  resources  innumerable  for  the 
support  of  his  worship,  without  this 
system,  if  it  had  been  injurious  in 
its  nature  ?  Or  is  it  a  contradiction 
to  the  nature  of  things,  that,  under 
the  most  exact  and  universal  system 
of  tithe  ever  seen,  Judea  was,  for 
three  hundred  years,  the  happiest 
country  of  the  earth  ;  that  her  hills 
and  valleys  were  a  proverb  for  abun- 
dance ;  and  that  it  was  not  till  she 
held  back  her  hand  from  the  sup- 
port of  her  national  church,  and 
shared  its  property  with  the  wor- 
ship of  the  heathen,  that  she  felt  the 
first  symptom  of  national  downfall. 

The  British  clergy  do  not  claim 
their  property  in  right  of  the  Jewish 
code.  They  claim  it  on  the  same 
right  by  which  the  King  of  England 
sits  on  his  throne — the  law,  and 
by  possession  older  than  the  sanc- 
tion of  any  lay  property  in  England, 
or  in  Europe.  In  point  of  right,  they 
separate  themselves  altogether  from 
any  fancied  inheritance  of  the  privi- 
leges of  the  Jewish  church.  But  they 
appeal  to  the  history  of  that  church, 
as  unanswerable  proof,  that  the 
system  on  which  they  depend  is  nei- 
ther hostile  to  nature,  nor  injurious 
to  man ;  they  appeal  to  its  origin,  as 
the  appointment  of  the  Divine  Wis- 
dom, and  to  its  results,  as  the  evi- 
dence that  it  is  consistent  with  the 
wellbeing  of  industry,  the  comforts 
of  the  people,  and  the  wealth  of  na- 
tions. 

Your  Majesty's  Coronation  Oath 
is  your  answer,  and  the  answer  of 
the*  Church,  to  all  who  demand  that 
you  should  sanction  the  general  spoil. 
You  have  sworn  to  the  nation  that 
you  will  preserve  all  rights  and  pri- 
vileges of  the  Church  as  by  law  esta- 
blished. Your  Majesty's  enemies 
call  on  you  to  rob  the  Church  which 
you  have  sworn  to  defend,  and  tell 
you  that  this  robbery  is  accord- 
ing to  law.  They  have  the  audacity 
to  tell  you,  in  defiance  of  the  com- 
mon meaning  of  the  English  tongue, 
that  protection  implies  the  power, 
and  the  power  implies  the  right  of 
plunder.  With  the  pistol  of  the  high- 
wayman at  the  breast,  such  language 
might  be  heard,  and  must  be  com- 
plied with.  But  for  such  theory,  and 
such  practice,  the  lawyer  of  the  high- 


less.] 


A  Letter  to  the  King  on  the  Irish  Church 


way  would  be  hanged.  Are  we  to 
be  told,  that  "as  established  by  law," 
leaves  an  opening  for  all  changes  to 
be  made  by  the  Legislature  ?  And 
must  not  this  miserable  perversion 
of  truth  and  reason  be  answered  by 
tiie  question— Does  an  oath  to  pre- 
serve mean  a  permission  to  break 
down  ?  Was  this  the  intention  of  the 
f earners  of  the  oath  ? 

But  to  come  still  closer  to  the 
point.  Was  it  the  belief  of  any  man, 
among  the  thousands  who  rejoiced 
in  seeing  a  constitutional  King  take 
the  great  constitutional  pledge,  and 
bind  himself,  by  all  his  hopes  here 
and  hereafter,  to  fidelity  to  the  peo- 
ple, their  rights,  and  institutions? — 
Or  was  it  the  belief  of  any  of  those 
high  functionaries  who  administered 
the  oath,  that  they  were  then  dicta- 
ting a  formula  for  the  seizure  of  the 
revenues  of  the  Irish  Church,  to  the 
amount  of  nearly  one  half  of  her  total 
revenues?  that  they  were  then  dis* 
curding  one  half  of  her  Bishops,  and 
finally  and  for  ever  confiscating  the 
whole  of  the  lands  appointed  for  the 
support  of  the  whole  Episcopal  or- 
der of  Ireland  ? — That  your  Majesty 
took  the  Coronation  Oath  in  perfect 
sincerity,  I  unequivocally  believe. 
Tiiat  you  never  even  contemplated 
the  possibility  of  the  sweeping  em- 
bezzlement now  urged  upon  you  by 
your  enemies,  I  as  unequivocally  be- 
lieve; and  that,  if  it  had  been  pro- 
posed to  you  in  that  solemn  hour, 
when  you  pledged  yourself  to  the 
utmost  defence  of  every  privilege  of 
ths  Constitution,  and,  by  especial 
name,  of  the  privileges  of  the  Church 
of  the  Empire,  you  would  have  spurn- 
ed the  proposer  with  the  astonish- 
ment natural  to  a  man  of  honour  and 
integrity,  insulted  by  a  proposal  of 
the  deepest  injury  to  his  conscience. 

Let  the  phrase,  "  as  by  law  esta- 
blished," once  be  suffered  to  imply, 
"  ns  by  the  will"  of  every  predomi- 
nant party,  and  every  change  of  opi- 
nion in  the  Legislature,and  the  whole 
frame  of  society  is  unhinged.  What 
contract  can  stand,  if  its  firmness  de- 
pends on  the  vote  of  a  popular  as- 
sembly? What  pledge  between  man 
and  man— what  between  King  and 
people  ?  The  throne  is  '^established 
by  law;"  a  vote  of  the  House  of 
Commons  may  declare  the  throne 
useless,  as  it  has  declared  in  times 
covered  with  blood,  Are  we  to  be 


told,  that  the  extinction  of  the  Bri- 
tish throne  was  contemplated  in  the 
phrase,  "  as  established  by  law  ?"  If 
this  could  be  the  case,  we  ought  to 
shape  our  language  to  the  fact7  Let 
the  oath  of  allegiance  be  subject  to 
this  construction,  and  it  may  be  the 
pretext  for  rebellion  to-morrow.  Let 
its  sacred  promise  of  fidelity  to  the 
King  be  open  to  the  colouring  which 
may  be  thrown  on  it  by  the  vote  of 
a  popular  body,  and  the  oath  may  be 
conspiracy,  or  nothing.  But  what 
man  ever  "heard  of  a  contingent  oath 
of  allegiance,  or  allowed  the  obliga- 
tion contracted  to  his  King  in  the 
presence  of  God,  to  be  dissolved  at 
the  caprice  of  any  assembly,  while 
the  King  is  true  to  his  bond?  But 
no  chicane  of  language  can  make  a 
pledge  to  preserve  the  Church  in  all 
her  rights,  according  to  law,  imply  a 
possibility  of  every  kind  of  wrong, 
"  according  to  law,"  the  seizure  of 
half  her  income,  "  according  to  law/* 
Push  the  principle  to  its  natural 
length,  and  the  oath  to  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  Church  will  cover  her 
total  destruction ;  for  the  right  is  as 
much  violated  in  the  half  as  in  the 
whole.  Change  may  be  made,  but 
it  must  be  for  improvement.  The 
plunder  of  half  the  revenues  of  the 
Church  cannot  be  for  improvement; 
and  it  is  therefore  totally  indefen- 
sible. Revenues,  under  cover  of  the 
phrase,  "  according  to  law,"  might 
be  distorted  into  the  justification  of 
the  wildest  caprice  of  rabble  folly, 
or  the  blackest  deed  of  rabble  crime. 
Charles  I.  died  by  a  vote  of  the 
Legislature — Louis  XVI.  died  by  a 
vote  of  the  Legislature.  That  co- 
vering of  all  iniquity,  in  the  mouths 
of  the  English  Roundhead  and  the 
French  Jacobin,  "  according  to  law," 
wrapped  the  regicide.  But  the  com- 
mon indignation  of  mankind  refused 
to  suffer  this  insult  to  its  reason — 
stripped  the  robe  from  his  forehead, 
and  sent  him  branded  to  his  grave. 

But  what  is  the  actual  state  of  the 
Irish  Church  ?  As  if  for  the  express 
purpose  of  proving  the  utter  base- 
ness of  the  cry  of  Reform,  where  the 
voice  is  the  voice  of  rapine,  the  Irish 
Church  never  was  so  free  from  all 
stain  of  inefficiency  as  at  this  hour. 
Never  was  there  a  holier  spirit  of 
energy  infused  through  its  entire 
system — never  a  more  vigorous  pro- 
secution pf  gll  the  objects  that  make 


A  Letter  to  the  King  on  the  Irish  Church  Bill 


734 

a  Church  a  blessing  to  a  people.  Ex- 
tensive charities—unwearied  efforts 
for  education — the  general  erection 
of  churches,  schoolhouses,  and  hos- 
pitals— an  extraordinary  diffusion  of 
religious  and  moral  influence  through- 
out the  whole  portion  of  the  country 
where  the  Protestant  clergy  are  not 
yet  put  out  of  the  protection  of  the 
law. 

The  state  of  the  Irish  Church  forms 
one  of  the  most  curious  fragments  of 
ecclesiastical  history  in  later  times. 
During  the  whole  of  the  last  century 
it  laboured  under  the  double  burden 
of  extreme  poverty  and  English  po- 
litics. The  benefices,  poor  as  they 
were,  almost  totally  passed  into  the 
possession  of  individuals  whosechief 
merits  were  their  connexions.  Par- 
liament and  the  country  were  go- 
verned by  patronage ;  the  inevitable 
consequence  of  a  separate  legisla- 
ture, incapable  of  being  controlled, 
but  willing  to  be  corrupted.  Thus 
the  Church,  first  beggared,  was  next 
disgraced.  The  churchman,  first 
the  creature  of  patronage,  was  next 
consigned  to  poverty,  and  coming 
without  the  zeal  which  alone  could 
have  rendered  even  opulence  effect- 
ive, was  fixed  in  a  penury  which 
must  have  reduced  all  zeal  to  empty 
wishes.  The  union  of  the  Legisla- 
tures in  the  year  1800  produced  a 
sudden  and  surprising  change.  The 
burden  of  Parliamentary  patronage 
was  taken  off  the  Church,  and  it  ra- 
pidly acquired  the  port  and  vigour 
of  its  original  freedom.  Character 
took  the  place  of  connexion,  and  a 
race  of  active,  intelligent,  and  Scrip- 
tural labourers  in  their  sacred  func- 
tion superseded  the  ancient  encum- 
brances of  the  Establishment.  That 
those  men  had  ever  hung  heavy  upon 
the  character  of  the  Church  was  the 
fault,  not  of  the  Establishment,  but 
of  the  Parliament  which  demanded 
the  patronage,  and  of  the  Cabinet 
which  stooped  to  the  purchase.  Its 
poverty  continued,  or  was  but  slight- 
ly and  partially  diminished.  But 
from  what  that  Church  has  done  un- 
der all  its  narrowness  of  income, 
we  may  estimate  what  would  have 
been  the  extent  of  its  services  with 
means  adequate  to  its  zeal.  By  au- 
thenticreports,  furnished  in  the  years 
1800  and  1803,  it  was  proved,  that  of 
the  whole  population  of  Ireland,  not 
one-third  had  hitherto  been  taught 


{May, 


even  to  read.  The  schoolmasters 
were  peasants,  wandering  from  vil- 
lage to  village,  keeping  school  in  the 
first  barn  they  came  to ;  and,  in  ge- 
neral, doing  much  more  evil  than 
good  by  their  itinerancy.  They  were 
the  chief  disseminators  of  rebellion 
among  the  people,  the  scribblers  of 
threatening  letters  and  seditious 
songs,  and,  in  many  instances,  the  se- 
cretaries and  emissaries  of  associa- 
tions of  direct  treason.  The  Scrip- 
tures were  almost  totally  unknown, 
even  when  they  were  not  suppressed 
by  that  fatal  religious  mandate,  which 
has  for  ages  exercised  so  unrelaxing  a 
tyranny  over  the  mind  of  the  lower 
Irish  population.  A  few  years  before 
this  period,  a  Protestant  society,  enti- 
tled "  The  Association  for  discounte- 
nancing Vice,  and  promoting  Religion 
and  Virtue,"  had  commenced  its  la- 
bours. Its  first  resolution  was,  "  To 
make  effectual  provision  that  no  ca- 
bin, or  house  in  the  whole  kingdom  in 
which  there  is  a  single  person  who  can 
read,  shall  live  destitute  of  the  Holy 
Scriptures."  In  the  spirit  of  this 
wise,  philanthropic,  and  hallowed 
determination,  the  members  imme- 
diately commenced  their  plan.  Their 
objects  were  declared  to  be,  1.  The 
distribution  of  the  [Scriptures  at  re- 
duced prices.  2.  The  establishment 
of  schools  in  the  more  uninstructed 
districts.  3.  The  donation  of  pre- 
miums for  good  conduct  and  activity 
to  the  country  schoolmasters.  4.  The 
establishment  of  a  seminary  for 
schoolmasters  and  parish  clerks.  5. 
The  enforcing  the  stricter  observance 
of  the  Lord's  day.  6.  The  translation 
of  the  Scriptures  into  the  Irish  lan- 
guage. 7.  A  house  of  reform  for 
the  criminal  poor.  8.  The  institu- 
tion of  Sunday  schools.  9.  The  dis- 
tribution of  tracts  having  no  contro- 
versial tendency.  10.  The  establish- 
ment of  spinning  schools.  11.  Cata- 
chetical  examinations  of  the  child- 
ren throughout  Ireland  in  the  Scrip- 
tures. 

This  noble  design  was  carried  into 
rapid  and  vigorous  execution.  It 
comprehended  the  whole  remedial 
extent  of  Christian  charity.  It  was 
the  first  great  invasion  of  the  realm 
of  barbarism,  superstition,  and  igno- 
rance in  Ireland;  and  the  banners 
that  it  planted  within  the  empire  of 
darkness  have  never  retrograded. 
This  Association  numbered  among 


1833.]  A  Letter  to  the  King  on 

its  most  zealous  members,  and  most 
active  agents,  the  body  of  the  Irish 
clergy.  Before  thirty  years  had  pass- 
ed, it  had  in  its  superintendence  and 
connexion  schools  containing  up- 
wards of  thirty  thousand  children! 
Bu ;  this  was  not  all.  The  Sunday 
schools  had  been  formed  by  the  Pro- 
testant clergy.  Four  years  ago,  the 
nunber  of  children  attending  them 
was  nearly  two  hundred  thousand ! 
The  numbers  in  the  schools  con- 
nected with  the  Kildare  Place  So- 
ciety were  upwards  of  one  hundred 
thousand !  In  those  great  works  of 
national  renovation  many  pious  lay- 
men took  a  strong  interest;  but  the 
chief  guidance,  the  sustaining  spirit, 
and  the  general  origin,  was  with  the 
clergy  of  the  feeble  and  impoverish- 
ed Church  of  Ireland. 

The  labours  of  the  clergy  in  the 
general  supply  of  the  means  of  pub- 
lic worship,  and  of  religious  teach- 
ing, were  on  a  scale  which  deserves 
the  admiration  of  all  who  knew  the 
difficulties  under  which  these  effects 
wera  accomplished.  One  direct  re- 
sult of  the  early  poverty  of  the  Irish 
Establishment  was  the  paucity  of 
the  clergy.  In  the  reign  of  George 
the  First,  the  average  number  of  be- 
nefited clergy  in  each  diocese  was 
but  twenty-four.*  In  1726,  there 
were  but  one  hundred  and  forty-one 
glebe-houses.  In  1800,  there  were 
but  295,  after  nearly  a  century,  with 
a  resident  Parliament,  and  a  consi- 
derable increase  in  the  trade  and 
general  wealth  of  the  country. 

But  in  1820  the  number  of  glebe- 
houKes  were  increased  by  473  !  ma- 
king, in  the  whole,  768.  In  the  ten 
years  to  1829,  250  glebe-houses  in 
addition  had  been  built.  In  the  same 
period  200  churches  had  been  built. 
The  number  of  resident  beneficed 
clergy  in  1806,  were  693,  with  560 
curases.  In  1830,  the  number  of 
residents  was  nearly  doubled,  it 
amounting  to  upwards  of  1200,  with 
about  750  curates,  making,  in  the 
whole,  nearly  2000  clergy  of  the  Es- 
tablished Church.  And  this  is  the 
Church,  thus  labouring  to  spread 
good  through  its  country,  and  actu- 
ally laying  on  it  every  hour  the 
foundations  of  English  connexion 
and  loyalty,  at  the  same  time  with 


the  Irish  Church  Bill 


735 


religious  knowledge,  that  it  is  pro- 
posed to  meet  with  a  tax  of  L.70,000 
a-year,  on  an  income  (at  the  very 
largest  estimate)  of  L.300,000;  an 
impost  of  upwards  of  a  sixth  of  the 
gross  income  of  the  clergy,  suppo- 
sing that  income  to  be  paid  regularly 
and  in  full.  It  is  even  declared,  that 
this  tax,  with  the  rates  previously 
laid  on,  would  amount  to  forty- two 
percent.  In  addition  to  this  injury,  the 
bishop's  lands  are  to  be  totally  alien- 
ated from  all  the  uses  of  religion, 
charity,  manly  literature,  fitting  hos- 
pitality, and  the  general  adornment, 
protection,  and  popular  acceptance 
of  the  Church.  Again,  we  demand, 
what  state  necessity  exists  for  this 
spoliation  ?  Is  the  nation  invaded  ?  is 
the  nation  bankrupt  ?  has  the  Legis- 
lature any  stronger  ground  for  this 
monstrous  act,  than  the  ground  of 
the  National  Convention  of  France, 
that  the  plunder  is  convenient,  and 
that  the  convenience  justifies  the 
seizure  ? 

But  the  orators  tell  us  of  "  bloat- 
ed bishops"  and  luxurious  clergy- 
men. If  men,  unsuited  to  their  func- 
tions, are  suffered  to  possess  the  high 
stations  of  the  Church,  the  patron- 
age of  the  bishops  is  in  the  hands  of 
the  Crown ;  let  the  next  choice  be 
more  carefully  looked  to ;  let  men  of 
virtue  and  learning  be  appointed, 
and  the  evil  is  at  an  end.  But  are 
we  to  be  told  that  Protestantism 
ought  to  be  reduced  in  Ireland,  on 
account  of  the  Popish  majority. 
This  is  the  great  argument  for  ca- 
shiering the  Irish  clergy !  This,  which 
should  be  the  great  argument  for  in- 
creasing their  numbers,  for  increa- 
sing their  means,  for  protecting  their 
efforts  to  spread  the  Gospel!  The 
country  is  overrun  with  superstition, 
therefore  extinguish  knowledge  j— it 
is  weighed  down  with  barbarian  pre- 
judices against  the  government,  con- 
stitution, and  religion  of  England, 
therefore  cease  from  all  attempts  to 
lighten  the  yoke.  The  land  is  dark, 
therefore  extinguish  the  light  in  your 
hand.  Or,  are  we  to  be  told,  that  the 
religion  of  the  majority  should  be 
submitted  to,  whatever  it  may  be  ? 
Then  let  us  pronounce  that  all  at- 
tempts to  convert  the  heathen  are 
criminal,-^- that  we  should  not  de- 


*  Primate  Boulter's  tetters,  Vol,  I, 


A  tetter  to  the  Rinft  dn  the  Irish  Church 


Iff  Oil 

sire  to  plant  Christianity  in  Hindos- 
tan,  while  we  are  outnumbered  by 
the  millions  of  Mussulmans  and  ido- 
laters,— that  we  should  not  send  the 
Bible  to  the  African  or  the  South  Sea 
inlander.  On  this  principle,  Europe 
should  have  been  left  to  this  hour 
worshipping  Thor  and  Woden.  On 
this  absurd  arid  criminal  principle, 
Christianity  should  never  have  step- 

Ked  beyond  the  boundaries  of  Pa- 
jstirie. 

There  is  one  argument  more — the 
argument,  not  of  logic,  but  of  intimi- 
dation, indolence,  and  folly.  The 
measure  will  be  carried  whether  .we 
like  it  or  not,  therefore  let  us  yield. 
The  tide  is  pronounced  to  be  irre- 
sistible, then  let  us  give  up  oar  and 
rudder,  and  go  with  the  stream. 
What  is  this  but  the  argument  in  a 
circle  ?  They  first  take  the  irresisti- 
bility for  granted,  and  then  ground 
their  result  upon  it,  as  if  it  were 
solid  as  a  rock.  They  fabricate  their 
own  premises,  and  then  counsel  us 
to  abide  by  ^heir  conclusion.  Yet 
what  is  this  but  an  appeal  to  the 
baser  portion  of  our  nature,  not  to 
our  understanding,  but  to  our  fears. 
On  such  a  principle,  what  limit  could 
be  set  to  the  justification  of  guilt  ? 
The  robbery  will  be  done,  whether 
we  join  in  it  or  not,  therefore  let  us 
be  accomplices.  The  knife  will  be 
plunged  in  the  heart,  let  us  protest 
as  we  may,  therefore  let  us  abandon 


[May; 

our  protest,  and  take  our  share  of 
the  crime.  On  this  reasoning,  all 
the  manliness  of  resisting  oppression 
is  at  an  end.  It  may  be  virtue  t# 
resist  it  when  it  is  weak,  but  it  i«* 
virtue  no  mere  when  it  is  strong. 
In  this  view  fear  is  wisdom,  and  for- 
titude folly.  The  ways  of  fraud, 
subtlety,  and  tergiversation,  are  the 
ways  in  which  nations  ought  to 
tread,  the  ways  of  principle,  turning 
neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left, 
bright  as  the  light,  and  open  as  the 
Heaven,  are  to  be  shunned  as  the 
paths  of  enthusiasm.  We  are  to  do 
evil  that  good  may  come;  to  gather 
grapes  of  thorns  and  figs  of  thistles  ; 
to  despoil  a  church  to  please  a  fac- 
tion, and  stoop  a  throne  to  the  dust 
in  order  to  conciliate  a  grim  and  fu- 
rious spirit  of  hate,  that  would  re- 
joice to  see,  and  yet  hopes  to  see, 
that  throne  scattered  to  the  winds  in 
ashes  and  flame.  If  the  Irish  Church 
be  now  flung  under  the  feet  of  the 
combined  atheist  and  idolater,  the 
jacobin  and  the  rebel,  it  will  not  be 
the  last  victim.  The  chariot-wheel, 
dipt 'in  the  blood  of  parricide,  will 
not  be  checked  by  tliis  crime.  It 
will  be  urged  on  only  with  more  fu- 
rious velocity,  until  revenge  has 
no  more  to  trample,  cupidity  to  wish 
for,  or  usurpation  to  enjoy,  degrade, 
and  ruin. 


1833.J 


Tom 


737 


TOM  CRINGLE'S  LOG. 
CHAP.  XXI. 

THE  SECOND  CRUISE  OF  THE  WAVE. 

"  I  longed  to  see  the  isles  that  gem 

Old  ocean's  purple  diadem  ; 

I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all." 

The  Bride  of  Abydos. 


SHORTLY  after  we  made  the  land 
al  out  Nassau,  the  breeze  died  away, 
and  it  fell  nearly  calm. 

"  I  say,  Thomas,"  quoth  Aaron, 
"  for  this  night  at  least  we  must  still 
be  your  guests,  and  lumber  you  on 
board  of  your  seventy-four.  No 
dance,  so  far  as  I  see,  of  getting 
into  port  to-night  j  at  least  if  we  do, 
it  will  be  too  late  to  go  on  shore." 

He  said  truly,  and  we  therefore 
nude  up  our  minds  to  sit  down  once 
mare  to  our  rough  and  round  din- 
ner, in  the  small,  hot,  choky  cabin 
of  the  Wave.  As  it  happened,  we 
Wvire  all  in  high  glee.  I  flattered 
myself  that  my  conduct  in  the  late 
afiair  would  hoist  me  up  a  step  or 
two  on  the  roaster  for  promotion,  and 
my  excellent  friends  were  delighted 
at  the  idea  of  getting  on  shore. 

After  the  cloth  had  been  drawn, 
Mr  Bang  opened  his  fire.  "Tom, 
my  boy,  I  respect  your  service,  but 
I  have  no  great  ambition  to  belong 
to  it.  I  am  sure  no  bribe  that  I  arn 
atvare  of  could  ever  tempt  me  to 
m:ike  *  my  home  upon  the  deep,'— 
and  I  really  am  not  sure  that  it  is  a 
very  gentlemanly  calling  after  all. — 
N;'y,don't  look  glum;— what  I  meant 
wiis,  the  egregious  weariness  of 
spirit  you  must  all  undergo  from 
consorting  with  the  same  men  day 
after  day,  hearing  the  same  jokes 
repeated  for  the  hundredth  time,  and, 
whichever  way  you  turn,  seeing  the 
ea:ne  faces  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
and  listening  to  the  same  voices. 
OIi!  I  should  die  in  a  year's  time 
w<  re  I  to  become  a  sailor." 

'  But,"  rejoined  I,  "  you  have 
your  land  bores,  in  the  same  way 
that  we  have  our  sea  bores ;  and  we 
haire  this  advantage  over  you,  that 
if  ,,he  devil  should  stand  at  "the  door, 
we  can  always  escape  from  them 
sooner  or  later,  and  can  buoy  up  our 
so  ils  with  the  certainty  that  we  can 
so  escape  from  them  at  the  end  of 

VOL.  XXXI1J.   NO,  CCVIJI. 


the  cruise  at  the  farthest;  whereas 
if  you  happen  to  have  taken  root 
amidst  a  colony  of  bores  on  shore, 
why  you  never  can  escape,  unless 
you  sacrifice  all  your  temporalities 
for  that  purpose ;  ergo,  my  dear  sir, 
our  life  has  its  advantages,  and  yours 
has  its  disadvantages." 

"  Too  true* — too  true,"  rejoined 
Mr  Bang.  "  In  fact,  judging  from  my 
own  small  experience,  Borism  is  fast 
attaining  a  head  it  never  reached  be- 
fore. Speechifying  is  the  crying 
and  prominent  vice  of  the  age.  Why 
will  the  ganders  not  recollect  that 
eloquence  is  the  gift  of  heaven,  Tho- 
mas ?  A  man  may  improve  it  un- 
questionably, but  the  Promethean 
fire,  the  electrical  spark,  must  be 
from  on  high.  No  mental  perseve- 
rance or  education  could  ever  have 
made  a  Demosthenes,  or  a  Cicero,  in 
the  ages  long  past ;  nor  an  Edmund 
Burke" 

"  Nor  an  Aaron  Bang  in  times  pre- 
sent," said  I. 

"  Hide  my  roseate  blushes,  Tho- 
mas," quoth  Aaron,  as  he  continued — 
"  Would  that  men  would  speak  ac- 
cording to  their  gifts,  study  Shak- 
speare  and  Don  Quixote,  and  learn 
of  me ;  and  that  the  real  blockhead 
would  content  himself  with  speak- 
ing when  he  is  spoken  to,  drinking 
when  he  is  drucken  to,  and  ganging 
to  the  kirk  when  the  bell  rings. 
You  never  can  go  into  a  party 
nowadays,  that  you  don't  meet 
with  some  shallow,  prosing,  pestilent 
ass  of  a  fellow,  who  thinks  that  emp- 
ty sound  is  conversation;  and  not 
{infrequently  there  is  a  spice  of  ma- 
lignity in  the  blockhead's  composi- 
tion ;  but  a  creature  of  this  calibre 
you  can  wither,  for  it  is  not  worth 
crushing,  by  withholding  the  sun- 
shine of  your  countenance  from  it, 
or  by  leaving  it  to  drivel  on,  until 
the  utter  contempt  of  the  whole  com- 
pany claps — to  change  the  figure— 
3B 


738 


Tom  Cringle'*  Log. 


[May, 


a  wet  night-cap  as  an  extinguisher 
on  it,  and  its  small  stinking  flame 
flickers  and  goes  out  of  itself.  Then 
there  is  your  sentimental  water-fly, 
who  blows  in  the  lugs  of  the  women, 
and  clips  the  King's  English,  and 
your  high-flying  dominie  body,  who 
whumles  them  outright.  I  speak 
figuratively.  But  all  these  are  as 
dust  in  the  balance  to  the  wearisome 
man  of  ponderous  acquirements,  the 
solemn  blockhead  who  usurps  the 
pas,  and  if  he  happens  to  be  rich, 
fancies  himself  entitled  to  prose  and 
palaver  away,  as  if  he  were  Sir 
Oracle,  or  as  if  the  pence  in  his 
purse  could  ever  fructify  the  cauld 
parritch  in  his  pate  into  pregnant 
brain. — There  is  a  plateful  of  P's  for 
you  at  any  rate,  Tom.  Beautiful 
exemplification  of  the  art  alliterative 
— an't  it  ? 

'  Oh  that  Heaven  the  gift  would  gie  ua, 
To  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us  !' 

My  dear  boy,  speechifying  has  extin- 
guished conversation.  Public  meet- 
ings, God  knows,  are  rife  enough, 
and  why  will  the  numskulls  not  con- 
fine their  infernal  dulness  to  them  ? 
why  not  be  satisfied  with  splitting 
the  ears  of  the  groundlings  there? 
why  will  they  not  consider  that  con- 
vivial  conversation  should  be  lively 
as  the  sparkle  of  musketry,  brilliant, 
sharp,  and  sprightly,  and  not  like  the 
thundering  of  heavy  cannon,  or  hea- 
vier bombs. — But  no — you  shall  ask 
one  of  the  Drawley's  across  the  table 
to  take  wine.  '  Ah,'  says  he — and 
how  he  makes  out  the  concatena- 
tion, God  only  knows — '  this  puts  me 
in  mind,  Mr  Thingumbob,  of  what 
happened  when  I  was  chairman  of 
the  county  club,  on  such  a  day. 
Alarming  times  these  were,  and 
deucedly  nervous  I  was  when  I  got 
up  to  return  thanks.  My  friends, 
said  I,  this  unexpected  and  most  un- 
locked for  honour — this' •  Here 

blowing  all  your  breeding  to  the 
winds,  you  fire  a  question  across  his 
bows  into  the  fat  pleasant  fellow, 
who  speaks  for  society  beyond  him, 
and  expect  to  find  that  the  dull  sailer 
has  hauled  his  wind,  or  dropped 
astern— (do  you  twig  how  nautical  I 
have  become  in  my  lingo  under  Tail- 
tackle's  tuition,  Tom  ?) — but,  alas ! 
no  sooner  has  the  sparkle  of  our  fat 
friend's  wit  lit  up  the  whole  worship- 
ful society,  than  down  comes  Draw- 


ley  again  upon  you,  like  a  heavy- 
sterned  Dutch  dogger,  right  before 
the  wind — *  As  I  was  saying — this 
unexpected  and  most  unlocked  for 
honour' — and  there  you  are  pinned 
to  the  stake,  and  compelled  to  stand 
the  fire  of  all  his  blunt  bird-bolts  for 
half  an  hour  on  end.  At  length  his 
mud  has  all  dribbled  from  him,  and 
you  hug  yourself — *  Ah, — come,  here 
is  a  talking  man  opening  his  fire,  so 
we  shall  have  some  conversation  at 
last.'  But  alas  and  alack  a  day !  Pro- 
sey  the  second  chimes  in,  and  works 
away,  and  hems  and  haws,  and  hawks 
up  some  old  scraps  of  schoolboy 
Latin  and  Greek,  which  are  all  He- 
brew to  you,  honest  man,  until  at 
length  he  finishes  off  by  some  solemn 
twaddle  about  fossil  turnips  and  vi- 
trified brickbats ;  and  thus  concludes 
Fozy  No.  2.  Oh,  shade  of  Edie 
Ochiltree !  that  we  should  stand  in 
the  taunt  of  such  unmerciful  spend- 
thrifts of  our  time  on  earth!  Be- 
sides, the  devil  of  it  is,  that  whatever 
may  be  said  of  the  flippant  palaver- 
ersy  the  heavy  bores  are  generally 
most  excellent  and  amiable  men, 
so  that  one  can't  abuse  the  sumphs 
with  any  thing  like  a  quiet  con- 
science." 

"  Come,"  said  I,  "  my  dear  sir, 
you  are  growing  satirical." 

"  Quarter  less  three,"  sung  out 
the  leadsman  in  the  chains. 

We  were  now  running  in  past 
the  end  of  Hog  Island  to  the  port 
of  Nassau,  where  the  lights  were 
sparkling  brightly.  We  anchored, 
but  it  was  too  late  to  go  on  shore 
that  evening,  so  after  a  parting  glass 
of  swizzle,  we  all  turned  in  for  the 
night. 

To  be  near  the  wharf,  for  the  con- 
venience of  refitting,  I  had  run  the 
schooner  close  in,  being  aware  of 
the  complete  security  of  the  har- 
bour, so  that  in  the  night  I  could 
feel  the  little  vessel  gently  take  the 
ground.  This  awoke  me  and  seve- 
ral of  the  crew,  for  accustomed  as 
sailors  are  to  the  smooth  bounding 
motion  of  a  buoyant  vessel,  rising 
and  falling  on  the  heaving  bosom  of 
the  ocean,  the  least  touch  on  the  so- 
lid ground,  or  against  any  hard  float- 
ing substance,  thrills  to  their  hearts 
with  electrical  quickness.  Through 
the  thin  bulkhead  I  could  hear  the 
officers  speaking  to  each  other.— 
w  We  are  touching  the  ground,"  said 


1853.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


739 


ono. — "  And  if  we  be,  there  is  no 
sea  here — all  smooth — landlocked  en- 
tire ly,"  quoth  another.  So  all  hands 
of  us,  except  the  watch  on  deck, 
sntozed  away  once  more  into  the 
land  of  deep  forgetfulness.  We  had 
all  for  some  days  previously  been 
ovt  r-worked,  and  over-fatigued ;  in- 
deed, ever  since  the  action  had 
caused  the  duty  of  the  little  vessel 
to  devolve  on  one  half  of  her  origi- 
nal crew,  those  who  had  escaped 
hac  been  subjected  to  great  priva- 
tions, and  were  nearly  worn  out. 

It  might  have  been  four  bells  in 
the  middle  watch,  when  I  was  awa- 
kered  by  the  discontinuance  of  Mr 
Swop's  heavy  step  over  head ;  but 
judging  that  the  poor  fellow  might 
have  toppled  over  into  a  slight  tem- 
porary snooze,  I  thought  little  of  it, 
persuaded  as  I  was  that  the  vessel 
was,  lying  in  the  most  perfect  safety. 
In  ihis  belief  I  was  falling  over  once 
mo  -e,  when  I  heard  a  short  startled 
grunt  from  one  of  the  men  in  the 
stet  rage,  which  was  separated  from 
us  by  a  very  slight  bulkhead — then 
a  sudden  sharp  exclamation  from 
another— a  louder  ejaculation  of  sur- 

Sino  from  a  third — and  presently 
r  Wagtail,  who  was  sleeping  on  a 
ma  rass  spread  on  the  locker  below 
me,  gave  a  spluttering  cough.  A 
heavy  splash  followed,  and,  simul- 
taneously, several  of  the  men  for- 
wai  d  shouted  out  "  Ship  full  of  wa- 
ter— water  up  to  our  hammocks;" 
wh:  le  Waggy,  who  had  rolled  off  his 
narrow  couch,  sang  out  at  the  top  of 
his  pipe,  "  I  am  drowned,  Bang. 
Tom  Cringle,  my  dear— Gelid,  I  am 
drowned — we  are  all  drowned — the 
ship  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and 
we  shall  have  eels  enough  here,  if 
we  had  none  at  Biggleswade.  Oh ! 
mu'der!  murder!" 

lf  Sound  the  well,"  I  could  hear 
Tai  tackle,  who  had  run  on  deck, 
sin*'  out. 

"  No  use  in  that/'  I  called  out,  as  I 
spl-,  shed  outof  my  warm  cot,up  tomy 
kn(  es  in  water.  "  Bring  a  light,  Mr 
Tai  I  tackle  j  a  bottom  plank  must  have 
stai  ted,  or  a  butt,  or  a  hidden-end. 
Th-j  schooner  is  full  of  water  beyond 
doi  .bt,  and  as  the  tide  is  still  making, 
stai  id  by  to  hoist  out  the  boats,  and 
get  the  wounded  into  them.  But 
doi 't  be  alarmed,  men ;  the  schooner 
is  cu  the  ground,  and  it  is  near  high 


water.  So  be  cool  and  quiet.  Don't 
bother  now — don't" — 

By  the  time  I  had  finished  my  ex- 
tempore speech  I  was  on  deck,  where 
I  soon  found  that,  in  very  truth,  there 
was  no  use  in  sounding  the  well,  or 
manning  the  pumps  either,  as  some 
wounded  plank  had  been  crushed 
out  bodily  by  the  pressure  of  the 
vessel  when  she  took  the  ground ;  and 
there  she  lay — the  tidy  little  Wave — 
regularly  bilged,  with  the  tide  flow- 
ing into  her. 

Every  one  of  the  crew  was  now 
on  the  alert.  Bedding  and  bags  and 
some  provisions  were  placed  in  the 
boats  of  the  schooner ;  and  several 
craft  from  the  shore,  hearing  the 
alarm,  were  now  alongside ;  so  dan- 
ger there  was  none,  except  that  of 
catching  cold,  and  I  therefore  be- 
in  the  cabin.  I  descended,  and  waded 
into  our  late  dormitory  with  a  candle 
in  my  hand,  and  the  water  nearly  up  to 
my  waist.  I  there  found  my  steward, 
also  with  a  light,  splashing  about  in 
the  water,  catching  a  stray  hat  here, 
and  fishing  up  a  spare  coat  there,  and 
anchoring  a  chair,  with  a  piece  of 
spun  yarn,  to  the  pillar  of  the  small 
side  berth  on  the  starboard  side; 
while  our  friend  Massa  Aaron  was 
coolly  lyingin  his  cot  on  the  larboard, 
the  bottom  of  which  was  by  this  time 
within  an  inch  of  the  surface  of  the 
water,  and  bestirring  himself  in  an 
attempt  to  get  his  trowsers  on,  which 
by  some  lucky  chance  he  had  stowed 
away  under  his  pillow  overnight,  and 
there  he  was  sticking  up  first  one  peg 
and  then  another,  until  by  sidling 
and  shifting  in  his  narrow  lair,  he 
contrived  to  rig  himself  in  his  nether 
garments.  "  But,  steward,  my  good 
man,"  he  was  saying  when  I  enter- 
ed, "  where  is  my  coat,  eh  ?"  The 
man  groped  for  a  moment  down  in 
the  water,  which  his  nose  dipped  in- 
to, with  his  shirt-sleeves  tucked  up 
to  his  arm-pits,  and  then  held  up 
some  dark  object,  that  to  me  at  least 
looked  like  a  piece  of  black  cloth 
hooked  out  of  a  dyer's  vat.  Alas! 
this  was  Massa  Aaron's  coat;  and 
while  the  hats  were  bobbing  at  each 
other  in  the  other  corner  like  seven- 
ty-fours, with  a  squadron  of  shoes  in 
their  wakes,  and  Wagtail  was  sitting 
in  the  side-berth  with  his  wet  night- 
gown drawn  about  him,  his  muscu- 


Tom  Cringle }s  Log, 


740 

Jar  developement  in  high  relief 
through  the  clinging  drapery,  and 
bemoaning  his  fate  in  the  most  pa- 
thetic manner  that  can  be  conceived, 
our  ally  Aaron  exclaimed,  "  I  say, 
Tom,  how  do  you  like  the  cut  of  my 
Sunday  coat,  eh  ?"  while  our  friend 
Paul  Gelid,  who  it  seems  had  slept 
through  the  whole  row,  was  at  length 
startled  out  of  his  sleep,  and  sticking 
one  of  his  long  shanks  over  the  side 
of  his  cot  in  act  to  descend,  immer- 
sed it  in  the  cold  salt  brine. 

"  Lord !  Wagtail,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  my  dear  fellow,  the  cabin  is  full  of 
water — we  are  sinking — ah!  Deuced- 
ly  annoying  to  be  drowned  in  this 
hole,  amidst  dirty  water,  like  a  tub- 
ful  of  ill-washed  potatoes — ah." 

«  Tom—Tom  Cringle,"  shouted 
Mr  Bang  at  this  juncture,  while  he 
looked  over  the  edge  of  his  cot  on  the 
stramash  below,  "  saw  ever  any  man 
the  like  of  that  ?  Why,  see  there — 
there,  just  under  your  candle,  Tom 
— a  bird's  nest  floating  about  with  a 
mavis  in  it,  as  I  am  a  gentleman." 

"  D — n  your  bird's  nest  and  ma- 
vis too,  whatever  that  may  be,"  roar- 
ed little  Mr  Pepperpot.  "  By  Jupiter, 
it  is  my  wig,  with  a  live  rat  in  it." 

"  Confound  your  wig ! — ah,"  quoth 
Paul,  as  the  steward  fished  up  what 
I  took  at  first  for  a  pair  of  brimfull 
water-stoups.  "  Zounds !  look  at  my 
boots." 

"  And  confound  both  the  wig  and 
boots,  say  I,"  sung  out  Mr  Bang. 
"  Look  at  my  Sunday  coat.  Why, 
who  set  the  ship  on  fire,  Tom  ?" 

Here hiseye caught  mine,and  a  few 
words  sufficed  to  explain  how  we 
were  situated,  and  then  the  only  both- 
er was  how  to  get  ashore,  and  where 
we  were  to  sojourn,  so  as  to  have 
our  clothes  dried,  as  nothing  could 
now  be  done  until  daylight.  I  there- 
fore got  our  friends  safely  into  a 
Nassau  boat  alongside,  with  their  wet 
trunks  and  portmanteaus  in  charge 
of  their  black  servants,  and  left  them 
to  fish  their  way  to  their  lodging- 
house  as  they  best  could.  By  this, 
the  wounded  and  the  sound  part  of 
the  crew  had  been  placed  on  board 
of  two  merchant  brigs,  that  lay  close 
to  us ;  and  the  masters  of  them  pro- 
ving accommodating  men,  I  got  them 
alongside,  as  the  tide  flowed,  one  on 
the  starboard,  the  other  on  the  lar- 
board side,  right  over  the  Wave  j  and 


[May, 


next  forenoon,  when  they  took  the 
ground,  we  rigged  two  spare  top- 
masts from  one  midship  port  to  an- 
other, and  making  the  main  and  fore- 
rigging  of  the  schooner  fast  to  them, 
as  the  tide  once  more  made,  we 
weighed  her,  and  floated  her  along- 
side of  the  sheer-hulk,  against  which 
we  were  enabled  to  heave  her  out, 
so  as  to  get  at  the  leak,  and  then  by 
rigging  bilge-pumps,  we  contrived 
to  free  her  and  keep  her  dry.  The 
damaged  plank  was  soon  removed ; 
and,  being  in  a  fair  way  to  surmount 
all  my  difficulties,  about  half-past 
five  in  the  evening  I  equipped  my- 
self in  dry  clothes,  and  proceeded 
on  shore  to  call  on  our  friends  at 
their  new  domicile.  When  I  enter- 
ed, I  was  shown  into  the  dining-hall 
by  my  ally,  Pegtop. 

"  Massa  will  be  here  presently, 
sir." 

"  Oh — tell  him  he  need  not  hurry 
himself: — But  how  is  Mr  Bang  and 
his  friends?" 

"  Oh,  dem  all  wery  so  so,  only 
Massa  Wagtail  hab  take  soch  a  ter- 
rible cold,  dat  him  tink  he  is  going 
to  dead ;  him  wery  sorry  for  himsef, 
for  true,  massa." 

"  But  where  are  the  gentlemen, 
Pegtop  ?" 

"  All,  every  one  on  dem  is  in  him 
bed.  Wet  clothes  have  been  drying 
all  day." 

"  And  when  do  they  mean  to 
dine?" 

Here  Pegtop  doubled  himself  up, 
and  laughed  like  to  split  himself. 

"  Dem  is  all  dining  in  bed,  Massa. 
Shall  I  shew  you  to  dem  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  obliged;  but  don't  let 
me  intrude.  Give  my  compliments, 
and  say  I  have  looked  in  simply  to 
enquire  after  their  health." 

Here  Mr  Wagtail  shouted  from 
the  inner  apartment. 

"Hillo!  Tom,  my  boy!  Tom 
Cringle  ! — here,  my  lad,  here !" 

I  was  shewn  into  the  room  from 
whence  the  voice  proceeded,  which 
happened  to  be  Massa  Aaron's  bed- 
room :  and  there  were  my  three 
friends  stretched  on  sofas,  in  their 
night-clothes,  with  a  blanket,  sheet, 
and  counterpane  over  each,  forming 
three  sides  of  a  square  round  a  long 
table,  on  which  a  most  capital  dinner 
was  smoking,  with  wines  of  several 
kinds,  and  a  perfect  galaxy  of  wax 


1533.] 


Tom,  Cringle's  Log. 


candles,  with  their  sable  valets,  in 
nice  clean  attire,  and  smart  livery 
coats,  waiting  on  them. 

"  Ah,  Tom,"  quoth  Massa  Paul, 
"  delighted  to  see  you ;— come,  you 
se3m  to  have  dry  clothes  on,  so  take 
the  head  of  the  table." 

I  did  so ;  and  broke  ground  forth- 
with with  great  zeal. 

"  Tom,  a  glass  of  wine,  my  dear," 
said  Aaron.  "  Don't  you  admire  us 
— classical,  eh?  Wagtail's  head- 
dress, and  Paul's  night-cap— oh,  the 
comforts  of  a  woollen  one  1  Ah,  Tom, 
Tom,  the  Greeks  had  no  Kilmarnock 
— none." 

We  all  carried  on  cheerily,  and 
Bang  began  to  sparkle. 

"  Well,  now  since  you  have  weigh- 
ed the  schooner  and  found  not  much 
wanting,  I  feel  f  my  spirits  rising 
again. — A  glass  of  champagne,  Tom, 
— Your  health,  boy. — The  dip  the 
old  hooker  has  got  must  have  sur- 
prised the  rats  and  cockroaches. 
Do  you  know,  Tom,  I  really  have  an 
idea  of  writing  a  history  of  the 
cruise  ;  only  I  am  deterred  from  the 
melancholy  consciousness  that  every 
blockhead  novv-a-days  fancies  he  can 
write." 

"  Why,  my  dear  sir,  are  you  not 
coquetting  for  a  compliment  ?  Don't 
we  all  know,  that  many  of  the  crack 

articles  in  Ebony's  Mag" 

"  Bah,"  clapping  his  hand  on  my 
mouth  ;  "  hold  your  tongue  ;  all 

wrong  in  that" 

"  Well,  if  it  be  not  you  then,  I 
scarcely  know  to  whom  to  attribute 
them. — Until  lately,  I  only  knew  you 
as  the  warm-hearted  West  Indian 
gentleman;  but  now  I  am  certain  I 

am  to" 

"  Tom,  hold  your  tongue,  my 
beautiful  little  man.  For,  although 
I  must  plead  guilty  to  having  mixed 
a  little  in  literary  society  in  my 
younger  days  — *  Alas  !  my  heart, 
those  days  are  gane> — 

"  Ah,  Mr  Swop,"  as  the  master  was 
ushered  into  the  room,  continued  Mr 
Bang.  "  Plate  and  glasses  for  Mi- 
Swop." 

The  sailor  bowed,  perched  him- 
self on  the  very  edge  of  his  chair, 
scarcely  within  long  arm's  length  of 
the  table,  and  sitting  bolt  upright,  as 
if  he  had  swallowed  a  spare  stud- 
ding-sail boom,  drank  our  healths, 
and  smoothed  down  his  hair  on  his 
brow. 


741 

"  Captain,  I  come  to  report  the 
schooner  ready  to  " . 

"Poo,"  rattled  out  Mr  Bang; 
"  time  for  your  tale  by  and  by ; — 
help  yourself  to  some  of  that  capital 
beef,  Peter, — So" 

"  Yes,  my  love,"  continued  our 
friend,  resuming  his  yarn.  "  I  once 
coped  even  with  John  Wilson  him- 
self. Yea,  in  the  fulness  of  my  powers, 
I  feared  not  even  the  Professor." 

"Indeed!"  said  I. 

"  True  as  I  am  a  gentleman.  Why, 
I  once,  in  a  public  trial  of  skill,  beat 
him,  even  him,  by  eighteen  measured 
inches,  from  heel  to  toe." 

I  stared. 

"  I  was  the  slighter  man  of  the 
too,  certainly.  Still,  in  a  flying  leap, 
I  always  had  the  best  of  it,  until  he 
astonished  the  world  with  the  Isle  of 
Palms.  From  that  day  forth,  my 
springyness.and  elasticity  left  me. 
'  Fallen  was  my  muscles'  brawny 
vaunt.*  I  quailed.  My  genius  stood 
rebuked  before  him.  Nevertheless, 
at  hop-step- and-jump  I  was  his  match 
still.  When  out  came  the  City  of 
the  Plague!  From  that  hour,  the 
Great  Ostrich  could  not  hold  the 
candle  to  the  flying  philosopher. 
And  now,  heaven  help  me !  1  can 
scarcely  cover  nineteen  feet,  with 
every  advantage  of  ground  for  the 
run.  It  is  true,  the  Professor  was 
always  in  condition,  and  never  re- 
quired training;  now,  unless  I  had 
time  for  my  hard  food,  I  was  seldom 
in  wind." 

Mr  Peter  Swop,  emboldened  and 
brightened  by  the  wine  he  had  so 
industriously  swilled,  and  willing  to 
contribute  his  quota  of  conversation, 
having  previously  jumbled  in  his 
noddle  what  Mr  Bang  had  said 
about  an  ostrich,  and  hard  food, 
asked,  across  the  table — 

"  Do  you  believe  ostriches  eat 
iron,  Mr  Bang  ?" 

Mr  Bang  slowly  put  down  his 
glass,  and  looking  with  the  most 
imperturbable  seriousness  the  in- 
nocent master  right  in  the  face,  ex- 
claimed— 

"  Ostriches  eat  iron! — Do  I  believe 
ostriches  eat  iron,  did  you  say,  Mr 
Swop?  Will  you  have  the  great 
kindness  to  tell  me  if  this  glass 
of  Madeira  be  poison,  Mr  Swop  ? 
Why,  when  Captain  Cringle  there 
was  in  the  Bight  of  Benin,  from 
which 


742 


Tom  Cringle's  Log, 


[May, 


*  One  comes  out 
Where  a  hundred  go  in,' 


on  board  of  the  —  what-  (Tye-call-her  '? 
I  forget  her  name  —  they  had  a  tame 
ostrich,  which  was  the  wonder  of  the 
whole  squadron.  At  the  first  go-off  it 
had  plenty  of  food,  but  at  length  they 
had  to  put  it  on  short  allowance  of 
a  Winchester  bushel  of  tenpenny 
nails  and  a  pump-bolt  a-day;  but  their 
supplies  failing,  they  had  even  to  re- 
duce this  quantity,  whereby  the  poor 
bird,  after  unavailing  endeavours  to 
get  at  the  iron  ballast,  was  driven  to 
pick  out  the  iron  bolts  of  the  ship  in 
the  clear  moonlight  nights,  when  no 
one  was  thinking  of  it  ;  so  that  the 
craft  would  soon  have  been  a  perfect 
wreck.  And  as  the  commodore 
would  not  hear  of  the  creature  being 
killed,  Tom  there  undertook  to  keep 
it  on  copper  bolts  and  sheathing  un- 
til we  reached  Cape  Coast.  But  it 
would  not  do  ;  the  copper  soured 
on  its  stomach,  and  it  died.  Believe 
an  ostrich  eats  iron,  quotha  !  But  to 
return  to  the  training  for  the  jump 
—I  used  to  stick  to  beef-steaks  and 
a  thimbleful  of  Burton  ale;  and  again 
I  tried  the  dried  knuckle  parts  of 
legs  of  five-year-old  black-faced 
muttons  ;  but,  latterly,  I  trained  best, 
so  far  as  wind  was  concerned,  on 
birsled  pease  and  whisky"— 

"  On  what  ?"  shouted  I,  in  great 
astonishment.  "  On  what  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  boys  ;  parched  pease 
and  whisky.  Charge  properly  with 
birsled  pease,  and  if  you  take  a 
caulker  just  as  you  begin  your  run, 
there  is  the  linstock  to  the  gun  for 
you,  and  away  you  fly  through  the 
air  on  the  self-propelling  principle 
of  the  Congreve  Rocket.  Well  might 
that  amiable,  and  venerable,  and  most 
learned  Theban,  Cockibus  Bungo, 
who  always  held  the  stakes  on  these 
great  occasions,  exclaim,  in  his  asto- 
nishment to  Cheesey,  the  Janitor  of 
many  days, 

'  Like  fire  from  flint  I  glanced  away,' 
disdaining  the  laws  of  gravitation  — 


Tlofov 


By  Mercury,  I  swear,—  yea,  by  his 
winged  heel,  I  shall  have  at  the  Pro- 
fessor yet,  if  I  live,  and  whisky  and 
birsled  pease  fail  me  not." 

Here  Paul  and  I  laughed,  like  to 
die;  but  Mr  Wagtail  appeared  out 


of  sorts,  somehow ;  and  Swop  look- 
ed first  at  one,  and  then  at  another, 
with  a  look  of  the  most  ludicrous 
uncertainty  as  to  whether  Mr  Bang 
was  quizzing  him,  or  telling  a  verity. 

"  Why,  Wagtail,"  said  Gelid, 
"  what  ails  you,  my  boy  ?" 

I  looked  towards  our  little  ami- 
able fat  friend.  His  face  was  much 
flushed,  although  I  learned  that  he 
had  been  unusually  abstemious,  and 
he  appeared  heated  and  restless,  and 
had  evidently  feverish  symptoms 
about  him. 

"Who's  there?"  said  Wagtail, 
looking  towards  the  door  with  a 
raised  look. 

It  was  Tailtackle,  with  two  of  the 
boys  carrying  a  litter,  followed  by 
Peter  Mangrove,  as  if  he  had  been 
chief  mourner  at  a  funeral.  Out  of 
the  litter  a  black  paw,  with  fishes  or 
splints  whipped  round  it  by  a  band 
of  spunyarn,  protruded,  and  kept 
swaying  about  like  a  pendulum. 

"  What  have  you  got  there,  Mr 
Tailtackle?" 

The  gunner  turned  round. 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  vagary  of  Peter  Man- 
grove's, sir.  Not  contented  with 
getting  the  Doctor  to  set  Sneezer's 
starboard  fore-leg,  he  insists  on 
bringing  him  away  from  amongst 
the  people  at  the  capstan-house." 

"  True,  Massa— Massa  Tailtackle 
say  true ;  de  poor  dumb  dog  never 
shall  cure  him  leg  none  at  all,  'mong 
de  men  dere ;  dey  all  love  him  so 
mosh,  and  make  of  him  so  mosh,  and 
stuff  him  wid  salt  wittal  so  mosh,  till 
him  blood  inflammationlikeahelJ,  and 
den  him  so  good  temper,  and  so  gra- 
tify wid  dere  attention,  dat  I  believe 
him  will  eat  till  him  kickeriboo  of 
sorefut,  [surfeit,  I  presumed ;]  and, 
beside/I  know  de  dog  healt  will  in- 
stantly mend  if  him  see  you.  Oh, 
Massa  Aaron,  [our  friend  was  smi- 
ling,] it  not  like  you  to  make  fun  of 
poor  black  fellow,  when  him  is  take 
de  part  of  soch  old  friend  as  poor 
Sneezer.  De  Captain  dere  cannot 
laugh,  dat  is  if  him  will  only  tink  on 
dat  fearful  cove  at  Puerto  Escon- 
dido,  and  what  Sneezer  did  for  bote 
of  we  dere." 

"  Well,  well,  Mangrove,  my  man," 
said  Mr  Bang,  "  I  will  ask  leave  of 
my  friends  here  to  have  the  dog  be- 
stowed in  a  corner  of  the  piazza,  so 
let  the  boys  lay  him  down  there,  and 
here  is  a  glass  of  grog  for  you— so.— 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringles  Zog. 


Now  go  back  again,"— as  the  poor 
fellow  had  drank  our  healths. 

Here  Sneezer,  who  had  been  still  as 
a  mouse  all  this  while,  put  his  black 
s  tiout  out  of  the  hammock,  and  began 
to  cheep  and  whine  in  his  gladness  at 
seeing  his  master,  while  the  large 
t <iars  ran  down  his  coal  black  muzzle 
as  he  licked  my  hand,  while  every 
BOW  and  then  he  gave  a  short  fond- 
I'.ng  bark,  as  if  he  had  said, "  Ah,  mas- 
ter, I  thought  you  had  forgotten 
me  altogether,  ever  since  the  action 
where  I  got  my  leg  broke  by  a  grape- 
shot,  but  I  find  I  am  mistaken." 

"  Now,Tailtackle,  what  say  you  ?" 

"  We  may  ease  off  the  tackles  to- 
morrow afternoon,"  said  the  gunner, 
"  and  right  the  schooner,  sir;  we 
have  put  in  a  dozen  Cashaw  knees, 
£s  tough  as  leather,  and  bolted  the 
planks  tight  and  fast.  You  saw  these 
heavy  quarters  did  us  no  good,  sir;  I 
hope  you  will  beautify  her  again, 
now  since  the  Spaniard's  shot  has 
pretty  well  demolished  them  already. 
1  hope  you  won't  replace  them,  sir. 
I  hope  Captain  N— —  may  see  her 
as  she  should  be,  as  she  was  when 
your  honour  had  your  first  pleasure 
cruise  in  her."  Here — but  I  may 
have  dreamed  it — I  thought  the  quid 
in  the  honest  fellow's  cheek  stuck 
out  in  higher  relief  than  usual  for  a 
short  space. 

"  We  shall  see,  we  shall  see,"  said 

"  I  say,  Don  Timotheus,"  quoth 
Bang,  "you  don't  mean  to  be  off 
without  drinking  our  healths  ?"  as  he 
tipped  him  a  tumbler  of  brandy  grog 
of  very  dangerous  strength. 

The  warrant  officer  drank  it,  and 
vanished,  and  presently  Mr  Gelid's 
brother,  who  had  just  returned  from 
one  of  the  out  islands,  made  his  ap- 
pearance, and  after  the  greeting  be- 
tween the  brothers  was  over,  the 
stranger  advanced,  and  with  much 
grace  invited  us  en  masse  to  his 
house.  But  by  this  time  Mr  Wagtail 
was  so  ill,  that  we  could  not  move 
that  night,  our  chief  concern  now 
being  to  see  him  properly  bestowed; 
and  very  soon  I  was  convinced  that 
his  disease  was  a  violent  bilious  fe- 
ver. 

The  old  brown  landlady,  like  all 
her  caste,  was  a  most  excellent 
nurse ;  and  after  the  most  approved 
and  skilful  surgeon  of  the  town  had 
seen  him,  and  prescribed  what  was 


743 

thought  right,  we  all  turned  in. 
Next  morning,  before  any  of  us  were 
up,  a  whole  plateful  of  cards  were 
handed  to  us,  and  during  the  fore- 
noon these  were  followed  by  as  many 
invitations  to  dinner.  We  had  diffi- 
culty in  making  our  election,  but  that 
day  I  remember  we  dined  at  the 
beautiful  Mrs  C— s,  and  in  the  even- 
ing adjourned  to  a  ball — a  very  gay 
affair;  and  I  do  freely  avow,  that  I 
never  saw  so  many  pretty  women 
in  a  community  of  the  same  size  be- 
fore. 

Oh !  it  was  a  little  paradise,  and 
riot  without  its  Eve.  But  such  an 
Eve !  I  scarcely  think  the  old  Ser- 
pent himself  could  have  found  it  in 
his  heart  to  have  beguiled  her. 

"  I  say  Tom,  my  dear  boy,"  said 
Mr  Bang,  "  do  you  see  that  darling  ? 
Oh,  who  can  picture  to  himself  with- 
out a  tear,  that  such  a  creature  of 
light,  that  such  an  ethereal-looking 
thing,  whose  step  '  would  ne'er  wear 
out  the  everlasting  flint,'  that  floating 
gossamer  on  the  thin  air,  shall  one  day 
become  an  anxious-looking,  sharp- 
featured,  pale-faced,  loud-tongued, 
thin-bosomed,  broad-hipped  wife !" 

The  next  day,  or  rather  in  the 
same  night,  his  Majesty's  ship  Rabo 
arrived,  and  the  first  tidings  we  had 
of  it  next  morning  were  communica- 
ted by  Captain  Qeuedechat  himself, 
an  honest,  uproarious  sailor.  He 
chose  to  begin,  as  many  a  worthy 
ends,  by  driving  up  to  the  door  of 
the  lodging  in  a  cart. 

"  Is  the  Captain  of  the  small 
schooner  that  was  swamped,  here  ?" 
he  asked  of  Massa  Pegtop. 

"  Yes,  sir,  Captain  Cringle  is  here, 
but  him  no  get  up  yet." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  tell  him  not  to 
hurry  himself;  but  where  is  the  table 
laid  for  breakfast  ?" 

"  Here,  sir,"  said  Pegtop,  as  he 
shewed  him  into  the  piazza. 

"  Ah,  that  will  do— so  give  me  the 
newspaper, — tol  de  rol,"  and  he  be- 
gan reading  and  singing,  in  all  the 
buoyancy  of  mind  consequent  on 
escaping  from  shipboard  after  a  three 
months'  cruise. 

I  dressed  and  came  to  him  as 
soon  as  I  could ;  and  the  gallant  Cap- 
tain, whom  I  had  figured  to  myself  a 
fine  light  gossamer  lad  of  twenty- 
two,  stared  me  in  the  face  as  a  fat 
elderly  cock  of  forty  at  the  fewest ; 
and  a§  to  bulk,  I  would  not  have 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[May, 


guaranteed  that  eighteen  stone  could 
have  made  him  kick  the  beam.  How- 
ever, he  was  an  excellent  fellow,  and 
that  day  he  and  his  crew  were  of  most 
essential  service  in  assisting  me  in 
refitting  the  Wave,  for  which  I  shall 
always" be  grateful.  I  had  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  forenoon  in  my 
professional  duty,  but  about  two  o'- 
clock I  had  knocked  off,  in  order  to 
make  a  few  calls  on  the  families  to 
whom  I  had  introductions,  and  who 
were  afterwards  so  signally  kind  to 
me.  I  then  returned  to  our  lodgings 
in  order  to  dress  for  dinner,  before 
I  sallied  forth  to  worthy  old  Mr 

N 's,  where  we  were  all  to  dine, 

when  I  met  Aaron. 

"  No  chance  of  our  removing  to 
Peter  Gelid's  this  evening." 

«  Why  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  poor  Pepperpot  Wagtail  is 
become  alarmingly  ill  ;  inflammatory 

symptoms  have  appeared,  and" 

Here  the  colloquy  was  cut  short  by 
the  entrance  of  Mrs  Peter  Gelid — a 
pretty  woman  enough.  Shehadcome 
to  learn  herself  from  our  landlady, 
how  Mr  Wagtail  was,  and  with  the 
kindliness  of  the  country,  she  volun- 
teered to  visit  poor  little  Waggy  in 
his  sick-bed.  I  did  not  go  into  the 
room  with  her ;  but  when  she  return- 
ed, she  startled  us  all  a  good  deal,  by 
stating  her  opinion  that  the  worthy 
man  was  really  very  ill,  in  which  she 
was  corroborated  by  the  Doctor 
who  now  arrived.  So  soon  as  the 
medico  saw  him,  he  bled  him,  and 
after  prescribing  a  lot  of  effervescing 
draughts,  and  various  febrifuge  mix- 
tures, he  left  a  large  blister  with  the 
old  brown  landlady,  to  be  applied 
over  his  stomach  if  the  wavering  and 
flightiness  did  not  leave  him  before 
morning.  As  I  knew  Gelid  was  ex- 
pected at  hisbrother's,to  meet  a  large 
assemblage  of  kindred,  and  as  the 
night  was  rainy  and  tempestuous,  I 
persuaded  him  to  trust  the  watch  to 
me ;  and  as  our  brown  landlady  had 
been  up  nearly  the  whole  of  the  pre- 
vious night,  I  sent  for  Tailtackle  to 
spell  me,  while  the  black  valets  acted 
with  great  assiduity  in  their  capacity 
of  surgeon's  mates.  Abouttwo  in  the 
morning  Mr  Wagtail  became  deliri- 
ous, and  it  was  all  that  I  could  do, 
aided  by  my  sable  assistants,  and  an 
old  black  nurse  to  hold  him  down  in 
his  bed.  Now  was  the  time  to  clap 
on  the  blister,  but  Ji§  repeatedly  tore 


it  off,  so  that  at  length  we  had  to  give 
it  up  for  an  impracticable  job  ;  and 
Tailtackle,  whom  I  had  called  up 
from  his  pallet,  where  he  had  gone  to 
lie  down  for  an  hour,  placed  the 
caustico,  as  the  Spaniards  call  it,  at 
the  side  of  the  bed. 

"  No  use  in  trying  this  any  more 
at  present,"  said  I;  "we  must  wait 
until  he  gets  quieter,  Mr  Tailtackle; 
so  go  to  your  bed,  and  I  shall  lie 
down  on  this  sofa  here,  where  Marie 
Paparoche — (this  was  our  old  land- 
lady)— has  spread  sheets,  I  see,  and 
made  all  comfortable.  Arid  send  Mi- 
Bang's  servant,  will  you? — [friend 
Aaron  had  ridden  into  the  country 
that  morning  to  visit  a  friend,  and 
the  storm,  as  I  conjectured,  had  kept 
him  there] — he  is  fresh,  and  will  call 
me  in  case  I  be  wanted,  or  Mr  Wag- 
tail gets  worse." 

I  lay  down,  and  soon  fell  fast 
asleep,  and  I  remembered  nothing", 
until  I  awoke  about  eleven  o'clock 
next  morning,  and  heard  Mr  Bang 
speaking  to  Wagtail,  at  whose  bed- 
side he  was  standing. 

"  Pepperpot,  my  dear,  be  thank- 
ful— you  are  quite  cool — a  fine  mois- 
ture on  your  skin  this  morning — be 
thankful,  my  little  man — how  did 
your  blister  rise  ?" 

"  My  good  friend,"  quoth  Wag- 
tail, in  a  thin  weak  voice,  "  I  can't 
tell — I  don't  know ;  but  this  I  per- 
ceive, that  I  am  unable  to  rise,  whe- 
ther it  has  risen  or  no." 

"  Ah — weak,"  quoth  Gelid,  who 
had  now  entered  the  room. 

"  Nay,"  said  Pepperpot,  "  not  so 
weak  as  deucedly  sore,  and  on  a 
very  unroniantic  spot,  my  dears." 

"  Why,"  said  Aaron,  "  the  pit  of 
the  stomach  is  not  a  very  genteel  de- 
partment, nor  the  abdomen  neither." 

"  Why,"  said  Wfagtail,  "  I  have  no 
blister  on  either  of  those  places,  but 
if  it  were  possible  to  dream  of  such 
a  thing,  1  would  say  it  had  been 
clapped  on  " 

Here  his  innate  propriety  tongue- 
tied  him. 

"Eh?"  said  Aaron;  "  what— has 
the  caustico  that  was  intended  for 
the  frontiers  of  Belgium  been  clap- 
ped by  mistake  on  the  broad  Pays 
Bus  ?" 

And  so  in  very  truth  it  turned 
out ;  for  while  we  slept,  the  patient 
had  risen,  and  sat  down  on  the  blis- 
ter that  lajj  as  already  mentionedj  on 


1833.] 


Torn  Cringle's  Log. 


a  chair  at  his  bedside,  and  again  top- 
pling into  bed  had  fallen  into  a  sound 
sleep,  from  which  he  had  but  a  few 
moments  before  the  time  I  write  of, 
awoke. 

"  Why,  now,"  continued  Aaron, 
to  the  Doctor  of  the  Wave  who  had 
just  entered — "why  here  is  a  disco- 
very, my  dear  Doctor.  You  clap  a 
hot  blister  on  a  poor  fellow's  head  to 
cool  it,  but  Doctor  Cringle  there  has 
cooled  Master  Wagtail's  brain,  by 
blistering  his  stern— eh  ?— Make 
notes,  and  mind  you  report  this  to 
the  College  of  Surgeons."* 

I  cleared  myself  of  these  impu- 
tations. Wagtail  recovered ;  our  re- 
fitting was  completed;  our  wood,  and 
water,  and  provisions,  replenished ; 
and,  after  spending  one  of  the  hap- 
piest fortnights  of  my  life,  in  one 
continued  round  of  gaiety,  I  prepa- 
red to  leave — with  tears  in  my  eyes  I 
will  confess — the  clear  waters,  bright 
Mue  skies,  glorious  climate,  and 
warm-hearted  community  of  Nassau, 
New  Providence.  Well  might  that 
old  villain  Blackboard  have  made  this 
sweet  spot  his  favourite  rendezvous. 
15y  the  way,  this  same  John  Teach  or 
Blackboard  had  fourteen  wives  in 
this  lovely  island ;  and  I  am  not  sure 
l>ut  I  could  have  picked  out  some- 


745 

thing  approximating  to  the  aforesaid 
number  myself,  with  time  and  oppor- 
tunity, from  among  such  a  galaxy  of 
loveliness  as  then  shone  and  sparkled 
iii  this  dear  little  town.  Speaking  of 
the  pirate  Blackboard,  I  ought  to  have 
related,  that  the  morning  before  this, 

whenl  was  at  breakfastat  Mrs  C s, 

the  amiable,  and  beautiful,  and  inno- 
cent girl-matron — ay,  you  supercili- 
ous son  of  a  sea-cook,  you  may  turn 
up  your  nose  at  the  expression,  but 
if  you  could  have  seen  the  burthen 
of  my  songf  as  I  saw  her,  and  felt  the 
elegancies  of  her  manner  and  conver- 
sation as  I  felt  them — but  let  us  stick 
to  Blackboard,  if  you  please.  We 
were  all  comfortably  seated  at  break- 
fast ;  I  had  finished  my  sixth  egg,  had 
concealed  a  beautiful  dried  snapper, 
before  whom  even  a  rizzard  haddock- 
sank  into  insignificance,  and  was  be- 
thinking me  of  finishing  off  with  a 
slice  of  Scotch  mutton-ham,  when  in 
slid  Mr  Bang.  He  was  received  with 
all  possible  cordiality,  and  commen- 
ced operations  very  vigorously. 

He  was  an  amazing  favourite  of 
our  hostess,  (as  where  was  he  not  a 
favourite?)  so  that  it  was  some  time 
before  he  even  looked  my  way.  We 
were  in  the  midst  of  a  discussion 
regarding  the  beauty  of  New  Provi- 


*  In  the  manuscript  Log  forwarded  to  us  by  Mr  Bang,  who  kindly  undertakes 
t )  correct  the  proofs  during  his  friend  Cringle's  absence  in  the  North  Sea,  there  is 
a  leaf  wafered  in  here,  with  the  following  in  Mr  Aaron's  own  handwriting — 

"  Master  Tommy  has  allowed  his  fancy  some  small  poetical  licenses  in  (his  his 
Log.  First  of  all,  in  Chapter  XVI.  he  lays  me  out  on  the  table,  and  makes  the  scor- 
pion sting  me  in  the  night,  at  Don  Ricardo  Campana's,  whereas  the  villain  himself 
was  the  hero  of  the  story,  and  the  man  on  whom  N— —  played  off  his  tricks.  But 
not  content  with  this,  he  makes  a  bad  pun,  when  speaking  of  Francesca  Cangrejo, 
\\hich  he  puts  into  my  mouth,  forsooth,  as  if  I  had  not  sins  enough  of  my  own  to 
answer  for,  and  then  attains  the  climax  of  his  evil-doing  by  killing  me  outright. 
And,  secondly,  in  the  present  Chapter,  he  was  in  very  truth  the  real  King 
of  the  Netherlands,  the  integrity  of  whose  low  countries  was  violated,  and  not  poor 
"Wagtail — Squire  Pepperpot,  in  his  delirium,  irritated  by  the  part  that  Cringle  had  good- 
naturedly  taken  in  endeavouring  to  clap  the  blister  on  his  stomach,  had  watched  his 
opportunity,  and  when  all  hands  had  fallen  into  a  sound  sleep,  he  got  up  and  ap- 
p.  cached  the  sofa,  where  tlte  nautical  was  snoozing,  Tom,  honest  fellow,  dreaming 
n  >  harm,  was  luxuriating  in  the  genial  climate,  and  sleeping  very  much  as  we  are 
given  to  believe  little  pigs  do,  as  described  in  the  old  song,  so  that  Pepperpot  had  no 
d  fficulty  in  applying  the  argument  a  posteriori,  and  having  covered  up  the  sleeping 
n  an- of- war,  with  the  caitstico  adhering  to  his  latter  end  like  bird-lime,  he  retired 
noiseless  as  a  cat  to  his  own  quarters.  Time  ran  on,  and  when  the  blister  should 
hi.ve  men  next  morning  on  Wagtail's  stomach,  Captain  Cringle  could  not  rise,  and 
the  jest  went  round;  but  Thomas  nevertheless  went  about  as  usual,  and  was  the 
gayest  of  the  gay,  dancing  and  singing;  but  whenever  he  dined  out,  he  always  carried 
a  '->rechum  with  him. — This  I  vouch  for.  A,  B. 

f  Burthen Tom  was  right  here  ;  she  w^s  within  a  w««k  of  her  corifinement,^- 

,V  B, 


746 

dence,  and  the  West  India  Islands 
in  general;  and  I  was  just  remarking 
that  nature  had  been  liberal,  that  the 
scenery  was  unquestionably  magni- 
ficent in  the  larger  islands,  and  beau- 
tiful in  the  smaller ;  but  there  were 
none  of  those  heartstirring  reminis- 
cences, none  of  those  thrilling  elec- 
trical associations,  which  vibrate  to 
the  heart  at  visiting  scenes  in  Europe 
famous  in  antiquity — famous  as  the 
spot  in  which  recent  victories  had 
been  achieved — famous  even  for  the 
very  freebooters,  who  once  held  un- 
lawful sway  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Why,  there  neverhasflourished  here- 
abouts, for  instance,  even  one  tho- 
roughly melo- dramatic  thief.  Massa 
Aaron  let  me  go  on,  until  he  had 
nearly  finished  his  breakfast.  At 
length  he  fired  a  shot  at  me. 

"  I  say,  Tom,  you  are  expatiating, 
I  see.  Nothing  heartstirring,  say  you  ? 
In  new  countries  it  would  bother  you 
to  have  old  associations  certainly; 
and  you  have  had  your  Rob  Roy,  I 
grant  you,  and  the  old  country  has 
had  her  Robin  Hood.  But  has  not  Ja- 
maica had  her  Three-fingered  Jack  ? 
Ay,  a  more  gentlemanlike  scoundrel 
than  either  of  the  former.  When  did 
Jack  refuse  a  piece  of  yam,  and  a  cor- 
dial from  his  horn,  to  the  wayworn 
man,  white  or  black  ?  When  did  he 
injure  a  woman?  When  did  Jack 
refuse  food  and  a  draught  of  cold 
water,  the  greatest  boon,  in  our  ar- 
dent climate  that  he  could  offer,  to 
a  wearied  child  ?  Oh,  there  was 
much  poetry  in  the  poor  fellow  ! 
And  here  had  they  not  that  most 
melo- dramatic  (as  you  choose  to 
word  it)  of  thieves,  .B/ac&beard, 
before  whom  Bluebeard  must  for 
ever  hide  his  diminished  head?  Why, 
Bluebeard  had  only  one  wife  at  a 
time,  although  he  murdered  five  of 
them,  whereas  Blackbeard  had  sel- 
dom fewer  than  a  dozen,  and  he  was 
never  known  to  murder  above  three. 
But  I  have  fallen  in  with  such  a 
treasure !  Oh,  such  a  discovery  !  I 
have  been  communing  with  Noah 
himself — with  an  old  negro,  who  re- 
members this  very  Blackbeard — the 
pirate  Blackbeard." 

"  The  deuce,"  said  I ;  "  impos- 
sible !" 

"  But  it  is  true.  Why  it  is  only 
ninety-four  years  ago  since  the  scoun- 
drel flourished,  and  this  old  cock  is 
one  hundred  and  ten,  Why,  I  have 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[May, 


jotted  it  down — worth  a  hundred 
pounds.  Read,  my  adorable  Mrs 
C ,  read." 

"  But,  my  dear  Mr  Bang,"  said  she, 
"  had  you  not  better  read  it  your- 
self?" 

"  You,  if  you  please,"  quoth  Aa- 
ron, who  forthwith  set  himself  to 
make  the  best  use  of  his  time. 

MEMOIR  OF  JOHN  TEACH,  ESQUIRE, 
VULGARLY  CALLED  BLACKBEARD, BY 
AARON  BANG,  ESQUIRE,  F.R.S. 

— —  "  He  was  the  mildest  manner'd 

man 

That  ever  scuttled  ship,  or  cut  a  throat. 
With  such  true  breeding  of  a  gentleman, 
You  never  could  discern  his  real  thought. 
Pity  he  loved  adventurous  life's  variety, 
He  was  so  great  a  loss  to  good  society." 

John  Teach,  or  Blackbeard,  was 
a  very  eminent  man — a  very  hand- 
some man,  and  a  very  devil  amongst 
the  ladies. 

He  was  a  Welshman,  and  intro- 
duced the  leek  into  Nassau  about  the 
year  1718,  and  was  a  very  remark- 
able personage,  although,  from  some 
singular  imperfection  in  his  moral 
constitution,  he  never  could  distin- 
guish clearly  between  meum  and 
tuum. 

He  found  his  patrimony  was  not 
sufficient  to  support  him ;  and  as  he 
disliked  agricultural  pursuits  as  much 
as  mercantile,  he  got  together  forty 
or  fifty  fine  young  men  one  day,  and 
borrowed  a  vessel  from  some  mer- 
chants that  was  lying  at  the  Nore,  and 
set  sail  for  the  Bahamas.  On  his  way 
he  fell  in  with  several  West  India- 
men,  and,  sending  a  boat  on  board  of 
each,  he  asked  them  for  the  loan  of  pro- 
visions and  wine,  and  all  their  gold, 
and  silver,  and  clothes,  which  request 
was  in  every  instance  but  one  civilly 
acceded  to,  whereupon,  drinking 
their  good  healths,  he  returned  to 
his  ship.  In  the  instance  where  he 
had  been  uncivilly  treated,  to  shew  his 
forbearance,  he  saluted  them  with 
twenty-one  guns  on  returning  to  his 
ship ;  but  by  some  accident  the  shot 
had  not  been  withdrawn,  so  that  un- 
fortunately the  contumacious  ill-bred 
craft  sank,  and  as  Blackbeard's  own 
vessel  was  very  crowded,  he  was 
unable  to  save  any  of  the  crew.  He 
was  a  great  admirer  of  fine  air,  and 
accordingly  established  himself  on 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log* 


the  island  of  New  Providence,  and 
invited  a  number  of  elegant  young 
men,  who  were  fond  of  pleasure 
cruises,  to  visit  him,  so  that  presently 
he  found  it  necessary  to  launch  forth 
in  order  to  borrow  more  provisions. 

At  this  period  he  was  a  great  dan- 
dy ;  and  amongst  other  vagaries,  he 
allowed  his  beard  to  grow  a  foot  long 
at  the  shortest,  and  then  plaited  it 
into  three  strands,  indicating  that  he 
was  a  bashaw  of  no  common  dimen- 
sions. He  wore  red  breeches,  but 
no  stockings,  and  sandals  of  bullock's 
hide.  He  was  a  perfect  Egyptian  in 
his  curiousness  in  fine  linen,  and  his 
shirt  was  always  white  as  the  driven 
snow  when  it  was  clean,  which  was 
the  iirst  Sunday  of  every  month.  In 
waistcoats  he  was  especially  select ; 
but  the  cut  of  them  very  much  de- 
pended on  the  fashion  in  favour  with 
the  last  gentleman  he  had  borrowed 
any  thing  from.  He  never  wore  any 
thing  but  a  full  dress  purple  velvet 
coat,  under  which  bristled  three 
brace  of  pistols,  and  two  naked  sti- 
lettoes, only  eighteen  inches  long, 
and  he  had  generally  a  lighted  match 
fizzing  in  the  bow  of  his  cocked  scra- 
per, whereat  he  lighted  his  pipe,  or 
fired  off  a  cannon,  as  pleased  him. 

One  of  his  favourite  amusements 
when  he  got  half  slewed,  was  to  ad- 
journ to  the  hold  with  his  compota- 
tors,  and  kindling  some  brimstone 
matches,  to  dance  and  roar,  as  if  he 
had  been  the  devil  himself,  until  his 
allies  were  nearly  suffocated.  At 
another  time  he  would  blow  out  the 
candles  in  the  cabin,  and  blaze  away 
with  his  loaded  pistols  at  random, 
right  and  left,  whereby  he  severely 
wounded  the  feelings  of  some  of  his 
intimates  by  the  poignancy  of  his  wit, 
all  of  which  he  considered  a  most 
excellent  joke.  But  he  was  kind  to 
his  fourteen  wives  so  long  as  he  was 
sober,  as  it  is  known  that  he  never 
murdered  above  three  of  them.  His 
borrowing,  however,  gave  offence  to 
our  government,  no  one  can  tell  how; 
and  at  length  two  of  our  frigates,  the 
Lime  and  Pearl,  then  cruising  off  the 
American  coast,  after  driving  him 
from  his  stronghold,  hunted  him 
down  in  an  inlet  in  North  Carolina, 
where, in  an  eight-gun  schooner,  with 
thirty  desperate  fellows,  he  made  a 
defence  worthy  of  his  honourable 
life,  and  fought  so  furiously  that  he 
killed  and  wounded  more  men  of 


747 

the  attacking  party  than  his  own  crew 
consisted  of;  and  following  up  his 
success,  he,  like  a  hero  as  he  was, 
boarded,  sword  in  hand,  the  head- 
most of  the  two  armed  sloops,  which 
had  been  detached  by  the  frigates, 
with  ninety  men  on  board,  to  capture 
him  ;  and  being  followed  by  twelve 
men  and  his  trusty  lieutenant,  he 
would  have  carried  her  out  and  out, 
maugre  the  disparity  of  force,  had 
he  not  fainted  from  loss  of  blood, 
and,  falling  on  his  back,  died  where 
he  fell,  like  a  hero— 

«  His  face  to  the  sky,  and  his  feet  to  the 
foe"— 

leaving  eleven  forlorn  widows,  be- 
ing the  fourteen  wives,  minus  the 
three  that  he  had  throttled. 

"  No  chivalrous  associations  in- 
deed !  Match  me  such  a  character 
as  this." 

We  all  applauded  to  the  echo. 
But  I  must  end  my  song,  for  I  should 
never  tire  in  dwelling  on  the  happy 
days  we  spent  in  this  most  enchant- 
ing little  island.  The  lovely  blithe 
girls,  and  the  hospitable  kindhearted 
men,  and  the  children  !  I  never  saw 
such  cherubs,  with  all  the  sprightli- 
ness  of  the  little  pale-faced  Creoles  of 
the  West  Indies,  while  the  healthy 
bloom  of  Old  England  blossomed  on 
their  cheeks. 

"  I  say,  Tom,"  said  Massa  Aaron, 
on  one  occasion  when  I  was  rather 
tedious  on  the  subject,  "  all  those 
little  cherubs,  as  you  call  them,  at 
least  the  most  of  them,  are  the  off- 
spring of  the  cotton  bales  captured 
in  the  American  war." 

"  The  what  ?"  said  I. 

"  The  children  of  the  American 
war — and  I  will  prove  it  thus — taking 
the  time  from  no  less  an  authority 
than  Hamlet,  when  he  chose  to  fol- 
low the  great  Dictator,  Julius  Caesar 
himself,  through  all  the  corruption 
of  our  physical  nature,  until  he  found 
him  stopping  a  beer  barrel — (only 
imagine  the  froth  of  one  of  our  dis- 
interested friend  Buxton's  beer  bar- 
rels, savouring  of  quassia,  not  hop, 
fizzing  through  the  clay  of  Julius 
Caesar  the  Roman  !) — as  thus :  If 
there  had  been  no  Yankee  war,  there 
would  have  been  no  prize  cargoes  of 
cotton  sent  into  Nassau ;  if  there  had 
been  no  prize  cargoes  sent  into  Nas- 
sau, there  would  have  been  little 


748 

money  made ;  if  there  had  been  little 
money  made,  there  would  have  been 
fewer  marriages ;  if  there  had  been 
fewer  marriages,  there  would  have 
been  fewer  cherubs.  There  is  logic 
for  you,  my  darling." 

"  Your  last  is  a  non  scquitur,  my 
dear  sir,"  said  I,  laughing.  "  But,  in 
the  main,  Parson  Malthus  is  right, 
out  of  Ireland  that  is,  after  all." 

That  evening  I  got  into  a  small 
scrape,  by  impressing  three  apprenti- 
ces out  of  a  Scotch  brig,  and  if  Mi- 
Bang  had  not  stood  my  friend,  I  might 
have  got  into  a  very  serious  scrape. 
Thanks  to  him,  the  affair  was  sol- 
dered. 

When  on  the  eve  of  sailing,  my  ex- 
cellent friends,  Messrs  Bang,  Gelid, 
and  Wagtail,  determined,  in  conse- 
quence of  letters  which  they  had  re- 
ceived from  Jamaica,  to  return  home 
in  a  beautiful  armed  brig  that  was  to 
sail  in  a  few  days,  laden  with  flour. 
I  cannot  well  describe  how  much 
this  moved  me.  Young  and  enthu- 
siastic as  I  was,  I  had  grappled  my- 
self with  hooks  of  steel  to  Mr  Bang  ; 
and  now,  when  he  unexpectedly 
communicated  his  intention  of  lea- 
ving me,  I  felt  more  forlorn  and  de- 
serted than  I  was  willing  to  plead  to. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  "  make 

my  peace  with  N .  If  urgent 

business  had  not  pressed  me,  I  would 
pot  have  broken  my  promise  to  re- 
join him  ;  but  I  am  imperiously 
called  for  in  Jamaica,  where  I  hope 
soon  to  see  you."  He  continued  with 
a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice,  which 
thrilled  to  my  heart,  as  it  vouched 
for  the  strength  of  his  regard.  "  If 
ever  I  am  where  you  may  come, 
Tom,  and  you  don't  make  my  house 
your  home,  provided  you  have  not  a 
better  of  your  own,  I  will  never  for- 
give you."  He  paused.  "You  young 
Fellows  sometimes  spend  faster  than 
you  should  do,  and  quarterly  bills 
are  long  of  coming  round.  I  have 
drawn  for  more  money  than  I  want. 
I  wish  you  would  let  me  be  your 
banker  for  a  hundred  pounds,  Tom." 

I  squeezed  his  hand.  "  No,  no — 
many,  many  thanks,  my  dear  sir- 
but  I  never  outrun  the  constable. 
Good-by,  God  bless  you.  Farewell, 
Mr  Wagtail— Mr  Gelid,  adieu."  I 
tumbled  into  the,  boat  and  pulled  on 
board.  The  first  thing  I  did  was  to 
send  the  wine  and  sea  stock,  a  most 
assortment 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[May, 


ably,belonging  to  my  Jamaica  friends, 
ashore  :  but  to  my  surprise  the  boat 
was  sent  back,  with  Mr  Bang's  card, 
on  which  was  written  in  pencil, 
"  Don't  affront  us,  Captain  Cringle." 
Thereupon  I  got  the  schooner  under 
weigh,  and  no  event  worth  narrating 
turned  up  until  we  anchored  close 
to  the  post-office  at  Crooked  Island, 
two  days  after. 

W7e  found  the  Firebrand  there,  and 
the  post-office  mail-boat,  with  her 
red  flag  and  white  horse  in  it,  and  I 
went  on  board  the  corvette  to  deli- 
ver my  official  letter,  detailing  the 
incidents  of  the  cruise,  and  was  most 
graciously  received  by  my  Captain. 

There  was  a  sail  in  sight  when  we 
anchored,  which  at  first  we  took  for 
the  Jamaica  packet;  but  it  turned 
out  to  be  the  Tinker,  friend  Bang's 
flour-loaded  brig;  and  by  five  in  the 
evening  our  friends  were  all  three 
once  more  restored  to  us,  but,  alas!  so 
far  as  regarded  two  of  them,  only  for 
a  moment.  Messrs  Gelid  and  Wagtail 
had,  on  second  thoughts,  it  seems, 
hauled  their  wind  to  lay  in  a  stock 
of  turtle  at  Crooked  Island,  and 
I  went  ashore  with  them,  and  as- 
sisted in  the  selection  from  the  turtle 
crawls  filled  with  beautiful  clear 
water,  and  lots  of  fine  lively  fresh- 
caught  fish,  the  postmaster- being  the 
turtle-merchant. 

"  I  say,  Paul,  happier  in  the  fish 
way  here  than  you  were  at  Biggies- 
wade — eh  ?"  said  Aaron. 

After  we  completed  our  purchases, 
our  friends  went  on  board  the  cor- 
vette, and  I  was  invited  to  meet 
them  at  dinner,  where  the  aforesaid 
postmaster,  a  stout  conch,  with  a 
square-cut  coatee  and  red  cape  and 
cuffs,  was  also  a  guest. 

He  must  have  had  but  a  dull  time 
of  it,  as  there  were  no  other  white 
inhabitants,  that  I  saw,  on  the  island 
besides  himself;  his  wife  having 
gone  to  Nassau,  which  he  looked  on 
as  the  prime  city  of  the  world,  to  be 
confined,  as  he  told  us.  Bang  said, 
that  she  must  rather  have  gone  to  be 
delivered  from  confinement,  and,  in 
truth,  Crooked  Island  was  a  most 
desolate  domicile  for  a  lady;  our 
friend  the  postmaster's  family,  and  a 
few  negroes  employed  in  catching 
turtle,  and  making  salt,  and  dressing 
some  scrubby  cotton-trees,  compo- 
sing the  whole  population.  In  the 
evening  the  packet  did  arrive,  how- 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


ever,  and  Captaiu  N received 

his  orders. 

"  Captain  N ,  my  boy,"  quoth 

Bang  towards  evening,  "  the  best  of 
friends  must  part — we  must  move- 
go  od-night — we  shall  be  off  to-night 
— good-by" —  and  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  Devil  a  bit,"  said  N ;  "  Bang, 

you  shall  not  go,  neither  you  nor 
your  friends.  You  promised,  in  fact 
shipped  with  me  for  the  cruise,  and 

Lady has  my  word  and  honour 

that  you  shall  be  restored  to  her 
longing  eye,  sound  and  safe — so  you 
must  all  remain,  and  send  down  the 
flour  brig  to  say  you  are  coming." 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  Massa 
Aaron  was  boned,  but  his  friends 
were  obdurate,  so  we  all  weighed 
that  night;  the  Tinker  bearing  up 
for  Jamaica,  while  we  kept  by  the 
wind,  steering  for  Gonaives  in  St 
Domingo. 

The  third  day  we  were  off  Cape 
St  Nicholas,  and  getting  a  slant  of 
•  wind  from  the  westward,  we  ran  up 
the  Bight  of  Leogane  all  that  night, 
but  towards  morning  it  fell  calm ; 
we  were  close  in  under  the  high- 
land, about  two  miles  from  the  shore, 
and  the  night  was  the  darkest  I  ever 
was  out  in  any  where.  There  were 
neither  moon  nor  stars  to  be  seen, 
and  the  dark  clouds  settled  down, 
until  they  appeared  to  rest  upon  our 
mast-heads,  compressing,  as  it  were, 
the  hot  steamy  air  down  upon  us 
until  it  became  too  dense  for  breath- 
ing. In  the  early  part  of  the  night 
it  had  rained  in  heavy  showers  now 
and  then,  and  there  were  one  or  two 
faint  flashes  of  lightning,  and  some 
heavy  peals  of  thunder,  which  rolled 
amongst  the  distant  hills  in  loud 
shaking  reverberations,  which  gra- 
dually became  fainter  and  fainter, 
until  they  grumbled  away  in  the  dis- 
tance in  hoarse  murmurs,  like  the 
low  notes  of  an  organ  in  one  of  our 
old  Cathedrals ;  but  now  there  was 
neither  rain  nor  wind — all  nature 
seemed  fearfully  hushed ;  for  where 
we  lay,  in  the  smooth  Bight,  there 
was  no  swell,  not  even  a  ripple  on 
the  glass-like  sea ;  the  sound  of  the 
shifting  of  a  handspike,  or  the  tread 
of  the  men,  as  they  ran  to  haul  on  a 
rope,  or  the  creaking  of  the  rudder, 
sounded  loud  and  distinct.  The  sea 
in  our  neighbourhood  was  strongly 
phosphorescent,  so  that  th«  smallest 


749 

chip  thrown  overboard  struck  fire 
from  the  water,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
piece  of  iron  cast  on  flint ;  and  when 
you  looked  over  the  quarter,  as  I 
delight  to  do,  and  tried  to  penetrate 
into  the  dark  clear  profound  beneath, 
you  every  now  and  then  saw  a  burst 
of  pale  light,  like  a  halo  far  down  in 
the  depths  of  the  green  sea,  caused 
by  the  motion  of  some  fish,  or  of  what 
Jack,  no  great  natural  philosopher, 
usually  calls  blubbers ;  and  when 
the  dolphin  or  skip-jack  leapt  into 
the  air,  they  sparkled  out  from  the 
still  bosom  of  the  deep,  dark  water 
like  rockets,  until  they  fell  again 
into  their  element  in  a  flash  of  fire. 
This  evening  the  corvette  had  shew- 
ed no  lights,  and  although  I  conjec- 
tured she  was  not  far  from  us,  still  I 
could  not  with  any  certainty  indicate 
her  whereabouts.  It  might  now  be 
about  three  o'clock,  and  1  was  stand- 
ing on  the  aftermost  gun  on  the  star- 
board side,  peering  into  the  imper- 
vious darkness  overthetafferel,  with 
my  dear  old  dog  Sneezer  by  my  side, 
nuzzling  and  fondling  after  his  affec- 
tionate fashion,  while  the  pilot,  Peter 
Mangrove,  stood  within  handspike 
length  of  me.  The  dog  had  been 
growling,  but  all  in  fun,  and  snapping 
at  me,  when  in  a  moment  he  hauled 
off,  planted  his  paws  on  the  rail, 
looked  forth  into  the  night,  and  gave 
a  short  anxious  bark,  like  the  solitary 
pop  of  the  sentry's  musket,  to  alarm 
the  mainguard  in  outpost  work. 

Peter  Mangrove  advanced,  and  put 
his  arm  round  the  dog's  neck.  "  What 
you  see,  my  shild  ?"  said  the  black 
pilot. 

Sneezer  uplifted  his  voice,  and 
gave  a  long  continuous  bark. 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mangrove  sharply, 
"  Massa  Captain,  something  near  we 
— never  doubt  dat — de  dog  yeerie 
something  we  can't  yeerie,  and  see 
someting  we  can't  see." 

I  had  lived  long  enough  never  to 
despise  any  caution  from  what  quar- 
ter soever  it  proceeded.  So  I  listened 
still  as  a  stone.  Presently  I  thought 
I  heard  the  distant  splash  of  oars.  I 
placed  my  hand  behind  my  ear,  and 
listened  with  breathless  "attention. 
Presently  I  saw  the  sparkling  dip  of 
them  in  the  calm  black  water,  as  if  a 
boat,  and  a  large  one,  was  pulling 
very  fast  towards  us.  "  Look  out — 
hail  that  boat,"  said  I.  "  Boat 
ahoy,"  sung  out  the  man. 


750 

"  Coming  here  ?"  reiterated  the  sea- 
man.  No  better  success.  The  boat 
or  canoe,  or  whatever  it  might  be, 
was  by  this  time  close  aboard  of  us, 
within  pistol-shot  at  the  farthest — no 
time  to  be  lost,  so  I  hailed  myself, 
and  this  time  the  challenge  did  pro- 
duce an  answer. 

"  Sore  boat— fruit  and  wegitab." 

"  Shore  boat,  with  fruit  and  vege- 
tables, at  this  time  of  night — I  don't 
like  it,"  said  I.  "  Boatswain's  mate, 
call  the  boarders.  Cutlasses,  men — 
quick,  a  piratical  row-boat  is  close 
to."  And  verily  we  had  little  time  to 
lose,  when  a  large  canoe  or  row- 
boat,  pulling  twelve  oars  at  the  few- 
est, and  carrying  twenty  firemen,  or 
thereabouts,  swept  upon  our  larboard 
quarter,  hooked  on,  and  the  next 
moment  upwards  of  twenty  unlock- 
ed for  visitors  scrambled  up  our 
shallow  side,  and  jumped  on  board. 

All  this  took  place  so  suddenly 
that  there  were  not  ten  of  my  people 
ready  to  receive  them,  but  those  ten 
were  the  prime  men  of  the  ship. 
"  Surrender,  you  scoundrels — sur- 
render. You  have  boarded  a  man-of- 
war.  Down  with  your  arms,  or  we 
shall  murder  you  to  a  man." 

But  they  either  did  not  understand 
me,  or  did  not  believe  me,  for  the 
answer  was  a  blow  from  a  cutlass, 
which,  if  I  had  not  parried  with  my 
night  glass,  which  it  broke  in  pieces, 
might  have  effectually  stopped  my 
promotion.  "  Cut  them  down,  board- 
ers, down  with  them — they  are  pi- 
rates," shouted  I ;  "  heave  cold  shot 
into  their  boat  alongside— all  hands, 
boatswain's  mate — call  all  hands." 
We  closed.  The  assailants  had  no 
firearms,  but  they  were  armed  with 
swords  and  long  knives,  and  as  they 
fought  with  desperation,  several  of 
our  people  were  cruelly  haggled,* 
and  after  the  first  charge,  the  combat- 
ants on  both  sides  became  so  blend- 
ed, that  it  was  impossible  to  strike 
a  blow,  without  running  the  risk  of 
cutting  down  a  friend.  By  this  time 
all  hands  were  on  deck;  the  boat 
alongside  had  been  swamped  by  the 
cold  shot  that  had  been  hove  crash- 
ing through  her  bottom,  when  down 
came  a  shower  from  the  surcharged 
clouds,  or  waterspout— call  it  which 
you  will — that  absolutely  deluged  the 
decks,  the  scuppers  being  utterly  un- 
able to  carry  off  the  water.  So  long 
as  the  pirates  fought  in  a  body,  I  had 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[May, 


no  fears,  as,  dark  as  it  was,  our  men, 
who  held  together,  knew  where  to 
strike  and  thrust;  but  when  the  tor- 
rent of  rain  descended  in  buckets- 
full,  the  former  broke  away,  and 
were  pursued  singly  into  various 
corners  about  the  deck,  all  escape 
being  cut  off  from  the  swamping  of 
their  boat.  Still  they  were  not  van- 
quished, and  I  ran  aft  to  the  binnacle, 
where  a  blue  light  was  stowed  away, 
— one  of  several  that  we  had  got  on 
deck  to  burn  that  night,  in  order  to 
point  out  our  whereabouts  to  the 
Firebrand.  I  fired  it,  and  rushing 
forward  cutlass-in-hand,  we  set  on 
the  gang  of  black  desperadoes  with 
such  fury,  that  after  killing  two  of 
them  outright,  and  wounding  and  ta- 
king prisoners  seven,  we  drove  the 
rest  overboard  into  the  sea,  where 
the  small-armed  men,  who  by  this 
time  had  tackled  to  their  muskets, 
made  short  work  of  them,  guided  as 
they  were  by  the  sparkling  of  the 
dark  water,  as  they  struck  out  and 
swarn  for  their  lives.  The  blue  light 
was  immediately  answered  by  an- 
other from  the  corvette,  which  lay 
about  a  mile  off;  but  before  her  boats, 
two  of  which  were  immediately 
armed  and  manned,  could  reach  us, 
we  had  defeated  our  antagonists,  and 
the  rain  had  increased  to  such  a  de- 
gree, that  the  heavy  drops,  as  they 
fell  with  a  strong  rushing  noise  into 
the  sea,  flashed  it  up  into  one  entire 
sheet  of  fire. 

We  secured  our  prisoners,  all 
blacks  and  mulattoes,  the  most  villa- 
nous-looking  scoundrels  I  had  ever 
seen,  and  presently  it  came  on  to 
thunder  and  lighten,  as  if  heaven  and 
earth  had  been  falling  together.  A 
most  vivid  flash — it  almost  blinded 
me.  Presently  the  Firebrand  burnt 
another  blue  light,  whereby  we  saw 
that  her  maintopmast  was  gone  close 
by  the  cap,  with  the  topsail,  and  up- 
per spars,  and  yards,  and  gear,  all 
hanging  down  in  a  lumbering  mass 
of  confused  wreck;  she  had  been 
struck  by  the  levin  brand,  which 
had  killed  four  men,  and  stunned 
several  more.  By  this  time  the  cold 
grey  streaks  of  morning  appeared  in 
the  eastern  horizon,  and  presently 
the  day  broke,  and  by  two  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  both  corvette  and 
schooner  were  at  anchor  at  Gonaives. 
The  village,  for  town  it  could  not  be 
called,  stood  on  a  low  hot  plain,  as  if 


lS53.il 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


the  washings  of  the  mountains  on  the 
I. '.ft  hand  side  as  we  stood  in  had 
I  een  carried  out  into  the  sea,  and 
formed  into  a  white  plateau  of  sand ; 
f ill  was  hot,  and  stunted,  and  scrub- 
ly.  We  brought  up  inside  of  the 
c  orvette,  in  three  fathoms  of  water. 
My  superior  officer  had  made  the 
j  rivate  signal  to  come  on  board  and 
( ine,  which,  in  the  assured  intimacy 
i  i  which  we  were  now  linked,  could 
i.ot  on  any  plea  be  declined.  I  dress- 
ed, and  the  boat  was  lowered  down, 
and  we  pulled  for  the  corvette,  but 
c  ur  course  lay  under  the  stern  of 
t  ie  two  English  ships  that  were  lying 
tiiere  loading  cargoes  of  coffee. 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  a  decent-looking 
man,  who  leant  on  the  tafferel  of  one 
c  f  them — "  Pray,  sir,  are  you  going  on 
board  of  the  Commodore  ?" 

"  I  am,"  I  answered. 

"  I  am  invited  there  too,  sir  j  will 
y  ou  have  the  kindness  to  say  I  will 
be  there  presently?" 

"  Certainly — give  way,  men." 

Presently  we  were  alongside  the 
corvette,  and  the  next  moment  we 
s.ood  on  her  deck,  holystoned  white 
and  clean,  with  my  stanch  friend 

Captain  N and  his  officers,  all  in 

full  fig,  walking  to  and  fro  under  the 
awning,  a  most  magnificent  naval 
lounge,  being  thirty- two  feet  wide  at 
the  gangway,  and  extending  fifty  feet 
or  more  aft,  until  it  narrowed  to 
twenty  at  the  tafferel.  We  were  all, 
tie  two  masters  of  the  merchant- 
men, decent  respectable  men  in 
t  leir  way,  included,  graciously  re- 
ceived, and  sat  down  to  an  excel- 
lent dinner,  Mr  Bang  taking  the  lead 
a  *  usual  in  all  the  fun ;  and  we  were 
just  on  the  verge  of  cigars  and  cold 
g^og,  when  the  first  lieutenant  came 
down  and  said  that  the  Captain  of 
the  port  had  come  off,  and  was  then 
01  board. 

'*  Shew  him    in,"   said    Captain 

E." ,   and  a  tall,    vulgar-looking 

b  ackamoor,  dressed  apparently  in 
tl.e  cast-off  coat  of  a  French  grena- 
d  ^er  officer,  entered  the  cabin  with 
h  s  chapeau  in  his  hand,  and  a  Ma- 
d/as handkerchief  tied  round  his 
\^  oolly  skull.  He  made  his  bow,  and 
rt  mained  standing  near  the  door. 

"  You  are  the  Captain  of  the  port?" 

sud  Captain  N ,  in  French.  The 

nan  nodded.  "Why,  then,  take  a 
chair,  sir,  if  you  please." 

He  begged  to  be  excused,  and  after 


',51 

tipping  off  his  bumper  of  claret,  and 
receiving  the  Captain's  report,  he 
made  his  bow  and  departed. 

I  returned  to  the  Wave,  and  next 
morning  I  breakfasted  on  board  of 
the  Commodore,  and  afterwards  we 
all  proceeded  on  shore  to  Monsieur 

B 's,  to  whom  Massa  Aaron  was 

known.  The  town,  if  I  may  call  it 
so,  had  certainly  a  very  desolate  ap- 
pearance. There  was  nothing  stirring; 
and  although  a  group  of  idlers, 
amounting  to  about  twenty  or  thirty, 
did  collect  about  us  on  the  end  of  the 
wharf,  which,  by  the  by,  was  terribly 
out  of  repair,  yet  they  all  appeared 
ill  clad,  and  in  no  way  so  well  fur- 
nished as  the  blackies  in  Jamaica; 
and  when  we  marched  up  through 
a  hot,  sandy,  unpaved  street  into 
the  town,  the  low,  one-story,  shab- 
by-looking houses  were  falling  in- 
to decay,  and  the  streets  more  re- 
sembled river-courses  than  tho- 
roughfares, while  the  large  car- 
rion crows  were  picking  garbage  on 
the  very  crown  of  the  causeway, 
without  apparently  entertaining  the 
least  fear  of  us,  or  of  the  negro  chil- 
dren who  were  playing  close  to  them, 
so  near,  in  fact,  that  every  now  and 
then  one  of  the  urchins  would  aim  a 
blow  at  one  of  the  obscene  birds, 
when  it  would  give  a  loud  discord- 
ant croak,  and  jump  a  pace  or  two, 
with  outspread  wings,  but  without 
taking  wing.  Still  many  of  the  women, 
who  were  sitting  under  the  small 
piazzas,  or  projecting  eaves  of  the 
houses,  with  their  little  stalls,  filled 
with  pullicate  handkerchiefs,  and 
pieces  of  muslin,  and  ginghams  for 
sale,  were  healthy-looking,  and  ap- 
peared comfortable  and  happy.  As 
we  advanced  into  the  town,  almost 
every  male  we  met  was  a  soldier,  all 
rigged  and  well  dressed,  too,  in  the 
French  uniform ;  in  fact,  the  remark- 
able man,  King  Henry,  orChristophe, 
took  care  to  have  his  troops  well  fed 
and  clothed  in  every  case.  On  our  way 
we  had  to  pass  by  the  Commandant, 
Baron  B 's  house,  when  it  occur- 
red to  Captain  N that  we  ought 

to  stop  and  pay  our  respects ;  but  Mr 
Bang  being  bound  by  no  such  eti- 
#Me#te,boreupforhis  friend  Monsieur 

B 's.  As  we  approached  the  house 

—  a  long,  low,  one-story  building, 
with  a  narrow  piazza,  and  a  range  of 
unglazed  windows,  staring  open,  with 
their  wooden  shutters,  like  ports  in  a 


Tom  Cringle's  Loy. 


[May, 


ship's  side,  towards  the  street— we 
found  a  sentry  at  the  door,  who, 
when  we  announced  ourselves,  car- 
ried arms  all  in  regular  style.  Pre- 
sently a  very  good-looking  negro,  in 
a  handsome  aide-de-camp's  uniform, 
appeared,  and,  hat  in  hand,  with  all 
the  grace  in  the  world,  ushered  us 
into  the  presence  of  the  Baron,  who 
was  lounging  in  a  Spanish  chair  half 
asleep,  but  on  hearing  us  announced 
he  rose,  and  received  us  with  great 
amenity.  He  was  a  fat  elderly  negro, 
so  far  as  I  could  judge,  about  sixty 
years  of  age,  and  was  dressed  in  very 
wide  jean  trowsers,  over  which  a 
pair  of  well-polished  Hessian  boots 
were  drawn,  which,  by  adhering  close 
to  his  legs,  gave  him,  in  contrast  with 
the  wide  puffing  of  his  garments 
above, the  appearance  of  being  under- 
limbed,  which  he  by  no  means  was, 
as  he  was  a  stout  old  Turk. 

After  a  profusion  of  bows  and 
fine  speeches,  and  superabundant 
assurances  of  the  esteem  in  which 
his  master  King  Henry  held  our  mas- 
ter King  George,  we  made  our  bows 

and  repaired  to  Monsieur  B 's, 

where  I  was  engaged  to  dine.  As  for 

Captain  N ,  he  went  on  board 

that  evening  to  superintend  the  re- 
pairs of  the  ship. 

There  was  no  one  to  meet  us  but 

Monsieur  B and  his  daughter,  a 

tall  and  very  elegant  brown  girl,  who 
had  been  educated  In  France,  and  did 
the  honours  incomparably  well.  We 
sat  down,  Massa  Aaron  whispering  in 
my  lug,  that  in  Jamaica  it  was  not 
quite  the  thing  to  introduce  brown  la- 
dies at  dinner;  but,  as  he  said, "  Why 
not  ?  Neither  you  nor  I  are  high  caste 
Creoles — so  en  avant"  Dinner  was 

nearly  over,    when  Baron  B 's 

aide-de-camp  slid  into  the  room.  Mon- 
sieur B rose.  "  Captain  Latour, 

you  are  welcome — be  seated.  I  hope 
you  have  not  dined  ?" 

"  Why,  no,"  said  the  negro  officer, 
as  he  drew  a  chair,  while  he  ex- 
changed glances  with  the  beautiful 
Eugenie,  and  sat  himself  down  close 
to  El  Senor  Bang. 

"  Hillo,  Quashie  !  Whereaway,  my 
lad  ?  a  little  above  the  salt,  an't  you  ?" 
ejaculated  our  Amiga  f  while  Pegtop, 
who  had  just  come  on  shore,  and  was 
standing  behind  his  master,  stared 
and  gaped  in  the  greatest  wonder- 
ment. But  Mr  Bang's  natural  good 
breeding,  and  knowledge  of  th? 


world,  instantly  recalled  him  to  time 
and  circumstances;  and  when  the 
young  officer  looked  at  him,  and  re- 
garded him  with  some  surprise,  he 
bowed,  and  invited  him,  in  the  best 
French  he  could  muster,  to  drink 
wine.  The  aide-de-camp  was,  as  I 
have  said,  jet-black  as  the  ace  of 
spades,  but  he  was,  notwithstanding, 
so  far  as  figure  went,  a  very  hand- 
some man — tall  and  well  framed, 
especially  about  the  shoulders,  which 
were  beautifully  formed,  and,  in  the 
estimation  of  a  statuary,  would  pro- 
bably have  balanced  the  cucumber 
curve  of  the  shin ;  his  face,  however, 
was  regular  negro — flat  nose,  heavy 
lips,  fine  eyes,  and  beautiful  teeth, 
and  he  wore  two  immense  gold  ear- 
rings. His  woolly  head  was  bound 
round  with  a  pullicate  handkerchief, 
which  we  had  not  noticed  until  he 
took  off  his  laced  cocked  hat.  His 
coat  was  the  exact  pattern  of  the 
French  staff  uniform  at  the  time — 
plain  blue,  without  lace,  except  at 
the  cape  and  cuffs,  which  were  of 
scarlet  cloth,  covered  with  rich  em- 
broidery. He  wore  a  very  handsome 
straight  sword  with  steel  scabbard, 
and  the  white  trowsers,  and  long 
Hessian  boots,  already  described  as 
part  of  the  costume  of  his  gene- 
ral. 

Mr  Bang,  as  I  have  said,  had  ral- 
lied by  this  time,  and  with  the  tact 
of  a  gentleman,  appeared  to  have 
forgotten  whether  his  new  ally  was 
black,  blue,  or  green,  while  the  claret, 
stimulating  him  into  self-possession, 
was  evaporating  in  broken  French. 
But  his  man  Pegtop  had  been  pushed 
off  his  balance  altogether;  his  equa- 
nimity was  utterly  gone.  When  the 
young  officer  brushed  past  him,  at  the 
first  go  off,  while  he  was  rinsing  some 
glasses  in  the  passage,  his  sword 
banged  against  Pegtop's  deriere  as 
he  stoopecl  down  over  his  work.  He 
started  and  looked  round,  and  mere- 
ly exclaimed — "  Eigh,  Massa  Niger 
wurra  dat !"  But  now,  when,  stand- 
ing behind  his  master's  chair,  he  saw 
the  aide-de-camp  consorting  with 
him  whom  he  looked  upon  as  the 
greatest  man  in  existence,  on  terms 
of  equality,  all  hie  faculties  were 
paralysed.  "  Pegtop,"  said  I,  '«  hand 
me  some  yam,  if  you  please."  He 
looked  at  me  all  agape,  as  if  he  had 
been  half  strangled. 

"  Pegtop,  you  scoundrel,"  quoth 


1333.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


Massa  Aaron,  "  don't  you  hear  what 
Captain  Cringle  says,  sir?" 

"Oh  yes,  Massa;"  and  thereupon 
tl>3  sable  valet  brought  me  a  bottle 
o:'fish  sauce,  which  he  endeavoured 
to  pour  into  my  wine-glass.  All  this 
while  Eugenie  and  the  aide-de-camp 
were  playing  the  agreeable — and  in 
very  good  taste,  too,  let  me  tell  you. 

1  had  just  drank  wine  with  mine 
host,  when  I  cast  my  eye  along  the 
passage  that  led  out  of  the  room,  and 
there  vvasPegtop  dancing,  and  jump- 
ing, and  smiting  his  thigh,  in  an  ecs- 
tasy of  laughter,  as  he  doubled  him- 
self up,  with  the  tears  welling  over 
his  cheeks. 

"  Oh,  Lord!  Oh!— Massa  Bang 
be  w,  and  make  face,  and  drink  wine, 
and  do  every  ting  shivil,to  one  dam 
black  rascail  niger!  —  Oh,  blackee 
m  >re  worser  dan  me,  Gabriel  Peg- 
top— Oh,  Lard  !— ha  I  ha  !  ha  !"— 
Thereupon  he  threw  himself  down 
in  the  piazza,  amongst  plates  and 
dishes,  and  shouted  and  laughed  in 
a  perfect  frenzy,  until  Mr  Bang  got 
up,  and  thrust  the  poor  fellow  out  of 
doors,  in  a  pelting  shower,  which 
soon  so  far  quelled  the  hysterical 
passion,  that  he  came  in  again,  grave 
as  a  judge,  and  took  his  place  behind 
his  master's  chair  once  more,  and 
ev^ry  thing  went  on  smoothly.  The 
aicle-de-camp,who  appeared  quite  un- 
co iscious  that  he  was  the  cause  of 
tin;  poor  fellow's  mirth,  renewed 
his  attentions  to  Eugenie ;  and  Mr 
Bang,  M.  B— — ,  and  myself,  were 
agsiin  engaged  in  conversation,  and 
oui'  friend  Pegtop  was  in  the  act  of 
handing  a  slice  of  melon  to  the  black 
officer,  when  a  file  of  soldiers,  with 
fix-id  bayonets,  stept  into  the  piazza, 
and  ordered  arms,  one  taking  up  his 
station  on  each  side  of  the  door.  Pre- 
sei  tly  another  aide-de-camp,  boot- 
ed and  spurred,  dashed  after  them  ; 
and  as  soon  as  he  crossed  the  thresh- 
hold,  sung  out,  "  Place,  pour  Mon- 
sieur le  Ijaron." 

The  electrical  nerve  was  again 
touched—"  Oh!— oh!— oh!  Gara- 
mi^hty !  here  comes  anoder  on  dem," 
roe  red  Pegtop,  sticking  the  slice  of 
meton,  which  was  intended  for 
Mt  demoiselle  Eugenie,  into  his  own 
mo  nth,  to  quell  the  paroxysm,  if  pos- 
sible, (while  he  fractured  the  plate 
on  he  black  aide's  skull, )and  imme- 
diately blew  it  out  again,  with  an 
explosion,  and  a  scattering  of  the 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCVIII. 


753 

fragments,  as  if  it  had  been  the  blast- 
ing of  a  stone  quarry. 

"  Zounds,  this  is  too  much,"— ex- 
claimed  Bang,  as  he  rose  and  kicked 
the  poor  fellow  out  again,  with  such 
vehemence, that  his  skull, encounter- 
ing the  paunch  of  our  friend  the  Ba- 
ron,who  was  entering  from  the  street 
at  thai  instant,  capsized  him  outright, 
and  away  rolled  his  Excellency  the 
General  de  Division,  Commandant 
de  PArrondissement,  &c.  &c.,  digging 
his  spurs  into  poor  Pegtop's  tran- 
som, and  sacring  furiously,  while  the 
black  servant  roared  as  if  he  had 
been  harpooned  by  the  very  devil. 
The  aides  started  to  their  feet— and 
one  of  them  looked  at  Mr  Bang,  and 
touched  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  grind- 
ing the  word  "satisfaction"  between 
his  teeth,  while  the  other  ordered 
the  sentries  to  run  the  poor  fellow, 
whose  mirth  had  been  so  uproari- 
ous, through.  However  he  got  off 
with  one  or  two  progues  in  a  very- 
safe  place  ;  and  when  Monsieur  B 

explained  how  matters  stood,  and 
that  the  "  pauvre  diable"  as  the 
black  Baron  coolly  called  him,  was 
a  mere  servant,  and  an  uncultivated 
creature,  and  that  no  insult  was 
meant,  we  had  all  a  hearty  laugh, 
and  every  thing  rolled  right  again. 
At  length  the  Baron  and  his  black 
tail  rose  to  wish  us  a  good  evening, 
and  we  were  thinking  of  finishing 
off  with  a  cigar  and  a  glass  of  cold 
grog,  when  Monsieur  B- 's  daugh- 
ter ^returned  into  the  piazza,  very 
pale,  and  evidently  much  frighten- 
ed. "  Mon  pere"  said  she — while 
her  voice  quavered  from  excessive 
agitation — "  My  father — why  do  the 
soldiers  remain?" 

We  all  peered  into  the  dark  pas- 
sage, and  there,  true  enough,  were 
the  black  sentries  at  their  posts  be- 
side the  doorway,  still  and  motion- 
less as  statues.  Mounsieur  B , 

poor  fellow,  fell  back  in  his  chair  at 
the  sight  as  if  he  had  been  shot 
through  the  heart. 

"  My  fate  is  sealed — I  am  lost — 
oh,  Eugenie!"  were  the  only  words 
he  could  utter. 

"  No  no,"  exclaimed  the  weeping 
girl,  "  God  forbid — the  Baron  is  a 
kind-hearted  man — King  Henry  can- 
not— no,  no — he  knows  you  are  not 
disaffected,  he  will  not  injure  you." 
Here  one  of  the  black  aides-de-camp 
suddenly  returned.    It  was  the  poor 
3  g 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


[May, 


fellow  who  had  been  making  love  to 
Eugenie  during  the  entertainment. 
He  looked  absolutely  blue  with  dis- 
may ;  his  voice  shook,  and  his  knees 
knocked  together  as  he  approached 
our  host. 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not. 
<(  Oh,  Pierre,  Pierre,"  moaned,  or 
rather  gasped  Eugenie — "  what  have 
you  come  to  communicate?  what 
dreadful  news  are  you  the  bearer 
of?"  He  held  out  an  open  letter  to 

Cr  B ,  who,  unable  to  read  it 
n  excessive  agitation,  handed  it 
to  me.     It  ran  thus : — 

"  MONSIEUR  LE  BARON, 

"  Monsieur has  been  arrest- 
ed here  this  morning ;  he  is  a  white 
Frenchman,  and  there  are  strong 
suspicions  against  him.  Place  his 
partner  M.  B under  the  surveil- 
lance of  the  police  instantly.  You 
are  made  answerable  for  his  safe 
custody. 

"  Witness  his  Majesty's  hand  and 
seal,  at  Sans  Souci,  this  .  .  . 
"  The  COUNT ." 

"  Then  lam  doomed,"  groaned  poor 

Mr  B .  His  daughter  fainted,  the 

black  officer  wept,  and  having  laid 
his  senseless  mistress  on  a  sofa,  he 

approached  and  wrungB 's  hand. 

"  Alas,  my  dear  sir — how  my  heart 
bleeds  !  But  cheer  up — King  Henry 
is  just — all  may  be  right — all  may 
still  be  right;  and  so  far  as  my  duty 
to  him  will  allow,  you  may  count  on 
nothing  being  done  here  that  is  not 
absolutely  necessary  for  holding  our- 
selves blameless  with  the  Govern- 
ment." 

Enough  and  to  spare  of  this.  We 
slept  on  shore  that  night,  and  a  very 
neat  catastrophe  was  likely  to  have 

ensued  thereupon.     Captain  N , 

intending  to  go  on  board  ship  at  day- 
break, had  got  up  and  dressed  him- 
self, and  opened  the  door  into  the 
street  to  let  himself  out,  when  he 
stumbled  unwittingly  against  the 
black  sentry,  who  must  have  been 
lialf  asleep,  for  he  immediately  step- 
ped several  paces  back,  and  present- 
ing his  musket,  the  clear  barrel 
glancing  in  the  moonlight,  snapped 
it  at  him.  Fortunately  it  missed  fire, 
which  gave  the  skipper  time  to  ex- 
plain that  it  was  not  Mr  B at- 
tempting to  escape;  but  that  day 

week  poor  B was  marched  to 

the  prison  of  La  Force,  near  Cape 


Henry,  where  his  partner  had  been 
previously  lodged;  and  from  that 
hour  to  this,  neither  of  them  were  ever 
heard  of.  Next  evening  I  again  went 
ashore,  but  I  was  denied  admittance 

to  Mr  B ;  and  as  my  orders  were 

imperative  not  to  interfere  in  any 
way,  I  had  to  return  on  board  with 
a  heavy  heart. 

Next  day  Captain  N and  my- 
self paid  a  formal  visit  to  the  black 
Baron,  in  order  to  leave  no  stone  un- 
turned to  obtain  poorB 's  release 

if  we  could.  Mr  Bang  accompanied 
us.  We  found  the  sable  dignitary 
lounging  in  a  grass  hammock,  (slung 
from  corner  to  corner  of  a  very  com- 
fortless room,  for  the  floor  was  tiled, 
the  windows  were  unglazed,  and 
there  was  no  furniture  whatsoever 
but  an  old-fashioned  mahogany  side- 
board, and  three  wicker  chairs,)  ap- 
parently half-asleep,  or  ruminating 
after  his  breakfast.  On  our  being  an- 
nounced by  a  half-naked  negro  ser- 
vant who  aroused  him,  he  got  up  and 
received. us  very  kindly — I  beg  his 
lordship's  pardon,  I  should  write 
graciously — and  made  us  take  wine 
and  biscuit,  and  talked  and  rattled ; 
but  I  saw  he  carefully  avoided  the 
subject  which  he  evidently  knew 
was  the  object  of  our  visit.  At  length, 
finding  it  would  be  impossible  for 
him  to  parry  it  much  longer  single- 
handed,  with  tact  worthy  of  a  man 
of  fashion,  he  called  out  "  Marie ! 
Marie !"  Our  eyes  followed  his, 
and  we  saw  a  young  and  very  hand- 
sonie  brown  lady  rise,  whom  we  had 
perceived  seated  at  her  work  when  we 
first  entered,  in  a  small  dark  back 
porch,  and"^cl vance  after  curtsying  to 
us  seriatim,  with  great  elegance,  as 
the  old  fat  niger  introduced  her  to  us 
as  "  Madame  la  Baronne." 

"  His  wife  ?"  whispered  Aaron  ; 
"  the  old  rank  goat !" 

Her  brown  ladyship  did  the  ho- 
nours of  the  wine-ewer  with  the  per- 
fect quietude  and  ease  of  a  well-bred 
woman.  She  was  a  most  lovely  clear- 
skinned  quadroon  girl.  She  could  not 
have  been  twenty;  tall  and  beauti- 
fully shaped.  Her  long  coal-black 
tresses  were  dressed  high  on  her 
head,  which  was  bound  round  with 
the  everlasting  Madras  handkerchief, 
in  which  pale  blue  was  the  prevail- 
ing colour;  but  it  was  elegantly  ad- 
justed, and  did  not  come  down  far 
enough  to  shade  the  fine  develope- 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


ment  of  her  majestic  forehead — 
Pasta's,  in  Semiramide,  was  not  more 
commanding.  Her  eyebrows  were 
delicately  arched  and  sharply  de- 
fined, and  her  eyes  of  jet  were  large 
and  swimming ;  her  nose  had  not  ut- 
terly abjured  its  African  origin,  nei- 
ther had  her  lips,  but,  notwithstand- 
ing, her  countenance  shone  with  all 
the  beauty  of  expression  so  conspi- 
cuous in  the  Egyptian  sphinx — Abys- 
sinian, but  most  sweet— while  her 
teeth  were  as  the  finest  ivory,  and 
her  chin  and  throat,  and  bosom,  as 
if  her  bust  had  been  an  antique  sta- 
tue of  the  rarest  workmanship.  The 
only  ornaments  she  wore  were  two 
large  virgin  gold  earrings,  massive 
yellow  hoops  without  any  carving, 
but  so  heavy  that  they  seemed  to 
weigh  down  the  small  thin  transpa- 
rent ears  which  they  perforated;  and 
a  broad  black  velvet  band  round  her 
neck,  to  which  was  appended  a  large 
massive  crucifix  of  the  same  metal. 
She  also  wore  two  broad  bracelets 
of  black  velvet  clasped  with  gold. 
Her  beautifully  moulded  form  was 
scarcely  veiled  by  a  cambric  chemise, 
with  exceedingly  short  sleeves,  over 
which  she  wore  a  rose-coloured  silk 
petticoat,  short  enough  to  display  a 
finely  formed  foot  and  ankle,  with  a 
well-selected  pearl-white  silk  stock- 
ing, and  a  neat  low-cut  French  black 
kid  shoe.  As  for  gown  she  had 
none.  She  wore  a  large  spark- 
ling diamond  ring  on  her  marriage 
finger,  and  we  were  all  bowing  be- 
fore the  deity,  when  our  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  cloud  of  dust  at 
the  top  of  the  street,  and  presently 
a  solitary  black  dragoon  sparked 
out  from  it,  his  accoutrements  and 
headpiece  blazing  in  the  sun,  then 
three  more  abreast,  and  immediate- 
ly a  troop  of  five-and-twenty  cava- 
liers, at  the  fewest,  came  thunder- 
ing down  the  street.  They  formed 
opposite  the  Baron's  house,  and  I 
will  say  I  never  saw  a  better  ap- 
pointed troop  of  horse  anywhere. 
Presently  an  aide-de-camp  scampered 
up ;  and  having  arrived  opposite  the 
floor,  dismounted,  and  entering,  ex- 
claimed, "  Les  Comtes  de  Lemonade 
°.t  Marmalade." — "  The  who  ?"  said 
Mr  Bang;  but  presently  two  very 
handsome  young  men  of  colour,  in 
splendid  uniforms,  rode  up,  followed 
jy  a  glittering  staff,  of  at  least  twen- 
ty mounted  officers.  They  alighted, 


755 

and  entering,  made  their  bow  to 

Baron  B .  The  youngest,  the 

Count  Lemonade,  spoke  very  decent 
English,  and  what  between  Mr 
Bang's  and  my  bad,  and  Captain 

N 's  very  good  French,  we  all 

made  ourselves  agreeable.  I  may 
state  here,  that  Lemonade  and  Mar- 
malade  are  two  districts  of  the  island 
of  St  Domingo,  which  had  been 
pitched  on  by  Christophe  to  give 
titles  to  two  of  his  fire-new  nobility. 
The  grandees  had  come  on  a  survey 
of  the  district,  and  although  we  did 
not  fail  to  press  the  matter  of  poor 

B 's  release,  yet  they  either  had 

no  authority  to  interfere  in  the  mat- 
ter, or  they  would  not  acknowledge 
that  they  had,  so  we  reluctantly  took 
leave  and  went  on  shipboard. 

"  Tom,  you  villain,"  said  Mr  Bang, 
as  we  stepped  into  the  boat,  "  if  my 
eye  had  caught  yours  when  these 
noblemen  made  their  entree,  I  should 
have  exploded  with  laughter,  and 
most  likely  have  had  my  throat  cut 
for  my  pains.  Pray,  did  his  High- 
ness of  Lemonade  carry  a  punch- 
ladle  in  his  hand  ?  I  am  sure  I  ex- 
pected he  of  Marmalade  to  have  car- 
ried a  jelly-can.  Oh,  Tom,  at  the 
moment  I  heard  them  announced, 
my  dear  old  mother  flitted  before  my 
mind's  eye,  with  the  bright,  well- 
scoured,  large  brass  pans  in  the  back- 
ground, as  she  superintended  her 
handmaidens  in  their  annual  preser- 
vations" After  the  fruitless  inter- 
view we  weighed,  and  sailed  for  Port- 
au-Prince,  where  we  arrived  the 
following  evening. 

I  had  heard  much  of  the  magni- 
ficence of  the  scenery  in  the  Bight 
of  Leogane,  but  the  reality  far  sur- 
passed what  I  had  pictured  to  my- 
self. 

The  breeze,  towards  noon  of  the 
following  day,  had  come  up  in  a 
gentle  air  from  the  westward,  and 
we  were  gliding  along  before  it  like 
a  spread  eagle,  with  all  our  light 
sails  abroad  to  catch  the  sweet  ze- 
phyr, which  was  not  even  strong 
enough  to  ruffle  the  silver  surface 
of  the  landlocked  sea,  that  glowed 
beneath  the  blazing  mid-day  sun, 
with  a  dolphin  here  and  there  clea- 
ving the  shining  surface  with  an  ar- 
rowy ripple,  and  a  brown-skinned 
shark  glaring  on  us,  far  down  in  the 
deep,  clear,  green  profound,  like  a 
water  fiend,  and  a  slow-sailing  peli- 


756 


Tom  Cringle's  Loy. 


[May, 


can  overhead,  after  a  long  sweep  on 
poised  wing,  dropping  into  the  sea 
like  lead,  and  flashing  up  the  water 
like  the  bursting  of  a  shell,  while 
we  sailed  up  into  a  glorious  amphi- 
theatre of  stupendous  mountains, 
that  rose  gradually  from  the  hot 
sandy  plains  that  skirted  the  shore, 
covered  with  one  eternal  forest ; 
while  what  had  once  been  smiling 
fields,  and  rich  sugar  plantations, 
in  the  long  misty  level  districts 
at  their  bases,  were  now  cover- 
ed with  brushwood,  fast  rising  up 
into  one  impervious  thicket ;  and  as 
the  Island  of  Gonave  closed  in  the 
view  behind  us  to  seaward,  the  sun 
sank  beyond  it,  amidst  rolling  masses 
of  golden  and  blood-red  clouds, 
giving  token  of  a  goodly  day  to-mor- 
row, and  gilding  the  outline  of  the 
rocky  islet  (as  if  to  a  certain  depth  it 
had  been  transparent)  with  a  golden 
halo,  gradually  deepening  into  impe- 
rial purple.  Beyond  the  shadow  of 
the  tree-covered  islet,  on  the  left 
hand,  rose  the  town  of  Port-au- 
Prince,  with  its  long  streets  rising 
like  terraces  on  the  gently  swell- 
ing shore,  while  the  mountains  be- 
hind it,  still  gold-tipped  in  the  decli- 
ning sunbeams,  seemed  to  impend 
frowningly  over  it,  and  the  shipping 
in  the  roadstead  at  anchor  off  the 
town  were  just  beginning  to  fade 
from  our  sight  in  the  gradually  in- 
creasing darkness,  and  a  solitary 
light  began  to  sparkle  in  a  cabin 
window  and  then  disappear,  and  to 
twinkle  for  a  moment  in  the  piazzas 
of  the  houses  on  shore  like  a  will-of- 
the-wisp,  and  the  chirping  buzz  of 
myriads  of  insects  and  reptiles  was 
coming  off  from  the  island  astern  of  us, 
borne  on  the  wings  of  the  light  wind, 
and  charged  with  rich  odours  from 
the  closing  flowers,  "  like  the  sweet 
south,  soft  breathing  o'er  a  bed  of 
violets,"  when  a  sudden  flash  and  a 
jet  of  white  smoke  puffed  out  from 
the  hill  fort  above  the  town,  the  re- 

Eort  thundering  amongst  the  ever- 
isting  hills,  and  gradually  rumbling 
itself  away  into  the  distantravines  and 
valleys,  like  a  lion  growling  itself  to 
sleep,  and  the  shades  of  night  fell  on 
the  dead  face  of  naturelike  a  pall,  and 
all  was  undistinguishable. — When  I 
had  written  thus  far— it  was  at  Port- 
au-Prince,  at  Mr  S — — *s — Mr  Bang 
entered — "  Ah !  Tom— at  the  log,  po- 
lishing— using  the  plane— shaping 


out  something  for  Ebony — let  me 
see.'* 

Here  our  friend  read  the  preced- 
ing paragraphs.  They  did  not  please 
him.  "  Don't  like  it,  Tom." 

"  No  ?  Pray,  why,  my  dear  sir  ?— 
I  have  tried  to" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  my  good  boy. 

rTt;M|f  <;-Q.V-  .)  -     '     ,    V'>:  i'jUi" 

'  Cease,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer, 

List  old  ladies  o'er  your  tea, 
At  description  Tom's  a  tailor, 

When  he  is  compared  to  me. 

Tooral  looral  loo.' 
-13U  ,  L-UB-,no<i  Jo  i! 

Attend — brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit,— 
ahem.  Listen  how  I  shall  crush  all 
your  lengthy  yarn  into  an  eggshell. 
'  The  Bight  of  Leogane  is  a  horse- 
shoe— Cape  St  Nicholas  is  the  caulk- 
er on  the  northern  heel— Cape  Ti- 
buroon,  the  ditto  on  the  left— Port- 
au-Prince  is  the  tip  at  the  toe  to- 
wards the  east — Gonaives,  Leogane, 
Petit  Trouve,  &c.  &c.  &c.  are  the 
nails,  and  the  Island  of  Gonave  is 
the  frog-'  Now  every  human  being 
who  knows  that  a  horse  has  four  legs 
and  a  tail — of  course  this  includes 
all  the  human  race,  excepting  tail- 
ors and  sailors — must  understand 
this  at  once;  it  is  palpable  and  plain, 
although  no  man  could  have  put  it 
so  perspicuously, excepting  myfriend 
William  Cobbett  or  myself.  By 
the  way,  speaking  of  horses,  that 
blood  thing  of  the  old  Baron's  nearly 
gave  you  your  quietus  t'other  day, 
Tom.  Why  will  you  always  pass 
the  flank  of  a  horse  in  place  of  going 
a-head  of  him,  to  use  your  own 
phrase.  Never  ride  near  a  led  horse 
on  passing  when  you  can  help  it; 
give  him  a  wide  berth,  or  clap  the 
groom's  corpus  between  you  and  his 
heels ;  and  never,  never  go  near  the 
croup  of  any  quadruped  bigger  than 
a  cat,  for  even  a  cow's  is  inconve- 
nient, when  you  can  by  any  possi- 
bility help  it." 

I  laughed — "  Well,  well,  my  dear 
sir — but  you  undervalue  my  eques- 
trian capability  somewhat  too,  for  I 
do  pretend  to  know  that  a  horse  has 
four  legs  and  a  tail."  There  was  no 
pleasing  Aaron  this  morning,  I  saw. 
"  Then  Tummas,  my  man,  you  know 
a  deuced  deal  more  than  I  do.  As 
for  the  tail,  conceditur — but  devilish 
few  horses  have/o?*r  legs  nowadays, 
take  my  word  for  it.  However,  here 

comes  N ;  I  am  off  to  have  a 

lounge  with  him,  and  I  will  finish 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle1  s  Log. 


the  veterinary  lecture  at  some  more 
convenient  season.  Tol  lol  de  rol." 
— Exit  singing. 

The  morning  after  this  I  went 
ashore  at  daylight,  and,  guided  by 
the  sound  of  military  music,  pro- 
ceeded to  the  Place  liepublicain,  or 
square  before  President  Petion's  pa- 
lace, where  I  found  eight  regiments 
of  foot  under  arms,  with  their  bands 
playing,  and  in  the  act  of  defiling  be- 
fore General  Boyer,  who  command- 
ed the  arrondissement.  This  was  the 
garrison  of  Port-au-Prince,  but  nei- 
ther the  personal  appearance  of  the 
troops,  nor  their  appointments,  were 
at  all  equal  to  those  of  King  Henry's 
well-dressedand  well-drilled  cohorts 
that  we  saw  at  Gonaives. 

The  President's  guards  were  cer- 
tainly fine  men,  and  a  squadron  of 
dismounted  cavalry,  in  splendid  blue 
uniforms,  with  scarlet^trowsers  rich- 
ly laced,  might  have  vied  with  the 
elite  of  Nap's  own,  barring  the  black 
faces.  But  the  materiel  of  the  other 
regiments  was  not  superfine,  as  M. 
Boyer,  before  whom  they  were  de- 
filing, might  have  said.  I  went  to 
breakfast  with  Mr  S.,  one  of  the  En- 
glish merchants  of  the  place,  a  kind 
and  most  hospitable  man ;  and  under 
his  guidance,  the  captain,  Mr  Bang, 
and  myself,  proceeded  afterwards  to 
call  on  Petion  himself.  Christophe, 
or  King  Henry,  had  just  retired  from 
the  siege  of  Port-au-Prince,  and  we 
found  the  town  in  a  very  miserable 
state.  Many  of  the  houses  were  in- 
jured from  shot;  the  President's  pa- 
lace for  instance  was  perforated  in 
several  places,  which  had  not  been 
repaired.  In  the  antechamber  you 
could  see  the  blue  heavens  through 
the  shot-holes  in  the  roof. — "  Next 
time  I  come  to  court,  Tom,"  said 
Mr  Bang, "  I  will  bring  an  umbrella." 
However,  let  me  tell  my  story  in  my 
own  way.  Turning  out  of  the  pa- 
rade, we  passed  through  a  rickety, 
unpainted  open  gate,  in  a  wall  about 
six  feet  high ;  the  space  beyond  was 
an  open  green  or  grass-plot,  parched 
and  burned  up  by  the  sun,  with  a 
common  fowl  here  and  there  flutter- 
ing and  hoicking  in  the  hole  she  had 
scratched  in  the  arid  soil ;  but  there 
was  neither  sentry  nor  servant  to  be 
seen,  nor  any  of  the  usual  pomp  and 
circumstance  about  a  great  man's 
dwelling.  Presently  we  were  in 
front  of  a  long,  low,  one-story  build- 


757 

ing,  with  a  flight  of  steps  leading  up 
into  an  entrance- hall,  furnished  with 
several  gaudy  sofas,  and  half  a  dozen 
chairs— with  A  plain  wooden  floor, 
on  which  a  slight  approach  to  the 
usual  West  India  polish  had  been  at- 
tempted, but  mightily  behind  the 
elegant  domiciles  of  my  Kingston 
friends  in  this  respect.  In  the  centre 
of  this  room  stood  three  young  offi- 
cers, fair  mulattoes,  with  their  plu- 
med cocked-hats  in  their  hands,  and 
dressed  very  handsomely  in  French 
uniforms;  and  it  always  struck  me 
as  curious,  that  men  who  hated  the 
very  name  of  Frenchman,  as  the 
devil  hates  holy  water,  should  copy 
all  the  customs  and  manners  of  the 
detested  people  so  closely.  It  struck 
me  also,  and  I  may  mention  it  here 
once  for  all,  that  Petion's  officers, who, 
generally  speaking,  were  all  men  of 
colour,  and  not  negroes,  were  as  much 
superior  in  education,  and  I  fear  I 
must  say  in  intellect,  as  they  cer- 
tainly were  in  personal  appearance, 
to  the  black  officers  of  King  Henry, 
as  his  soldiery  were  superior  to 
those  of  the  neighbouring  black  re- 
public. 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  S.,  comment  vous 
portez  vous  ?  Ja  suis  bien  aise  de  vous 
voir,"  said  one  of  the  young  officers ; 
"  how  are  you,  how  have  you  been  ?" 

"  Vous  devenez  tout- a-f ait  rare" 
quoth  a  second.  "  Le  President  will 
be  delighted  to  see  you.  Why,  he  says 
he  thought  you  must  have  been 
dead,  and  les  Messieurs  la" 

"  Who  ?— Introduce  us." 

It  was   done    in   due    form — the 

Honourable  Captain  N ,  Captain 

Cringle  of  his  Britannic  Majesty's 
schooner  Wave,  and  Aaron  Bang, 
Esquire.  And  presently  we  were 
all  as  thick  as  pickpockets. 

"  But  come,  the  President  will  be 
delighted  to  see  you."  We  followed 
the  officer  who  spoke,  as  he  marshal- 
led us  along,  and  in  an  inner  chamber, 
wherein  there  were  also  several  large 
holes  in  the  ceiling  through  which 
the  sun  shone,  we  found  President 
Petion,  the  black  Washington,  sitting 
on  a  very  old  ragged  sola,  amidst  a 
confused  mass  of  papers,  dressed  in 
a  blue  military  undress  frock,  white 
trowsers,  and  the  everlasting  Madras 
handkerchief  bound  roundhisbrows. 
He  was  much  darker  than  I  expected 
to  have  seen  him,  darker  than  one 
usually  Bees  a  mulatto,  or  the  direct 


Tom  Cringles  Log. 


758 

cross  between  the  negro  and  the 
white,  yet  his  features  were  in  no 
way  akin  to  those  of  an  African.  His 
nose  was  as  high,  sharp,  and  well  de- 
nned as  that  of  any  Hindoo  I  ever 
saw  in  the  Hoogly,  and  his  hair  was 
fine  and  silky,  lu  fact,  dark  as  he 
was,  he  was  at  least  three  removes 
from  the  African  ;  and  when  I  men- 
tion that  he  had  been  long  in  Eu- 
rope— he  was  even  for  a  short  space 
acting  adjutant-general  of  the  army 
of  Italy  with  Napoleon — his  general 
manner,  which  was  extremely  good, 
kind  and  affable,  was  not  matter  of 
so  much  surprise. 

He  rose  to  receive  us  with  much 
grace,  and  entered  into  conversation 
with  all  the  ease  and  polish  of  a  gen- 
tleman—  "  Je  me  porte  assez  bien 
aujourd'hui;  but  I  have  been  very  un- 
well, M.  S ,  so  tell  me  the  news." 

Early  as  it  was,  he  immediately  or- 
dered in  coffee ;  it  was  brought  by 
two  black  servants,  followed  by  a 
most  sylph-like  girl,  about  twelve 
years  of  age,  the  President's  natural 
daughter;  she  was  fairer  than  her 
father,  and  acquitted  herself  very 
gracefully.  She  was  rigged,  pin  for 
pin,  like  a  little  woman,  with  a  per- 
fect turret  of  artificial  flowers  twined 
amongst  the  braids  of  her  beautiful 
hair;  and  although  her  neck  was 
rather  overloaded  with  ornaments, 
and  her  poor  little  ears  were  stretch- 
ing under  the  weight  of  the  heavy 
gold  and  emerald  ear-rings,  while 
her  bracelets  were  like  manacles, 
yet  I  had  never  seen  a  more  lovely 
little  girl.  She  wore  a  little  frock  of 
green  Chinese  crape,  beneath  which 
appeared  the  prettiest  little  feet  in 
the  world. 

We  were  invited  to  attend  a  ball 
in  the  evening,  given  in  honour  of 
the  President's  birthday,  and  after 
a  sumptuous  dinner  at  our  friend 
Mr  S.'s,  we  all  adjourned  to  the  gay 
scene. 

There  was  a  company  of  grena- 
diers of  the  President's  guard,  with 
their  band,  on  duty  in  front  of  the 
palace,  as  a  guard  of  honour ;  they 
carried  arms  as  we  passed,  all  in 
good  style ;  and  at  the  door  we  met 
two  aide-de-camps  in  full  dress,  one 
of  whom  ushered  us  into  an  ante- 
room, where  a  crowd  of  brown,  with 
a  sprinkling  of  black  ladies,  and  a 
whole  host  of  brown  and  black  offi- 
cers, with  a  white  foreign  merchant 


[May, 


here  and  there,  were  drinking  coffee, 
and  taking  refreshments  of  one  kind 
or  another.  The  ladies  were  dressed 
in  the  very  height  of  the  newest  Pari- 
sian fashion  of  the  day — hats  and  fea- 
thers, and  jewellery,  real  or  fictitious, 
short  sleeves,  and  shorter  petticoats 
— fine  silks,  and  broad  blonde  trim- 
mings and  flounces,  and  low-cut  cor- 
sages. Some  of  them  even  venturing 
on  rouge,  which  gave  them  the  ap- 
pearance of  purple  dahlias;  but  as  to 
manner,  all  lady-like  and  proper  ; 
while  the  men,  most  of  them  mili* 
taires,  were  as  gay  as  gold  and  silver 
lace,  and  gay  uniforms,  and  dress- 
swords  could  make  them — and  all 
was  blaze,  and  sparkle,  and  jingle; 
but  the  black  officers,  in  general, 
covered  their  woolly  pates  with  Ma- 
dras handkerchiefs,  as  if  ashamed  to 
shew  them,  the  brown  officers  alone 
venturing  to  shew  their  own  hair. 
Presently  a  military  band  struck  up 
with  a  sudden  crash  in  the  inner- 
room,  and  the  large  folding  doors 
being  thrown  open,  the  ball-room 
lay  before  us,  in  the  centre  of  which 
stood  the  President,  surrounded  by 
his  very  splendid  staff,  with  his 
daughter  on  his  arm.  He  was  dress- 
ed in  a  plain  blue  uniform,  with 
gold  epaulets,  and  acquitted  himself 
with  all  the  ease  of  a  polished  gen- 
tleman, conversing  freely  on  Euro- 
pean politics,  and  giving  his  remarks 
with  great  shrewdness,  and  a  very 
peculiar  naivete.  As  for  his  daugh- 
ter, however  much  she  might  appear 
to  have  been  overdressed  in  the 
morning,  she  was  now  simple  in  her 
attire  as  a  little  shepherdess — a  plain 
white  muslin  frock,  white  sash, 
white  shoes,  white  gloves,  pearl  ear- 
rings and  necklace,  and  a  simple, 
but  most  beautiful,  Camilla  japo- 
nica  in  her  hair.  Dancing  now  com- 
menced, and  all  that  I  shall  say  is, 
that  before  I  had  been  an  hour  in  the 
room,  I  had  forgotten  whether  the 
faces  around  me  were  black,  brown, 
or  white;  every  thing  was  conducted 
with  such  decorum.  However,  I 
could  see  that  the  fine  jet  was  not 
altogether  the  approved  style  of 
beauty,  and  that  many  a  very  hand- 
some woolly-headed  belle  was  des- 
tined to  ornament  the  walls,  until  a 
few  of  the  young  white  merchants 
made  a  dash  amongst  them,  more  for 
the  fun  of  the  thing,  as  it  struck  me, 
than  any  thing  else,  which  piqued 


1833.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


some  of  the  brown  officers,  and  for 
;he  rest  of  the  evening  Hackee  had 
It  hollow.  And  there  was  friend 
Aaron  waltzing  with  a  very  splendid 
woman,  elegantly  dressed,  but  black 
is  a  coal,  with  long  kid  gloves,  be- 
tween which  and  the  sleeve  of  her 
jown,  a  space  of  two  inches  of  the 
Dlack  skin,  like  an  ebony  armlet,  was 
visible ;  while  her  white  dress,  and 
rich  white  satin  hat,  and  a  lofty 
plume  of  feathers,  with  a  pearl  neck- 
ace  and  diamond  ear-rings,  set  off 
her  loveliness  most  conspicuously. 
At  every  wheel  round  Mr  Bang 
slewed  his  head  a  little  on  one  side, 
and  peeped  in  at  one  of  her  bright 
3yes,  and  then  tossing  his  cranium 
on  t'other  side,  took  a  squint  in  at 
•lie  other,  and  then  cast  his  eyes  to- 
wards the  roof,  and  muttered  with 
lis  lips  as  if  he  had  been  shot  all  of  a 
•leap  by  the  blind  boy's  but-shaft; 
but  every  now  and  then  as  we  pass- 
ed, the  rogue  would  stick  his  tongue 
:  n  his  cheek,  yet  so  slightly  as  to  be 
perceptible  to  no  one  but  myself. 
\fter  this  heat,  Massa  Aaron  and 
:nyself  were  perambulating  the  ball- 
room, quite  satisfied  with  our  own 
)rowess,  and  I  was  churming  to  my- 
self, "  Voulez  vous  dansez,  Made- 
moiselle" —  "  De  tout  mon  cceur," 
naid  a  buxom  brown  dame,  about 
oighteen  stone  by  the  coffee-mill  in 
I3t  James's  Street.  That  devil 
Aaron  gave  me  a  look  that  I  swore  I 
^vould  pay  him  for,  the  villain;  as 
•he  extensive  Mademoseille,  suiting 
•  he  action  to  the  word,  started  up, 
and  hooked  on,  and  as  a  cotilion  had 
been  called,  there  I  was,  figuring 
away  most  emphatically,  to  Bang  and 

!tf 's    great    entertainment.     At 

length  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  and 
si  waltz  was  once  more  called,  and 
having  done  my  duty,  I  thought  I 
: night  slip  out  between  the  acts;  so 
I  offered  to  hand  my  solid  armful  to 
1  icr  seat — "  Certainement  vouzpouvez 
Hen  restez  encore  un  moment"     The 
devil  confound  you  and  Aaron  Bang, 
bought  I — but  waltz  I  must,  and 
away  we   whirled  until   the  room 
>pun  round  faster  than  we  did,  and 
vhen  I  was  at  length  emancipated, 
ny  dark  fair  and  fat  one  whisper- 
id,  in  a  regular  die-away,  "  J'espere 
ions  revoir  bientuf."     All  this  while 
here  was    a  heavy  firing  of  cham- 
pagne and  other  corks,  and  the  fun 
,  jrew  so  fast  and  furious,  that  I  re- 


759 

membered  very  little  more  of  the 
matter,  until  the  morning  breeze 
whistled  thiough  my  muslin  cur- 
tains, or  musquito  net,  about  noon  on 
the  following  day. 

I  arose,  and  found  mine  host  set- 
ting out  to  bathe  at  Madame  Le  Clerc's 
bath,  at  Marquesan.  I  rode  with 
him ;  and  after  a  cool  dip  we  break- 
fasted with  President  Petion,  at  his 
country-house  there,  and  met  with 
great  kindness.  About  the  house 
itself  there  was  nothing  particularly 
to  distinguish  it  from  many  others 
in  the  neighbourhood ;  but  the  little 
statues,  and  fragments  of  marble 
steps,  and  detached  portions  of  old- 
fashioned  wrought-iron  railing,  which 
had  been  grouped  together,  so  as  to 
form  an  ornamental  terrace  below  it, 
facing  the  sea,  shewed  that  it  had 
been  a  compilation  from  the  ruins  of 
the  houses  of  the  rich  French  plant- 
ers which  were  now  blackening  in 
the  sun  on  the  plain  of  Leogane. 
A  couple  of  Buenos  Ayrean  priva- 
teers were  riding  at  anchor  in  the 
Bight  just  below  the  windows,  man- 
ned, as  I  afterwards  found,  by  Ame- 
ricans. The  President,  in  his  quiet 
way,  after  contemplating  them 
through  his  glass,  said,  "  Ces  pavil- 
ions sont  bien  neuf" 

The  next  morning,  as  we  were  pull- 
ing in  my  gig,  no  less  a  man  than 
Massa  Aaron  steering,  on  board  the 
Arethusa,  one  of  the  merchantmen 
lying  at  anchor  off  the  town,  we  were 
nearly  run  down  by  getting  athwart 
the  bows  of  an  American  schooner 
standing  in  for  the  port.  As  it  was,  her 
cut-water  gave  us  so  smart  a  crack 
that  I  thought  we  were  done  for ;  but 
our  Palinurus,  finding  he  could  not 
clear  her,  with  his  inherent  self-pos- 
session put  his  helm  to  port,  and 
kept  away  on  the  same  course  as  the 
schooner,  so  that  we  got  off  with  the 
loss  of  our  two  larboard  oars,  which 
were  snapped  off  like  parsnips,  and  a 
good  heavy  bump  that  nearly  drove 
us  into  staves. 

"  Never  mind,  my  dear  sir,  never 
mind,"  said  I ;  "  but  hereafter  listen 
to  the  old  song— 
'Steer  clear  of  the  stem  of  a  sailing 

ship.'  " 

Massa  Aaron  was  down  on  me  like 
lightning — 
"  Or  the  stern  of  a  kicking  horse,  Tom." 

While  I  continued— 


Tom  Ctinyh's  Log. 


7CO 

"  <  Or  you  a  \vet  jacket  mav  catch,  and  a 

dip.'  " 

He  again  cleverly  clipped  the  word 
out  of  my  mouth, — 
"  Or    a   kick   on    the   croup,   which  is 
worse,  Tom." 

"  Why,  my  dear  sir,  you  are  an 
improvisator e  of  the  first  quality." 

We  rowed  ashore,  and  nothing 
particular  happened  that  day,  until 
we  sat  down  to  dinner  at  Mr  S.'s. 

We  had  a  very  agreeable  party. 

Captain  N and  Mr  Bang  were,  as 

usual,  the  very  life  of  the  party;  and  it 
was  verging  towards  eight  o'clock  in 
the  evening,  when  an  English  sailor, 
apparently  belonging  to  the  merchant 
service,  came  into  the  piazza,  and 
planted  himself  opposite  to  the  win- 
dow where  I  sat. 

He  made  various  nautical  salaams, 
until  he  had  attracted  my  attention. 
"  Excuse  me,"  I  said  to  Mr  S.,  "there 
is  some  one  in  the  piazza  wanting 
me."  I  rose. 

"  Are  you  Captain  N ?"  said 

the  man. 

"  No,  I  am  not.  There  is  the  Cap- 
tain ;  do  you  want  him  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

I  called  my  superior  officer  into 
the  narrow  dark  piazza. 

"   Well,  my   man,"   said   N , 

"  what  want  you  with  me  ?" 

"  I  am  sent,  sir,  to  you  from  the 
Captain  of  the  Haytian  ship,  the 

E ,  to  request  a  visit  from  you, 

and  to  ask  for  a  prayer-book." 

"  A  what  ?"  said  N . 

"  A  prayer-book,  sir.  I  suppose 
you  know  that  he  and  the  Captain  of 

that  other  Haytian  ship,  the  P , 

are  condemned  to  be  shot  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  all  this,"  said 
N .  «  Do  you,  Cringle?" 

«  No,  sir,"  said  I. 


[M«y, 


of  base  Birmingham  coin  into  the  Re- 
public ;  which  fact  having  been 
proved  on  their  trial,  they  had  been 
convicted  of  treason  against  the 
state,  condemned,  and  were  now 
under  sentence  of  death  ;  and  the 
government  being  purely  military, 
they  were  to  be  shot  to-morrow 
morning.  A  boat  was  immediately 
sent  on  board,  and  the  messenger 
returned  with  a  prayer-book  ;  and 
we  prepared  to  visit  the  miserable 
men. 

Mr  Bang  insisted  on  joining  us, 
ever  first  where  misery  was  to  be  re- 
lieved; and  we  proceeded  towards 
the  prison.  Following  the  sailor, 
who  was  the  mate  of  one  of  the  ships, 
presently  we  arrived  before  the  door 
of  the  place  where  the  unfortunate 
men  were  confined.  We  were  speed- 
ily admitted ;  but  the  house  where 
they  were  confined  had  none  of  the 
common  appurtenances  of  a  prison. 
There  were  neither  long  galleries, 
nor  strong  iron-bound  and  clamped 
doors,  to  pass,  through ;  nor  jailors 
with  rusty  keys  jingling;  nor  fetters 
clanking ;  for  we  had  not  made  two 
steps  past  the  black  grenadiers  who 
guarded  the  door,  when  a  serjeant 
shewed  us  into  a  long  ill-lighted 
room,  about  thirty  feet  by  twelve — 
in  truth,  it  was  more  like  a  gallery 
than  a  room — with  the  windows  into 
the  street  open,  and  no  precautions 
taken,  apparently  at  least,  to  prevent 
the  escape  of  the  condemned.  In 
truth,  if  they  had  broken  forth,  I 
imagine  the  kind-hearted  President 
would  not  have  made  any  very  seri- 
ous enquiry  as  to  the  how. 

There  was  a  small  rickety  old  card- 
table',  covered  with  tattered  green 
cloth,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  which  was  composed  of  dirty 


-  11  u,  on,    tsam  i.  unpolished  pitch  pine  planks,  and  on 

"  Then  letusadjourn  to  the  dining-    this  table  glimmered  two  brown  wax 
room  again ;  or,  stop,  ask  Mr  S.  and 
Mr  Bang  to  step  here  for  a  moment." 

They  appeared ;  and  when  N 

explained  the  aftair,  so  far  as  consist- 
ed with  his  knowledge,  Mr  S.  told 
us,  that  the  two  unfortunates  in  ques- 
tion were,  one  of  them,  a  Guernsey 
man,  and  the  other  a  man  of  colour, 
a  native  of  St  Vincent's,  whom  the 
President  had  promoted  to  the  com- 
mand of  t\vo  Haytian  ships  that  had 
been  employed  in  carrying  coffee  to 
England ;  but  on  their  last  return  voy- 
age, they  had  introduced  a  quantity 


candles,  in  old-fashioned  brass  can- 
dlesticks. Between  us  and  the  table, 
forming  a  sort  of  line  across  the  floor, 
stood  four  black  soldiers,  with  their 
muskets  at  their  shoulders,  while 
beyond  them  sat,  in  old-fashioned 
arm-chairs,  three  figures,  whose  ap- 
pearance I  never  can  forget.  no")  \ 
The  man  fronting  us  roee  on  our 
entrance.  He  was  an  uncommon 
handsome  elderly  personage ;  his 
age  I  should  guess  to  have  been 
about  fifty.  He  was  dressed  in  white 
trowsers  and  shirt,  and  wore  no  coat ; 


1833.] 


Tom  Crinyltfs  Log. 


761 


lis  head  was  very  bald,  but  he  had 
large  and  very  dark  whiskers  and 
eyebrows,  above  which  towered  a 
most  splendid  forehead,  white,  mas- 
sive, and  spreading.  His  eyes  were 
deep-set  and  sparkling,  but  he  was 
pale,  very  pale,  and  his  fine  features 
were  sharp  and  pinched.  He  sat 
vith  his  hands  clasped  together,  and 
resting  on  the  table,  his  fingers 
twitching  to  and  fro  convulsively, 
while  his  under  jaw  had  dropped  a 
little,  and  from  the  constant  motion 
of  his  head,  and  the  heaving  of  his 
chest,  it  was  clear  that  he  was  breath- 
ing quick  and  painfully. 

The  man  on  his  right  hand  was 
a' together  a  more  vulgar-looking 
personage.  He  was  a  man  of  colour, 
his  caste  being  indicated  by  his  short 
curly  black  hair,  while  his  African 
descent  was  vouched  for  by  his  ob- 
tuse features,  but  he  was  composed 
and  steady  in  his  bearing.  He  was 
dressed  in  white  trowsers  and  waist- 
coat, and  a  blue  surtout ;  and  on  our 
entrance  he  also  rose,  and  remained 
standing.  But  the  figure  on  the  elder 
prisoner's  left  hand,  riveted  my  at- 
tention more  than  either  of  the  other 
two.  She  was  a  respectable-looking, 
little,  thin  woman,  but  dressed  with 
great  neatness,  in  a  plain  black  silk 
gown.  Her  sharp  features  were  high 
and  well  formed ;  her  eyes  and  mouth 
were  not  particularly  noticeable,  but 
hur  hair  was  most  beautiful— her 
long  shining  auburn  hair— although 
she  must  have  been  forty  at  the 
youngest,  and  her  skin  was  like  the 
driven  snow.  When  we  entered,  she 
was  seated  on  the  left  hand  of  the 
eldest  prisoner,  and  was  lying  back 
011  her  chair,  with  her  arms  crossed 
on  her  bosom,  her  eyes  wide  open,  and 
staring  upwards  towards  the  roof, 
with  the  tears  coursing  each  other 
down  over  her  cheeks,  while  her 
lower  jaw  had  fallen  down,  as  if  she 
hr.d  been  dead — her  breathing  was 
scarcely  perceptible — her  bosom 
remaining  still  as  a  frozen  sea,  for 
the  space  of  a  minute,  when  she 
would  draw  a  long  breath,  with  a  low 
moaning  noise,  and  then  succeeded 
a  convulsive  crowing  gasp,  like  a 
child  in  the  hooping  cough,  and  all 
would  be  still  again. 

At  length  Captain  N address- 
ed the  elder  prisoner.  "  You  have 
sent  for  us  Mr  *  *  *  ;  what  can 


we  do  for  you— in  accordance  with 
our  duty  as  English  officers?" 

The  poor  man  looked  at  us  with 
a  vacant  stare — but  his  fellow-suf- 
ferer instantly  spoke.  "  Gentlemen, 
this  is  kind — very  kind.  I  sent  my 
mate  to  borrow  a  prayer-book  from 
you,  for  our  consolation  now  must 
flow  from  above — man  cannot  com- 
fort us."  The  female — who  was  the 
elder  prisoner's  wife,  suddenly  leant 
forward  in  her  chair,  and  peered  in- 
stantly into  Mr  Bang's  face — "  Pray- 
er-book," said  she—"  prayer-book 
— why,  I  have  a  prayer-book — I  will 
go  for  my  prayer-book" — and  she 
rose  quickly  from  her  seat.  "  Hestez" 
— quoth  the  black  sergeant — the 
word  recalled  her  senses— she  laid 
her  head  on  her  hands,  on  the  table, 
and  sobbed  out,  as  if  her  heart  was 
bursting—"  Ob,  God !  oh,  God !  is 
it  come  to  this— is  it  come  to  this  ?" 
the  frail  table  trembling  beneath  her, 
with  her  heart-crushing  emotion. 
His  wife's  misery  now  seemed  to 
recall  the  elder  prisoner  to  himself. 
He  made  a  strong  effort,  and  in  a 
great  degree  recovered  his  com- 
posure. 

"  Captain  N ,"  said  he—"  I  be- 
lieve you  know  our  story.  That  we 
have  been  justly  condemned  I  admit, 
but  it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  die,  Cap- 
tain, in  a  strange  country,  and  by  the 
hands  of  these  barbarians,  and  to 

leave  my  own  dear ."    Here  his 

voice  altogether  failed  him — present- 
ly he  resumed.  "  The  Government 
have  sealed  up  my  papers  and  pack- 
ages, and  I  have  neither  Bible  nor 
prayer-book — will  you  spare  us  the 
use  of  one,  or  both,  for  this  night, 
sir?"  The  captain  said,  he  had 
brought  a  prayer-book,  and  did  all 
he  could  to  comfort  the  poor  fellows. 
But  alas,  their  grief  "  knew  not  con- 
solation's name." 

Captain  N •  read  prayers,  which 

were  listened  to  by  both  of  the  mi- 
serable men  with  the  greatest  devo- 
tion, while  all  the  while,  the  poor 
woman  never  moved  a  muscle,  every 
faculty  appearing  to  be  frozen  up  by 
grief  and  misery.  At  length,  the  elder 
prisoner  again  spoke.  "  I  know  I 
have  no  claim  on  you,  gentlemen ; 
but  I  am  an  Englishman — at  least,  I 
hope,  I  may  call  myself  an  English- 
man, and  my  wife  there  is  an  Eng- 
lish woman — when  I  am  gone— oh, 


Tom  Cringle's  Log. 


762 

gentlemen,  what  is  to  become  of 
her? — If  I  were  but  sure  that  she 
would  be  cared  for,  and  enabled  to 
return  to  her  friends,  the  bitterness 
of  death  would  be  past."  Here  the 
poor  woman  threw  herself  round  her 
husband's  neck,  and  gave  a  shrill 
sharp  cry,  and  relaxing  her  hold, 
fell  down  across  his  knees,  with  her 
head  hanging  back,  and  her  face 
towards  the  roof,  in  a  dead  faint. 
For  a  minute  or  two,  the  poor  man's 
sole  concern  seemed  to  be  the  con- 
dition of  his  wife.  "  I  will  undertake 
that  your  wife  shall  be  sent  safe  to 
England,  my  good  man" — said  Mr 
Bang.  The  felon  looked  at  him — 
drew  one  hand  across  his  eyes,  which 
were  misty  with  tears,  held  down  his 
head,  and  again  looked  up — at  length 
he  found  his  tongue.  "  That  God 
who  rewardeth  good  deeds  here,  that 
God  whom  I  have  offended,  before 
whom  I  must  answer  for  my  sins  by 
daybreak  to-morrow,  will  reward 
you — I  can  only  thank  you."  He 
seized  Mr  Bang's  hand,  and  kissed 
it.  With  heavy  hearts  we  left  the 
miserable  group,  and  I  may  mention 
here,  that  Mr  Bang  was  as  good  as 
his  word,  and  paid  the  poor  woman's 
passage  home,  and  so  far  as  I  know, 
she  is  now  restored  to  her  family. 

We  slept  that  night  at  Mr  S 's, 

and  as  the  morning  da  \vned  we  mount- 
ed our  horses,  which  our  worthy 
host  had  kindly  desired  to  be  ready, 
in  order  to  enable  us  to  take  our  ex- 
ercise in  the  cool  of  the  morning. 
As  we  rode  past  the  Place  d'Armes, 
or  open  space  in  front  of  the  Presi- 
dent's palace,  we  heard  sounds  of 
military  music,  and  asked  the  first 
chance  passenger  what  was  going  on. 
"  Execution  militaire>  or  rather," 
said  the  man,  "  the  two  sea  captains, 
who  introduced  the  base  money,  are 
to  be  shot  this  morning — there  against 
the  rampart."  Of  the  fact  we  were 
aware,  but  we  did  not  dream  that 
we  had  ridden  so  near  the  where- 
abouts. "Ay,  indeed" — said  Mr 
Bang.  He  looked  towards  the  Cap- 
tain. "  My  dear  N ,  I  have  no 

wish  to  witness  so  horrible  a  sight, 
but  still — what  say  you — shall  we 
pull  up,  or  ride  on  ?"  The  truth  was 

that  Captain  N and  myself  were 

both  of  us  desirous  of  seeing  the  ex- 
ecution— from  what  impelling  mo- 
tive, let  learned  blockheads,  who 
have  never  gloated  over  a  hanging, 


[May, 


determine;  and  quickly  it  was  deter- 
mined that  we  should  wait  and  wit- 
ness it. 

First  advanced  a  whole  regiment 
of  the  President's  guards,  then  a 
battalion  of  infantry  of  the  line,  close 
to  which  followed  a  whole  bevy  of 
priests  clad  in  white,  which  contrast- 
ed conspicuously  with  their  brown 
and  black  faces.  After  them,  march- 
ed two  firing  parties  of  twelve  men 
each,  drafted  indiscriminately,  as  it 
would  appear,  from  the  whole  gar- 
rison; for  the  grenadier  cap  was 
there  intermingled  with  the  glazed 
shako  of  the  battalion  company,  and 
the  light  morion  of  the  dismounted 
dragoon.  Then  came  the  prisoners. 
The  elder  culprit,  respectably  cloth- 
ed in  white  shirt,  waistcoat,  and 
trowsers,  and  blue  coat,  with  an  In- 
dian silk  yellow  handkerchief  bound 
round  his  head.  His  lips  were  com- 
pressed together  with  an  unnatural 
firmness,  and  his  features  were 
sharpened  like  those  of  a  corpse. 
His  complexion  was  ashy  blue.  His 
eyes  were  half  shut,  but  every  now 
and  then  he  opened  them  wide,  and 
gave  a  startling  rapid  glance  about 
him,  and  occasionally  he  staggered 
a  little  in  his  gait.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  place  of  execution, 
his  eyelids  fell,  his  under-jaw 
dropped,  his  arms  hung  dangling  by 
his  side  like  empty  sleeves ;  still  he 
walked  steadily  on,  mechanically 
keeping  time,  like  an  automaton,  to 
the  measured  tread  of  the  soldiery. 
His  fellow-sufferer  followed  him. 
His  eye  was  bright,  his  complexion 
healthy,  his  step  firm,  and  he  imme- 
diately recognised  us  in  the  throng, 

made  a  bow  to  Captain  N ,  and 

held  out  his  hand  to  Mr  Bang,  who 
was  nearest  to  him,  and  shook  it  cor- 
dially. The  procession  moved  on. 
The  troops  formed  into  three  sides 
of  a  square,  the  remaining  one  be- 
ing the  earthen  mound,  that  consti- 
tuted the  rampart  of  the  place.  A 
halt  was  called.  The  two  firing 
parties  advanced  to  the  sound  of 
muffled  drums,  and  having  arrived 
at  the  crest  of  the  glacisy  right  over 
the  counterscarp,  they  halted  on 
what,  in  a  more  regular  fortification, 
would  have  been  termed  the  covered 
way.  The  prisoners,  perfectly  un- 
fettered, advanced  between  them, 
stepped  down  with  a  firm  step  into 
the  ditch,  led  each  by  a  grenadier. 


1333.] 


Tom  Cringle's  Log, 


1 1  the  centre  of  the  ditch  they  turn- 
ed and  kneeled,  neither  of  their  eyes 
being  bound.  A  priest  advanced, 
and  seemed  to  pray  with  the  brown 
man  fervently;  another  offered  spi- 
r  tual  consolation  to  the  English- 
man, who  seemed  now  to  have  ral- 
lied his  torpid  faculties,  but  he 
waved  him  away  impatiently,  and 
taking  a  book  from  his  bosom, 
seemed  to  repeat  a  prayer  from 
it  with  great  fervour.  At  this  very 
instant  of  time,  Mr  Bang  caught 
his  eye.  He  dropped  the  book 
on  the  ground,  placed  one  hand 
on  his  heart,  while  he  pointed  up- 
VAards  towards  heaven  with  the 
o:her,  calling  out  in  a  loud  clear 
V3ice,  "  Remember  !"  Aaron  bow- 
e  I.  A  mounted  officer  now  rode 
quickly  up  to  the  brink  of  the  ditch, 
and  called  out  "  Depechez" 

The  priests  left  the  miserable  men, 
and  all  was  still  as  death  for  a  mi- 
n  ite.  A  low  solitary  tap  of  the 
d  -urn — the  firing  parties  came  to  the 
rt  cover,  and  presently  taking  the  time 
from  the  sword  of  the  staff-officer 
who  had  spoken,  came  down  to  the 
present,  and  fired  a  rattling,  strag- 
gling volley.  The  brown  man  sprang 
up  into  the  air  three  or  four  feet, 
and  fell  dead;  he  had  been  shot 


763 

through  the  heart ;  but  the  white  man 
was  only  wounded,  and  had  fallen, 
writhing,  and  struggling,  and  shriek- 
ing, to  the  ground7  I  heard  him  dis- 
tinctly call  out,  as  the  reserve  of  six 
men  stepped  into  the  ditch,  "  Dans 
la  tetey  dans  la  tete."  One  of  the 
grenadiers  advanced,  and,  putting  his 
musket  close  to  his  face,  fired.  The 
ball  splashed  into  his  skull,  through 
his  left  eye,  setting  fire  to  his  hair 
and  his  clothes,  and  the  handker- 
chief bound  round  bis  head,  and 
making  the  brains  and  blood  flash 
up  all  over  his  face  and  the  person 
of  the  soldier  who  had  given  him 
the  coup  de  grace. 

A  strong  murmuring  noise,  like 
the  rushing  of  many  waters,  growled 
amongst  the  ranks  and  the  surround- 
ing spectators,  while  a  short  sharp 
exclamation  of  horror  every  now 
and  then  gushed  out  shrill  and  clear, 
and  fearfully  distinct  above  the  ap- 
palling monotony. 

The  miserable  man  instantly 
stretched  out  his  legs  and  arms 
straight  and  rigidly,  a  strong  shiver 
pervaded  his  whole  frame,  his  jaw 
fell,  his  muscles  relaxed,  and  he  and 
his  brother  in  calamity  became  por- 
tion of  the  bloody  clay  on  which 
they  were  stretched. 


TJIE  CHIEF  J  OR,  THE  GAEL  AND  THE  SASSENACH,  IN  THE  REIGN  OF  GEORGE  IV. 

A  CARICATURE. 

CHAPTER  V. 


WHEN  the  M'Goul  reached  the  pier 
of  Leith,  it  was  in  the  grey  of  a  misty 
d?  wn,  or,  as  it  would  have  been  call- 
er in  England,  a  showery  morning. 
Steam  vessels  had  then  been  of  re- 
cent invention,  and  the  one  in  which 
ht ,  with  his  tail,  proposed  to  embark, 
who  to  sail  that  day.  The  boiler  was, 
in  consequence,  awake,  and  hissing 
fr  )m  the  mast-head ;  but,  as  the  Chief 
said,  "  there  was  not  another  mo- 
th 3r's  son  mudging  in  the  vesshell." 
This  obliged  him,  with  Pharick  the 
puer,  and  Donald  the  man,  to  walk 
th -i  decks,  exposed  to  all  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  the  weather,  till  it  pleased 
one  of  the  men,  after  they  were 


drenched  to  the  skin,  to  look  up  from 
a  hatchway  and  enquire  what  they 
wanted. 

"  Is  this  al  your  shivility  ?"  cried 
the  angry  chief.  "  Don't  you  feel 
what  we  want,  umph  ?  We  want  a 
dry." 

"  A  dry,"  said  the  sailor,  either 
pawkily,  or  in  simplicity,  "  there  is 
not  such  a  thing  here." 

"  Good  Cot !"  cried  the  Chief,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  Donald,  "  isn't 
that  moving,  umph  ?" 

However  the  mariner,  or  engineer, 
or  whatever  he  was,  by  this  time  had 
ascended  on  deck,  and  opened  the 
cabin  companion,  telling  his  preter- 


The  Chief;  ort  The  Gad  and  the  Sassenach.     Chap.  V.    \  [May, 


764 

natural  visitors  that  they  might  go 
below,  to  shelter  themselves  from  the 
rain. 

"  Ay,  and  we  will  too,"  cried  the 
indignant  Chief;  and,  followed  by  bis 
attendants,  he  descended  the  compa- 
nion stairs  into  the  cabin. 

At  first  he  paused,  evidently  sur- 
prised at  the  magnificence  of  the 
room,and  turning  round,he  enquired 
if  this  was  the  ship  which  King 
Shorge  came  in,  and  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  he  stept  forward  and 
sat  down  on  a  sofa ;  and  taking  off 
his  plaid,  said,  "  We  are  al  a  trip- 
ping roast." 

"  Aye,  we  are  tripping,"  replied 
Donald,  coolly. 

Having  disposed  of  his  bonnet  and 
plaid,  our  hero  laid  aside  his  sword, 
and  took  off  his  brogues,  looking  at 
his  feet,  which  were  not'  yet  rid  of 
the  "  mires ;"  but  he  said  nothing, 
except  "  umph,"  adding,  after  a 
pause, 

"A  wee  writer — umph — the  M'Goul 
knew  better  than  to  let  such  a  neat 
sit  by  him,  umph." 

As  none  of  the  party  had  enjoyed 
any  repose  since  they  left  the  inn  at 
Luss,  at  break  of  day  the  preceding 
morning,  they  soon  began  to  feel 
drowsy.  Pharick  the  ^piper,  not- 
withstanding his  damp  garments,  sat 
down  in  a  chair,  stretching  out  his 
legs  and  arms,  courted  not  in  vain  the 
embraces  of  Morpheus.  Donald  the 
man,  an  old  soldier,  was  a  little  more 
select.  In  seeking  for  a  couch,  he  saw 
in  a  corner  a  sail  loosely  turned  up, 
and  fixed  on  it ;  but  he  had  been  too 
cursory  in  his  inspection,  for, not  very 
accurately  observing,  he  threw  him- 
self down  like  a  fatigued  dog,  and  in 
the  very  instant  a  cat  and  five  kit/- 
tens fixed  their  teeth  and  claws  in 
his  kilted  thigh,  which  made  him  in- 
stantly start,  with  the  whole  fami- 
ly and  the  exasperated  mother  dang- 
ling at  his  philabeg.  Even  the  Chief 
deigned  to  smile,  and  said,  with  a  pun 
that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  wit 
of  the  Trongate,  "  Hech,  Donald,  but 
ye  have  soon  met  with  a  catestroffy !" 

Donald,  however,  had  learned, 
among  other  tricks  of  the  service, 
many  expedients.  He  shook  off  the 
feline  malcontents, andusurped  their 
dormitory. 

The  M'Goul  himself,  who  felt  it 
below  his  dignity  to  appear  in  need  of 


repose,  did  not  immediately  change 
his  position.  But,  by  and  by,  he 
caught  the  infection  of  their  snores, 
and  began  to  yawn  for  a  place  of 
rest ;  but  he  looked  around  for  a  bed 
in  vain.  At  last  he  observed  one  of 
the  tables  very  alluringly  spread,  and 
on  it  a  bundle  that  would  make  an 
excellent  pillow.  Accordingly,  he 
mounted  upon  it,  and  laid  himself 
out  for  sleep,  somewhat  in  the  style 
of  St  Andrew  on  the  cross,  but  his 
front  downwards. 

How  long  the  party  had  thus  en- 
joyed a  temporary  oblivion  from  all 
their  sufferings,  we  do  not  exactly 
know;  but  while  thus  asleep,  two 
students  of  medicine,  who  intended 
to  walk  the  hospitals  in  London  du- 
ring the  winter,  came  on  board  to 
select  berths,  and  on  going  into  the 
cabin,  they  saw  the  Celtic  party. 
Donald  was  so  cuddled  up  that  they 
did  not  disturb  him  ;  and  Pharick, 
the  piper,  happened  to  be  in  a  Chris- 
tianposition, for  which  he  was  spared. 
The  M'Goul  opened  his  eyes,  and 
giving  a  great  snore,  went  to  sleep 
again,  as  they  entered.  This  was 
more  than  the  two  young  doctors 
could  withstand. 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  one  to  the 
other,  "  or  dying.  Let  us  Rurke 
him." 

They  did  not  confine  themselves 
to  jeers,  but  encouraged  by  his  un- 
protected position,  they  attempted 
some  practical  jokes,  which  instan- 
taneously awoke  the  chief,  and  he 
pursued  them  in  such  a  whirlwind  of 
passion,  that  they  were  glad  to  escape, 
and  thereby  baulked  the  James  Watt 
that  voyage  of  two  passengers. 

Soon  after,  the  other  passengers 
came  on  board ;  and  our  Celtic  friend 
was  appeased  by  the  bustle  and  hi- 
larity with  which  the  vessel  got  un- 
der weigh.  By  the  time  he  had 
partaken  of  some  repast,  and  as  they 
were  paddling  merrily  down  the 
Frith,  Donald  had  conducted  Pharick 
to  the  servants'  cabin,  taking  care  to 
let  it  be  well  known  in  the  ship  that 
their  master  was  no  other  than  the 
M'Goul  of  Inverstrone,  in  the  West- 
ern Highlands. 

This  news  soon  spread  among  the 
inmates  of  the  vessel,  and  young 
and  old,  with  all  degrees  of  Edin- 
burgh lawyers,  and  men  who  had 
been  shooting  in  the  Highlands,  rp- 


The  Chief;  or,  The  Gael  and  the  Sassenach.     Chap.  V.  765 

Cot,  stop  her,  or  my  entrails  will  pe 
in  Abraham's  bosom!" 

"  How  can  I  stop  her,"  cried  Do- 
nald, with  something  like  a  sardonic 
grin,  "  when  a  man  with  a  big  stick 

ia  kit.t.lmcr  hpr  nn  liphinH  •>" 


ga;ded  with  awe  and  apprehension 
thu  redoubtable  Chief,  as  he  doft  his 
bonnet  on  the  one  side,  and  flourish- 
ed his  cane  majestically  as  he  walked 
tlio  deck.  But  notwithstanding  all 
hit-  bravery,  the  sad  sea  influences 
were  at  work  within  him;  and,  in 
the  very  act  of  shouting  for  his  man 
Dcnald,  instead  of  words,  all  the 
scraps  and  crumbs  of  which  he  had 
so  lately  partaken  were  poured  forth. 
He  was  suddenly  smitten  with  a  sore 
seasickness,  insomuch  that  he  rather 
fel  I  than  sat  on  one  of  the  benches  cry- 
in^— "  Good  Cot!  Och  hon  !  I'll  die  ! 
I'll  fever  and  die  immediately  I" 

Wh ether  Donald  and  Pharick  were 
in  the  same  condition  we  have  not 
he;ird  ;  but  the  wind  began  to  blow, 
ami  the  Chief  began  to  spout  as  the 
vessel  stood  more  and  more  to  sea. 
At  last,  Donald,  pale  and  woebegone, 
came  to  his  assistance,  and  enquired 
if  he  could  in  any  way  serve  him. 

"  By  Cot !"  cried  the  Chief,  "  I  am 
a  dying  man.  Stop  the  vessel — by 


is  kittling  her  up  behind? 

To  this  sapient  reply  the  Chieftain 
could  only  utter  an  interjection  of 
despair  ;  but  towards  the  evening  he 
grew  better,  and  the  wind  freshen- 
ing, the  steamer  ploughed  the  waves 
at  a  noble  rate.  All  those  who  had  felt 
the  spell  of  the  ocean,  and  confessed 
its  power,  began  to  stir  with  new  life; 
and  the  M'Goul,  recovering  from 
his  affliction,  like  the  Spring  in  Thom- 
son's Seasons  — 

"  looked  out  and  smiled." 

In  the  evening  of  the  second  day 
the  steamer  entered  the  Thames; 
and  exactly  at  forty-nine  hours  and 
seventeen  minutes,  she  came  to  her 
anchorage  at  Blackwall.  But  what 
befell  our  friend  in  London  is  matter 
for  another  chapter. 


JtmyQw 

,.'Vj0ci£  $ 
id3iif*  vi 


CHAPTER  VI. 


,mM 


AMONG  the  resuscitations  which 
•  happened  on  board  the  steamer  af- 
ter she  entered  the  smooth  waters 
of  the  Thames,  and  was  cheerily 
paddling  up  the  river,  was  that  of  Mr 
Jubal  M'Allister,  the  writer,  going 
on  the  celebrated  appeal  case  of  the 
firkin  of  butter,  from  the  Court  of 
Session  to  the  House  of  Lords ;  and 
the  first  thing  he  did,  after  recover- 
ing from  his  internal  controversy  of 
the  voyage,  was  to  make  an  acquaint- 
ance with  Roderick,  the  Chief,  of 
whose  greatness  he  had  heard  some 
account,  from  the  story  which  Do- 
nal  1,  the  man,  had  circulated  on 
boKrd  the  vessel. 

His  address  in  effecting  this  was 
inimitable.  He  saw  the  M'Goul 
looking  towards  the  shore  of  the 
Thames,  as  if  a  pitiless  northwest 
shower  was  exciting  the  muscles  of 
his  face  ;  and  going  towards  him,  he 
stood  by  his  side,  and  began  to  look 
to  i  t  also.  Then  he  said,  in  an  inter- 
jec  ional  manner,  but  loud  enough 
to  make  the  Chief  hear  him,  "What 
a  1  eautiful  verdant  country  1"  and 
turning  round  in  a  surprisingly  mo- 
dest manner,  he  remarked  to  the 
M'Goul  that  it  was  a  delightful  con- 
see  the  fields  so  green  after 


their  traverse  on  the  blue  ocean 
waters. 

The  Chief  looked  over  his  left 
shoulder,  and  seeing  from  whom 
the  observation  came,  said, "  Umph !" 

So  intellectual  an  interlocutor  was 
highly  gratifying  to  Mr  M'Allister, 
and  induced  him  still  further  to  ob- 
serve, with  equal  originality  and  pa- 
thos, that  "  England  was  a  very  fine 
country." 

"  Fine  country  !"  said  our  friend, 
*'  1  see  no  hills  at  al." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr  M'Allister;  "it 
wants  but  these  to  be  a  Paradise." 

The  Chief  again  looked  at  him  over 
his  shoulder,  and  replied,  "  I  would 
not  give  a  snuff  mull  for  a  land  with- 
out hills  and  heather ;  tamn  it  if  I 
would." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  lawyer, 
"  heather  mountains  are-  romantic 
and  beautiful  in  their  proper  place." 

"  You  are  a  very  shivilized  gen- 
tleman," said  Roderick,  "  and  that 
testificates  you  have  a  nerve.  What  is 
the  use  of  a  country  if  it  hasn't  hills  ? 
Now,  I  would  not  give  an  old  gill- 
stoup  for  one  al  green,  only  that  it's 
goot  for  hay  and  black  cattle."<>4  j 

Thus,  from  less  to  more,  the  ice 
being  broke,  Mr  Jubal  M'Allister  and 


The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  the  Sassenach.     Chap.  VI.      [May, 

"  you  know  the  gentleman  may  not 
understand  rny  English  language." 

Mr  M'Allister  did  as  he  was  de- 
sired, and  took  the  opportunity  of 
giving  the  orders,  to  let  the  waiter 
know  the  rank  and  greatness  of  the 
guest;  accordingly,  while  spreading 
the  table  with  some  refreshment,  the 
lad,  never  having  seen  a  kilted  Chief- 
tain before,  with  a  diffident  air  en- 
quired at  M'Goul,  what  he  would  be 
pleased  to  order  for  his  attendants. 

"Oh,"  said  the  Chief,  "  give  them 
a  bit  of  salmon,  with  moorfowl,  and 
any  thing." 

Which  the  waiter,  making  him 
a  lowly  bow,  immediately  went  to 
execute,  and  afterwards  returned  in- 
to the  room  followed  by  Donald  and 
Pharick.  The  former  not  being  much 
accustomed  to  waiting  at  table,  post- 
ed himself  with  his  sword  drawn 
erect  as  a  sentinel  at  the  door,  while 
the  latter,  during  the  repast,  regaled 
them  with  divers  melodious  pibrochs. 
It  was  evident  from  the  appearance 
of  the  different  waiters  who  came 
into  the  room,  that,  accustomed  as 
they  are  at  the  Clarendon  to  extra- 
ordinary visitors,  they  had  never  seen 
such  a  one  before.  Mr  M'Allister 
was  also  a  little  awed  by  the  scene, 
but  he  soon  recovered  his  self-pos- 
session, and  accidentally  learning 
that  the  Chief  had  not  informed  Mr 
Stukely  of  his  intended  avatar,  under- 
took to  do  so,  in  order  that  the  re- 
ception of  a  Chief  might  be  suitable 
to  his  station,  "  For,"  said  he  to  Ro- 
derick "  it  will  never  do  for  one  of 
your  consequence  to  go  in  upon  him 
without  warning  ;  it  is  required  by 
your  rank  that  you  should  go  in  a 
proper  manner,  for  the  English  do 
not  know  what  a  Chief  is." 

"  Ou  ay,"  said  the  M'Goul,  "  I  am 
a  consequential  man;  the  M'Goul,  py 
Cot,  is  the  M'Goul  al  the  world  over." 

Accordingly  a  letter  from  Mr  Ju- 
bal  M'Allister  himself  was  written 
to  Mr  Stukely  of  Fenny  Park,  en- 
closed in  an  envelope,  and  sealed 
with  the  Chieftain's  large  seal  of 
arms,  displaying  of  course  the  sup- 
porters, and  was  sent  to  the  post- 
office.  This  circumstance,  in  itself 
not  particularly  important,  occasion- 
ed much  speculation  at  the  mansion 
of  the  quondam  sheriff.  It  was  re- 
ceived as  a  communication  from  an 
archduke  or  an  emperor  ,•  the  man- 


766 

the  M'Goul  were  jocose  friends  long 
before  the  James  Watt  reached  her 
moorings ;  and  lucky  it  was  for  the 
Chief  that  he  had  fallen  in  with  so 
renowned  a  member  of  the  blue  and 
yellow  fraternity,  for  he  had  come 
from  his  own  castle  of  Inverstrone 
to  the  river  of  London  without  con- 
descending to  think  that  it  was  at  all 
necessary  to  institute  any  enquiry 
relative  to  the  metropolis.  He  had 
heard  of  many  people  going  to  Lon- 
don, but  never  of  one  who  thought 
it  necessary  to  enquire  respecting 
the  usages  of  the  land.  Mr  M'Allis- 
ter, however,  set  him  right,  and  with 
great  politeness  offered  to  be  of  any 
use  to  him  in  his  power  before  he 
went  to  Fenny  Park ;  and  being  im- 
pressed with  the  importance  of  a 
Chieftain  attended  by  his  henchman 
and  his  piper,  he  thought  he  could 
do  no  less  than  recommend  him  to 
take  up  his  abode  in  the  Clarendon 
Hotel,  Bond  Street. 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  M'Goul,  "  it's  a 
goot  house — no  sand  crunching  upon 
the  floor,  nor  the  rafters  plack  with 
peat  reek," 

"  Oh,"  replied  Mr  M'Allister, "  you 
will  find  yourself  as  comfortable  in 
it  as  in  your  own  castle." 

"  Umph,"  said  the  Chief,  and  mut- 
teringly  added,  "  that  is  no  gratifica- 
tion, but  we'll  mend  the  sklate  py 
and  py." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  replied 
Mr  M'Allister,  "  Inverstrone  Castle 
is  a  very  ancient  pile." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  the  Chief,  "  it  was 
a  castle — curse  tak  me  if  I  know 
when." 

Having  landed,  they  proceeded, 
accompanied  by  Donald  the  man, 
Pharick  the  piper,  and  their  other 
luggage,  in  a  coach,  to  the  Clarendon 
Hotel,  where  they  were  ushered  in 
due  order  into  a  suite  of  apartments, 
the  elegance  of  which  so  fascinated 
our  hero,  that  he  walked  about  in 
the  sitting  room,  flourishing  his  cane 
and  whistling  "  the  White  Cockade," 
not  believing  it  possible  that  he  was 
then  in  a  public-house.  However, 
the  state  of  his  appetite  reminded 
him  of  the  circumstance,  and  with 
his  wonted  hospitality,  he  requested 
the  Edinburgh  lawyer  to  ask  the 
waiter  to  bring  something  to  eat, 
"  for,"  said  he,  as  an  apology  for  be- 
ing daunted  at  his  smart  appearance, 


{833.]      The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  the  Sassenach. 

ner  in  which  the  letter  was  made  up, 
shewed  that  it  was  written  by  a  per- 
son well  skilled  in  the  diplomatic 
irt,  and  the  seal  betokened  the  pride, 
pomp,  and  circumstance  of  chief- 
tainship; moreover,  as  great  men 
ire  not  good  at  writing,  it  was  writ- 
ten from  the  Chieftain  by  what  was 
ieemed  one  of  his  suite.  Great  bus- 
cle  in  consequence  ensued  ;  the  best 
jed-room  was  put  in  order,  and  suit- 
able apartments  for  the  Chieftain's 
ittendants.  All  the  neighbouring  gen- 
try who  had  newly  come  into  the 
country  were  invited  to  dine  with 
'dm,  and  nothing  was  heard  of  from 
;he  turnpike  gate  to  the  alehouse, 
but  the  grandeur  and  glory  of  the 
ipproaching  visitor. 

In  the  meantime,  Mr  Jubal  M'Al- 
ister  having  safely  left  the  Chief  and 
iis  tail  at  the  Clarendon,  retired  to 
iis  accustomed  haunt  in  Holme's 
Sotel  in  Parliament  Street.  There  he 
iiiad e  himself  an  object  of  envy,  by 
•ehearsing  to  his  compeers  from  the 
Parliament  House,  with  whom  he 
lad  been  associating,  and  where  he 
!iad  been,  interspersing  his  recital 
vvith  barbaric  pearl  and  gold,  and 
iffecting  mightily  to  laugh  at  the  un- 


Chap.  VII.         767 

couthness  of  the  Chief,  while  in  the 
core  of  his  heart  he  felt  an  inexpres- 
sible glow  of  reflection,  and  an  aug- 
mentation of  importance.  But,  as 
our  narration  comparatively  has  lit- 
tle respect  towards  him,  we  shall  not 
enlarge  on  this  topic,  but  return  to 
the  M'Goul,  the  more  immediate  ob- 
ject of  our  worship,  Avho,  in  due  time, 
with  Donald  and  Pharick,  went  to 
sleep;  and  by  his  felicitations  in  the 
morning,  it  appeared  that  he  had 
never  passed  so  comfortable  a  night. 
At  first  it  was  his  intention  to  have 
gone  at  once  from  London  to  Fenny 
Park,  but  Mr  M'Allister  had  taught 
him  to  understand  that  a  proceeding 
of  this  kind  was  an  unbecoming  fa- 
miliarity that  ought  not  to  be  prac- 
tised towards  such  new-made  gen- 
tlemen as  he  understood  Mr  Stukely 
was ;  and  in  consequence,  in  announ- 
cing his  arrival  at  the  Clarendon  Ho- 
tel, intimation  was  given,  that  he 
would,  as  soon  as  possible,  not  fail 
to  pay  his  respects  at  Fenny  Park. 
The  exact  day  was  not  specified,  that 
time  might  be  allowed  to  prepare  for 
his  reception,  and  also  that  he  might 
see  something  of  the  metropolis  be- 
fore he  went  thither. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


EARLY  after  breakfast,  Jubal  M'Al- 
ister  waited  on  the  Chief,  whom  he 
"ound  sitting  in  great  pomp,  listening 
to  his  piper  Pharick,  strutting  outra- 
geously at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
He  was  received  with  a  shout  of 
gladness,  for  the  Chieftain,  notwith- 
stand  ing  the  vast  numbers  of  the  Cl  an- 
;amphreyin  London,  knew  not  where 
;o  find  in  all  that  great  metropolis 
jne  of  his  kith  or  kin.  Donald,  his 
nan,  had  asked  leave  to  go  to  Chel- 
sea, where  some  of  his  old  chums 
flrere  settled  in  legless  or  armless 
lignity  for  life.  Pharick  and  himself, 
laving  a  little  stronger  the  flavour 
Cel  vatic,  remained  in  the  house.  Per- 
laps  as  Pharick  spoke  only  Gaelic, 
here  was  some  prudence  in  this  re- 
solution ;  but  his  Chief  and  master 
vas,  we  are  sorry  to  confess,  some- 
hing  akin  to  being  afraid;  fear  of 
nan^was  not  in  his  nature,  but  of  a 
\  own  he  stood  much  in  awe. 

When  the  Edinburgh  lawyer  had 

aken  his  seat,  the  Chief,  with  an 

<  emphatic  wave  of  his  hand,  signified 


to  Pharick  that  they  were  content 
with  his  music  for  the  present,  and 
turning  to  the  writer,  he  began  to 
give  him  an  account  of  his  entertain- 
ment and  opinion  of  the  Clarendon 
Hotel. 

"  It  is,"  said  he,  "  a  pra  house,  and 
he  would  pe  no  petter  than  a  Fandal 
from  high  Germanie,  who  would  say 
it  was  a  common  public ;  and  then 
they  have  wine,  both  portaport  and 
sherries,  that  to  drink  would  make 
you  pounce,  al  which  we  made  our 
revels  with,  and  then  went  to  ped." 

The  lawyer  having  heard  him  out, 
then  proposed,  as  he  had  time  that 
day,  to  shew  him  the  curiosities  of 
the  town. 

"Ay,"  said  the  Chief,  "that  is 
what  we  did  portend ;"  and  rising, 
began  to  move  towards  the  bell. 
The  man  of  statutes  and  precedents 
suddenly  checked  himself,  as  he  saw 
him  ring  in  the  most  natural  manner 
possible,  though  it  was  only  the  third 
time  he  had  ever  tried  it ;  he  pulled 
indeed  a  little  longer  and  lustier  than 


768        The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  the  Sassenach.     Chap.  VII.      [May, 


usual,  saying  at  the  same  time,  "  that 
he  had  gatten  an  insight,  for  the  gen- 
tleman had  shewed  him  at  breakfast 
that  if  he  pulled  the  string,  there 
would  be  sure  of  him  or  some  other 
appearing  at  the  door — just,"  said  he, 
"  as  a  salmon  comes  out  of  the  wa- 
ter when  you  pluck  the  line." 

But  before  Mr  M'Allister  had  time 
to  make  any  answer,  the  waiter  ap- 
peared, and  was  informed  the  Chief 
was  going  out,  and  required  his  at- 
tendant to  play  before  him. 

"  Gracious  !"  cried  the  astonished 
Edinburgh  lawyer,  "  we  would  only 
raise  a  crowd  in  London."  But  wa- 
rily checking  the  expostulation,  and 
adapting  his  phraseology  to  the  un- 
derstanding of  the  Chief,  he  said  that 
the  Londoners  were  not  capable  of 
estimating  the  merits  of  pipers;  and, 
besides,  the  noises  in  the  streets  were 
so  great,  that  his  melody  wouldn't 
be  properly  heard.  Pharick  was  in 
consequence  ordered  to  bideathome, 
his  master  observing,  after  he  had 
given  the  orders,  "  What  you  say, 
Mr  M'Allister,  is  true;  and  surely, 
for  they  have  no  knowledge  of  a  mu- 
sical here;  and  they  made  me  as 
mad  as  a  polling  kettle,  after  you" 
went  away  last  night,  py  a  spring 
from  a  pair  of  pagpipes  in  a  box  on 
a  man's  back.  Put  I  could  make  no- 
thing of  it,  only  I  will  say  the  pum  of 
it  was  as  melodious  as  a  craw." 

After  this  colloquy  and  descrip- 
tion of  the  organ,  the  writer  and  the 
Chief  sallied  forth  ;  and  as  they 
reached  the  turn  of  the  street,  where 
it  enters  Piccadilly,  the  Chieftain 
being  in  the  Highland  dress,  paused 
and  looked  round,  on  observing  that 
he  was  himself  "  the  observed  of  all 
observers."  Mr  M'Allister  attributed 
his  wonder  to  his  first  encountering 
a  metropolitan  crowd,  especially 
when  he  saw  him  stretch  himself 
erect,  and  look  blandly  around. 

"  They  al  know  me,"  said  the 
Chieftain  ;  "  but  they  are,  I  kess,  of 
the  lower  orders,  'cause  I  know  not 
a  living  soul  of  them — devil  tak'  me 
if  I  do." 

They  then  proceeded  down  St 
James's  Street,  Mr  M'Allister  point- 
ing out,  as  they  went  along,  the  dif- 
ferent noted  houses  in  that  thorough- 
fare, with  the  palace  of  St  James  at 
the  bottom.  Club-houses  were,  how- 
ever, beyond  Roderick's  comprehen- 
sion, and  he  could  only  utter  his  na- 


tional characteristic  umph  as  they 
were  severally  pointed  out.  But  the 
King's  palace  was  something  better 
adapted  to  his  understanding,  and  he 
looked  at  it  for  a  considerable  time 
in  silent  cogitation,  and  then  said, 
"  Is  that  the  King's  own  palace  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  his  guide;  "the 
celebrated  St  James's." 

"  My  Cot !  umph,"  cried  the  M'- 
Goul;  and  giving  his  ivory-headed 
cane  a  flourish,  turned  eastward 
along  Pall-Mall,  without  uttering  a 
word,  or  lifting  his  downcast  eyes 
on  any  edifice,  public  or  private,  that 
he  passed. 

When  they  had  come  to  Charing 
Cross  he  recovered  speech,  and  said, 
as  they  approached  the  statue,  (the 
improvements  of  the  neighbourhood 
were  not  then  made,)  "  That's  a 
King  William,  too,"  alluding  to  the 
statue  he  had  passed  at  Glasgow. 

"  No,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  that  is 
King  Charles,  the  monarch  who  lost 
his  head." 

"  Coot  Cot !  Charles  Stuart,  the 
great-grandfather  of  Prince  Charlie." 

And  he  lingered  some  time,  gazing 
with  mingled  regrets  and  patriotism 
at  the  sight,  till  he  happened  to  no- 
tice the  lion  on  Northumberland 
House. 

"  Goot  Cot !"  cried  he,  "  vvhatna 
dog's  that  ?"  But  presently  he  add- 
ed, with  ineffable  contempt,  "  Pugh, 
it's  but  an  effigy ;  does  the  man  sell 
a  good  liquor  there  ?" 

"By  this  time  our  Edinburgh  ac- 
quaintance felt  a  little  nervous,  as  in 
the  course  of  the  journey  he  had  dis- 
covered that  the  Chief  was  wilder 
game  than  he  had  quite  reckoned  on, 
and  felt  somewhat  apprehensive  of 
meeting  in  those  purlieus  with  some 
of  his  professional  associates.  In- 
stead, therefore,  of  going  down 
Whitehall,  or  towards  the  city,  he 
turned  round  into  Spring  Gardens, 
and  led  the  native  into  St  James's 
Park,  pointing  out  to  him  several 
objects  which  strangers  deem  curi- 
osities ;  among  others  the  telegraph 
on  the  Admiralty,  the  Horse  Guards, 
and  things  of  that  sort ;  to  all  which, 
however,  Roderick  only  gave  a  signi- 
ficant umph, remembering,  with  mor- 
tification, the  impression  which  the 
old  tolbooth-looking  building  of  St 
James's  Palace  had  inspired.  But 
when  he  came  to  the  parade  at  the 
Horse  Guards,  he  turned  suddenly 


1833.]       The  Chief}  or,  the  Gael  and  the  Sassenach.     Chap.  nil.         769 


round,  and  looking  with  Celtic  sa- 
gacity in  the  direction  of  the  Palace, 
enquired,  with  an  emphasis  which 
shewed  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind— 

"  What  is  your  opinion  in  a  coorse 
of  la  concerning  the  Hanoverians, 
umph  ?" 

Mr  McAllister  being  a  Whig  of  the 
Stove  school,  as  we  have  already  in- 
timated, replied— 

"  No  man  now  has  any  douht  about 
it ;  we  have  derived  some  advantages 
from  them." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Chief,  « the  tevil 
mean  them  to  give  justice  and  ad- 
vantages; they  have  neither  kith  nor 
kin  in  the  country  like  the  auld 
Stuarts,  umph ! — Tliat  house,  umph  ! 
— a  Stuart  Avould  na  put  his  meickle 
tae  into  it,  umph  !" 

By  this  speech  the  advocate  was 
reminded  of  the  predilections  of  the 
Highland  i?rs,  especially  of  those  who 
inhabited  'Moidart  and  its  neigh- 
bourhood, and  began  to  pull  in  his 
lorns  as  they  approached  George's 
.^ate,  on  their  way  to  Westminster 
Abbey  and  the  Houses  of  Parliament. 
When  they  came  in  sight  of  the  for- 
mer, the  Chief  giving  a  snort,  said — 

"  Ay,  and  is  that  auld  kirk,  and 
the  young  one  at  its  fut,  what  they 
cal  Wastmunster  Abbey;  and  what's 
to  be  seen  in  Wastmunster  Abbey  ?" 

This  was  a  flight  beyond  the  ima- 
gination of  the  lawyer;  it  betrayed 
an  ignorance  of  which  he  had  no  con- 
ception a  Chieftain  could  be  guilty, 
and  he  said,  with  ill-concealed  morti- 
fi  cation,  that  perhaps  it  would  not  be 
vorth  the  seeing. 


"  It's  very  auld,  I  see,"  said  the 
Chieftain  ;  "  nobody  is  alive  ROW  that 
saw  it  built,  and  of  course  cannot 
tell  its  history;  so  we'll  only  hear  a 
pack  of  lies  about  it,  just  as  I  heard 
auld  Ferryboat  tell  of  the  woman  that 
beglamoured  him  at  Roslin  Castle, 
whrn  he  was  called  into  Edinburgh 
to  testify  before  the  Lords  that  my 
father  was  the  son  of  his  own.  No, 
I  wouldna  give  that  spittle  out  of 
my  mouth  to  see  it." 

Considerably  disconcerted  at  this 
declaration,  the  advocate  hurried 
him  across  the  street  to  the  Houses 
of  Parliament,  and  knowing  that 
they  were  then  up,  felt  a  little  more 
courageous,  not  having  the  fear  of 
any  of  his  companions  before  his 
eyes ;  but  in  the  different  houses  and 
apartments  Roderick  took  no  inte- 
rest, only  he  remarked  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  looking  at  the  throne— 

"Ay,  ay,  the" King  may  make  a 
Lord,  but  he  canna  make  a  Highland 
Chieftain, — curse  take  me  if  he  can." 

He  then  proposed  to  return  and 
have  a  gill  at  the  Clarendon,  as  it 
was  a  could  day,  and  accordingly 
they  walked  back  the  road  they  had 
come;  but  on  reaching  Bond  Street, 
the  lawyer  beheld  every  window 
open,  filled  with  ladies,  and  a  vast 
multitude  in  the  street  opposite  the 
hotel,  where  Pharick  was  strutting 
up  and  down  the  pavement  as  proud 
as  a  provost,  cracking  the  ears  of  the 
groundlings  with  a  pibroch  that  his 
grandfather  had  played,  to  the  inex- 
tinguishable horror  of  Prince  Charles 
Edward,  when  he  landed  at  MoidarU 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


THE  advocate  was  by  this  time  be- 
coming a  little  alarmed ;  he  saw  that 
the  habits  of  the  Chieftain  were  not 
calculated  for  the  meridian  of  Lon- 
don; and,  moreover,  he  began  to 
think  that  the  Clarendon  Hotel  was 
n<  t  exactly  the  sort  of  lair  which  so 
w  Id  a  beast  should  frequent;  and, 
thsrefore,  although  his  vanity  was 
in  :erested  in  keeping  him  there,  his 
S(  ottish  prudence  made  him  anxious 
to  get  him  out  of  it,  while  yet  his 
game  flavour,  though  high,  was  odo- 
riferous. Thus  he  uegan,  after  their 
return,  to  insinuate  to  the  Chief,  that 

VOL.  XXXIII.    NO.  CCVIII. 


it  was  now  time  to  be  thinking  of 
his  visit  to  Mr  Stukely,  and  said, 
"  IvTGoul,  how  long  do  you  propose 
to  stay  at  Fenny  Park;  because  I 
think  it  will  be  better  not  to  visit  the 
curiosities  of  London  until  you  re- 
turn ;  for  while  you  are  there,  you 
may  hear  of  something  worth  seeing, 
that  in  our  haste  we  would  neglect  ?'* 
To  this  speech  the  Chieftain  an- 
swered, "  I  have  been  thinking  so 
too,  for  I  see  nothing  at  al  in  London 
•'ust  now  that  I  would  give  a  chucky- 
stane  for  a  look ;  and  really  this  town 
more  is  not  just  such  a  civilized 

a  D 


770          The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  the  Sassenach.     Chap.  VIII.    [May, 


place  as  a  shentleman  should  be  in ; 
it's  al  shops  and  shopkeepers.  Goot 
Cot !  and  yon's  St  James's  Palace  ! 
No  wonder  we  had  in  the  Highlands 
BO  warm  a  side  to  Prince  Charlie, 
umph." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so," 
replied  Mr  M'Allister ;  "  there  is  in- 
deed a  great  difference  between 
Edinburgh  and  London." 

"I'll  tell  you  al  about  it.  Edin- 
brough  has  a  caller  air,  which  is  a 
good  health, but  London  has  none  at 
al ;  but  as  for  my  pheesit,it  will  just 
be  till  I  have  gotten  the  compliment 
that  ould  Fenny  Pare  has  promised 
in  his  letter." 

Mr  M'Allister  had  learned  by  this 
time  something  of  the  story,  and  had 
guessed  a  little  of  the  M'Goul's  er- 
rand ;  not  at  all  apprehending  it  rest- 
ed on  so  slender  a  foundation,  he  said, 
with  perfect  sincerity,  "  How  much 
do  you  expect?" 

«  That,"  said  the  Chieftain,  "  is  all 
in  ascurity  ;  the  minister,  and  he's  a 
lang  head,  said  it  was  worth  a  goot 
five  thousand  pound;  but,  Mr  M'Allis- 
ter, I  am  a  moderate  man,  arid  I  have 
been  counting  that  I'll  be  very  well 
paid  with  athree  thousand,  the  which 
I  will  accept  when  he  gives  it.  You 
see,  Mr  M'Allister,  three  thousand 
pounds  would  do  very  well,  as  I  have 
been  laying  it  out.  First,  you  see, 
the  castle,  good  Got,  she  is  a  leaky 
material,  and  stands  goot  for  five 
hunched.  I'll  have  six  bees'  scaps 
for  a  policy  on  a  farm  before  the 
door;  they  will  cost  a  power  of  mo- 
ney. Elspa  tells  me, that  at  Montrose, 
where  she  was,  they  cost  more  than 
three  pound  a-piece.  But,  Mr  M'Allis- 
ter, I  will  not  make  a  parade  to  you 
of  what  I  have  laid  out  the  three 
thousand  pounds  for,  and  expenses. 

The  advocate,  pleased  to  be  rid  of 
the  details,  replied,  "  No  doubt  you 
will  find  a  use  for  the  money.  M'Goul, 
you  will  want  to  be  on  your  guard  in 
bringing  so  large  a  sum  to  town." 

"  Ou  aye,"  said  the  Chief,  "  I  have 
been  making  my  calculations  on  that, 
and  if  you,  Mr  M'Allister,  would  con- 
descend to  help  me,  I  would  be  great- 
ly obliged." 

"  Everything  that  I  can  do  to  serve 
the  M'Goul, he  may  count  upon;  and 
"before  Parliament  meets,  as  I  have 
a  few  days'  spare  time,  I  would  ad- 
vise you  to  make  out  your  visit,  and 
I  will  go  with  you." 


"  Ah,  that's  a  goot  creature !  and  if 
you'll  pe  such  a  turtle-dove,  I'll  go 
the  mom's  morning." 

"  Agreed,"  said  M'Allister ; "  and  as 
you  are  not  up  to  the  way  of  Lcnd<  n* 
leave  the  arrangements  all  to  me." 

"  Now,"  said  the  Chieftain,  "that's 
what  I  cal  hitting  the  nail  on  the 
head ;  take  your  own  way." 

Accordingly  the  advocate  ordered 
a  post- chaise  and  four  to  be  at  the 
door  betimes  in  the  morning,  and 
directed  the  bill  to  be  made  out  by 
the  hour  of  departure.  All  was  done 
as  he  directed,  but  next  day  when  the 
bill  was  presented,  he  was  petrified 
to  see  the  charge  made  for  the  ser- 
vants, who,  in  addition  to  salmon  at 
half  a  guinea  the  pound,  and  game 
in  those  days  at  as  much  a  brace, 
with  roast  beef  and  plum-pudding 
ordered  by  Donald,  consisted  of 
every  delicacy  the  house  could  af- 
ford. 

"  My  God,"  said  he,  "  did  you  or- 
der the  servants  to  be  treated  in  thia 
manner  ?" 

"  Oh,  ay,  I  just,  poor  lads,  desired 
them  to  get  a  butt  of  salmon  and 
grouse— just  the  things,  ye  know 
well,  they  are  used  to  at  home." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  I  have  nothing  to 
say  to  it;  and  as  I  am  more  aufait  to 
the  ways  of  the  English,  I  shall  be 
purse-bearer,  and  settle  for  the  bill 
in  the  meantime." 

"  You  are  a  very  condescending 
man,  Mr  M'Allister.  Ay,  just  puy  the 
paper,>nd  we'll  make  a  count  and 
reckoning  py  and  py." 

Mr  M'Allister,  who  had  volunteer- 
ed his  services  as  purse-bearer,  set- 
tled the  bill,  and  they  embarked  in 
the  carriage,  the  Chief  and  Mr  M'- 
Allister mounting  inside ;  Pharick  and 
Donald  were  already  seated  in  their 
kilts  on  the  bar  outside.  As  soon  as 
the  Chieftain  and  the  lawyer  were 
seated,  bang  to  went  the  door,  smack 
went  the  whips,  off  went  the  chaise, 
and  in  starting,  Pharick  and  Donald, 
by  the  laws  of  gravity,  tumbled  back, 
and  the  wind  turned  the  skirts  of  their 
philabegs,  as  the  chaise  passed  with 
increasing  velocity  up  Bond  Street, 
and  along  Oxford  Street,  to  the 
amazement  of  the  irreverent  popu- 
lace. 

The  Edinburgh  lawyer  was  speech- 
less, and  did  not  know  where  to  hide 
his  face. 

"Lads,"  said  the  Chieftain, "  are 


I833.J          The  Chief  ;or>  the  Gael  and  the  Sassenach.     Chap.  2 X.        771 

much,  without  entering  into  the  M'- 
Goal's  feeling,  let  it  suffice  to  say 
that  his  companion,  M'Allister,  was 
infinitely  delighted;  and  no  wonder, 
for  among  the  guests  invited  to  meet 
the  Chief,  was  an  opulent  biscuit- 
baker,  retired  from  Wapping,  who 
was  to  be,  according  to  his  lady,  next 
week  pricked  for  sheriff  of  the 
county;  also  a  most  warm  slop-seller, 
who  had  bought  the  property  of  the 
old  family  of  Oakes,  a  family  that 
had  been  settled  at  Castle  Grim,  in 
the  neighbourhood,  since  the  Con- 
quest at  least.  Besides  them  there 
was  a  sleeky  tallow-chandler,  who 
had  made  a  sudden  fortune  by  a  spe- 
culation in  Russia  tallow.  But  it 
would  be  tedious  to  enumerate  all 
the  guests  who  came  in  their  own 
carriages  to  meet  the  great  Highland 
Chief,  of  whose  coming  Mr  M'Allis- 
ter had  the  preceding  night  thought 
it  expedient  to  give  Mr  Stukely  due 
notice,  and  was  the  cause,  in  conse- 
quence, of  the  distinguished  recep- 
tion which  the  M'Goul  met  with. 

After  the  greetings  and  introduc- 
tions were  over,  the  chaise  away, 
Pharick  like  a  turkey-cock  strut- 
ting in  the  sun  before  the  mansion, 
regaled  the  guests  with  a  tune  on 
his  pipes,  which  they  declared  was 
most  beautiful.  But  they  then  be- 
gan to  retire  within  doors,  where 
Mrs  Cracklings, the  tallow-chandler's 
wife,  enquired  at  Mr  M'Allister,  as 
she  took  his  arm  in  ascending  to  the 
drawing-room,  what  was  the  name 
of  the  poor  hanimal  that  the  servant 
tickled  and  tortured  in  such  a  comi- 
cal manner. 


you  a  seven  wonder  of  the  world,  ma- 
king yourself*  BenNevisand  Carry?" 

One  of  the  post-boys,  an  old  man, 
hearing  his  voice,looked  behind  and 
exclaimed  to  his  neighbour  coolly, 
"  Look,  Tom,  I  never  seed  an  all  in 
my  eye  and  Betty  Martin  afore." 

Matters  were,  however,  soon  put  to 
rights.  Piiarick and  Donald  recovered 
their  position,  the  lawyer's  terrors 
were  appeased,  and  the  Chief  obser- 
ved sedately  that  he  had  heard  of 
accidents  in  a  post-chaises  before. 

When  the  party  got  out  on  the 
high-road,  Mr  M'Allister  was  so 
mucked  of  his  change  by  the  turn- 
pikes, that  he  was  under  the  neces- 
sity of  applying  to  the  M'Goul  for  a 
few  shillings,  but  the  Chief  had  none 
in  his  pocket.  All  this  confirmed  our 
far- forecasting  friend  in  opinion 
that  a  Chief  who  carried  no  money 
in  his  pocket  must  have  a  long  purse ; 
and  acting  on  this  persuasion  he  con- 
tinued his  liberality  anew,  by  chan- 
ging his  own  last  guinea ;  but  as  they 
were  to  get  three  thousand  pounds, 
it  gave  him  no  anxiety,  especially  as 
at  this  time  they  entered  the  gates 
of  Fenny  Park,  and  Pharick  began  to 
put  his  drone  in  order,  which  when 
done,  they  approached  the  house,  he 
playing  like  desperation  his  Chief 
and  master's  favourite  air,  which  had 
not  certainly  been  composed  by  Dr 
Arne  or  Handel.  The  unmelodious 
aotes  drew  all  the  household  and  the 
ather  guests  to  the  door ;  and  as  if  by 
instinct,  and  the  coming  sound  of  the 
pipes,  the  quondam  sheriff  came 
Forth  and  received  our  hero  at  the 
portal.  Great  demonstrations  of  ho- 
aour  and  welcome  were  made,  in  so 


CHAPTER  IX. 


INTEGRITY  is  very  inconvenient, 
:  lot  withstanding  the  lawyers  have 
endeavoured,  by  all  the  means  in 
*  heir  power,  to  establish  a  morality 
in  which  it  should  have  no  place, 
however,  this  is  not  the  proper  time 
:  or  discussing  that  point;  but  as  we 
1  vish  to  say  a  few  sound  and  sober 
ihirigs  interesting  to  this  great  com- 
loercial  country,  we  could  not  hit 
\  pon  a  more  pregnant  apophthegm, 
t  specially  as  our  observations  refer 
to  the  company  assembled  at  Fenny 
]  'ark.  Far  is  it  from  us  and  ours  to 
£  ive  in  to  the  vulgar  opinion  that 


opulence  alone  is  a  monstrous  poor 
thing ;  nothing  can  be  more  condu- 
cive to  the  glory  of  any  people  than 
the  contrary  sentiment.  They  indeed 
commit  a  solecism  who  maintain  that 
those  who  have  made  their  own  for- 
tunes are  not  as  great  among  man- 
kind as  those  of  whom  Providence 
has  taken  some  pains  in  the  making, 
or  to  whom  old  hereditary  rank  has 
been  instrumental  in  giving  refine- 
ment in  manners,  and  accomplish- 
ments in  education,  in  addition  to  all 
the  advantages  which  make  the 
others  purse-proud.  Butinacoun- 


772  The  Chief;  or>  the  Gael  and  the  Sassenach.    Chap.  IX.         [May, 


try  like  this,  where  the  thrift  of  trade 
should  be  encouraged  above  all 
things,  it  is  highly  proper  that  suc- 
cessful drudging  industry  should  be 
duly  honoured,  and  raised  to  a  level, 
at  least,  with  talent  and  long  de- 
scended riches. 

The  party  at  old  Mr  Stukely's,  ci- 
devant  sheriff,  was  of  this  descrip- 
tion, and  almost  peculiar  to  the  hap- 
py realm  of  England.  The  gentle- 
men had,  by  their  patience  and  per- 
severance, and  some  of  them  by  a 
magnanimous  observance  of  our 
opening  aphorism,  raised  themselves 
from  a  base  condition  to  rank  in  their 
expenditure  with  the  nobles  of  the 
land,  and  to  buy  them  out  in  their 
ancient  patrimonial  inheritances. 
Their  ladies  had  all  the  graces  that 
would  have  been  conspicuous  in  a 
low  estate ;  we  need  not  therefore 
say  that  a  party  so  select  was  agree- 
able to  our  hero. 

Mr  M'Allister  was  at  first  highly 
pleased  with  the  whole  party.  He 
ascertained  that  they  had  come  all 
in  their  own  carriages,  which  was  a 
great  thing  in  the  eyes  of  an  Edin- 
burgh lawyer;  and  that  the  least  for- 
tune of  the  gentlemen  might  be  es- 
timated at  a  plum,  while  the  collo- 
quial language  of  the  ladies  had 
somethinginit  very  racy  and  peculiar. 

The  same  things  did  not  increase 
the  admiration  of  the  M'Goul,  but 
he  was  delighted  to  be  surrounded 
by  persons  among  whom  he  under- 
stood the  Duke  would  have  been  but 
an  ordinary  man.  It  was  true,  that 
neither  Mr  Cracker  the  biscuit-baker, 
nor  Mr  Cracklings  the  tallow-chan- 
dler, were  chieftains;  but  he  thought 
that  this  was  more  to  be  ascribed  to 
Sassenach  polity,  than  to  any  defect 
which  he  could  perceive  in  their 
manners,  their  language,  or  their  ar- 
rogance. 

In  due  time  dinner  was  served  up; 
the  ornamented  table  and  "  the  cost- 
ly piles  of  food,"  greatly  exceeded 
any  vision  that  had  ever  gratified  the 
eyes  of  the  M'Goul;  and  he  remarked 
to  the  lady  whose  arm  he  had  taken 
in  descending  to  the  dining-room, 
that  it  was  "  by  Cot,  a  feast  petter 
than  a  wedding  in  the  Highlands." 

While  knives  and  forks  were  busy, 
the  conversation  was  general.  The 
Chief  maintained  a  becoming  taci- 
turnity, and  Mr  M'Allister  entertain- 


ed Mr  Cracklings,  who  sat  near  him, 
with  a  full,  true,  and  particular  ac- 
count of  the  hospitable  boards  of 
Edinburgh. 

When  the  dinner  was  withdrawn, 
and  the  dessert  placed  on  the  table, 
and  Mr  M'Allister  had  remarked  that 
toast-drinking  had  gone  quite  out  of 
fashion,  or  made  some  other  equally 
pertinent  and  philosophical  stricture, 
the  conversation  became  more  desul- 
tory ;  in  the  course  of  which,  Mr 
Cracklings  entertained  our  hero  and 
the  general  company  with  a  funny 
anecdote  concerning  a  d d  ex- 
ciseman that  was  poking  his  nose 
where  an  exciseman's  nose  should 
not  be.  What  he  said  was  exceeding- 
ly diverting, — the  company  laughed 
loud  and  long,  and  Mr  M'Allister  de- 
clared that  his  sides  were  sore. 

During  the  recital  the  Chief  sat  si- 
lent and  solemn,  because  he  scarcely 
understood  a  word  of  what  Mr  Crack- 
ling was  telling ;  but  when  that  gen- 
tleman made  an  end,  turning  round 
to  him,  he  said — 

"  I  daresay,  Mr  M'Goul,  you  have 
no  excisemen  in  your  part  of  the 
country  ?" 

"  Ou,"  replied  he,  without  moving 
a  muscle  of  his  face,  and  with  an  air 
of  the  utmost  indifference, "  they 'put 
one  o'  thae  things  till  us,  but  we  kilt 
it." 

The  company  were  instantaneous- 
ly struck  dumb.  Mr  M'Allister  re- 
marked to  Mrs  Cracker,  which  she 
no  doubt  understood,  that  he  never 
saw  the  sublime  of  contempt  be- 
fore. 

Mr  Cracklings  immediately  after 
said  to  the  unconscious  Chief — 

"  Served  him  right." 

«  Umph  !"  said  the  M'GouI. 

Mr  M'Allister  then  took  up  the 
strain,  and  told  a  story  of  an  old  wo- 
man who  sold  nappy  ale  at  a  road- 
side public-house,  who,  when  a  tra- 
veller said  that  it  had  an  odd  taste, 
"  It  may  be  so,"  quoth  she,  "but  the 
worst  thing  that  goes  into  my  barrel 
is  the  gauger's  rod."  From  this  dis- 
quisition concerning  exciseable  ar- 
ticles Mr  Cracker  remarked  on  the 
state  of  the  weather,  some  pattering 
of  rain  happening  at  that  time  to 
sound  on  the  window,  adding,  that 
he  pitied  the  poor  who  had  such  a 
comfortless  prospect  as  the  rising 
markets  before  them. 


1833.]       The  Chief;  of,  the  Gael  and  the  Sassenach.     Chapter  X.        773 


"  I  don't  pity  them  at  all,"  said  an- 
other gentleman  who  was  present ; 
"  haven't  they  the  parish  and  the 
workhouse  ?  Don't  disturb  yourself, 
my  dear  sir,  on  their  account.  In 
what  country  are  the  poor  so  well 
off  as  they  are  in  England  ?  Mr 
M'Goul,"  said  he,  addressing  the 
Chief,  "  I've  heard  that  you  have  no 
poor's  rates  inScotland — is  that  true?" 
"  Umph  !"  said  the  Chieftain, 
"  poor's  rates  !  Are  they  shell-fish  ? 
\Ve  have  no  oysters." 

Not  exactly  understanding  what  he 
said,  the  gentleman,  as  if  to  make 
himself  more  intelligible,  added — 

"  What  becomes  of  the  poor  with 
you?" 

"  Ou,"  sayi  the  M'Goul,  "  they  all 
die." 

The  ladies  thought  this  a  little  too 
highly  flavoured,  and  were  moving 
to  go  away,  but  they  were  pressed 
to  remain,  both  by  Mr  Cracker  and 
Mr  Cracklings. 

Mr  M'Allister,  as  an  indemnifica- 
tion, then  told  them  of  the  minister's 
prayer,  which  he  had  been  bursting 
to  relate,  reminded  of  it  by  the  re- 
mark of  Mr  Cracker  occasioned  by 
the  shower  on  the  window;  and  ac- 
cordingly he  began  mimicking  an 
old  Celtic  minister,  who  was  suppli- 
cating for  weather  suitable  to  gather 
in  and  barn  the  fruits  of  the  earth. 
'"'  At  this  moment,"  s^id  the  story- 
teller, "  a  squally  shower  came  blat- 
tering on  the  windows  of  the  church  ; 
the  minister  paused,  and  looked  as- 
tonished ;  at  last  he  sat  down  on  the 
pulpit  seat  in  despair,  and  cried  out, 
'  Weel,  weel,  gude  Lord,  rain  awa, 
and  spoil  all  the  poor  folk's  corn, 
and  see  what  tou'll  make  by  that.'" 

But  instead  of  the  laugh  which  had 
gratified  the  advocate  on  former  oc- 
casions, there  was  a  solemn  pause ; 
nnd  Mrs  Cracker,  his  neighbour,  said 
it  was  most  pathetical,  and  she  was 
sure,  if  rehearsed  on  the  stage  by  Mr 


Kean  or  Mr  Macready,  there  would 
not  be  a  dry  eye  in  the  theatre. 

But  Mr  M'Allister,  instead  of  re- 
ceiving this  compliment  as  any  tri- 
bute of  respect  to  his  powers  of  sto- 
ry-telling, inwardly  thought  the 
whole  party  very  tasteless,  and  said 
to  himself  that  it  would  be  some  time 
before  he  would  be  found  casting  his 
pearls  before  swine. 

The  ladies  then  withdrew,  and  the 
gentlemen  closing  ranks,  Mr  Mac- 
Allister  gave  old  Mr  Stukely  a  hint 
that  he  must  let  the  M'Goul  have  as 
much  claret  as  he  chose.  The  table 
was  accordingly  abundantly  sup- 
plied, but  by  and  by  the  other  guests 
separately  went  away,  leaving  only 
the  landlord,  Mr  M'Allister,  and  the 
M'Goul,  to  whom  the  wine  was  as 
well  water,  to  ply  the  decanters.  The 
consequence  was,  that  Mr  Stukely, 
not  accustomed  to  such  potations, 
tumbled  off  his  chair  mortal,  and  was 
carried  off  by  the  servants.  Mr 
M'Allister  at  this  endeavoured  to  clap 
his  hands,  but  the  one  went  sound- 
less and  ineffectual  past  the  other, 
which  the  Chief  observing,  gave  a 
shout  of  triumph,  and,  rising  up, 
snapped  his  fingers  victoriously,  and 
taking  hold  of  Mr  M'Allister,  dragged 
him,  as  it  were,  by  the  cuff  of  the 
neck  to  the  drawing-room.  But 
somehow  the  lawyer,  peering  and 
rosy  as  he  was,  escaped  from  his 
clutches,  and  with  professional  pru- 
dence sought  his  bed,  while  the  Mac- 
Goul  went  to  the  ladies  exulting,  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  drawing- 
room  crying— 

"Py  Cot!  py  Cot!" 

Then  he  sat  down  by  Mrs  Crack- 
lings, and  said  to  her,  "  Goot  Cot, 
they  thought  to  fill  me  fou,  but 
Heighland  blood  knows  betters; 
though  I  had  been  all  claret  wine  to 
the  very  pung,  by  Cot,  he  wasn't  the 
M'Goul  that  would  have  been  fou ; 
curse  take  me  if  he  would." 


CHAPTER  X. 


NEXT  morning  the  advocate,  ha- 
ving recovered  from  the  orgies  of 
the  preceding  night,  rose  much  in 
liis  usual ;  and  when  one  of  the  ser- 
•v  ants  brought  the  shaving-water  into 
the  room,  he  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  him  respecting  the  rank 
find  consideration  of  the  other  gueiti. 


Thus  he  acquired  a  lever  by  which 
he  knew  that  he  could  dislodge  the 
Chief  when  he  pleased ;  he  had  only 
to  relate  to  him  their  professions,  to 
make  him  feel  how  much  they  were 
beneath  his  consideration. 

It  accounted  also  to  him,  at  least 
he  thought  so,  for  the  sil«nt  manner 


774 


^0  vft  '< 

The  Chief;  or,  the  Gael  and  the  Sassenach. 


in  which  his  story  was  received,  for 
his  self-love  was  excoriated  by  it,  and 
not  all  the  wine  which  he  afterwards 
drank  could  wash  out  the  remem- 
brance of  the  tragic  comment;  still, 
as  the  guests  were  possessed  of  great 
opulence,  he  had  a  kind  of  sinister 
reverence  for  them,  and  regarded 
the  opportunity  of  cultivating  their 
acquaintance  as  a  sunshiny  inci- 
dent, and  something  to  talk  about 
when  he  returned  home. 

On  descending  to  the  breakfast- 
room  he  found  the  major  part  of 
the  guests  assembled,  and  the  Mac- 
Goul  talking  to  them  as  good  as 
oracular  responses.  Old  Mr  Stuke- 
ly  was  not  present,  the  effects  of 
his  claret  still  confined  him  to  bed; 
and  while  he  remained  there,  it  was 
not  possible  to  talk  with  him  of  the 
Chief's  expectation,  or  any  other 
matter  of  business.  The  M'Goul 
himself  did  not  altogether  feel  the 
propriety  of  the  rule,  but  the  advo- 
cate "  instructed"  that  the  modes  of 
civilized  life  required  an  observance 
of  the  usage.  After  some  time  had 
elapsed,  and  Mr  M'Allister  had  again 
made  himself  agreeable  to  Mrs 
Cracker,  the  biscuit-baker's  wife, 
who  invited  him  to  visit  them  at  Pie- 
crust-Hall, he  walked  out  with  the 
M'Goul,  partly  to  wear  the  day  away, 
and  to  talk  more  particularly  than 
they  had  hitherto  done,  on  the  busi- 
ness which  had  brought  the  Chief  to 
England.  In  the  course  of  this  per- 
ambulation he  happened  to  remark, 
that  their  visit  would  be  more  ex- 
pensive than  they  apprehended ;  for 
with  two  servants,  and  the  style  in 
which  they  had  come,  they  could 
not  but  give  a  handsome  largess  to 
Mr  Stukely's  household. 

This  intelligence  was  evidently 
not  of  the  most  pleasing  kind  to  the 
M'Goul,  for  he  gave  an  emphatic 
umph  when  he  heard  it,  and  chan- 
ging colour,  was  apparently  in  a  pen- 
sive confusion  long  after.  "  But," 
said  the  advocate,  "  considering  the 
sum  you  have  to  receive,  this,  how- 
ever, must  be  overlooked." 

"  Umph,"  again  said  the  Chief, 
who  by  this  time  began  to  doubt  in 
his  own  mind  if  three  thousand 
pounds  would  be  the  sum  he  would 
receive,  and  not  being  quite  in  his 
element,  he  began  to  talk  of  return- 
ing to  London  that  evening. 

«'  Indeed,"  said  the  advocate,  "  I 


Chap.  X.         [May, 

am  not  surprised,  M'Goul,  to  hear 
you  say  so,  for,  with  all  the  shew  of 
riches,  these  are  vulgar  people." 

"  My  Cot,"  said  the  Chief,  "  how 
do  you  know  tat?" 

M'Allister  then  related  what  he 
had  learned  with  so  much  tact  and 
delicacy  in  his  conversation  with  the 
footman  in  the  morning,  and  the 
alarming  astonishment  of  the  Chief 
increased. 

"  You  don't  shay,"  cried  he, "that 
the  shentleman  tat  was  the  lady's 
goodman  peside  you  is  no  petter  than 
Robin  M'Crust,  the  penny-loaf  baker 
atlnverstrone?" 

"  They  are  two  of  a  trade,"  said  the 
advocate. 

«  Tat's  moving,"  cried  the  Chief; 
"  and  what  commodity  is  the  man 
Cracklings  ?" 

"  He,  the  servant  told  me,  was  the 
tallow-chandler  in  Whitechapel,  one 
of  the  warmest  men  in  London." 

"  Ay,"  cried  the  M'Goul,  "  he  is 
very  warm,  for  I  saw  the  draps  on 
his  prow  all  the  time  he  was  eating 
his  dinner,  and  was  very  pitiful ;  but 
Mr  M'Allister,  shurely,  shurely  yon 
fatty  man  has  something  more  than  a 
candle.  We  are  poth,  Mr  M'Allister, 
in  a  jeopardy." 

The  trade  of  Mr  Selvage,  the  slop- 
seller  from  Wapping,  puzzled  even 
the  Edinburgh  lawyer  to  explain; 
and  had  he  not  been  assisted  in 
his  conjectures  by  the  Chief,  they 
both  might  have  remained  to  this 
hour  in  the  dark. 

"  A  slopseller,"  said  Mr  M'Allis- 
ter, "  is,  I  apprehend,  a  victualler,  or 
some  other  dealer  in  soaked  articles, 
for  we  say  a  slop-basin,  a  pail  of 
slops,  and  so  on ;  but  the  precise  na- 
ture of  the  business  I  don't  know." 
"  Ay,  ay,"  said  the  M'Goul,  "  it's 
a  low  trade,  and  that's  al  we  want  to 
know." 

"  But,  Mr  Tinge,  the  drysalter," 
said  Mr  M'Allister ;  "  his  trade  is  a 
puzzler." 

"  Hoo,  no,"  said  the  Chief,  "  it's 
just  making  a  mutton-ham  without 
pickle.  Put,  my  goot  friend,  we  are 
in  a  trouble,  like  a  flea  in  a  tar-bar- 
rel in  sheep-shearing;  how  will  we 
get  away  ?  for  if  I  had  my  monies  I 
would  not  com  among  them  for  half 
an  hour  more." 

This  was  coming  to  the  point;  and 
after  a  long  conversation  it  was 
agreed  between  them,  that  the  Chief 


1833.]          The  Chief}  or,  the  Gael  and  the  Sassenach.  Chap.  X. 


should  return  to  London  as  expedi- 
tiously  as  possible,  and,  to  preserve 
his  dignity,  that  Mr  M'Allister  should 
remain  behind  to  receive  payment  of 
the  debt  which  Mr  Stukely  owed, 
and  return  with  a  coach  that  passed 
in  the  evening.  Accordingly,  when 
they  went  to  the  house  this  arrange- 
ment was  made  known,  and  all 
affected  the  greatest  grief  at  the  in- 
telligence, while  their  hearts  leaped 
with  joy.  A  carriage  and  four  was  in 
consequence  in  due  time  at  the 
door,  Pharick  and  Donald  again 
mounted  the  cross-board,  and  Mr 
Stukely,  notwithstanding  his  head- 
ach,  rose  to  bid  the  Chief  farewell. 
When  this  was  done,  the  Chief  was 
helped  into  the  carriage,  which  pre- 
sently drove  away,  Pharick  playing 
a  dolorous  pibroch  as  they  wended 
their  way  through  the  park.  Far, 
however,  they  had  not  gone,  when 
all  those  who  had  seen  the  Chief  de- 
part, returned  into  the  house  a  little 
surprised,  but  saying  nothing,  on 
seeing  that  Mr  M'Allister  remained 
behind.  He,  however,  was  too  good 
a  man  of  business  to  summer  and 
winter  over  his  task,  and  according- 
ly he  soon  requested  apart  some  pri- 
vate conversation  with  Mr  Stukely; 
and  that  gentleman  took  him  into 
another  room,  where  the  lawyer 
opened  the  colloquy,  by  saying,  that 
he  understood  from  the  M'Goul  that 
Mr  Stukely  was  deeply  in  his  debt. 


775 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
"  it  is  a  debt  I  can  never  pay." 

"  But,"  said  Mr  M'Allister,  "  you 
can  advance  part,  atid  give  security 
for  the  remainder." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
"  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  am  not  instructed,"  replied 
M'Allister,  "  to  abate  much  of  the 
three  thousand  pounds." 

Mr  Stukely  looked  amazed,  and  ex- 
claimed "Three  thousand  pounds  !'* 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr  M'Allister,  "  M<- 
Goul  thinks  the  debt  amounts  to 
about  that  sum." 

"The  debt!"  cried  Mr  Stukely; 
"  what  debt  ?" 

"  That,"  replied  Mr  M'Allister, 
"  which  you  owe  him,  and  which  to 
recover  he  has  come  all  the  way 
from  the  North  of  Scotland.  I  hope, 
sir,  the  Chief  will  not  be  compelled 
to  have  recourse  to  steps  in  law  to 
recover  it." 

"  I  owe  him  much,"  replied  the  old 
man,  "  a  debt  of  gratitude  I  can 
never  sufficiently  pay." 

"  A  debt  of  gratitude !"  cried  the 
lawyer;  and  beginning  to  suspect 
the  truth,  added,  "  that's  a  bad 
debt," 

A  mutual  explanation  then  ensu- 
ed, and  the  lawyer  returned,  by  the 
coach  to  London,  highly  exasperated 
to  think  he  had  been  employed  on 
such  a  gowk's  errand. 


7  70 


The  East  India 


['Mar, 


[(    9D»r- 

i:>  tsii 


10 


EAST  INDIA 


THE  British  Empire  in  India  forms, 
beyond  all  question,  the  most  extra- 
ordinary spectacle  which  the  politi- 
cal world  ever  exhibited.  During 
the  plenitude  of  its  power,  the  Ro- 
man Empire  never  contained  above 
an  hundred  and  twenty  millions  of 
inhabitants,  and  they  were  congre- 
gated round  the  shores  of  the  Medi- 
terranean, with  a  great  internal  sea, 
to  form  their  internal  line  of  com- 
munication, and  an  army  of  400,000 
men  to  secure  the  submission  of 
its  multifarious  inhabitants.  Magni- 
ficent causeways,  emanating  from 
Rome,  the  centre  of  authority,  reach- 
ed the  farthest  extremity  of  its  do- 
minions ;  and  the  Proconsuls,  whe- 
ther they  journeyed  from  the  Forum 
to  the  Wall  of  Antoninus  and  the 
extremities  of  Caledonia,  or  the 
shores  of  the  Euphrates  and  the 
frontiers  of  Parthia,  the  Cataracts 
of  the  Nile,  the  Mountains  of  At- 
las, or  the  banks  of  the  Danube, 
rolled  along  the  great  roads  with 
which  these  indomitable  pioneers  of 
civilisation  had  penetrated  the  wilds 
of  nature.  Their  immense  domi- 
nions were  the  result  of  three  cen- 
turies of  conquest,  and  the  genius 
of  Scipio,  of  Csesar, ,  and  Severus,  not 
less  than  the  civic  virtues  of  Regulus, 
Cato,  and  Cicero,  were  required  to 
extend  and  cement  the  mighty  fabric. 

But  in  the  Eastern  World,  an  Em- 
pire hardly  less  extensive  or  popu- 
lous, embracing  as  great  a  variety 
of  people,  and  rich  in  as  many 
millions  and  provinces,  has  been 
conquered  by  the  British  arms  in 
less  than  eighty  years,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  8000  miles  from  the  parent 
state.  That  vast  region,  the  fabled 
scene  of  opulence  and  grandeur 
since  the  dawn  of  civilisation,  from 
which  the  arms  of  Alexander  rolled 
back,  which  the  ferocity  of  Timour 
but  imperfectly  vanquished,  and  the 


banners  of  Nadir  Shah  traversed  ouly 
to  destroy,  has  been  permanently 
subdued  and  moulded  into  n  regular 
Province  by  a  Company  of  British 
Merchant's,  originally  settled  as  ob- 
scure traffickers  on  the  shores  of 
Hindostan,  who  have  been  dragged 
to  their  present  perilous  height  of 
power  by  incessant  attempts  at  their 
destruction  by  the  native  Princes ; 
whose  rise  was  contemporaneous 
with  numerous  and  desperate  strug- 
gles of  the  British  nation  with  its 
European  rivals,  and  who  never  had 
a  fourth  part  of  the  national  strength 
at  their  command.  For  such  a  body, 
in  such  times,  and  with  such  forces, 
to  have  acquired  so  immense  a  do- 
minion, is  one  of  those  prodigies  of 
civilisation  of  which  the  history  of 
the  last  half  century  is  so  full ;  with 
which  we  are  too  familiar  to  be  able 
to  apprehend  the  wonder,  and  which 
must  be  viewed  by  mankind,  sim- 
plified by  distance,  and  gilded  by 
the  colours  of  history,  before  its  due 
proportions  can  be  understood. 

The  British  Empire  in  India,  ex- 
tending now,  with  few  interruptions, 
and  those  only  of  tributary  or  allied 
States,  from  Cape  Comorin  to  the 
Himalaya  Mountains,  comprehends 
by  far  the  richest  and  most  impor- 
tant part  of  Asia,  is  double  in  extent 
of  the  area  of  Europe,*  contains 
about  a  hundred  millions  of  in- 
habitants, and  yields  a  revenue  of 
twenty-two  millions  yearly.f  The 
land-forces  consist  of '250,060  native 
troops,  and  35,000  British,  all  in  the 
very  highest  state  of  discipline  and 
equipment;  and  this  immense  force 
raised  by  voluntary  enrolment,  with- 
out conscription  or  compulsory  ser- 
vice beingeverheard  of.:]:  SopopuJar 
is  the  Company's  service,  and  bound- 
less the  public  confidence  in  the  fideli- 
ty with  which  it  discharges  its  en- 
gagements, that  the  only  difficulty  the 


*   The  Company's  Territory  consists  of  514,000  square  miles;  including  the  pro- 
tected States,  it  embraces  1,128,800  square  miles. 

t  L.22,691,000.     Hist.  Sketch  of  India,  p.  208. 

^|    A  Brief  Inquiry  into  the   State  and   Prospects  of  India.      By  an   Eyewitness 
in  the  Military  Service  of  the  Company,  [William  Sinclair,  Esq.]     Svc. 
Edinburgh  •  and  Cadell,  London.     1833, 


1833.] 


The  East  India  Question. 


777 


authorities  have,  is  to  select  the  most 
worthy  from  among  the  numerous 
competitors  who  are  desirous  to  be 
enrolled  under  i  ts  banners ;  and  if  pub- 
lic  danger  is  threatened,  or  the  Rus- 
sian eagles  approached  the  Indus,  this 
force  might  be  instantly  raised,  by 
the  same  means,  to  a  million  of  arm- 
ad  men.*  When  the  British  power 
was  threatened  with  a  double  attack, 
ind  the  Rajah  of  Bhurtporc  raised 
"Jie  standard  of  revolt,  at  the  time 
when  the  bulk  of  the  British  forces 
were  entangled  in  the  jungles  of  the 
[rrawady,  or  dying  under  the  fevers 
af  Arracan,  the  firm  and  resolute 
Grovernment  of  Calcutta  shewed  no 
symptoms  of  vacillation;  with  the 
right  hand,  they  humbled  what  the 
Orientals  styled  the  giant  strength  of 
Ava,  while,  with  the  left,  they  crush- 
ed the  rising  power  of  the  Northern 
Rajahs;  and  while  a  larger  force 
ihan  combated  in  Portugal  was  pur- 
suing the  career  of  conquest  in  the 
"Burmese  Empire,  and  advancing  the 
"British  standard  almost  to  the  towers 
of  Ummerapoora,  a  greater  host  than 
the  native  British  who  conquered  at 
Waterloo,  assembled,  as  if  by  en- 
chantment, round  the  walls  of  Bhurt- 
pore,  and,  at  the  distance  of  2000 
miles  from  Calcutta,  and  10,000  from 
the  British  Isles,  carried  the  last  and 
hitherto  impregnable  stronghold  of 
Hindoo  independence.f 

Nor  are  the  civil  triumphs  of  this 
extraordinary  Government  less  sur- 
prising than  its  vast  display  of  mili- 
tary strength,  and  unconquerable 
political  courage.  While  under  the 
native  Princes,  the  state  of  capital 
was  so  insecure,  that  twelve  per  cent 
was  the  common,  and  36  per  cent 
not  an  unusual  rate  of  interest, 
inder  the  British  rule,  the  interest 
on  the  public  debt  has,  for  the  first 
i  ime  in  Eastern  history,  been  lower- 
ed to  5  per  cent ;  and  at  this  very  re- 
duced rate,  the  capitalists  of  Arabia 
and  Armenia  have  transmitted  their 
surplus  funds  to  the  Company's 
Stock,  as  to  the  most  secure  invest- 
ment in  the  East.J  Of  the  Com- 
pany's debt  of  L.49,210,000  sterling^ 


a  large  proportion  is  due  to  na- 
tive or  Asiatic  capitalists ;  and  such 
is  the  unbounded  confidence  in  the 
good  faith  and  probity  of  that  dread- 
ed body,  that  bales,  stamped  with 
their  signet,  circulate,  unopened,  like 
coined  money,  through  the  vast  Em- 
pire of  China,  j|  So  complete  has 
been  the  protection,  so  ample  the 
security,  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  9 
British  Provinces,  compared  with 
what  obtains  under  the  native  Ra- 
jahs, that  the  people  from  every 
part  of  India  flock  to  the  three  Presi- 
dencies ;  and,  as  Bishop  Heber  has 
observed,  the  extension  of  the  fron- 
tiers of  the  Company's  Empire  is 
immediately  followed  by  a  vast  con- 
course of  population,  and  increase  of 
industry,  by  the  settlers  from  the 
adjoining  native  dominions. 

To  complete  the  almost  fabulous 
wonders  of  this  Oriental  domi- 
nion, it  has  been  achieved  by  a 
mercantile  Company,  in  an  island 
of  the  Atlantic,  possessing  no  terri- 
torial force  at  home;  who  merely 
took  into  their  temporary  pay,  while 
in  India,  such  parts  of  the  English 
troops  as  could  be  spared  from  the 
contests  of  European  ambition ;  who 
never  at  any  period  had  30,000  Eng- 
lish in  their  service ;  while  their  civil 
and  military  servants  do  not  exceed 
4000,  the  number  of  persons  whopro- 
ceed  yearly  to  India,  in  every  capacity, 
is  only  600,  including  women  and  chil- 
drenjf  andthetotal  number  of  whites 
who  exist  among  the  hundred  mil- 
lions of  the  sable  inhabitants  is  hardly 
40,000.  So  enormous,  indeed,  is 
the  disproportion  between  the  Bri- 
tish rulers  and  the  native  subjects, 
that  it  is  literally  true  what  the  Hin- 
doos say,  that  if  every  one  of  the 
followers  of  Brama  were  to  throw  a 
handful  of  earth  on  the  Europeans, 
they  would  be  buried  alive  in  the 
midst  of  their  conquests. 

Religious  difference,  and  the  ex- 
clusive possession  of  power  by  per- 
sons of  one  political  persuasion,  has 
been  found  to  be  an  insuperable  bar 
to  the  pacification  of  European  states; 
and  close  to  the  centre  of  her  power, 


*   Sinclair's  India,  p.  46. 

f  36,000  red  coats,  and  190  pieces  of  cannon,   were  collected  by  Lord  Comber- 
rnere  to  besiege  that  important  city. 

|   Sinclair's  India,  p.  13.  §   Parliamentary  Papers,  May, 

|j    Sinclair,  p.  13,  ^  Sinclair,  p.  27, 


778  The,  East  India  Question, 

Ireland  has  from  these  causes,  for 
above  a  century,  been  a  continual 
source  of  weakness  to  England.  But 
in  her  Eastern  Empire,  political  ex- 
clusion far  more  rigid,  religious  dis- 
tinctions far  more  irreconcilable, 
Jhave,  under  the  able  and  judicious 
management  of  the  Company,  proved 
no  obstacle  to  the  consolidation  of  a 
vast  and  peaceable  dominion.  Mr 
Sinclair,  in  his  able  pamphlet,  tells 
us  that, 

"  In  India,  notwithstanding  the  long 
period  that  some  districts  have  been  in 
British  possession,  and  the  universal  peace 
which  reigns  from  the  Himalaya  moun- 
tains to  Comorin,  the  natives  are  still  in- 
eligible to  offices  of  trust." 

The  separation  arising  from  reli- 
gious difference,  is  still  more  marked 
and  insuperable.  The  same  intelli- 
gent author  and  acute  observer  re- 
marks, 


"  Not  only  do  we  find  in  the  army  Hin- 
doos of  every  province,  of  every  tribe,  and 
of  every  dialect,  Hindostanee,  Dukhnee, 
Telinga,  Tamil,  and  Mahratta,  both  the 
worshippers  of  Shiva,  and  the  worshippers 
of  Vishnoo,  but  we  find  also  a  multitude 
of  Mahomedans,  both  of  the  Soonee  and 
Shiah  sects,  together  with  Protestant  and 
Romanist  half-castes,  and  even  Jews  and 
Ghebirs.  Although  all  classes  live  toge- 
ther on  terms  of  mutual  forbearance,  and 
although  this  amazing  diversity  of  reli- 
gious sentiment  in  no  way  interrupts  the 
chain  of  military  subordination,  as  soon 
as  the  regimental  parade  is  dismissed, 
they  break  into  sectional  coteries ;  the 
gradation  of  caste  is  restored  ;  the  Sudra 
Serjeant  makes  his  salaam  to  the  Brahmin 
or  Rajpoot  private  ;  the  Mussulman 
avoids  the  Christian ;  the  Shiah  the  Soo- 
nee ;  the  Hindoo  all ;  and  thus  an  almost 
impassable  barrier  of  mutual  mistrust 
and  jealousy  obstructs  all  amalgamation 
of  opinion,  or  unity  of  action,  even  on 
those  national  subjects  which,  separately 
and  independently,  interest  the  whole 
body." 

It  is  a  government  of  no  ordinary 
kind,  which,  with  such  materials, 
has  constructed  so  wonderful  an 
Empire;  which,  with  a  European 
force  seldom  amounting  to  20,000 
troops,*  has  conquered  an  Empire  of 
greater  wealth  and  magnitude  than 


[May, 

thousand  British  officers  and  judges,f 
has  contrived  to  discipline  the  for- 
ces, and  secure  the  affections,  and 
mould  into  an  efficient  form  the 
strength  of  a  hundred  millions  of 
Hindoos;  which  has  amalgamated  the 
prejudices,  and  healed  the  divisions 
of  so  discordant  a  population;  and 
penetrated  the  vast  extent  of  the 
Eastern  world,  not  only  with  the 
terror  of  its  power,  but  the  jus- 
tice of  its  sway.  The  complete  and 
practical  solution  of  this  problem,  by 
the  Indian  Government,  must  appear 
still  more  extraordinary,  if  it  is  re- 
collected what  extreme  difficulties 
the  rulers  of  the  Parent  State  have 
experienced  during  the  same  time, 
in  moderating  the  transports,  and 
restraining  the  passions  of  Ireland; 
and  the  mild  and  pacific  character  of 
our  Eastern  rule,  is  contrasted  with 
the  fierce  indignation  and  discordant 
interests  which  are  about  to  tear 
from  the  British  Empire  the  right 
arm  of  its  strength  in  the  West  India 
Islands. 

The  history  of  the  English  power 
in  India,  taken  as  a  whole,  is  yet  to 
be  written ;  and  few  more  splendid 
or  instructive  subjects  await  the 
pen  of  genius,  during  the  decline  of 
the  British  Empire.  Like  most  other 
subjects  which  have  been  treated  for 
the  last  thirty  years  in  English  lite- 
rature, it  has  hitherto  been  the  sub- 
ject only  of  party  invective.  Mr 
Mill's  History,  amongst  much  valu- 
able information,  and  many  just  re- 
marks, is  disfigured  by  a  constant 
attempt  to  underrate  the  services, 
and  conceal  the  great  [achievements 
of  the  East  India  Company.  He  re- 
presents its  territorial  possessions  as 
a  colossal  empire,  based  on  violence 
and  cemented  by  fraud.  Without 
disputing  that  in  the  course  of  its 
struggles  many  unjustifiable  acts 
were  occasionally  committed,  it 
may  safely  be  anticipated,  that  the 
sober  voice  of  impartial  history  will 
declare,  that  few  political  fabrics  of 
such  magnitude  nave  been  reared 
with  BO  little  application  of  exter- 
nal injustice ;  that  its  progressive 
growth  was  occasioned  by  the  coali- 
tions formed  for  its  overthrow ;  that 


that  of  Russia;  which,  with  a  few\  its  unparalleled  successes  arose  out 


*  It  is  now  raised  to  35,762.— United  Service  Journal. 

f  The  military  servants  of  the  Company  are  about  4000  -f  the  civil,  1200. 


1333.] 


The  East  India  Question. 


779 


of  a  defensive  system  of  warfare, 
and  its  immense  conquests  were  li- 
tt  rally  forced  upon  its  rulers  by  the 
v.ilour  of  its  troops  and  the  sagacity 

0  '  its  Government,  in  these  struggles 
for  existence  ;    and  that  under  its 
sway  life  and  property  have  been 
more    effectually    secured,    and    a 
g. -eater  degree  of  stability  and  pros- 
perity given  to  the  elements  of  so- 
c  ety,  than  has  been  ever  witnessed 
in  the  East  since  the  descendants  of 
C  ham  overspread  its  plains. 

One  single  observation  must  be 
s  ifficient,  with  every  impartial  mind, 
to  demonstrate  the  groundless  na- 
ture of  these  invectives  against  our 
Eastern  administration.  Power 
founded  on  injustice,  conquests  ac- 
companied with  desolating  effects, 
never  are  of  long  duration.  All  the 
energy  of  Republican  France — all 
the  genius  of  Napoleon,  could  not 
establish  in  Europe  the  blasting  do- 
minion of  democratic  power.  In 
vain  hundreds  of  thousands  were  an- 
nually sent  forth  by  its  able  rulers  to 
tfie  harvest  of  death — the  colossal 
fabric  fell  at  length  before  the  col- 
lected indignation  of  mankind.  Why 
was  it  that  the  empire  of  the  Romans 
vas  so  durable  ?  Because  they  not 
only  conquered  the  world  by  their 
arms,  but  humanized  it  by  their  in- 
stitutions; because,  under  the  pro* 
tecting  arm  of  the  legions,  internal 
peace  was  secured  over  its  vast  sur- 
fice;  because,  with  wisdom  ever 
since  unexampled,  they  consulted 
tie  interests,  and  delicately  touched 
en  the  prejudices,  of  the  vanquished 
States ;  and  the  majesty  of  the  Eni- 

1  ire  was  felt  as  much  in  the  benefits 
v/hich  were  showered  on  the  pro- 
winces  from   the  Imperial  Govern- 
i  lent,  as  in  the  revenues  which  flow- 
( d  from  all  quarters  into  the  public 
treasury.    Why  is  it,  in  like  manner, 
that  the  progress  of  the  Russian  Ein- 
j.ire  is  so  permanent,  and  that  the 
standards  of  that  vast'  Power  have 
i  ever  receded    since  the    days  of 
Peter  ?   Because  the  inestimable  be- 
nefits of  a  strong  Government,  among 
Ihe  unruly  tribes  whom  she  has  re- 
duced to  subjection,  are  feuch  as  to 
supersede  all  the  jealousies  of  rival 
States,  and  obliterate  all  the  heart- 
burnings at  the  loss  of  national  in- 
dependence ;  because  great  and  sub- 
stantial  benefits  flow  to  the  van- 
quished from  the  Muscovite  rule, 


and  the  Imperial  Eagle  is  the  signal 
of  increased  industry,  contentment, 
and  happiness,  to  the  wanderino-  in- 
habitants of  the  Scythian  plains?  It 
is  the  same  with  the  Government  of 
the  Company  in  India;  it  has  ad- 
vanced so  steadily,  and  endured  so 
long,  because  it  is,  upon  the  whole, 
based  in  its  administration  upon  jus- 
tice and  wisdom  ;  because  great 
practical  benefits  have  been  found  to 
follow  the  establishment  of  its  em- 
pire; and  because  the  people  every- 
where find  enough  in  the  superior 
tranquillity  and  protection  which 
they  enjoy  under  the  British  rule,  to 
compensate  the  mortification  to  their 
national  feelings,  which  must  attend 
the  extinction  of  their  political  divi- 
sions, and  the  blight  to  their  indivi- 
dual ambition,  which  arises  from  the 
appropriation  of  all  situations  of  im- 
portance to  the  European  functiona- 
ries. It  is  accordingly  a  singular  and 
most  instructive  fact,  that,  while  the 
inhabitants  of  the  northern  provinces 
of  Turkey  and  Persia  which  adjoin 
the  Russian  empire,  are  all  crowding 
in  multitudes  to  settle  under  the 
shelter  of  the  Imperial  Eagle,  those 
of  the  southern  regions  of  Asia  are 
all  emigrating,  as  Heber  observed, 
to  the  British  dominions  in  Hindos- 
tan — a  memorable  example  of  the 
blessings  conferred  upon  mankind  f 
by  European  instead  of  Asiatic  rule, 
and  of  the  vast  purposes  in  the  pro- 
gress of  the  world  which  these  two 
gigantic  empires  were  destined  to 
effect  at  the  opposite  extremities  of 
the  Eastern  world. 

The  practical  blessings  which  have 
accrued  to  the  inhabitants  of  India 
from  the  extension  and  establish- 
ment of  the  British  dominion,  are 
thus  strongly  and  admirably  illus- 
trated by  Mr  Sinclair  in  his  recent 
Pamphlet  on  Indian  affairs. 

"  Although  the  nation  suffers  under 
the  evils  inseparable  from  a  foreign  domi- 
nation, and  though  the  ancient  families 
of  rank  and  fortune  have  irrecoverably 
fallen  from  their  former  *  palmy  state/ 
and  have  almost  every  where  been  strip-  i 
pedof  their  wealth,  power,  and  influence, 
yet  the  mass  of  the  people  have  been  re. 
lieved  from  many  intolerable  grievances  ; 
and,  though  still  subject  to  severe  and 
oppressive  taxation,  appear  to  be  con- 
tented with  our  Government,  and  pros- 
perous  in  their  industry.  Few  countries,, 
indeed,  in  Asia  have  ever  increased  in 


780 


The  East  India  Question. 


[May, 


prosperity  and  intelligence  or  have  risen 
from  a  state  of  decay  into  importance, 
with  a  more  rapid  progress ;  and  nothing 
but  the  blindest  prejudice  will  deny  that 
this  amelioration  of  its  internal  condition 
is  mainly  to  be  attributed  to  the  fostering 
care  and  judicious  exertions  of  the  Go- 
vernment. 

"  The  first  thing  which  strikes  an  at- 
tentive observer,  and  which  no  traveller 
|  has  omitted  to  mention,  is  the  satisfaction 
and  delight  which  the  enjoyment  of  inter- 
nal peace  has  spread  over  the  whole 
country.  Englishmen,  who  have  so  long 
been  blessed  with  domestic  tranquillity, 
and  to  whom  the  idea  of  an  invasion  pre- 
sents only  a  vague  and  indistinct  picture 
of  general  confusion,  bloodshed,  and 
rapine,  cannot  readily  conceive  the  full- 
ness of  delight  which  animates  the  Hin- 
doo peasant,  who  has  had  a  wretched  ex- 
perience of  these  frightful  realities,  or 
the  gratitude  he  feels  to  those  who  pro- 
tect him  from  them,  and  enable  him  to 
reap  his  harvest  in  security;  who  defend 
his  home  from  profanation,  and  his  sub- 
stance from  the  extortion  of  the  power- 
ful. 

"  We  may  next  observe  the  general 
subsidence  of  that  predatory  spirit,  which 
is  at  once  a  cause  and  a  consequence  of 
general  license  and  insecurity.  The 
excitement  of  military  enterprise,  the 
aversion  to  steady  labour,  and  the  love  of 
conquest  and  spoliation,  appear  so  con- 
genial to  the  undisciplined  and  ill-regu- 
lated mind,  that  we  ought  not  to  be  sur- 
prised at  the  extent  to  which  it  was 
carried ;  more  especially  if  we  consider 
that,  when  the  cottage  of  a  husbandman 
was  burnt,  and  his  family  reduced  to  a 
state  of  misery  and  want,  he  had  hardly 
any  other  resource  than  to  join  some  band 
of  plunderers,  and  in  the  wantonness  of 
vengeance  and  despair,  plunge  others  into 
the  same  poverty  and  ruin  under  which 
he  himself  was  suffering.  The  strong 
arm  of  British  power  has  put  an  end  to 
this  dreadful  system,  and  has  succeeded 
in  dissolving  these  hordes  of  robbers. 
Many  turbulent  spirits,  who  carried  terror 
and  dismay  over  whole  provinces,  are  now 
converted  into  peaceful  and  industrious 
cultivators;  arid  are  so  restrained,  by 
the  judicious  distribution  of  the  army,  and 
by  the  increased  efficiency  of  the  police, 
that,  at  present,  the  Looties  and  Pindar- 
ries  seldom  venture  to  appear,  because 
they  feel  a  wholesome  terror  that  they 
would  be  overtaken  or  detected,  and 
signally  punished.  But  if  this  unwonted 
feeling  of  security  against  a  hostile  inva- 
sion is  perceptible,  even  in  the  provinces 
which  have  enjoyed  British  protection 
for  the  Ipngeit  period,  how  much  stronger 


must  it  be  in  those  which  hare  been 
lately  rescued  from  a  state  of  anarchy, 
misery,  and  bloodshed  unparalleled  in 
the  modern  history  of  the  world  ?  No- 
thing, certainly,  can  be  more  gratifying  to 
an  Englishman,  than  to  travel  through 
the  Central  and  Western  provinces,  so 
long  the  theatre  of  merciless  and  incessant 
war,  and  to  witness  the  wonderful  change 
which  has  every  where  been  wrought. 
Every  village  in  that  part  of  the  country 
was  closely  surrounded  by  fortifications  ; 
and  no  man  ventured  to  go  to  the  labours 
of  the  plough  or  the  loom,  without  being 
armed  with  his  sword  and  shield.  Now, 
the  forts  ere  useless,  and  are  slowly 
crumbling  into  ruin  ;  substantial  houses 
begin,  for  the  first  time,  to  be  erected  in 
the  open  plain ;  cultivation  is  extended 
over  the  distant  and  undefended  fields ; 
the  useless  incumbrance  of  defensive 
arras  is  laid  aside,  and  the  peasant  may 
venture  fearlessly  to  enjoy  the  wealth  and 
comforts  which  his  industry  and  labour 
enable  him  to  acquire.  In  short,  we  may 
safely  assert,  that  the  course  of  events, 
during  the  last  fifteen  years,  has  done 
more  than  the  whole  preceding  century 
to  improve  the  condition  of  the  middle 
and  lower  classes  throughout  India— to 
give  them  a  taste  for  the  comforts  and 
conveniences  of  life — and  to  relieve  their 
industry  from  the  paralysis  under  which 
a  long  continuance  of  internal  dissension 
had  caused  it  to  sink." 

Nothing  can  be  more  satisfactory 
than  to  see,  on  the  impartial  testi- 
mony of  this  able  eyewitness,  now 
retired  from  the  Company's  service, 
and,  therefore,  noways  interested  in 
winning  its  favour,  such  decisive 
evidence  in  favour  of  the  general 
beneficence  of  their  administration. 
It  might  have  been  inferred,  a  priori, 
from  the  facts  of  its  steady  progress 
and  long  continuance ;  but  it  is  dou- 
bly satisfactory  to  have  it  established 
by  the  united  authority  of  theory 
and  experience. 

The  admirable  effects  of  the  Com- 
pany's Government  upon  the  inter- 
nal communications  and  rural  eco- 
nomy of  the  country  are  equally  sa- 
tisfactory. 

"  Nor  ought  we  to  forget  the  many 
excellent  roads  by  which  the  great  towns 
are  now  connected,  instead  of  the  wretch- 
ed and  scarcely  practicable  footpaths 
which  formerly  were  the  only  means 
of  communication ;  nor  the  passes  open- 
ed through  the  mountains,  giving  the 
inland  provinces  an  easy  access  to  the 
sea,  and  a  ready  market  for  their  pro- 


The  East  India  Question. 


781 


ductions;  nor  the  trees  planted  every- 
where both  for  ornament  and  use;  nor 
the  choultries,  or  houses  for  the  accom- 
modation of  travellers,  everywhere  erect- 
eu  along  the  great  roads ;  nor,  lastly, 
should  we  omit  the  tanks  and  aqueducts 
which  have  been  dug  or  repaired  with  all 
the  advantages  of  science ;  and  which, 
siice  almost  all  cultivation  in  tropical 
ciuntries  depends  on  irrigation,  have 
given  plenty  where  there  was  scarcity, 
and  have  roused  up  industry  and  intelli- 
gence, where  the  eye  of  the  traveller  be- 
held only  wretchedness,  poverty,  and 
depression.  What  can  be  more  interest- 
ing and  delightful  than  to  arrive  at  some 
sequestered  village,  where  a  reservoir, 
or  artificial  water-course,  has  been  newly 
constructed  ;  to  see  the  Ryots  cheerfully 
busied  in  the  labours  of  the  field,  and  to 
hear  them  pour  out  benedictions  on  the 
pi.rental  government  to  which  they  owe 
the  happy  change  from  insecurity  and 
desolation,  to  tranquillity,  domestic  com- 
fort, and  abundance?" 

Nor  have  those  improvements 
which  more  immediately  affect  the 
moral  and  intellectual  elevation  of 
the  species,  and  prepare  it  at  some 
jp;  future  period  to  receive  the  spiritual 
faith  of  Christianity  been  neglected. 

"  Of  late,  various  plans,  still  more  be- 
neficial, have  been  introduced,  which  only 
European  intellect  and  perseverance 
could  have  carried  into  successful  opera- 
tion. No  doubt,  it  is  from  India  that  we 
ourselves  have  learned  the  invaluable 
S)  stem  of  education  which  now  prevails 
in  our  national  schools,  and  which,  though 
beginning  to  decline,  had  been  in  use 
through  some  of  the  Madras  provinces 
from  remote  antiquity.  But  we  are  now 
paying  back,  with  accumulated  interest, 
tie  debt  we  o\ve.  Not  only  have  the 
ancient  schools  in  the  Carnatic  been  pre- 
served and  renovated,  but,  under  the  wise 
and  liberal  administration  of  the  late  go- 
vernors, the  system  has  been,  or  is  about 
to  be,  extended  to  every  subdivision  of 
the  empire,  with  those  improvements 
which  experience  has  shewn  to  be  best 
fi'ted  for  the  diffusion  of  useful  know- 
ledge. School-books  of  a  better  quality 
and  sounder  morality  begin  to  be  dili- 
gently prepared j  and  the  Moonshees  and 
Tandits  intrusted  with  the  office  of  su- 
perintendents are  carefully  selected,  and 
undergo,  before  their  appointment,  a 
strict  examination  as  to  their  character 
and  qualifications. 

"  In  the  colleges  an  important  change 
Ins  lately  taken  place.  For  a  long  time, 
#ii  absurd  and  groundless  belief  prevailed, 


even  among  zealous  advocates  of  Indian 
education,  that  the  Hindoos  were  disin- 
clined to  European  learning,  and  exclu- 
sively attached  to  their  own.  No  idea 
could  be  more  unfounded  or  injurious. 
From  interest,  from  vanity  and  ambition, 
and,  in  some  cases  perhaps,  from  taste, 
they  willingly  devote  themselves  to  the 
study  of  our  language  auu  literature;  and,  ^ 
at  the  very  time  when  our  seminaries 
were  diligently  instructing  them  in  their 
own  useless  and  exploded  systems,  the  in- 
stitutions endowed  by  themselves,  and, 
in  particular,  the  celebrated  Vidyalaya, 
or  Hindoo  college  of  Calcutta,  had  aban- 
doned these  absurdities  for  European 
erudition.  Our  errors  iti  this  respect  are 
now  amended.  In  the  collegiate  esta- 
blishments supported  by  government 
throughout  the  principal  cities,  the  course 
and  scope  of  native  study  have  been 
greatly  reformed,  and  instruction  of  a 
sounder  as  well  as  higher  description  has 
been  ingrafted  on  the  original  plan ; 
while,  in  the  Talook  schools,  and  the 
numerous  places  of  education  establish- 
ed by  missionaries  of  all  classes,  elemen- 
tary information  and  practical  knowledge 
are  afforded  to  an  increasing  proportion 
of  the  people." 

From  the  connection  with  Great 
Britain,  a  taste  for  English  manu- 
factures is  now  decidedly  spreading 
through  the  vast  native  population 
of  India.  This  fact  was  long  ago 
observed  by  Bishop  Heber,  and 
the  growing  trade  for  English  luxu- 
ries pointed  out  by  that  enlightened 
prelate,  as  the  source  of  incalculable 
wealth  to  the  mother  country,  if 
her  connection  with  the  East  was  not 
severed  by  rash  measures  of  legisla- 
tion in  the  British  Parliament;  and 
the  same  gratifying  change  is  farther 
confirmed  by  the  more  recent  obser- 
vation of  Mr  Sinclair. 

"  The  calicoes  and  long  cloths  of  Pais- 
ley and  Manchester,"  he  observes,  "  have 
now  obtained  as  undisputed  possession  of 
the  markets  of  the  East,  as  the  hardware 
and  woollens  of  Sheffield,  Birmingham, 
and  Leeds  ;  and  it  must  be  admitted,  that 
the  abundance  and  cheapness  of  those 
European  manufactures,  which  the  simple 
and  contented  Hindoo  requires,  are  add- 
ing much  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of 
the  majority  of  the  people. 

"  But  a  speculation  has  lately  been 
attcmptad,  which,  if  successful,  appears 
likely  to  re-establish  the  cotton  manu- 
facture in  the  country  of  its  birth.  Ma- 
chinery and  steam-engines,  for  weaving 

^«ci  woiftb9h*q  Jt*|«&  *!•:• 


782 


.  The  East  India  Question. 


[May, 


and  spinning  both  cotton  and  silk,  have 
been  exported,  and  are  worked  by  menus 
of  coal,  which  has  been  discovered  in 
several  parts  of  the  Bengal  provinces. 
Should  this  great  experiment  succeed — 
and  we  know  not  why  we  should  ex- 
press a  doubt — what  a  noble  and  bound- 
less prospect  does  it  open  for  Indian  skill 
and  industry  !" 

The  liberal  and  enlightened  con- 
duct of  the  East  India  Company,  in 
encouraging  the  cultivation  of  cotton 
and  indigo,  has  been  rewarded,  not 
merely  by  the  prodigious  increase  of 
that  boundless  source  of  wealth,  but 
by  the  growth  of  a  middling  class  in 
society ;  a  body  of  men  hitherto  al- 
most unknown  in  the  East, but  whose 
appearance  is  the  certain  indication 
of  a  Government  beneficent  and 
paternal  in  actual  practice. 

"  Nor  has  this  class  of  persons  been 
debarred  from  the  pursuits  of  agriculture  ; 
for,  after  due  enquiry  and  deliberation, 
the  Government  suffered  planters,  whose 
good  conduct  is  secured  by  the  dread  of 
expulsion,  to  cultivate  farms,  which,  at 
first,  they  occupied  under  the  names  of 
Hindoos,  but  are  now  permitted  to  hold 
in  their  own.  The  effect  of  this  prudent 
liberality  has  been  the  conferring  of  a 
boon  on  India,  among  the  greatest  she 
ever  received.  Every  reader  must  be 
awnre,  that,  in  consequence  of  improve- 
ments in  the  culture  and  preparation  of 
indigo,  that  important  article  of  com- 
merce is  now  almost  entirely  raised  in 
our  Eastern  dominions,  and  that  the 
Americans  and  Brazilians  have  ceased, 
in  a  great  degree,  to  cultivate  the  plant. 
.This  great  benefit  to  India  was  the  result 
of  British  enterprise  and  skill ;  and  there 
is  reason  to  hope  that  other  similar  ad- 
vantages may  follow  from  the  further  re- 
.laxation  by  the  Government  of  the  re- 
strictions indispensable  in  the  infancy  of 
our  power. 

"  An  important  evidence  that  the  ad- 
vantages above  enumerated  are  real  and 
substantial,  and  that  the  establishment 
of  British  power  has,  on  the  whole,  been 
beneficial  to  Hindostan,  is  the  slow  but 
evident  rise  of  a  middle  class.  In  former 
times,  and  to  a  great  extent  in  the  pre- 
sent day,  the  population  was  divided  into 
two  classes — a  few  nabobs  and  rajahs 
possessed  of  inordinate  wealth,  and  the 
mass  of  the  people  in  a  state  of  abject 
poverty.  With  a  view  of  suiting  the  de- 
mands of  these  two  classes,  the  industry 
of  Indian  artizans  was  exclusively  direct- 
ed  to  fabricate  the  coarsest  necessaries 
-for  the  one,  and  the  most  costly  articles 


of  luxury  and  ostentation  for  the  other. 
The  manufacture,  indeed,  of  these  latter 
articles,  as  for  example,  of  brocades  in 
the  Circars,  and  of  muslins  in  Dacca,  has 
been  greatly  diminished,  in  consequence 
of  the  revolutions,  which  have  ruined,  to 
a  great  degree,  the  ancient  nobles  and 
landed  proprietors — the  nabobs  and 
Zemindars  ;  but  now,  the  articles  manu- 
factured, as  well  as  the  importations 
from  Europe,  which  exceed  the  consump- 
tion of  British  subjects,  mark  the  gradual, 
though  slow  and  tardy,  growth  of  an 
intermediate  order,  to  whose  taste  "and 
necessities  these  productions  are  adapt- 
ed." 

We  have  dwelt  so  long  on  the  in- 
ternal administration  of  the  East 
India  Company,  because  it  is  a  sub- 
ject of  which  the  people  of  this 
country,  who  are  so  soon  to  be  called 
on  through  their  representatives,  to 
decide  on  the  mighty  concerns  of  the 
East,  are  almost  wholly  ignorant, 
and  because  it  is,  in  truth,  the  most 
important  topic  which  can  be  pre- 
sented to  the  consideration  of  any 
enlightened  or  benevolent  legisla- 
ture. For,  in  truth,  the  real  test  of 
the  civil  merits  of  a  Government  is 
to  be  found  in  its  internal  admini- 
stration ;  and  the  prosperity  and  con- 
tentment of  its  subjects,  is  the  most 
unequivocal  demonstration  of  the 
wisdom  and  beneficence  of  its  sway. 
And  as  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  English  people,  at  the  expiry  of 
the  charter,  will  be  abundantly  sti- 
mulated to  look  after  their  own  imme- 
diate interests  in  the  establishment 
of  a  Government  for  India,  it  is  of 
the  more  importance  that  all  who 
have  the  ultimate  interests  of  their 
country  at  heart,  and  are  anxious  for 
the  increase  of  the  sum  of  human 
happiness,  through  all  its  immense 
territory,  whether  inhabited  by  sable 
or  pale-faced  subjects,  should  be 
fully  aware  of  the  vast  interests,  not 
only  to  their  country,  but  humanity 
at  large,  which  are  at  issue  on  the 
question. 

It  augments  our  admiration  at 
the  wisdom  and  beneficence  of  the 
Indian  Government,  that  these  pro- 
digious benefits  have  been  conferred 
by  them  upon  their  subjects  during 
a  period  chequered  with  the  most 
desperate  wars,  when  the  existence 
of  the  English  authority  was  fre- 
quently at  stake,  and  the  whole 
energies  of  Government  were  necei- 


1033.] 


The  East  India  Question. 


783 


eerily  directed,  in  the  first  instance, 
td  the  preservation  of  their  national 
h  dependence.  During  the  growth 
o*  this  astonishing  prosperity  in  the 
Indian  Provinces,  the  Peninsula  has 
bien  the  seat  of  almost  unceasing 
m  or.  It  has  witnessed  the  two  terrible 
contests  with  Tippoo  Saib,  and  the 
alternations  of  fortune,  from  the  hor- 
rors of  the  Black  Hole  at  Calcutta, 
to  the  storming  of  Seringapatara;  the 
long  and  bloody  Mahratta  wars;  the 
Fhidarry  conflict  ;  the  Goorkha  cam- 
p  ligns ;  the  storming  of  Bhurtpore, 
a  id  the-  murderous  warfare  in  the 
B  urmese  Empire.  During  the  seventy 
yaars  of  its  recent  and  unexampled 
g  -owth,  more  than  twelve  long  and 
bloody  wars  have  been  maintained ; 
the  military  strength  of  eighty  mil- 
lijns  of  men,  headed  and  directed 
by  French  officers,  has  been  broken, 
a  id  greatness  insensibly  forced  upon 
the  Company,  in  the  continual  strug- 

fe  to  preserve  its  existence.  The 
idian  Government  has  been  but  for 
a  foort  period  in  the  quiet  possession 
o  '  its  dominions.  Sixteen  years  only 
h  ive  elapsed  since  the  Mahratta 
confederacy  was  finally  broken;  its 
e  forts,  for  a  long  period,  have  been 
d.rected  rather  to  the  acquisition  or 
defence  of  its  territories,  than  their 
improvement ;  and  yet  during  that 
a  ixious  and  agitated  period,  the  pro- 
g-ess of  the  sable  multitude  who 
were  embraced  in  its  rule,  has  been 
uaexampled  in  wealth,  tranquillity, 
a  id  public  felicity. 

Nor  is  it  a  less  remarkable  circum- 
stanee,  that  these  civic  and  warlike 
a  'hievements  were  gained  in  the 
n  idst  of  a  population,  who,  beyond 
a  ly  other, were  divided  and  distracted 
a  nong  each  other,  not  only  by  civil 
d  ssensionsof  the  oldest  standing,but 
tl.e  most  inveterate  religious  differen- 
ces. From  the  earliest  dawn  of  history, 
India  has  been  broken  into  a  num- 
b  ^r  of  independent  sovereignties  or 
B  ajahships,  subdued  at  intervals  un- 
d  ir  the  firm  grasp  of  an  able  and  en- 
li  ;htened  sovereign,  but  invariably 
b-eakinor  out  in  a  few  generations 
ii  to  their  natural  state  of  dissension 
a  id  anarchy;  while  among  its  nu- 
rt  erous  inhabitants  are  to  be  found 
n  )t  only  all  races  of  men,  from  the 
b  )ld  and  fearless  Affgaun,  to  the  ro- 
v .  ng  Mahrattaand  the  timid  Bengalee; 
a;  td  every  species  of  religious  wor- 
el.ip,  from  that  of  the  children  of 


Abraham  or  the  followers  of  Zoroas- 
ter, to  the  rigid  and  punctilious 
Brahmins,  the  degraded  and  igno- 
rant Hindoos,  and  the  fierce  and"3  vo- 
luptuous Mussulman.  Twelve  mil- 
lions of  Mahomedans  are  scattered 
among  eighty  millions  of  Hindoos. 
The  former,  as  the  dominant  and 
conquering  race,  had  seized  in  gene- 
ral all  the  situations  of  power  and 
authority  through  the  Peninsula ; 
and  the  innumerable  millions  of  na- 
tives regarded  it  as  an  equal  abomina- 
tion to  eat  with  their  former  Mus- 
sulman, as  their  present  Christian 
masters ;  the  bitterness  of  civil  con- 
quest and  exclusion  was  superadded 
to  the  .rancour  of  religious  hatred; 
and  yet  over  this  vast  heterogenous 
and  discordant  mass  one  regular  and 
stable  Government  has  been  pla- 
ced; and  out  of  these  jarring  and 
divided  materials  the  most  power- 
ful empire  established  which  has  ruled 
the  Eastern  Peninsula  since  the  days 
of  Aurengzebe. 

It  augments  our  astonishment  at 
the  growth  and  steady  progress  of 
this  extraordinary  power  that  it  has 
risen  and  prospered,  and  won  the 
native  affections,  at  the  very  time 
when  the  Colonies  of  England,  under 
the  direct  control  of  the  mother 
country,  were  brought  into  such  a 
state  of  discontent,  as  led  to  the  dis- 
memberment of  a  large  portion  of 
the  empire,  and  threatens  soon  to 
sever  from  the  parent  state  its  colo- 
nial possessions.  At  the  same  time 
that  the  East  India  Company,  with 
their  brave  and  faithful  Sepoys,  were 
successfully  combating  the  immense 
and  disciplined  hordes  of  Hyder 
Ally  and  Tippoo  Saib,  the  vast  Ame- 
rican colonies  of  England,  directly 
ruled  by  Parliament,  were  severed 
from  the  empire,  without  any  exter- 
nal violence,  from  the  mere  spirit  of 
internal  discontent;  the  dissatisfac- 
tion of  Canada  has  more  than  once 
led  to  ominous  and  alarming  con- 
tests between  the  Government  at 
home,  and  the  local  Legislatures; 
and  the  exasperation  of  the  West 
Indies,  provoked  by  a  long  series  of 
disasters,  and  now  brought  to  a  crisis 
by  the  monstrous  precipitance  of  a 
democratic  Government, has  become 
so  excessive,  that  it  is  only  restrain- 
ed from  leading  to  the  immediate 
loss  of  all  those  great  colonies,  and 
the  rupture  "of  one  of  the  principal 


784 


Tke  East  India  Question. 


[May, 


arteries  of  iho  State,  by  the  impossi- 
bility of  finding  any  other  State 
which  will  accept  the  perilous  gifts 
of  their  sovereignly.  Thus,  while 
our  colonial  empire  in  the  West,  un- 
der the  direct  rule  of  the  Legisla- 
ture, though  unassailed  by  external 
force,  has  been  constantly  the  scene 
of  the  most  violent  discontents,  and 
undergone  a  great  and  calamitous 
reduction, — the  vast  and  peopled  re- 
gions of  the  East,  under  the  steady 
and  sagacious  rule  of  the  East  India 
Company,  have  been  constantly  in- 
creasing, even  amidst  the  greatest 
perils,  and  are  now  distinguished 
alike  by  their  internal  prosperity, 
military  strength,  and  foreign  respect. 

This  difference  in  the  history  and 
present  state  of  our  Colonial  pos- 
sessions, is  extremely  remarkable, 
and  well  worthy  the  serious  consi- 
deration of  those  to  whom  the  des- 
tinies of  the  East,  on  occasion  of  the 
renewal  of  the  Company's  Charter, 
will  be  intrusted.  If  the  numerous 
body  of  Electors  to  whom  the  Go- 
vernment of  the  Empire  has,  by  the 
Reform  Bill,  been  intrusted,  are  at 
all  worthy  of  the  important  trust 
committed  to  them,  they  will  be  un- 
intermitting  in  their  endeavours,  du- 
ring the  intervening  period,  to  acquire 
a  knowledge  of  the  concerns  and 
situation  of  that  vast  Peninsula,  so 
widely  differentin its  habits, manners, 
and  structure  of  society,  from  any 
thing  known  in  Europe,  and  so  en- 
tirely dependent,  in  their  future  hap- 
piness, on  the  wisdom  of  British 
Legislation.  To  qualify  them  in  the 
smallest  degree,  to  judge  correctly 
on  this  important  subject,  years  of 
uninterrupted  study  are  requisite; 
but  we  doubt  if  many  of  them  will 
have  patience  to  peruse  the  succinct 
abstract  of  Indian  affairs  which  we 
shall  endeavour  to  give  in  this  series 
of  papers. 

A  slight  degree  of  philosophical 
reflection  and  historical  observation, 
however,  will  be  sufficient  to  de- 
monstrate, that  if  the  concerns  of 
India  are  to  be  wisely  managed;  if 
statesmen-like  views  are  to  regulate 
its  administration  and  internal  pros- 
perity, or  external  respect  are  to 
attend  its  administration,  it  must  be 
legislated  for  by  those  who  are  accu- 
rately acquainted  with  its  concerns 
— the  character  of  its  inhabitants— 
their  political  divisions,  local  inter- 


ests, and  religious  pr<rjudices;  who 
have  made  India  the  study  of  their 
lifetime,  and  are  directed  by  the  prac- 
tical knowledge  of  those  who  have 
passed  the  best  years  of  their  life  in 
its  service.  Unless  this  is  the  case — 
Unless  the  Government  of  India  is 
conducted  by  the  same  experienced 
hands,  and  with  the  same  firmness 
and  tenacity  of  purpose  which  has 
hitherto  distinguished  its  councils, 
it  does  not  require  the  gift  of  pro- 
phecy to  foretell,  that  our  Indian  Em- 
pire will  be  irrecoverably  lost.  That 
great  and  splendid  appendage  to  the 
Empire  hangs  by  a  thread  to  the 
little  Parent  State  in  the  Atlantic ;  a 
single  rash  innovation — one  undue 
democratic  concession — an  errone- 
ous policy,  springing  from  the  igno- 
rance of  European  Legislation — a 
few  acts  of  harsh  or  imprudent  re- 
trenchment, would  dissolve  the 
mighty  fabric,  and  India,  restored  to 
its  native  Rajahs,  and  torn  with  its 
pristine  wars,  would,  cease  either  to 
pour  its  wealth  into  the  bosom  of 
the  Empire,  or  to  afford  the  glorious 
prospect  of  a  united,  prosperous,  and 
contented  people. 

Nor  is  such  an  event  likely  to  be 
less  calamitous  to  the  Empire  at 
large,  and  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
British  Isles  in  particular,  than  to  the 
many  millions  who,  under  the  Bri- 
tish sway,  have,  for  the  first  time  in 
Indian  history,  tasted  the  blessings 
of  a  firm,  stable,  and  protecting  Go- 
vernment. The  Indian  Peninsula  is 
already  become  most  important  to 
the  mercantile  and  manufacturing 
interests  of  Great  Britain.  The  ex- 
ports from  Great  Britain  to  India 
amount  to  L.3,362,000  annually,  and 
the  imports  to  L.3,958,000. "  Be- 
sides this,  a  vast  trade  is  carried  on 
in  British  bottoms,  and  by  British 
capital,  between  Madras,  Bombay, 
Penang,  Java,  and  China,  and  all 
through  the  Eastern  archipelago ; 
which  is  the  source  of  greater  profits 
than  any  which  is  now  enjoyed  by 
the  British  merchants  in  any  other 
parts  of  the  world.  The  fortunes 
annually  remitted  to  this  country 
from  the  civil  and  military  officers 
of  the  Company,  are  calculated  at 
L.2,500,000,  an  important  perennial 
stream  of  wealth,  likely  to  be  of  the 
more  moment  from  the  declining  as- 
pect of  our  Colonial  affairs  in  every 
other  quarter.  Nor  is  the  employ- 


1833.] 


The  East  India  Question. 


merit  of  4000  military,  and  1200  civil 
servants  in  India,  most  of  them  with 
ample  incomes,  a  consideration  of 
trifling  moment  in  a  country  already 
overpeopled,  and  where  the  higher 
classes,  in  particular,  experience  the 
utmost  difficulty  in  gaining,  not  to 
say  a  fortune,  but  even  a  subsist- 
ence, among  the  multitudes  by  whom 
they  are  surrounded.* 

But  great  as  is  the  present  import- 
ance of  their  Indian  possessions  to 
the  British  people,  it  is  nothing  to 
what  may  be  anticipated  from  a  con- 
tinuance of  the  commercial  inter- 
course with  the  East,  under  the  aus- 
pices of  a  wise  and  enlightened  Co- 
lonial Government.  Bishop  Heber 
observed,  that  the  taste  for  British 
luxuries  and  manufactures  was  ra- 
pidly spreading  among  the  peasantry 
of  Hindostan ;  and  that  under  the 
protection  of  the  British  Govern- 
ment, they  were  rapidly  acquiring 
•;he  same  taste  for  the  elegancies  and 
comforts  of  life,  which  has  hitherto 
"been  considered  as  the  peculiar  cha- 
racteristic of  nations  of  the  Euro- 
pean family.  That  enlightened  obser- 
ver remarks,  "  It  is  obvious  even  to 
u  casual  observer,  that  in  Bengal  the 
natives,  especially  the  more  wealthy, 
{.re  imitating  the  English  in  many 
particulars  in  dress,  building, and  do- 
mestic economy;  and  that  a  change, 
lather  for  good  or  evil,  of  a  most  re- 
markable kind,  is  fermenting  in  the 
native  mind."f  And  again,  "  At  pre- 
sent there  is  an  obvious  disposition 
to  imitate  the  English  in  every  thing, 
which  has  already  led  to  most  import- 
snt  changes,  and  will  probably  be 
still  more  important.  The  wealthy 
natives  now  imitate  all  the  English 
f  ishions,  dress,  and  furniture;  and 
the  taste  for  their  manufactures  is 
rapidly  spreading  through  every  class 
of  society ."J  To  such  a  length  has 
this  desire  for  English  manufactures 
spread,  that  Mr  Sinclair  tells  us,  that 
the  Indian  manufacturers  were  ut- 
tcrly  ruined  by  the  sudden  inunda- 
tion of  British  goods  upon  the  open- 
ing of  the  trade. 

"  The  trade  was  thrown  open,  and 
tl  e  headlong  rush  to  the  markets  of 
India,  by  which  so  many  merchants,  in 


785 

the  eagerness  of  competition,  "were  plun- 
ged into  distress,or  ruined,  took  place  not 
long  after  the  improvements  in  the  steam- 
engine  by  Watt  and  Arkvvright,  when 
the  British  manufacturer  \vasable  to  sell 
his  goods  at  so  low  a  price  as  to  drive 
even  the  frugal  and  abstemious  Hindoo 
from  the  market.  The  suddenness  with 
which  this  change  was  suffered  to  take 
place,  rendered  the  calamity  more  grie- 
vous. No  previous  measures  were  adopt- 
ed to  mitigate  the  blow.  Without  any 
fault  of  theirs — without  any  advocate  to 
defend  their  interests,  or  any  friend  to 
point  out  their  danger,  and  make  their 
fall  less  precipitate  and  complete — at  the 
very  time  when  they  were  suffering  from 
the  subversion  of  the  wealthier  classes — 
the  Indian  weavers  were  plunged,  by 
English  competition,  into  irretrievable 
ruin." 

Now,  in  this  state  of  Indian  indus- 
try, with  their  manufacturing  indus- 
try in  great  part  destroyed  by  Eng- 
lish competition,  and  a  taste  for 
English  luxuries  and  fabrics  rapidly 
spreading  among  their  inhabitants; 
with  a  hundred  million  of  souls,  who 
yet  do  not  people  a  fifth  of  its  terri- 
tory, and  a  revenue  of  L,22,000,000 
sterling,  it  is  easy  to  see  what  a 
boundless  field  for  the  exertion  of 
British  industry  is  opened  up  in 
their  Indian  possessions,  if  they  are 
not  lost  in  the  madness  of  demo- 
cratic legislation. 

What  is  it,  then,  which  has  made 
the  East  India  possessions  of  Great 
Britain  alone  of  all  its  Colonies  so 
eminently  prosperous?  which  has 
saved  them  from  the  political  animo- 
sity which  caused  the  separation  of 
the  North  American  Colonies,  and 
the  bitter  strife  which  is  severing 
from  her  the  important  and  opulent 
West  Indian  Islands  ?  and  how  is  a 
state  of  prosperity  in  those  vast  re- 
gions, hitherto  unprecedented  in  the 
annals  of  the  world,  and  with  which 
the  fortunes  of  the  mother  state  are 
so  intimately  wound  up,  to  be  pre- 
served in  future  as  in  past  times  ? 
The  observation  of  the  greatest  of 
modern  historians  affords  the  key 
to  the  mystery,  and  points  to  the 
only  method  by  which,  not  only  its 
prosperity  can  be  preserved,  but 
even  its  government  maintained. 


*  Parliamentary  Papers,  Affairs  of  East  India  Company,  June,  1831,  p    191. 
f  Heber,  III.  284,.  j  Ibid.  252. 

VOL.  XXXIII.   flO,  CCVIII.  3  E 


786 


jThe  East  India  Question* 


[May, 


It  is  observed  by  Mr  Hume,  as  one 
of  the  "  maxims  in  politics  most  evi- 
dently established  by  history,  that, 
although  free  governments  are  the 
most  happy  for  those  who  partake 
of  their  freedom,  they  are  the  most 
ruinous  and  oppressive  to  their  pro- 
vinces." tf  When  a  monarch,"  he 
observes,  "extends  his  dominions  by 
conquest,  he  soon  learns  to  consider 
his  old  and  his  new  subjects  as  on 
the  same  footing;  because,  in  reality, 
all  his  subjects  are  to  him  the  same, 
except  the  few  friends  and  favour- 
ites with  whom  he  is  personally  ac- 
quainted. But  a  free  state  necessa- 
rily makes  a  great  distinction,  and 
must  always  do  so,  till  men  learn  to 
love  their  neighbours  as  well  as  them- 
selves. The  conquerors  in  such  a 
government  are  all  legislators,  and 
will  be  sure  to  contrive  matters  so 
as  to  draw  some  private  as  well  as 
public  advantage  from  their  con- 
quests." 

To  every  one  acquainted  with  his- 
tory, it  need  not  be  told  how  com- 
pletely this  profound  observation  is 
borne  out  by  the  annals  of  all  com- 
mercial states,  ancient  and  modern. 
Democratic  societies  never  have  been 
able  to  govern  their  colonies  with 
justice  and  liberality,  for  this  simple 
reason,  that  their  interests  interfere 
with  those  of  their  distant  subjects; 
and  that  they  never  will  cease  to  sa- 
crifice them  to  their  interests  or  their 
passions.  It  is  unnecessary  to  recur 
to  the  history  of  the  ancient  Republics 
of  Carthage  and  Athens  for  illustra- 
tions of  this  truth  ;  evidence  of  it  is 
to  be  found  in  the  most  convincing 
manner  in  modern  times.  The  colo- 
nies of  Holland  have  always  been  the 
worst  governed  and  most  unhappy 
of  any  of  the  European  possessions 
in  the  Indies,  because  they  have  been 
sacrificed  to  the  cupidity  and  sordid 
feelings  of  their  democratic  masters. 
The  monopoly  secured  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  Crown  may  be,  and  often 
is,  burdensome  and  vexatious;  but  it 
is  nothing  to  that  which  flows  from 
the  practical  knowledge  and  minute 
observation  of  actual  merchants.  The 
Spanish  colonies,  for  three  hundred 
years,  remained  faithful  to  the  Crown 
of  Castile,  and  nothing  but  discord 
and  misery  have  followed  their  sepa- 
ration; but  those  of  England  had 
hardly  reached  to  manhood,  when 
the  jealousies  of  the  mother  country 


provoked  a  rupture  which  led  to 
their  independence.  At  this  moment 
the  West  Indies  are  held  by  a  thread ; 
the  electors  in  most  of  the  boroughs 
in  Great  Britain,  without  knowing 
any  thing  whatever  on  the  subject, 
have  exacted  pledges  from  their  re- 
presentatives for  the  immediate  eman- 
cipation of  the  negroes  ;  and  the  co- 
lonies, aware  of  the  dreadful  nature 
of  the  step,  are  in  such  a  state  of  ex- 
asperation, that  nothing  but  the  want 
of  any  power  to  receive  them,  hin- 
ders the  instant  declaration  of  their 
independence. 

The  true  cause,  therefore,  of  the 
unexampled  progress,  steady  pro- 
sperity, prodigious  extent,  and  se- 
cured affections  of  the  Indian  empire 
of  England,  is  to  be  found  in  the  ac- 
cidental, or  perhaps  providential  cir- 
cumstance, that  its  government  never 
devolved  directly  upon  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  people,  but  was 
vested  in  an  intermediate  body,  whose 
interests  were  identified  with  those 
of  the  subject  territory,  and  whose 
fortunes  were  dependent  upon  the 
maintenance  of  their  affections.  For 
the  last  eighty  years  the  mercantile 
character  of  the  East  India  Company, 
in  the  peninsula  of  Hindostan  at 
least,  has  been  in  a  great  degree  mer- 
ged in  that  of  territorial  sovereigns  ; 
ruling  a  mighty  realm,  whose  revenue 
has  risen  in  the  last  half  century  from 
seven  to  twenty  millions;  and  the 
masters  of  a  territory,  increased.from 
twenty  to  a  hundred  million  of  in- 
habitants, they  have  necessarily  iden- 
tified their  own  interests  with  those 
of  their  Eastern  subjects,  and  though 
locally  situated  in  London,  their  ad- 
ministration has  been  as  truly  Indian, 
as  if  it  had  been  placed  within  the 
walls  of  Calcutta. 

It  has  been  another  consequence 
of  the  same  circumstance,  that  the 
Directors  at  home,  having  no  inte- 
rest to  follow  out  excepting  what  was 
centred  in  India,  and  little  informa- 
tion on  the  subject  of  its  Govern- 
ment, but  what  they  derived  from 
their  numerous  and  well-informed 
Indian  officers,  either  abroad  or 
returned  home,  and  seated  in  their 
councils,  have  in  general  followed 
the  very  best  advice  that  could  be 
given  them  on  the  various  subjects 
which  were  submitted  for  their  con- 
sideration; and,  accordingly,  their 
measures  have,  upon  the  whole,  been 


1833.] 


The  East  India  Question. 


78? 


distinguished  by  a  most  singular 
combination  of  firmness,  wisdom, 
and  moderation.  The  matchless  pro- 
gress and  splendid  state  of  their  Em- 
pire affords  decisive  evidence  of  this 
circumstance.  There  is  not  to  be 
Found  in  the  world  a  body  of  men, 
ivhose  wisdom,  ability,  and  energy 
?quals  that  of  the  civil  and  military 
officers  of  India.  The  reason  of  this, 
as  of  most  other  mental  superiority, 
is  to  be  found  in  the  circumstances 
in  which  they  are  placed,  and  the 
duties  imposed  on  them  in  their  ear- 
lier years.  Great  part  of  the  young 
officers  of  India,  instead  of  spending 
their  youth  in  the  listless  indolence 
c  f  cavalry  barracks,  or  the  dissipated 
frivolities  of  St  James's  street  clubs, 
are  called  early  in  life  to  important 
c  uties ;  they  are  placed  in  remote 
stations,  where  the  mind  is  strength- 
ened by  reflection  and  the  habits  are 
improved  by  occupation;  where 
weighty  concerns  arrest  their  atten- 
t  on,  and  solitude  debars  them  from 
the  seductive  temptations  of  Euro- 
pean society.  Nothing,  accordingly, 
is  more  remarkable  to  any  one  who 
kaows  the  character  of  the  two  ar- 
niies,  than  the  superior  abilities  of 
tie  young  officers  in  the  Indian  to 
ll.e  English  army.  At  an  age  when 
tie  inmates  of  the  British  barracks 
are  thinking  only  of  hunting,  balls, 
or  dissipation,  many  of  their  contem- 
poraries in  the  East  are  intrusted 
with  vast  administrations;  they  have 
important  negotiations  intrusted  to 
tl  eir  care,  and  the  welfare  of  pro- 
vinces dependent  on  their  exertions. 
It  is  in  this  early  developement  of 
al  ility  by  the  force  of  necessity,  that 
ths  true  secret  of  the  vast  successes 
of  the  Indian  as  of  the  French  Revo- 
lutionary armies  is  to  be  found. 

In  the  higher  grades  of  the  civil 
and  military  administration,  the  same 
di  itinguished  ability  is  remarkable. 
It  is  needless  to  cite  examples  :  the 
names  of  Mr  Elphinstone,  Sir  John 
M  ilcolm,  the  late  Sir  Thomas  Munro, 
an  I  a  host  of  others,  are  universally 
kn  9wn,  of  the  latter  of  whom  Mr  Can- 
ning said,  with  truth,  that  "  Europe 
di(  L  not  contain  a  braver  warrior,  nor 
Asia  a  more  enlightened  statesman." 
Th  e  fruit  of  their  efforts  may  be  seen 
in  the  vast  and  prosperous  Empire 
wbich  they  have  reared,  and  the 
steady  progress  which  it  has  made 
amidst  all  the  difficulties  by  which 
it  was  surrounded,  It-  is  the  coun- 


cils of  such  men  as  those  who  have 
really  governed  India ;  it  is  by  their 
advice  that  the  Supreme  Council  at 
Calcutta  and  the  Board  of  Directors 
at  home  are  regulated ;  and  by  their 
extensive  local  knowledge  that  its 
vast  and  intricate  details  have  been 
managed  with  due  regard  to  the  in- 
terests of  the  vanquished  states. 

The  Government  of  India,  there- 
fore, has  united,  to  a  degree  perhaps 
never  before  witnessed  in  any  other 
country,  the  advantages  of  a  popu- 
lar and  oligarchical  form  of  Govern- 
ment. The  selfish  and  sordid  feel- 
ings of  a  mercantile  society  have 
long  been  obliterated  by  the  higher 
concerns  of  a  vast  and  prosperous 
dominion,  in  whose  councils  we  see 
all  the  firmness,  steadiness,  and  libe- 
ral views  of  an  aristocracy,  with  the 
energy  and  inexhaustible  vigour  of 
a  democratic  Government.  The  na- 
tives in  Hindostan  say,  that  the 
"  Company  has  always  been  vic- 
torious, because  it  is  always  young" 
and  such  in  truth  is  the  character  of 
its  servants.  From  the  boundless 
mines  of  energy  and  vigour  contain- 
ed in  the  middling  ranks  of  England, 
is  derived  the  undecaying  youthful 
activity  and  resolution  with  which 
its  orders  are  executed;  from  the 
sober  and  uncontrolled  decisions  of 
the  wisest  men  in  India,  the  councils 
by  which  they  are  directed.  It  is  in 
this  extraordinary  combination  of 
patrician  wisdom  of  council  with  V 
plebeian  vigour  of  execution, as  in  the  ' 
similar  junction  of  firmness  with 
energy  in  the  proceedings  of  the 
senate  and  people  of  Rome,  that  the 
real  cause  of  the  splendour  of  the 
Indian  Empire,  unprecedented  in. 
modern,  as  the  Roman  was  unexam- 
pled in  ancient  times,  is  to  be  found. 

There  is  no  empire  in  the  world 
to  which  the  prudent  and  sagacious 
management  of  a  body  of  men,  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  its  concerns, 
who  have  devoted  their  life  to  its 
service,  and  whose  interests  are 
wound  up  in  its  prosperity,  is  so  in- 
dispensable as  that  of  India,  because 
there  is  none  which  is  of  so  fragile 
or  precarious  a  tenure.  From  the 
uncommon  wisdom  with  which  It 
has  been  managed,  the  slight  hold 
which  we  have  of  India  is  not  gene- 
rally appreciated;  but  it  is  well 
known  to  all  men  practically  ac- 
quainted with  the  subject,  and  must 
be  obvious  on  consideration  even 


788  The  East  India  Question. 

to  the  most  casual  observer.  In  vain 
we  boast  of  our  hundred  millions  of 
inhabitants,  our  million   of   square 
miles,    of  subjects,    territory,    our 
army  of  250,000  men,  our  revenue 
of  L.22,000,000 ;  this  vast  territory 
may  in  a  breath  become  our  graves ; 
these   millions  our  enemies;  these 
superb  battalions  our  executioners ; 
this  vast  revenue  the  strength  of  our 
enemies.  Let  but  one  serious  reverse 
happen  to  our  arms,  and  the  mighty 
fabric  will    crumble   to   the   dust; 
let  but  one  rash  or  perilous  innova- 
tion be  introduced  in  the  manage- 
ment of  our  armies,  and  our  defend- 
ers become  the  instruments  of  our 
destruction.  More  even  than  the  Em- 
pire of  Napoleon,  is  the  English  do- 
minion   in   India  founded  on   opi- 
nion.  At  present  we  are  in  the  state 
that  he  was  after  the  battle  of  Wa- 
gram,  and  the  marriage  with  Marie 
Louise ;  but  it  needs  not  the  catas- 
trophe of  a  Russian  retreat  to  hurl 
us  from  the  dizzy  heights  of  power. 
A  single  failure   to   capture    a  be- 
sieged town;  one  great  defeat  in  the 
field;  an  imprudent  or  precipitate 
innovation  on  the  Hindoo  customs 
or  prejudices,  might  lead  to  the  re- 
volt of  all  India,  and  in  a  few  months 
leave  the  English  soldiers  in  posses- 
sion only  of  the  forts  of  Calcutta, 
Madras,  or  Bombay.    The  mutinies 
at  Vellore    and    Barrackpore;    the 
hazardous  attack  at  Bhurtpore,  on 
all  of  which  occasions   India  hung 
by  a  thread,  were  not  required  to 
shew  the  precarious  tenure  of  our 
authority  over  that  splendid  Empire. 


What  chance  then  is  there  that  the 
Empire  of  India  will  be  preserved 
under  the  changes  which  are  now 
contemplated  in  its  Government? 
That  is  the  momentous  question 
which  so  nearly  concerns,  not  only 
every  one  implicated  in  its  fortunes, 
but  indirectly,  every  member  of  the 
British  Empire. 

Theie  are  certain  principles  which 
may  safely  be  deduced  from  histo- 
rical facts;  and  certain  grounds  on 
which  the  ultimate  fate  ot  that  splen- 
did dominion  may,  without  any  un- 
due presumption,  be  predicted. 

India  will  not  continue  for  any 
length  of  time  a  component  part  of 
the  British  Empire,  unless  the  Go- 
vernment, which  has  raised  it  to  its 
present  pitch  of  grandeur,  is  in  all 
substantial  points  continued ;  unless 


[May, 

it  is  really,  and  not  in  form  only, 
ruled  by  Indian,  not  English  states- 
men ;  and  managed  by  a  representa- 
tive body,  whose  chief  interest  lies 
in  Hindostan  or  its  commerce,  in- 
stead of  Great  Britain.  This  is  the 
fundamental  principle  which  expe- 
rience warrants  every  prudent  states- 
man in  adopting ;  and  unless  due 
attention  is  paid  to  it,  it  may  safely 
be  concluded  that  the  days  of  our 
Indian  Empire,  and  with  it  of  British 
independence  and  prosperity,  are 
numbered. 

It  is  in  vain  to  pretend  that  we  can 
govern  the  immense  Peninsula  of 
Hindostan  on  the  same  principles  as 
the  West  India  Islands,  that  is,  with 
a  total  disregard  to  the  rights  and  in- 
terests of  the  colonists,  and  a  blind 
obedience  to  the  mandates  of  a  fana- 
tical or  democratic  mob  in  the  heart 
of  the  Empire.  Jamaica  and  the 
Leeward  Islands  may  be  too  weak  to 
brave  the  hostility  of  a  parent  state 
ruled  by  the  representatives  of  the 
Ten-pounders,  pledged  to  measures 
that  must  destroy  them;  and  they 
may  be  compelled  to  wait  some  pub- 
lic disaster  for  their  separation  from 
the  Government  which  is  about  vo- 
luntarily to  cut  off  the  right  arm  of 
its  strength ;  but  it  is  other  wise  with  a 
country  which  has  250,000  men  un- 
der arms.  The  moment  that  the  in- 
sane mandates  of  the  Ten-pounders 
begin  to  affect  Indian  interests  ;  the 
moment  that  their  religious  prejudi- 
ces are  shocked  by  some  glaring  in- 
novation; the  moment  that  the  fide- 
lity of  theEnglish  officers  is  dissolved 
by  a  tract  of  ill  usage  or  pernicious 
economy  on  the  part  of  their  igno- 
rant British  masters,  India  is  lost — 
and  lost  for  ever.  Whether  it  will 
be  the  whole  British  Empire  which 
will  at  once  sever  the  connexion 
with  the  Mother  Country,  and  try  the 
doubtful  experiment  of  maintaining 
itself  in  the  midst  of  Asiatic  hostility; 
or  the  Sepoy  forces,  who  will  revolt 
against  the  British  rule,  and  re-esta- 
blish the  divisions,  and  despotism, 
and  anarchy  of  former  times  ;  or  the 
native  powers,  who  will  resume  their 
pristine  importance  amidst  the 
dissolution  of  European  authority, 
the  result  to  this  country  will  be  the 
same.  India  will  be  permanently 
severed  from  Great  Britain ;  the  vast 
and  growing  trade  now  carried  on 
with  it  will  be  destroyed;  torn  by 
internal  contests,  distracted  by  do- 


The  East  India  Question. 


789 


mestic  wars,  it  will  gradually  lose 
both  the  desire  of  possessing  and  the 
means  of  purchasing  the  manufac- 
tures of  this  country  ;  and  a  vent  for 
its  fabrics,  which  might,  under  a  sage 
rule,  in  time  have  equalled'  that  of 
all  the  world  besides,  will  be  for 
ever  lost  to  the  British  Empire. 

There  is  not  the  slightest  ground 
for  hope,  that  the  magnitude  and 
ruinous  consequences  of  the  losses 
which  will  be  inflicted  on  our  own 
industry  and  prosperity  by  this  ter- 
rible calamity,  will  have  the  smallest 
affect  in  deterring  the  people  from 
.forcing  on  the  measures  which  are 
;o  produce  it.  Democracy  ever  was, 
and  ever  will  be,  blind ;  it  is  the 
nature  of  such  a  power  to  be  so ;  it 
is  its  blindness  which  ensures,  after 
;t  certain  portion  of  disaster,  its  fall. 
Look  at  the  clamour  now  so  gene- 
rally raised  in  all  the  cities  of  the 
empire  for  the  immediate  abolition 
of  slavery.  No  proposition  in  Euclid 
is  more  susceptible  of  demonstra- 
tion to  any  thinking  mind,  acquaint- 
c-d  with  historical  facts,  than  that 
eucli  measures  will  prove  utterly- 
destructive  to  those  flourishing  set- 
tlements; that  they  will  consign  the 
plantations  to  the  flames,  and  the 
jlanters  to  the  tomahawk;  the  ne- 
c  roes  to  savage  anarchy,  or  a  "  rural 
code"  far  worse  than  their  present 
servitude;  that  they  will  cut  off 
L.7,000,000  a-year  of  British  exports, 
and  250,000  tons  from  British  ship- 
ping; that  they  will  deprive  Canada 
of  its  chief  commerce,  and  endanger 
the  whole  trade  with  our  North 
American  colonies,  employing  more 
than  a  sixth  of  our  shipping,  and  the 
c  nef  nursery  for  our  seamen.  All 
these  facts  are  notorious  ;  the  minds 
of  all  rational  and  well-informed 
men,  if  not  fanatics  in  religion  or 
revolutionists  in  politics,  have  long 
been  made  up  on  the  subject;  but, 
nevertheless,  a  vast  preponderance 
of  the  electors  are  clear  for  instant 
emancipation  ;  and,  right  or  wrong, 
it  will  soon  be  forced  upon  these 
u  ihappy  colonies.  This  great  ex- 
ample should  always  be  present  to 
the  minds  of  those  who  contemplate 
tbe  extinction  of  India  as  a  separate 
power,  and  the  subjection  of  its  in- 
habitants to  the  direct  and  unmiti- 
gated dominion  of  the  British  Parlia- 
ment. 

Is  it  to  be  supposed  that  a  legisla- 
ture which,  even  in  its  best  days, 


could  not  prevent  three  millions  and 
a  half  in  America  from  becoming  so 
discontented  as  to  sever  the  connex- 
ion with  the  mother  country;  which 
can  hardly  retain  its  rule  over  seven 
millions  of  Irishmen,  almost  within 
sight  of  the  British  shores;  which 
has  brought  the  West  Indies  to  the 
verge   of   destruction,    and    spread 
through  their  impassioned  people  an 
undisguised  desire  to  revolt,  will  be 
able  to  preserve  its  ascendency  over 
an  empire  having  250,000  armed  men 
in  its  bosom,  twenty  millions  a-year 
at  its  disposal,   and  situated   8000 
miles  from  the  parent  state  ?  The 
thing  is  out  of  the  question.     The 
interests  and  prejudices  of  the  twelve 
hundred    thousand  legislators  who 
now  give  law  to  the  British  Empire, 
will  soon  dissolve  the  splendid  but 
flimsy  fabric.      The    Ten-pounders 
will  make  short  work  with  India,  and 
all  its  millions.     Knowing   nothing 
of  that  vast  Continent  but  what  is 
communicated  by  the  false  and  ex- 
aggerated channels  of  the  Radical 
press ;  hardly  able  to  point  out  its 
position- in  the  map;    totally  igno- 
rant of  its  habits,  history,   arts,  or 
inhabitants ;    they    will,    neverthe- 
less, take   upon   themselves   to   le- 
gislate and  exact  pledges   at   once 
from  their  representatives,  for  that 
vast  Continent,   as  they  would  do 
for  their   own   parish    or    borough 
concerns.    Experience  warrants  the 
assertion,  that  these  pledges  will  for 
the  most  part  be  dictated  by  selfish 
feeling,  the  passion  for  change,  or  the 
fervour  of  fanaticism.     To  secure  a 
free  entrance  into  Hindostan  for  every 
species  of  British  manufacture,  and 
exclude  all  those  from  which  acorn- 
petition  is  to  be  dreaded  ;  to  extend 
to  them  British  institutions  of  every 
kind,  how  unsuitable  soever  to  their 
habits,  character,  or  prejudices;  to 
throw  upon  them  as  large  a  share  as 
possible  of  British  burdens,  to  the 
relief  of  the  people  in  the  dominant 
Island  ;  to  force  instantly  upon  them 
the  tenets  of  the  Christian  faith,  and 
put  an  end  at  once  to  the  idolatry 
which   has   so  long  disfigured  the 
land,  will  be  the  objects  of  new  and 
precipitate  legislation.      This  is  just 
what  the  democracy  in  all  other  coun- 
tries, possessing  colonies,  in  former 
ages  of  the  world  have  done ;  it  is  just 
what  the  democracy  in  this  age  and 
this  country  are  now  doing.  We  shall 
lose  the  greatest  and  most  splendid 


790 

Colonial  Empire  that  ever  existed, 
from  the  same  cause  by  which  all 
previous  democratic  states  have  lost 
theirs. 

Even  if  the  precipitance  and  ig- 
norance of  the  democratic  rulers  of 
the  state,  in  their  "  Primary  Assem- 
blies," as  the  French  termed  them, 
should  not  prove  fatal  to  the  Govern- 
ment of  Hindostan,  it  would  speedily 
be  precipitated  into  the  abyss,  from 
the  class  of  officers,  civil  and  military, 
who,  under  the  immediate  rule  of 
Parliament,  would  be  sent  out  to  di- 
rect its  councils,  administer  its  jus- 
tice, or  head  its  battalions.  Patronage 
must,  in  a  representative  Govern- 
ment, centre  where  political  influence 
exists ;  the  middling  and  manufactu- 
ring classes  will  speedily  obtain  from 
any  administration  having  the  direct 
Government  of  India,  a  large  share 
of  the, 4000  military,  and  1200  civil 
situations,  which  are  now  filled  by 
the  servants  of  the  Company  in  our 
Indian  dominions.  These  persons, 
how  able  or  estimable  soever  many 
of  them  may  be,  will  be  incapable  of 
ruling,  or  even  understanding  the 
concerns  of  that  vast  Continent,  so 
dissimilar  in  every  particular  from 
our  own.  They  will,  and  must  be 
embued  with  British  ideas,  preju- 
dices, and  interests  ;  and  as  such  will 
be  as  unfit  to  govern  the  Hindoos, 
as  the  Brahmans  would  be  to  rule 
the  industrious  people  of  Great 
Britain,  or  heal  the  discord  of  the 
empassioned  inhabitants  of  Ireland. 
Nothing  has  enabled  the  English  so 
long  to  do  this,  but  the  separate 
Government  of  India,  under  the  East 
India  Company,  and  the  formation 
of  a  race  of  officers  in  its  service, 
like  the  Janissaries  of  Turkey,  whose 
interests,  feelings,  and  knowledge, 
were  wound  up  in  the  country  of 
their  adoption. 

The  slightest  observation  of  the 
political  world  around  us  must  be 
sufficient  to  shew  that  these  appre- 
hensions are  too  well  founded.  Eng- 
land possesses  at  this  time  three  In- 
dian Statesmen  of  matchless  talent, 
information,  and  celebrity ;  their  ser- 
vices were  more  than  ever  required 
from  the  approaching  expiry  of  the 
Charter;  but  not  one  of  them  is 
in  Parliament.  Mr  Elphinston,  a 
statesman  of  unequalled  ability,  has 
been  chosen  by  no  borough  to  give 
the  weight  of  his  counsel  in  the 


The  East  India  Question. 


[May, 


approaching  deliberations.  All  the 
weight  of  Government,  and  of  the 
Grant  family,  united,  could  not  pre- 
vail upon  the  Ten-pounders  of  Peter- 
head  and  the  adjoining  boroughs  to 
elect  Mr  Holt  Mackenzie ;  and  the 
far-famed  celebrity  of  Sir  John  Mal- 
colm and  his  brothers  of  European 
and  Asiatic  reputation,  proved  insuf- 
ficient to  induce  those  of  his  native 
borough  in  Dumfries-shire  to  choose 
him  as  their  representative.  At  the 
very  moment  when  a  concentration 
of  Indian  talent  and  information  was 
to  an  unprecedented  degree  required 
in  the  Legislature,  the  ablest  men  of 
India  have  been  overlooked  or  re- 
jected by  the  British  electors ;  and 
at  the  renewal  of  the  Charter  of  their 
government,  and  the  opening  of  the 
Reformed  Parliament,  the  hundred 
millions  of  Hindoo  subjects  of  Great 
Britain  are,  literally  speaking,  unre- 
presented. Such  is  the  prospect  of 
a  fair,  uuempassioned,  and  well-in- 
formed discussion  of  Indian  affairs 
which  the  Reformed  Parliament  af- 
fords. It  is  as  clear  as  demonstra- 
tion, that  unless  a  sovereign  power, 
whose  interests  are  identified  with 
those  of  Hindostan,  is  interposed  be- 
tween the  British  electors  and  the 
government  of  India,  it  will  speedily 
throw  off  the  yoke  from  finding  its  in- 
terests neglected  by  the  government 
at  home,  or  become  the  victim  of 
rash  and  ignorant  legislation ;  and 
that  now  is  the  time  when  the  dis- 
cussions on  the  renewal  of  the  Char- 
ter are  approaching,  when  the  ques- 
tion will  be  virtually  determined, 
whether  the  East  Indies  are  to  re- 
main part  of  the  British  Empire. 

The  project  of  Government,  as  de- 
veloped in  the  Notes  by  Mr  Grant, 
is  obviously  at  variance  with  this 
fundamental  position,  and  threatens 
to  subject  the  Indian  Peninsula  to 
such  a  system  of  administration  as 
cannot  fail,  in  a  short  time,  to  sever  it 
from  the  British  dominions.  The  ma- 
terial proposals  of  Government  are : 

1.  The  China  monopoly  to  cease. 

2.  The  East  India  Company  to  re- 
tain their  political  functions. 

3.  The   Company's    assets,  com- 
mercial and  territorial,  with  all  their 
possessions  and  rights,  to  be  assign- 
ed to  the  Crown,  on  behalf  of  the 
territorial  government  of  India. 

4.  An  annuity  of  L.630,000  to  be 


1833.] 


The  East  India  Question. 


791 


granted  to  the  proprietors,  charge- 
able on  the  territorial  revenues  of  In- 
dia exclusively,  and  payable  in  Eng- 
land. 

5.  The  new  annuitants  to  retain 
the  character  of  a  Joint  Stock  Com- 
pany. 

6.  Every  British  subject  to  have 
the  right  of  going  to  the  Presidencies 
without  license;  into   the   inter'or, 
only  subject  to  the  regulations  im- 
posed by  the  local  government. 

7.  The  Court,  on  the  Board  of  Con- 
trol's final  and  conclusive  order,  to 
send  the  despatch  by  the  first  ship 
that  sails  after  such  order;  the  Board 
to  have  a  veto  on  the  recall  of  Go- 
vernors and  Commanders  offerees; 
the  Home  expedition  and  establish- 
ment to    be  under   the   control   of 
the  Board ;  and  the  Board  to  have 
the  same  power  over  salaries  below 
L.200  a-year,  that  they  now  have 
above  that  sum. 

We  do  not  hesitate  to  affirm,  that 
under  the  veil  of  continuing  the  po- 
litical direction  and  government  of 
ihe  East  India  Company,  these  regu- 
ations,  if  adopted  by  Parliament, 
,vill  have  the  effect  of  finally  destroy- 
ng  it ;  that  India  will  substantially 
>e  subjected  to  the  direct  control  of 
he  British  democracy,  and  conse' 
ijuently,  that    its    early   separation 
rom  the  empire  maybe  anticipated. 
Setting  aside  at  present  the  ex- 
inction    of  the   China    monopoly, 
'vhich  we  shall  immediately  shew  is 
indispensable,  in  a  financial  point  of 
1  lew,  to  the  existence  of  the  British 
Government  in  India,  it  is  evident 
that  the  mere   operation  of   these 
changes  in  extinguishing  the  sepa- 
late  and  independent  Government 
(  f  India,  by  the  Court  of  Directors, 
i  iust  speedily  prove  fatal  to  the  ex- 
i  stence  of  the  British  ascendency  in 
t  lat  country. 

Since  Mr  Pitt's  Bill  in  1784,  which 
€  stablished  the  Board  of  Control,  the 
g  overnment  of  Indiahas,  to  all  prac- 
t  cal  purposes,  been  vested  in  the 
Court  of  Directors.  The  Board, 
i  ideed,  possessed  a  negative  on 
certain  appointments;  a  right  to 
i  iterfere,  in  a  limited  degree,  in  the 
government,  and  a  certain  share  of 
f  atronage ;  but  the  substantial  powers 
cf  government  remained -with  the 


East  India  Company.  This  is  mat- 
ter of  universal  notoriety;  and,  in 
general,  the  interference  of  the  Board 
of  Control  has  been  prejudicial  ra- 
ther than  the  reverse,  and  has  been 
mainly  instrumental  in  producing 
that  career  of  conquest  from  which 
our  present  immense  empire  has 
arisen.  "  It  is  remarkable,"  says 
Mr  Robert  Grant,  "  that  the  great- 
ness of  our  Indian  empiie  has  been 
achieved  with  the  express  sanction 
of  the  Legislature,  who  enjoined  a 
cautious  policy,  and  of  the  Board  of 
Control,  who  were  to  enforce  it,  and 
in  spite  of  the  reclaiming  voice  of  the 
Company  on  whom  it  was  enjoined 
and  enforced."*  The  Company  have 
had,  for  all  legitimate  purposes,  a 
complete  command  over  the  finances 
of  India,  and  the  power  of  resisting, 
should  it  have  become  necessary,  the 
arbitrary  interference  of  the  Board 
of  Control. 

Every  person  who  has  studied  or 
thought  of  the  British  Constitution, 
has  concurred  in  the  opinion,  that  if 
the  government  of  India  is  either 
directly  or  indirectly,  mediately  or 
immediately,  vested  in  Government, 
it  must  prove  fatal  to  the  balance  of* 
the  Constitution.  No  one  is,  or  at 
least  was,  more  aware  of  this  than 
Mr  Charles  Grant,  for  he  declared 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  in  the 
debate  on  the  renewal  of  the  Charter, 
in  1813,  "  that  the  patronage  of  In- 
dia would  be  fatal  to  the  Constitu- 
tion, if  placed,  mediately  or  imme- 
diately,  in  the  hands  of  Govern- 
ment." t 

This  danger  is  increased,  rather 
than  diminished,  by  the  late  changes 
in  the  Constitution  which  the  Re- 
form Bill  has  occasioned.  It  is  true, 
there  is  no  peril  now  to  be  appre- 
hended from  the  Crown  to  public 
freedom,  even  if  the  whole  patronage 
of  India  were  directly  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  the  Treasury;  but  can 
the  same  be  affirmed,  if  it  is  placed 
at  the  disposal  of  the  democracy,  as 
it  will  be,  if  it  is  now  vested  in  the 
Government?  As  the  support  of  the 
House  of  Commons  is  indispensable 
to  the  existence  of  every  Adminis- 
tration ;  as  they  have  the  exclusive 
control  of  the  supplies ;  and  as  344 
seats  in  England  alone  are  in  the 


*  Robert  Grant,  on  Indian  Government,  p.  375.   f  Hansard,  Parl,  Deb.  xxvi,  438, 


The  East  India  Question. 


[May, 


disposal  of  the  electors  of  boroughs, 
it  is  plain  that  their  support  must  be 
purchased  by  the  lavish  disposal  of 
Indian  patronage ;  in  other  words, 
the  government  of  India  will,  to  all 
practical  purposes,  be  vested  in  the 
democratic  party,  who  now  return 
nine-tenths,  and  will  always  return 
three-fourths,  of  these  members.  The 
danger,  therefore,  to  the  Constitu- 
tion, from  the  addition  of  Indian  pa- 
tronage, either  directly  or  indirectly, 
to  the  Crown,  is  now  incomparably 
greater  than  it  was  at  the  time  of  the 
great  contest  in  1784,  when  Mr 
Fox's  India  Bill  was  thrown  out; 
because  the  body  to  be  rendered 
paramount  by  such  a  measure,  is  not, 
as  then,  a  Whig  aristocracy,  whose 
interests  must,  in  the  end,  have  be- 
come Conservative;  but  an  urban 
democracy,  already  possessed  of  a 
vast  and  overwhelming  influence  in 
the  Legislature,  and  whose  passions 
generally  lead  them  to  desperate  or 
dangerous  measures.  The  little  which 
yet  remains  of  the  balance  will  infal- 
libly be  subverted  by  such  a  change ; 
but  it  will  be  subverted  in  a  far  more 
dangerous  way  than  in  17  84,  because, 
what  will  kick  the  beam  will  not  be 
a  firm  and  stable  aristocracy,  but  a 
fickle  and  intemperate  populace. 

But,  with  this  great  and  obvious 
danger  staring  them  in  the  face, 
what  does  the  plan  of  Ministers  pro- 
pose to  do  ?  It  proposes  nothing 
less  than  a  total  annihilation  of  the 
Company  as  an  independent  body 
or  Government,  and  its  reconstruc- 
tion, with  crippled  powers,  as  a 
mere  Board  under  the  great  demo- 
cratic Legislature.  The  China  mo- 
nopoly is  to  cease;  the  whole*  pro- 
perty of  the  Company,  commercial 
and  territorial,  is  to  be  assigned  to 
Government ;  and  the  dividend  on 
the  Company's  capital  of  L.6,000,000 
is  to  be  obtained  by  L.630,000  being 
declared  a  burden  on  the  Indian  re- 
venue. In  this  way  the  Company 
will  at  once  be  extinguished,  both 


as  a  trading  body,  and  as  a  terri- 
torial sovereignty,  and  be  converted 
into  a  mere  body  of  annuitants,  like 
the  holders  of  the  three  per  cents, 
having  a  certain  claim  on  the  terri- 
torial revenues  of  India  for  their 
payment.  This  body  is  to  have  no 
share  at  all  in  the  Home  establish- 
ment, which  is  to  be  exclusively  un- 
der the  Board  of  Control ;  and  their 
proceedings,  in  regard  even  to  fo- 
reign expenditure,  are  to  be  sub- 
jected to  control,  in  all  salaries  and 
gratuities,  how  small  soever  their 
amount. 

In  these  circumstances  it  is  of  no 
sort  of  consequence  what  powers  in 
the  administration  of  India  are  nomi- 
nally reserved  to  the  Court  of  Direc- 
tors. Their  importance,  their  weight, 
their  consequence,  will  immediately 
cease.  Government  influence  will 
instantly  be  exerted  to  procure  the 
command  of  the  voters  who  return 
the  Directors,  and  the  patronage  of 
India  will  furnish  ample  means  to 
accomplish  the  object.  When  so 
great  a  concern  is  at  stake  as  the 
disposal  of  a  revenue  of  L.22,000,000, 
ample  means  will  soon  be  found  to 
sway  the  votes  into  which  the 
L.630,000  a-year  is  to  be  divided. 
Parliament  also  is  to  have  the  option 
of  redeeming  every  L.5,  5s.  of  an- 
nuity with  L.100,  a  faculty  which  at 
once  puts  it  in  the  power  of  any 
ambitious  leader  of  the  Democracy 
to  reduce  the  stock  to  a  manageable 
amount,  if  its  holders  should  not 
prove  so  tractable  as  is  desirable. 

What  at  present  preserves  the 
East  India  Company  from  prostra- 
tion before  the  power  of  Parliament 
is  the  astonishing  extent  and  magni- 
tude of  their  possessions  and  trans- 
actions which  render  them  a  fourth 
estate  in  the  realm,  possessed  of  per- 
haps greater  wealth  and  consequence 
than  any  of  the  other  three  taken 
singly.  The  almost  incredible 
amount  of  their  transactions,  as  given 
in  the  table  below,*  shews  how  im- 


*  PECUNIARY  CONCERNS  OF  THE  EAST  INDIA  COMPANY  SINCE  THE  LAST 

RENEWAL  OF  THEIR  CHARTER.* 
" 


East  India  Company's  gross  receipts  and  disbursements 
since  1814,         ......        ..  L.4/78,  1  03,911  !!! 

•i  brifiauorfi  nailo  ssisrfo  fcytws  ifsm?  3. 
*  Up  to  the  latest  period  at  *hich  the  several  accounts  can  be  made  up. 


1833.] 


The  East  India  Question. 


793 


possible  it  was  that  a  body  of  such 
magnitude  could,  under  the  former 
system,  be  seriously  swayed  even  by 
the  British  Government.  But  when 
their  enormous  cash  transactions  of 
fa  ur  hundred  and  seventy-eight  millions 
in  eighteen  years  are  reduced  to  the 
mere  receipt  of  L. 630,000  per  annum; 
when,  instead  of  paying  nearly  four 
millions  of  duties  into  the  Treasury 
yearly,  at  the  charge  of  L.  10,000  a- 
year,  they  merely  receive  their  half- 
yearly  dividend  ofL.315,000;  when, 
instead  of  selling  teas  to  the  amount 
of  eighty-three  millions  in  eighteen 
years,  they  sell  nothing;  when,  in- 
stead of  conducting  a  trade  in  opium 
of  fifty  millions  in  that  time,  they  do 
not  freight  a  single  ship ;  it  is  evi- 
dent thattheirpolitical  independence 
is  utterly  destroyed,  and  that  they 
must  become  a  mere  Treasury  Board 
for  the  administration  of  the  Indian 
provinces  of  the  Empire. 

But,  in    addition  to  this   instant 
cessation  of  all  its  money  transac- 

38    dSrfW          J'jsnfo    'Mtt 


tions,  which  of  itself  is  amply  suffi- 
cient utterly  to  prostrate  and  anni- 
hilate the  independence  and  utility 
of  the  Court  of  Directors,  even  as  a 
Government  Board,  for  the  manage- 
ment of  India,  the  new  and  import- 
ant restraints  under  which  they  are 
to  be  placed  are  of  themselves  suf- 
ficient to  take  from  it  even  the  sha- 
dow of  independence.  The  Court  are 
to  be  compelled  "  to  send  the  des- 
patch which  the  Board  of  Control 
have  fixed  on  by  the  first  ship  that 
goes  after  such  determination  ;  and 
in  the  event  of  the  Court  refusing  to 
prepare  a  despatch  or  send  a  des- 
patch as  altered  by  the  Board,  the 
Board  are  to  have  the  power  of  send- 
ing it  themselves."  The  Home  ex- 
penditure and  establishment  is  to  be 
under  the  Board  of  Control ;  and 
they  are  to  control  all  salaries  and 
gratuities,  even  of  the  smallest 
amount  in  India.  With  such  con- 
tracted powers,  and  such  a  total  ter- 
mination to  all  their  vast  concerns,  it 


f  Civil  Establishments, 

Disbursements   j  Military,     do.         .         ^-^ 
,1  in  India.         y  Interest  on  Indian  Debt, 

LSt  Helena,  „ 

iOttqo  ddi  »7Bd  ol  ai  osiit  •* 
TIB  lo  .afi  ,fi,  J  7T£>vi*  ^nimoili**  r  to 
s  rfoirfw  ^ifiryfl^  B  tOOI.Jf>d-1tv  9.?T-ir.- 
Remitted  to  England  by    C  Through  India  since  1814, 

the  Company.  (  Through  China,  do. 

''idB9§SfIKff!  B  OJ  5!::'  «O;i 

f»n  bluorfa   ai»*; 


lift'  s 

L.I  17,606,336 
137,253,467 
.       24,051,666 
.         .          1,362,256 


L.280,273,725  sterling. 


Tea  duties  paid  into  the  British  Exchequer  by  the  East 
-India  Company  since  the  last  renewal  of  their  Char- 
ter, . 

Sale  amount  of  India  investments  from  1814  to  1828, 
Sale  amount  of  China  investments  for  do., 
•bay  >>!}OS 

?ailB97  9ffo  fli 


L.  12,920,937     fedw 
11,417,113 



L.24,338,050 

v)  TO 

L.63,745,324  !* 
27,109,120 
56,140,981 


ax  L.83,240,101  f 

r*£r^tip^3uo')  bus  dllfidw  ISJBSTV 

Opium  and  private  trade  between  India  and  China,         .         L.  51,  000,000  sterling. 
To  the  foregoing  enormous  sums  may  be  appended 

accumulations  of  fortunes  remitted  to  England  -t  ^BW 

from  India  and  China,  and  allowances  for  fami- 

lies resident  here,      .......          L.I  8,000,000  sterling. 

If  to  these  vast  considerations  be  added  the  fact  of  1,180,000  square  miles  of  ter- 
ritory, and  one  hundred  and  twenty  million  of  souls,  directly  or  indirectly  dependent 
on,  or  subject  to,  the  sway  of  the  East  India  Company,  an  idea  may  be  formed  of  the 
immense  interests  involved  in  the  Company's  Charter. 


*  At  the  small  annual  charge  of  ten  thousand  pounds  a-year  I 
J*"8  sum  is  now  upwards  of  one  hundred  millions  sterling. 


aonto 


794 


The  East  India  Question. 


[May, 


is  evident  that  the  independence  of 
the  Company  will  prove  a  mere 
name ;  and  that  the  influence  of  Go- 
vernment,— in  other  words,  of  the 
democratic  electors  in  the  dominant 
island, — will  speedily  become  para- 
mount in  the  Indian  Peninsula. 

This  is  the  view  which  the  Direc- 
tors themselves  entertain  on  this 
subject.  It  is  observed,  in  a  letter  from 
the  Chairman  and  Deputy  Chair- 
man to  Mr  Charles  Grant,  on  27th 
February,  1833,  "The  Court  look 
upon  the  system  of  Indian  govern- 
ment established  by  the  act  of  1784, 
as  one  in  which  the  different  autho- 
rities employed  in  carrying  it  on 
are  eminently  qualified  to  exert  a 
check  upon  each  other ;  and  to  this 
circumstance  the  Court  are  disposed 
to  attribute  much  of  the  purity  with 
which,  since  the  passing  of  that  act, 
the  government  has  been  adminis- 
tered. The  nature  of  the  local  go- 
vernment of  India;  composed  of  three 
separate  Presidencies;  the  Governors 
of  each  of  which  act  under  the  ad- 
vice, and  for  some  extent  the  control 
of  their  respective  Councils,  and  the 
subjection  of  all  the  proceedings  of 
this  local  government  to  the  Court, 
this  body  again  subject  to  the  con-  v 
trol  of  the  Board  of  Commissioners 
instituted  for  that  special  purpose, 
make  up  a  system  of  various  pow- 
ers, diverse  in  origin,  and  acting  un- 
der mutual  influence,  the  effects  of 
which  the  Court  are  disposed  to 
think  of  incalculable  value  in  a  Go- 
vernment, the  power  of  which  over 
its  subjects  is  almost  absolute,  and 
upon  which  public  opinion  can  exert 
but  a  feeble  and  uncertain  operation. 
If  these  remarks  are  well  founded, 
any  measure,  the  tendency  of  which 
would  be  to  remove  from  its  position 
any  one  of  the  powers  concerned  in 
the  government  of  India,  or  mate- 
rially to  weaken  it  in  the  exercise  of 
its  functions,  is  greatly  to  be  depre- 
cated. Now,  to  apply  this  argument 
to  the  case  immediately  in  view,  if 
the  East  India  Company  (acting 
through  the  Court  as  their  organ) 
were  to  lose  any  of  their  present 
power  and  influence  ;  if,  further, 
they  were  deprived  of  all  effectual 
voice  in  the  disposal  of  the  funds 
which  are  now  at  their  command; 
they  might,  indeed,  be  suffered  to 
retain  the  nominal  character  of  Go- 
vernors of  the  British  Territories  in 


the  East,  but  it  is  evident  that  all  but 
the  shadow  of  their  former  authority 
would  be  gone  :  they  might,  indeed, 
be  charged  with  the  same  degree  of 
responsibility  as  is  now  exacted  from 
them  in  that  capacity;  but  the 
grounds  upon  which  much  of  this 
responsibility  rests,  and  which  ren- 
der it  just  and  proper  that  they 
should  be  held  responsible,  would 
no  longer  exist;  and  they  would, 
probably,  often  have  to  incur  the 
odium  of  resisting  measures  which 
they  might  consider  objectionable, 
without  having  the  weight  and  inde- 
pendence which  would  suffice  to 
obtain  for  their  objections  a  proper 
consideration.  The  Court  are  also 
firmly  of  opinion,  that  a  considerable 
degree  of  independence  should  at- 
tach to  the  body  in  whom  the  pa- 
tronage of  British  India  is  vested; 
and  that,  without  the  possession  of 
such  a  character,  the  right  of  making 
appointments  to  office  might  prove 
rather  a  dangerous  privilege. 

"  Divested  of  their  commerce,  from 
which  the  Company  derive  so  large  a 
portion  of  their  influence  and  charac- 
ter in  England  as  a  body  independent 
of  the  Government  of  the  country,  the 
Court  greatly  fear  lest  they  should 
become  merely  an  instrument  for 
giving  effect  to  the  views  of  the  In- 
dian Minister,  whose  sway  over  India 
would,  under  the  plan  of  his  Ma- 
jesty's Government,  be  almost  abso- 
lute, and  little  exposed  to  the  vigi- 
lance of  Parliament,  in  consequence 
of  the  appearance  of  a  check  in  the 
Company,  which,  if  the  apprehension 
of  the  Court  be  well  founded,  would 
be  perfectly  illusory.  The  proba- 
bility of  such  a  result  is  greatly  en- 
hanced by  that  part  of  the  plan  which 
proposes  to  increase  the  powers  of 
the  Board,  and  to  restrict  those  of 
the  Company.  You  say,  indeed,  that 
the  scheme  allots  important  powers 
to  the  proprietors.  The  only  powers 
which  it  gives  to  them  are  those 
which  they  already  possess;  and 
whilst  the  Directors  are  to  continue 
subject  to  all  the  present  limitations, 
the  Board  are  to  be  invested  with 
authority  themselves  to  send  des- 
patches, without  allowing  of  -any 
appeal,  although  their  contents  may 
be  opposed  to  the  judgment  of  every 
member  of  the  Court." 

In  this  view,  the  recent  rise  which 
has  taken  place  in  East  India  Stock, 


1833.] 


The  East  India  Question. 


795 


upon  the  promulgation  of  the  Minis- 
terial plan,  affords  the  most  decisive 
evidence  of  the  prejudicial  effect 
which  it  is  ultimately  likely  to  pro- 
duce upon  the  practical  government 
of  our  Indian  possessions.  The  hold- 
ers of  East  India  Stock,  of  course, 
look  to  little  more  than  securing  the 
regular  receipt  of  their  dividend  of 
ten  and  a  half  per  cent  on  their  ca- 
pital. Of  course,  the  project  of  con- 
verting them  from  the  chargeable 
and  perilous  condition  of  mercan- 
tile traders  into  fixed  annuitants,  se- 
cured on  a  vast  territorial  revenue 
for  their  payment,  is  eminently  fa- 
vourable at  first  sight  to  their  pecu- 
niary interests;  it  is  like  what  it 
would  be  to  take  a  body  of  proprie- 
tors of  Bank  Stock,  at  a  period  of 
high  prosperity,  and  convert  their 
changeable  dividend,  dependent  on 
the  fickle  gales  of  mercantile  fortune, 
into  that  of  fixed  mortgagees,  secured 
for  their  dividends  on  great  landed 
estates.  But  while  this  project  may 
be  admitted  to  be,  in  the  first  in- 
stance at  least,  favourable  to  the  pe- 
cuniary interests  of  the  holders  of 
India  Stock,  and  as  such  conducive 
to  a  rise  of  its  value  in  the  opinion 
of  the  heedless  multitude  who  com- 
pose the  majority  of  its  members; 
what  prospect  does  it  afford  of  ulti- 
mate good  management  to  the  im- 
mense territory  from  which  alone 
their  payment  is  to  be  derived  ?  The 
holders  of  India  Stock  arelienceforth 
to  be  no  longer  dependent  for  their 
income  on  the  prudent  and  success- 
ful management  of  the  Court  of  Di- 
rectors ;  they  are  the  holders  of  a 
fixed  annuity  payable  out  of  the  In- 
dian territory,  which  cannot  be  in- 
jured unless  our  Indian  Sovereignty 
itself  is  lost.  This,  indeed,  though  a 
remote,  is  a  most  serious  and  appal- 
ling danger  under  the  new  system  of 
management;  but  dangers,  however 
great,  are  never  obvious  to  the 
masses  of  mankind  if  they  are  only 
remote — a  proof  of  which  was  afford- 
ed in  France,  where  the  public  funds 
rose  30  per  cent  in  one  day  on  the 
restoration  of  Neckar  to  power  on 
the  shoulders  of  the  people  in  1788, 
though  the  fundholders,  five  years 
afterwards,  came  to  die  of  famine  in 
the  streets  ;  and  another  in  England, 
when,  during  the  whole  struggle  on 
Reform,  the  public  Funds  uniformly 
rose  upon  every  triumph  of  the 
Movement  party,  though  their  mea- 


sures, every  man  of  sense  now  sees, 
are  rapidly  leading  to  a  national  bank- 
ruptcy. But  as  the  immediate  inte- 
rests of  the  holders  of  India  Stock  are 
now  to  be  secured  by  their  conversion 
into  territorial  annuitants,  they  cease 
to  have  any  direct  or  personal  inte- 
rest in  the  government  of  India,  just 
as  the  holders  of  a  mortgage  cease  to 
have  any  direct  or  immediate  inte- 
rest in  the  management  of  the  estate 
over  which  their  security  extends, 
because  they  always  think,  that  how- 
ever much  it  may  be  mismanaged,  it 
will  at  least  yield  enough  to  pay 
them.  In  this  way  the  choice  of  the 
Directors  falls  to  a  body  no  longer 
actuated  by  any  direct  or  immediate 
interest  in  the  concerns  of  India ;  the 
management  of  the  estate  is  taken 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  proprietors, 
and  vested  in  the  holders  of  a  mort- 
gage of  little  more  than  &  fortieth  part 
of  its  annual  revenue.  The  rise  of 
India  Stock,  therefore,  is  the  clearest 
indication  that  the  Ministerial  plan 
has  an  immediate  tendency  to  take 
the  government  of  India  out  of  the 
hands  where  it  should  be  placed  ;  be- 
cause it  vests  it  in  a  body  possessing 
a  fixed  and  unchangeable  interest  in 
a  territorial  mortgage,  instead  of  one 
whose  income  was  immediately  af- 
fected by  the  wisdom  or  folly  of  its 
government. 

It  is  as  plain,  therefore,  as  any  pro- 
position can  be  in  so  uncertain  and 
intricate  a  science  as  politics,  that 
the  immediate  effect  of  the  proposed 
change  in  the  government  of  India 
will  be  to  take  it  out  of  the  hands  by 
whom  it  has  been  so  admirably  ma- 
naged, and  vest  it  in  those  from  whom 
experience  tells  us  no  stable  or  sys- 
tematic rule  can  be  expected.  The 
government  of  India  will  be  divided 
between  the  Directors  chosen  by  the 
holders  of  an  annuity  of  L.630,000 
a-year,  but  with  no  immediate  inte- 
rest in  its  prosperity,  and  the  House 
of  Common?.  It  is  unnecessary  to 
say  which  of  these  bodies  is  likely  to 
acquire  the  preponderating  influence. 
India,  therefore,  will  inevitably  fall 
under  the  direct  control  of  a  demo- 
cratic Legislature;  the  Ten-pounders 
in  the  British  isles  will  be  the  ruling 
power;  and  what  they  will  do  for 
India,  Mr  Hume  has  told  us  from  the 
lessons  of  history,  and  the  West  In- 
dies tell  us  from  the  experience  of 
our  own  times. 

But  this  is  not  all.    The  Ministe- 


CM 
796 

rial  plan  also  involves  the  immediate 
opening  of  the  China  trade;  and 
this  of  itself,  independent  of  every 
thing  else,  is  amply  sufficient  ul- 
timately to  overthrow  our  Indian 
dominion. 


The  East  India  Question. 


[May, 


millions,  has  been  defrayed  of  the 
charges  of  the  Indian  territory  out  of 
the  profits  of  the  China  trade,  the 
point  for  consideration  is,  what 
ground  is  there  for  supposing  that 
the  territorial  revenue  of  India  can 


mnon.  te  terrtora   revenue  of    ndia  can 

It  is  impossible  to  do  justice  to  this  be  brought  to  be  so  productive  in 

vast  subject  at  the  close  of  a  long  future  as  to  bear,  not  only  the  with- 

Article.  If  the  chequer  is  not  closed 


before  our  June  number  appears,  we 
shall  return  to  the  subject,  and  ex- 
pose the  numberless  frauds  .which 
have  been  imposed  on  the  public  on 
this  subject ;  but  in  a  few  pages  we 
think  enough  may  be  given  to  satisfy 
every  reasonable  mind  on  the  sub- 
ject. 

In  the  first  place,  the  China  mo- 
nopoly is  indispensable  to  enable 
the  Government  of  India  to  defray 
its  engagements,  or  preserve  its  sol- 
vency in  the  Peninsula  of  Hindostan. 

From  the  papers  laid  before  Par- 
liament, it  appears  that  no  less^han 
L.  17,000,000  has  been  required  from 
the  profits  of  the  China  trade  to 
make  up  the  deficiency  of  the  expen- 
diture in  India  over  its  territorial 
revenue.  Mr  Grant,  in  his  commu- 
nication to  the  Directors  on  the  pro- 
posed changes,  admits  the  existence 
of  this  great  deficit.  He  observes, 
"  The  seventeen  millions,  for  ex- 
ample, admitting,  for  the  sake  of 
argument,  the  amount  to  be  justly 
stated,  by  the  supply  of  which, 
through  the  China  monopoly,  the 
public  debt  of  India  has  been  kept 
down,  has  been  appropriated  out  of 
the  resources  of  this  country,  as  cer- 
tainly as  if  they  had  been  appropri- 
ated by  a  vote  of  Parliament  in  aid 
of  the  Indian  finances.  There  cer- 
tainly has  been  such  a  deficiency  in 
the  funds  of  India  to  meet  the  neces- 
sary expenses  of  Government,  and 
it  has  been  supplied  by  the  means 
above  stated,  whether  to  the  amount 
of  seventeen  millions  or  twelve  mil- 
lions, (the  latter  is  the  amount  in 
the  Appendix  to  the  Report  of  J  830,) 
or  any  other  sum,  is  no  proof  that 
there  will  always  be  a  deficit  in 
future."* 

It  being  thus  admitted  that  a  large 
sum,  amounting  to  at  least  twelve 


drawal  of  this  assistance  from  com- 
merce, but  the  additional  burden  of 
L.630,000,  which  is  to  be  laid  on  the 
territorial  revenue  to  meet  the  divi- 
dends to  the  proprietors,  which  are 
now  paid  from  the  profits  of  trade  ? 
If  it  cannot  be  shewn  that  this  is 
practicable,  it  is  evident  that  the 
Government  of  India  is  insolvent, 
and  by  the  constant  contraction  of 
debt  every  year,  will  to  a  certainty, 
in  a  given  time,  be  overwhelmed. 

Now,  on  this  subject,  it  is  to  be 
recollected,  that,  though  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  has  been  frequently 
at  war  for  the  last  twenty  years, 
they  have  been  uniformly  successful; 
that  they  have  conquered  in  that 
time  almost  the  whole  of  the  Indian 
peninsula;  that  the  territorial  reve- 
nue has  been,  by  successive  additions 
of  territory,  and  improvements  in  the 
internal  condition  of  the  people, 
more  than  quadrupled;  that  till  the 
year  1813  they  had  the  monopoly 
both  of  the  Indian  and  China  trade, 
and  to  this  hour  the  latter  of  these 
advantages  ;  and  yet  they  have  been 
so  far  from  realizing  any  surplus 
during  that  time  from  the  combined 
resources  of  territory  and  commerce, 
that  their  debt  is  now  L.47,700,000, 
and  its  annual  charge  L.2,1 16,971. f 
Farther,  the  Committee  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  in  their  prospective 
estimate  of  the  finances  of  India,  un- 
der the  direction  of  his  Majesty's 
present  Ministers,  in  May  1831,  have 
given  us  the  following  probable  pro- 
spective state  of  Indian  finances, 
even  after  taking  into  account  all  pos- 
sible reduction  of  expenditure : — 

Probable   deficiency  of  Indian  revenues 

in  1834,  to  meet  charges  in  India, 
nio  lo  fliiKtibasqxs  sift  nL.  827,300 
Bond  debt  in  England,     .     .     113,300 


Annual  deficit,  L.  940,600  J 


1 31  vc 

Mr  Grant's  letter  to  the  Chairman,  Feb.  12,  1833. 
Report,  June  30,  1831,  p.  172. 
Prospective  Estimate  of  India  Accounts.    Minutes  of  Evidence,  1831,  p.  173. 


1833.] 


The  East  India  Question. 


Now,  this  being  the  territorial  de- 
ficit, on  an  accurate  and  minute  esti- 
mate, of  the  revenue  of  India  in  1834, 
founded  on  the  documents  laid  be- 
fore Parliament,  it  is  obvious  that, 
with  the  additional  burden  of 
L.G30,000  laid  on,  and  the  resources 
of  the  China  trade  taken  away,  the 
finances  of  India  must  be  speedily 
landed  in  a  state  of  desperate  and 
irretrievable  insolvency. 

The  expectations  held  out  by  Go- 
vernment, that  by  prudent  manage- 
ment the  revenue  of  India  may  be 
greatly  increased,  and  rendered  ade- 
quate to  discharge  all  its  engage- 
ments, is  altogether  chimerical.  This 
fallacious  hope  has  been  annually 
held  out  to  the  British  public  for  the 
last  seventy  years,  and  the  glittering 
prospect  has  as  uniformly  been  over- 
cast. So  far  from  having  realized 
any  surplus  whatever  during  that 
time,  the  India  Government  has  been 
compelled  to  contract  a  debt  of 
L.47,000,000.  The  annual  deficit  is 
greater  now  than  it  was  at  any  for- 
mer period.  And  if  this  is  the  case, 
even  after  the  most  extraordinary 
and  uninterrupted  flow  of  prosperity 
recorded  in  history;  after  conquests 
unparalleled  since  the  days  of  the 
Romans,  and  an  augmentation  of  the 
revenue  more  than  fourfold,  by  the 
revenue  of  the  ceded  provinces,  what 
reasonable  prospect  is  there  that  a 
more  favourable  result  will  be  ob- 
tained in  future  times,  when  our 
Indian  empire  has  undergone  the 
Ticissitudes  of  fortune  incident  to 
every  sublunary  thing,  and  which 
our  past  and  unparalleled  success 
only  renders  more  likely  to  occur 
with  accumulated  force?  There  is 
no  example  in  history  of  an  empire 
of  such  magnitude  as  our  Indian  one 
not  undergoing  most  serious  reverses 
after  it  has  attained  its  zenith.  The 
fall  of  the  Roman,  in  ancient,  and  of 
the  French  empire  in  our  own  times, 
were  but  instances  and  exemplifica- 
tions of  this  moral  law  of  nature. 

Nor  is  it  possible  to  make  any  re- 
ductions in  the  expenditure  of  our 
Indian  empire  without  the  m6st  im- 
minent hazard  of  destroying  the 
whole  fabric.  Like  the  empire  of 


797 

Napoleon  in  Europe,  the  empire  of 
England  in  India  is  founded  on  opi- 
nion, on  the  prestige  arising  from 
the  command  of  an  immense  expen- 
diture, and  an  apparently  irresistible 
force.  Let  either  of  these  be  under- 
mined, and  the  charm  is  broken,  and 
with  it  our  Indian  empire  dissolved. 
With  truth  it  may  be  said  there,  that 
from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous  is 
but  a  step.  The  affections  of  the 
natives  can  only  be  maintained  by 
a  lavish  expenditure;  their  respect 
only  preserved  by  a  gigantic  force. 
Contract  the  one,  or  diminish  the 
other,  and  in  three  months  the  splen- 
did fabric  may  be  swept  from  the 
face  of  the  earth. 

Farther,  it  is  not  generally  known 
in  Europe,  but  yet  it  is  of  vital  im- 
portance in  this  question,  how  ex- 
tremely burdensome  the  taxation  of 
India  is,  and  how  large  a  proportion 
of  it  is  derived  from  the  monopoly 
of  opium,  which  is  entirely  at  the 
mercy  of  the  Chinese  Government, 
and  salt,  which  is  an  impost  of  so 
vexatious  a  kind  as  to  render  its 
maintenance  neither  possible  nor  de- 
sirable for  any  considerable  time. 
Of  the  total  revenue  of  L.22,600,000, 
aboveL.6,000,000*a-year  is  derived 
from  the  monopoly  of  saltand  opium; 
and  if  the  Chinese  Government  were 
to  choose  to  put  a  stop  to  the  trade 
in  opium,  the  greater  part  of  this 
immense  sum  would  be  lost.  The 
territorial  revenue  is  raised  by  a 
land-tax,  amounting  in  general  to 
from  30  to  45  per  cent  on  the  pro- 
duce of  the  soil.f  Now,  surely  this 
taxation  is  most  exorbitant;  espe- 
cially if  it  be  recollected  what  an 
intolerable  burden  10  per  cent  was 
felt  to  be  in  this  country  during  the 
war.  It  may  safely  be  affirmed, 
therefore,  that  the  territorial  revenue 
of  India  should,  if  we  have  any  re- 
gard to  the  stability  of  our  empire  in 
the  East,  be  diminished  rather  than 
the  reverse;  and  it  is  obvious,  that 
that  portion  of  it  which  depends  on 
the  monopoly  of  opium  and  salt,  can- 
not be  calculated  on  as  of  very  last- 
ing endurance. 

It  is  clear,  therefore,  that  India,  in 
every  point  of  view,  holds  out  no 


*  Parliamentary  Papers,  May  1832 
t  Sinclair,  36, 


.q  <  1881  t93n9biv3 


India  Revenue  Account, 

,8Tf  .ij  J88I  M  auiil  .JioqsH  f 
^)n«oo»A  cifcnl  lo 


798 


The  East  India  Question. 


[May, 


prospect  of  yielding  a  revenue  ade- 
quate to  the  expenditure  ;  and  there- 
fore the  extraordinary  resource  of 
the  China  monopoly  is  indispensable, 
if  we  would  save  that  empire  from 
sinking  into  the  gulf  of  insolvency. 
The  reason  of  this  anomalous  state 
of  things  is  twofold.  1.  That  our 
Indian  empire  being  of  such  sudden 
growth  and  unparalleled  extent,  re- 
quires to  be  supported  by  such  a 
force  and  expenditure  as  is  calcula- 
ted to  overawe  and  dazzle  the  na- 
tives. Higher  salaries  to  the  army 
and  all  the  civil  servants  of  Govern- 
ment, even  of  native  origin,  must  be 
given,  than  are  paid  by  the  native 
powers,  to  secure  the  fidelity  of  the 
sable  multitude  to  foreign  standards, 
and  counteract  the  natural  desire 
which  they  must  feel  to  restore  their 
national  independence,  and  obtain 
for  themselves  the  situations  of  ho- 
nour and  profit  which  are  now  ex- 
clusively enjoyed  by  Europeans.  And, 
2.  That  as  all  the  persons  in  autho- 
rity, and  all  the  officers  of  the  army, 
must  be  Europeans,  they  must  re- 
ceive salaries  as  an  inducement  to 
them  to  go  to  India,  which,  although 
not  exorbitant  with  reference  to  Eu- 
ropean customs  and  prices,  are  most 
enormous,  if  considered  with  refe- 
rence to  the  value  of  money  and 
mode  of  living  among  the  natives  of 
India.  The  wages  of  labour,  it  is  to 
be  recollected,  are  there  about  a 
penny  a-day ;  and  of  course  the  price 
of  every  thing,  except  European 
luxuries,  is  in  the  same  proportion. 
In  such  a  country,  to  raise  revenues 
which  shall  pay  all  the  5000  civil  and 
military  servants  of  Government  sa- 
laries at  the  rate  of  from  L.300  to 
L.I 000  a-year  each,  is  a  most  prodi- 
gious drag  upon  the  finances,  and 
which  is  the  true  cause  of  the  ex- 
perienced impossibility  of  making 
even  the  heavy  and  oppressive  tax- 


ation of  India  defray  the  expenses  of 
its  establishment.  The  taxes  are 
raised  from  a  people  among  whom 
money  is  more  than  ten  times  as  valu- 
able as  it  is  with  those  to  whom 
they  are  paid.  It  is  fruitless  to  en- 
quire whether  this  is  a  desirable  or 
wholesome  state  of  things.  Suffice 
it  to  say,  it  is  the  state  which  exists, 
and  must  be  grappled  with  by  those 
whose  duty  it  is  to  legislate  on  In- 
dian affairs. 

If  these  observations  are  well 
founded,  they  bring  the  question  of 
the  Chinese  monopoly  to  a  very  nar- 
row issue.  It  is,  in  truth,  the  price, 
and  the  only  price,  which  the  people 
of  England  pay,  or  ever  have  paid, 
for  their  enormous  and  unexampled 
Indian  dominion.  Unless  it  is  se- 
cured to  the  Company  that  mighty 
empire  is  lost;  because  it  is  equally 
clear  that  our  Indian  possessions  can- 
not long  be  maintained  with  a  grow- 
ing deficit  and  a  declining  revenue, 
and  that  the  finances  of  this  country 
will  not  admit  of  Great  Britain 
charging  itself  with  the  heavy  defi- 
ciency arising  from  the  Indian  Go- 
vernment. With  a  revenue  which, 
since  the  fatal  era  of  November  1830, 
has  been  constantly  and  steadily 
declining,  which  last  year  *  was 
L.I, -200,000  below  the  expenditure, 
and  is  continuing  to  fall  from  quarter 
to  quarter,  it  is  perfectly  extravagant 
to  expect  that  the  additional  burden 
of  L.I, 000,000  a-year  of  territorial 
deficit,  and  L. 630,000  a-year  of  an- 
nuities to  the  holders  of  Indian  stock, 
can  be  borne.  The  people  of  Eng- 
land,the  Reformed  Parliament,  never 
would  bear  such  a  direction  of 
British  resources  to  our  remote  In- 
dian possessions. 

Even,  therefore,  if  the  China  mo- 
nopoly had  been  as  burdensome  to 
the  people  of  this  country  as  is  re- 
presented by  its  enemies — suppos- 


*  From  April  5,  1631,  to  April  5,  1832,  the  revenue  for  the  last  four  years  has 
stood  thus  :  — 

Year  ending  5th  April  1830,  -  46,894,000 

Do,  1831,  -  46,113,000 

Do.  1832,  ...  43,052,000 

Do.  1833,  *  -  -  45,286,000 

The  last  year  is  L.230,000  more  than  the  lamentable  falling  off  in  the  preceding 
one;  but  the  last  quarter  is  L.92,000  below  the  same  quarter  of  the  preceding  year, 
and  Lord  AlthorpX  surplus  of  two  millions,  predicted  for  this  year,  has  ranishedinto 
thin  air, 


1833.] 


The  East  India  Question* 


799 


ing  Mr  M'Culloch's  calculation  were 
as  correct  as  we  shall  immediately 
see  it  is  erroneous,  that  the  tea  mo- 
nopoly costs  the  nation  annually 
L.I, 800,000  a-year — still  this  would 
have  been  a  small  price  for  so  great 
and  lucrative  an  empire.  In  what 
other  age  was  it  ever  heard  of,  that, 
for  little  more  than  a  million  and  a 
half  a-year,  a  dominion  was  obtained 
over  one  of  the  richest  countries  in 
the  world,  tenanted  by  a  hundred 
millions  of  souls,  and  yielding  a  reve- 
nue of  two-and-twenty  millions  a- 
year  ?  Compared  with  this,  the  con- 
quests of  Louis  XIV.  and  Napoleon 
were  costly  enterprises;  and  the 
acquisitions  of  all  other  European 
states  but  as  dust  in  the  balance. 

But,  in  truth,  the  China  monopoly 
has  cost  the  country  nothing  ;  and  the 
statements  on  this  subject,  by  which 
the  public  has  so  long  and  generally 
been  deluded,  furnish  one  of  the  most 
striking  instances  of  the  misconcep- 
tion produced  by  the  press,  of  which 
modern  history  makes  mention. 

The  foundation  of  this  mass  of  m  is- 
representation  is  to  be  found  in  the 
well-known  article,  said  to  be  from 
the  pen  of  Mr  Crawford  or  Mr  M'Cul- 
loch,  in  the  104th  Number  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review.  In  that  paper 
the  author  states,  from  a  comparison 
of  the  prices  which  tea  fetched  in 
1828-9  at  Hamburgh,  where  the  trade 
is  open,  over  those  at  which  the  teas 
were  sold  by  the  Company  in  Lon- 
don, that  the  "  Company  sold  their 
teas  in  1828-9  for  the  immense  sum 
of  L.I, 709,83 7  more  than  they  would 
have  fetched  had  the  trade  been 
free."*  This  statement  was  instant- 
ly seized  hold  of  by  the  liberal  press ; 
the  country  .resounded  with  the  im- 
mense sums  annually  levied  on  their 
industry  by  the  cupidity  of  the  East 
India  Company.  It  was  by  this 
means  that  the  impression  was  pro- 
duced on  the  public,  which  is  now 
looked  to  as  likely  to  overturn  in  the 


Raformed  Parliament  the  East  India 
Government. 

Now,  the  way  in  which  this  result 
was  obtained  was  this  : — Returns 
were  obtained  in  1829  from  the 
consuls  at  all  the  chief  harbours  in 
the  world,  of  the  prices  at  which 
teas  were  sold.  It  so  happened  that 
there  was  an  extraordinary  glut,  from 
an  accidental  cause,  at  Hamburgh  in 
that  year,  and  that  in  consequence 
tea  of  every  sort  was  selling  at  Ham- 
burgh below  the  prime  cost  at  Canton. 
And  this  unparalleled  low  price,  in 
consequence  of  an  extraordinary 
glut,  the  Reviewer  deliberately  put 
forth  as  the  price  at  which  tea 
could  fairly  be  sold  under  a  free  trade 
in  Great  Britain !  All  this  we  shall 
demonstrate  as  clearly  as  that  two 
and  two  make  four. 

The  prices  on  which  the  Reviewer 
founds  at  Hamburgh,  in  1829,  were 
these  :f 

Bohea,       -        0    8£  per  Ib. 

Congou,     -         12^ 

Twankay,  1     2j 

Now,  what  were  the  prices  at  Can- 
ton ?  These  have  been  proved  in 
the  Lords'  Report,^  from  which  it  ap- 
pears that  the  cost  prices  in  China 
are — 

Bohea,        -        0    9£  per  Ib. 

Congou,     *         1     2£ 

Twankay,  1     3f 

Thus  it  appears  that  Congou,  in 
that  year,  was  selling  at  'exactly  the 
same  price  in  Canton  and  Hamburgh, 
and  that  Bohea  and  Twankay  were, 
the  first  a  penny,  the  second  three- 
halfpence  cheaper  at  Hamburgh  than 
in  the  warehouses  of  Canton  !  No- 
thing can  be  clearer  than  that  the 
prices  at  Hamburgh  in  that  year  were 
the  result  of  an  overstocked  market, 
and  that  tea  was  sold  there  at  a 
ruinous  loss. 

To  illustrate  this  still  farther,  we 
have  given  below  a  comparative 
statement  of  the  prices  of  teas  at 
Hamburgh  and  Rotterdam,  as  shewn 
in  the  official  returns  applied  to  the 


*  East  India  Company's  China  Question,  p.  279,  No.  104-,  Edin,  Review, 
f  P.  284  of  Review, 
i  P.  4-08,  Lords'  Report,  July  8,-  1830, 

iir.i.w«  Mrf»  m  <»«  ^rufffit  *fcfctn»iu,<rf  art1  '  bfti 

!»•*>  4>nl>'«Lt3iq  3(li1o  f  86. J[  >s\  i9)it>up  3«al  ^rij  iu< 

if  ,**»2-?  "te&u/*  Jiwc 


800  The  East  India  Question.  [May, 

quantities  of  the  several  sorts  sold 
by  the  Company  in  1828-9.* 

From  this  table,  it  appeals  that 
the  prices  at  Hamburgh,  which  the- 
Reviewer  held  forth  as  a  fair  sample 
of  the  prices  of  tea,  under  a  Iree 
trade,  were  no  less  than  .£1,309,791 
lower  than  those  sold  at  Rotterdam 
in  the  same  year,  and  consular  re- 
turns. And  even  these  teas  at  Rot- 
terdam were  sold  at  a  grievous  loss 
to  the  importers ;  for  it  is  stated  in 
the  Report  from  the  select  commit- 
tee of  the  House  of  Commons,  that 
"  the  returns  of  teas  of  the  Nether- 
lands Association  have  causoU  a  toss 
of  twenty-floe  per  cent,  and  that  the 
Dutch  private  traders  have,  since 
1825,  abandoned  this  trade  in  conse- 
quence of  heavy  losses."f 

Average  Prices,  1829. 

Rotterdam.      Frankfort.        New  York. 
2s.     Sd.         Is.  lid. 
2      11 

To  illustrate  this  matter  still  far- 
ther, we  shall  transcribe,  for  the  be- 
nefit of  our  readers,  the  important 
tabular  view  given  by  Mr  Montgo- 
mery Martin,  in  his  late  elaborate  and 
able  work  on  the  Tea  Trade  of  Eng- 
land, of  the  prices  obtained,  from  the 
consular  returns,  for  tea  in  the  prin- 
cipal harbours  of  the  world,  ac- 
cording to  the  consular  returns  of 
1 829,  and  the  latest  prices  current  of 
1832,  the  cost  reduced  to  sterling 
money,  by  Dr  Kelly's  "  Cambist." 


Hamburgh. 
Souchong,       Is.  Id.         2s.  lid. 
Campoi,  12  20 

Yet  it  is  these  returns  that  are  re- 
ferred to  as  supporting  the  Ham- 
burgh prices,  and  warranting  the 
monstrous  conclusion  of  Mr  M'Cul- 
loch,  "  that  supposing  tho  excess  of 
price  over  the  Hamburgh  prices 
charged  by  the  Company  to  have  been 
throughout  the  same  as  in  1830,  the 
total  surplus  price  received  by  the 
Company  since  1814  will  have  been 
L  28,815,000  !"||  By  such  means,  in 
these  days  of  liberality  and  informa- 
tion, are  the  public  instructed. 


But  the  misrepresentations  of  Mr 
M'Culloch  and  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view do  not  rest  here.  That  gentle- 
man observes,  in  reference  to  the  con- 
sular returns — "  The  extraordinary 
excess  of  the  Company's  prices  over 
those  of  Hamburgh,  Rotterdam,  et 
cetera,  is  obvious  at  a  glance ;  but 
taking  the  prices  at  Hamburgh  as  a 
standard,  the  discrepancy  may  be 
set  in  a  still  clearer  point  of  view." J 
Now,  let  us  take  a  glance  at. the 
prices  "  at  Rotterdam,  et  cetera" 
which  are  here  represented,  without 
quotation,  as  supporting  the  Ham- 
burgh results,  and  shewing  that  they 
are  a  fair  average : — § 


Boston. 
Is.  6d. 


*  Comparative  Statement  of  Prices  of  Teas  at  Hamburgh  and  at  Rotterdam,  as 
shewn  in  the  Official  Returns,  applied  to  the  Quantities  of  the  several  sorts  sold  by 
the  Company  in  1828-29. 


Species  of  Tea. 

Quantity  sold  by 
the  Company  in 
1828-29. 

Excess  of  Price  per 
It),  at  Rotterdam 
over  Hamburgh, 

Excess  of  Prices 
upon  Quantities 
Sold. 

Bohea, 

IDS. 
3,778,012 

s.       d. 
0     2 

L, 

31,483 

Congou, 
Campoi, 
Souchong, 
Pekoe, 

20,142,073 
284,187 
601,739 
131,281 

0     8 
0  10 
1     9 
2     2 

671,402 
11,841 
52,652 
14,222 

Twankav,  . 

4,101,845 

2     5 

495,639 

Hyson  Skin, 
Hyson, 

213,933 
1,014,923 

0     8 
0     6 

7,131 
25,373 

Gunpowder, 

645 

1     6 

48 

Total  Excess  of  Price  at   Rotterdam  over   R-e  ?      _    L  j  3Q9  791 
viewer's  Price  at  Hamburgh,                                 $ 

f  P.  19,  Report  of  Commons.    {  Commercial  Dictionary,  by  M'Culloch,  p.  1030. 
§  See  Martin,  p,  146,  H7,        ||  Commercial  Dictionary,  1830,  p,  1031. 


1833.] 


77/c  j&as*  India  Question. 


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VOL.  XXXIII.    NO.  CCVIII. 

' 


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•  •  ;a*  * 


. 


802 


The  East  India  Question. 


[May, 


From  this  important  document  it 
is  manifest  that  the  prices  at  which 
teas  are  sold  by  the  East  India  Com- 
pany, are  fully  lower  than  those  at 
which  they  are  furnished  by  the  free 
traders  to  the  other  parts  of  the 
world.  And  if  so,  what  becomes  of 
the  boasted  statement  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  that  the  China  mo- 
nopoly costs  the  nation  nearly  two 
millions  a-year  I  It  is  evident  that 
that  statement  was  made  on  the  most 
insufficient  grounds ;  that  the  truth, 
as  obtained  from  the  general  result, 
was  cautiously  suppressed,  and  a  de- 
preciation of  price  below  prime  cost 
palmed  off  upon  an  uninformed  pub- 
lic as  a  fair  average  statement,  and 
a  clamour  raised  against  the  East 


India  Company,  upon  grounds  not 
only  unfounded,  but  directly  the 
reverse  of  the  truth. 

The  reason  why  the  prices  at  which 
tea  is  sold  by  the  Company  are  fully 
as  low  as  those  at  which  they  can  be 
sold  by  private  traders,  is,  that  the 
East  India  Company  is  not  possessed 
of  a  monopoly,  in  the  proper  sense 
of  the  word,  but  not  only  invariably 
keeps  the  supply  of  the  market 
greater  than  the  demand,  but  exposes 
the  teas  to  sale  under  such  statutory 
regulations  as  secures  an  abundant 
supply  of  that  article  at  fair  prices 
to  the  consumers. 

The  average  quantity  exposed  for 
sale  has  greatly  increased  of  late 
years. 


The  Quantity  sold,  on  an  average  of  three  years, 
from  1814  to  1817,  was,    25,028,000  Ibs. 
But  from  1827  to  1S29,    28,017,000  Ibs. 


And  it  is  stated  in  the  Report  by  the 
House  of  Commons,  "  The  principle 
to  which  the  Company  look  in  deter- 
mining what  quantity  to  offer  for 
sale,  is  the  amount  of  deliveries,  and 
the  quantity  sold  at  the  previous 
sale.  The  supply  is  said  to  have  more 
than  kept  pace  with  the  demand,  con- 
siderable quantities  of  tea  offered 
having  been  withdrawn  in  conse- 
quence of  no  advance  having  been 
offered  on  the  upset  price ;  when  the 
Company  augmented  their  supply, 
on  a  complaint  of  the  Scotch  deal- 


ers some  years  ago,  the  same  dealers 
complained  of  the  increase,  owing  to 
their  interest  being  affected  by  the 
reduction  of  the  price  of  their  stock 
in  hand." 

While  the  trade  with  China  in  the 
hands  of  the  Company  has  been  con- 
stantly increasing  of  late  years,  that 
of  the  Americans,  under  the  gui- 
dance of  the  Free  Traders,  has  been 
as  steadily  diminishing.  The  Ame- 
rican exports  and  imports  to  China 
will  demonstrate  this. 


Imports.  Exports. 

1818-19— dollars,  10,017,000  9,041,000 

1826-27—                 3,843,000  4,363,000 

Falling  off,  .  6,163,000  5,677,000 


Thus,  there  is  a  diminution  in  the 
American  trade  to  Canton  between 
1818  and  1826,  of  nearly  Twelve 
Millions  of  Spanish  dollars.* 

But  not  only  has  the  quantity  im- 
ported by  the  Americans  been  fall- 
ing off  of  late  years,  but  the  price  of 


tea  in  their  hands  has  been  rising ; 
while  the  East  India  Company  has 
been  at  once  lowering  their  prices 
and  increasing  their  supply.  The 
following  Table  places  this  in  a  clear 
point  of  view. 


Quantity  and  Price  of  East  India  Teas  sold  in  London. 
1810—23,548,000  Ibs.  L.3,896,000 


1813—24,424,000  Ibs. 
1819— 25,492,000  Ibs. 
1824—26,523,000  Ibs. 
1826— 27,700,OCO  Ibs. 
1828—28,230,000  Ibs. 


3,896,871 
3,489,000 
3,741,000 
3,485,000 
3,286,000 


British  Relations  with  China,  p,  95. 


1833.] 

Thus,  in  1828,  the  public  received 
five  millions  more  pounds  of  tea,  and 
paid  for  the  whole  L.500,000  less 
than  in  1810. 

Contrast  this  with  the  American 


Teas. 

Hyson,    . 
Young  Hyson, 
Hyson  Skin, 
Souchong, 


Thus  the  price  of  tea  has  been 
constantly  rising  in  America  at  the 
time  when  it  has  been  constantly 
falling  in  this  country. 

The  solution  of  this  seeming  para- 
dox, so  contrary  to  the  dogmas  of 
free  trade  now  so  fashionable,  is  to 
be  found  in  the  combined  wisdom 
and  liberality  with  which  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  Company  have  been 
conducted,  and  the  great  experience 
they  have  acquired  in  the  conduct 
of  that  department  of  business,  from 
the  skill  of  the  officers  intrusted 
with  its  management,  and  the  un- 
bounded credit  of  the  body  carrying 
it  on. 

The  sales  of  tea  by  the  East  India 
Company  are  minutely  regulated  by 
several  acts  of  Parliament.  The  24 
Geo.  III.  c.  38,  obliges  the  Company 
to  have  always  on  hand,  in  London,  a 
quantity  of  tea  equal  to  one  year's 
consumption,  and  to  charge  as  an 
addition  to  the  prime  cost  only 
freight  according  to  a  regulated 
charge ;  interest  on  the  one  year's 
stock  in  hand,  insurance  and  ware- 
house charges,  &c.  Experience  has 
now  proved,  that  under  these  regu- 
lations, tea  has  been  furnished  to 
the  inhabitants  of  this  country  at  a 
cheaper  rate  than  to  other  countries 
jy  the  efforts  of  private  traders. 

It  results  from  these  considera- 
tions, that  the  China  monopoly  costs 
,he  nation  literally  nothing.  This 
calumniated  branch  of  commerce 
fields  only  14>  per  cent  profit  on  the 


The  East  India  Question.  803 

prices  during  the  last  ten  years  un- 
der the  Free  Trade,  taken  from  Mr 
Crawford's  book,  one  of  the  most 
vehement  opponents  of  the  Com- 
pany. 


1820. 

1821. 

1824. 

1826. 

1828. 

1829. 

s.  d. 

s.  d. 

s.  d. 

s.  d. 

s.  d. 

s.  d. 

2  6 

2  6 

2  10 

2  7 

2  8 

2  7 

1  11 

1  10 

2  8 

2  3 

2  3 

2  3 

I  2 

1  2 

2  2 

1  7 

1  5 

1  4 

1  1 

1  3 

1  7 

1  6 

1  6 

1  7 

capital  employed  on  it,  and  the  total 
profit  received  is  just  L. 6 70,000  a- 
year.*  This  is  not  more  than  must 
be  received  by  private  traders  who 
engage  in  the  trade  j  and  what  Great 
Britain  has  received,  without  any 
loss,  for  allowing  it  to  remain  in  the 
hands  of  the  Company,  is  the  magni- 
ficent and  unexampled  Empire  of 
India. 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  considera- 
tions, which  it  is  important  that  the 
public  should  have  in  view  in  the  dis- 
cussions on  the  renewal  of  the  Char- 
ter which  are  about  to  take  place. 
Never,  save  only  when  the  Reform 
Bill  was  under  discussion,  were  such 
important  interests  at  issue,  and 
never  have  such  efforts  been  made  to 
mislead  the  public  mind.  The  pre- 
sent system  has  worked  admirably 
well  for  this  country,  for  the  East, 
for  the  human  race.  All  is  now  at 
stake ;  one  false  step  now  taken  is 
irretrievable.  We  cannot  conclude 
better  than  in  the  admonitory  words 
which  Mr  C.  Grant  addressed  to  the 
British  Parliament  on  a  former  occa- 
sion, when  the  same  interests  were 
at  stake.f  "  Let  us  remember,  that 
if  we  once  embark  on  a  system  of 
speculation,  it  will  not  be  easy  to 
retrace  our  steps :  If  the  experiment 
be  once  made  it  is  made  for  all.  If 
we  once  break  down  those  ram- 
parts, within  which  we  have  in- 
trenched the  security  and  the  very 
existence  of  the  Indian  people,  we 
can  never  rebuild  the  ruins." 


*  Minutes  of  Evidence,  1831,  p.  197.  f  Hansard,  xxvi.  439. 


804  Female  Characters  of  Scripture.  [May, 

FEMALE  CHARACTERS  OF  SCRIPTURE,  CONTINUED. 
BY  MRS  HEMANS. 

VII. 
THE  ANNUNCIATION. 

LOWLIEST  of  women,  and  most  glorified  ! 

In  thy  still  beauty  sitting  calm  and  lone, 
A  brightness  round  thee  grew — and  by  thy  side, 

Kindling  the  air,  a  Form  ethereal  shone, 

Solemn,  yet  breathing  gladness. — From  her  Throne 
A  Queen  had  risen  with  more  imperial  eye, 
A  stately  Prophetess  of  Victory 

From  her  proud  Lyre  had  struck  a  Tempest's  tone, 
For  such  high  tidings  as  to  Thee  were  brought, 

Chosen  of  Heaven  !  that  hour : — but  Thou,  oh  !  Thou, 
Ev'n  as  a  flower  with  gracious  rains  o'erfraught, 

Thy  Virgin  head  beneath  its  crown  didst  bow, 
And  take  to  thy  meek  breast  th'  all  holy  word, 
And  own  Thyself  the  Handmaid  of  the  Lord. 

VIII. 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  VIRGIN. 

YES,  as  a  sun-burst  flushing  mountain-snow, 

Fell  the  celestial  touch  of  fire  ere  long 
On  the  pale  stillness  of  thy  thoughtful  brow, 

And  thy  calm  spirit  lightened  into  song. 

Unconsciously  perchance,  yet  free  and  strong 
Flowed  the  majestic  joy  of  tuneful  words, 

Which  living  harps  the  quires  of  Heaven  among 
Might  well  have  linked  with  their  divinest  chords. 
Full  many  a  strain,  borne  far  on  glory's  blast, 
Shall  leave,  where  once  its  haughty  music  pass'd, 

No  more  to  memory  than  a  reed's  faint  sigh  ; 
"While  thine,  O  childlike  Virgin  !  through  all  time 
Shall  send  its  fervent  breath  o'er  every  clime, 

Being  of  God,  and  therefore  not  to  die. 

IX. 

THE  PENITENT  ANOINTING  CHRIST'S  FEET. 

THERE  was  a  mournfulness  in  Angel  eyes, 

That  saw  thee,  Woman  !  bright  in  this  world's  train, 
Moving  to  Pleasure's  airy  melodies, 

Thyself  the  Idol  of  the  enchanted  strain. 
•  But  from  thy  Beauty's  garland,  brief  and  vain, 
When  one  by  one  the  rose-leaves  had  been  torn, 

When  thy  hearts-core  had  quivered  to  the  pain 
Through  every  life-nerve  sent  by  arrowy  scorn ; 
When  thou  didst  kneel  to  pour  sweet  odours  forth 

On  the  Redeemer's  feet,  with  many  a  sigh, 
And  showering  tear-drop,  of  yet  richer  worth 

Than  all  those  costly  balms  of  Araby ; 


1833.]  Female  Characters  of  Scripture.  805 

Then  was  there  joy,  a  song  of  joy  in  Heaven, 

For  thee,  the  child  won  back,  the  penitent  forgiven ! 


x. 

MARY  AT  THE  FEET  OF  CHRIST. 

OH  !  blest  beyond  all  Daughters  of  the  Earth ! 

What  were  the  Orient's  thrones  to  that  low  seat, 
Where  thy  hushed  spirit  drew  celestial  mirth  ? 

Mary  !  meek  Listener  at  the  Saviour's  feet ! 

No  feverish  cares  to  that  divine  retreat 
Thy  woman's  heart  of  silent  worship  brought, 

But  a  fresh  childhood,  heavenly  Truth  to  meet, 
With  Love,  and  Wonder,  and  submissive  Thought. 
Oh  !  for  the  holy  quiet  of  thy  breast, 

Midst  the  world's  eager  tones  and  footsteps  flying ! 

Thou,  whose  calm  soul  was  like  a  well-spring,  lying 
So  deep  and  still  in  its  transparent  rest, 
That  ev'n  when  Noontide  burns  upon  the  hills, 
Some  one  bright  solemn  Star  all  its  lone  mirror  fills. 


XL 
THE  SISTERS  OF  BETHANY  AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  LAZARUS, 

ONE  grief,  one  faith,  O  signers  of  the  Dead! 

Was  in  your  bosoms— thou,  whose  steps,  made  fleet 
By  keen  hope  fluttering  in  the  hearts  which  bled, 

Bore  thee,  as  wings,  the  Lord  of  Life  to  greet; 

And  thou,  that  duteous  in  thy  still  retreat 
Didst  wait  his  summons — then  with  reverent  love 

Fall  weeping  at  the  blest  Deliverer's  feet, 
Whom  ev'n  to  heavenly  tears  thy  woe  could  move. 
And  which  to  Him,  the  All- seeing  and  All-just, 
Was  loveliest,  that  quick  zeal,  or  lowly  trust  ? 

Oh !  question  not,  and  let  no  law  be  given 
To  those  unveilings  of  its  deepest  shrine, 
By  the  wrung  spirit  made  in  outward  sign : 
Free  service  from  the  heart  is  all  in  all  to  Heaven. 


XII. 
THE   MEMORIAL   OF  MARY. 

THOU  hast  thy  record  in  the  Monarch's  hall ; 

And  on  the  waters  of  the  far  mid  sea ; 
And  where  the  mighty  mountain-shadows  fall, 

The  Alpine  hamlet  keeps  a  thought  of  thee : 

Where'er,  beneath  some  Oriental  tree, 
The  Christian  traveller  rests, — where'er  the  child 

Looks  upward  from  the  English  mother's  knee, 
With  earnest  eyes  in  wondering  reverence  mild, 
There  art  thou  known ; — where'er  the  Book  of  Light 
Bears  hope  and  healing,  there,  beyond  all  blight, 

Is  borne  thy  memory,  and  all  praise  above: 
Oh !  say  what  deed  so  lifted  thy  sweet  name, 
Mary  !  to  that  pure  silent  place  of  Fame  ? 

One  lowly  offering  of  exceeding  Love. 


806  Female  Characters  of  Scripture.  [May, 

XIII. 
THE  WOMEN  OF  JERUSALEM  AT  THE  CROSS. 

LIKE  those  pale  stars  of  tempest-hours,  whose  gleam 

Waves  calm  and  constant  on  the  rocking  mast, 
Such  by  the  Cross  doth  your  bright  lingering  seem, 

Daughters  of  Zion  !  faithful  to  the  last ! 

Ye,  through  the  darkness  o'er  the  wide  earth  cast 
By  the  death-cloud  within  the  Saviour's  eye, 

Ev'n  till  away  the  Heavenly  Spirit  pass'd, 
Stood  in  the  shadow  of  his  agony. 
O  blessed  Faith !  a  guiding  lamp,  that  hour, 
Was  lit  for  Woman's  heart;  to  her,  whose  dower 

Is  all  of  love  and  suffering  from  her  birth  : 
Still  hath  your  act  a  voice — through  fear,  through  strife, 
Bidding  her  bind  each  tendril  of  her  life, 
To  that  which  her  deep  soul  hath  owned  of  holiest  worth. 

XIV. 

MARY  MAGDALENE  AT  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

WEEPER  !  to  thee  how  bright  a  Morn  was  given, 

After  thy  long,  long  vigil  of  Despair, 
When  that  high  voice  which  burial-rocks  had  riven, 

Thrilled  with  immortal  tones  the  silent  air  ! 

Never  did  clarion's  royal  blast  declare 
Such  tale  of  victory  to  a  breathless  crowd, 

As  the  deep  sweetness  of  one  word  could  bear 
Into  thy  heart  of  hearts,  O  woman  !  bowed 
By  strong  affection's  anguish ! — one  low  word — 

"  Mary  /" — and  all  the  triumph  wrung  from  Death 
Was  thus  revealed  !  and  Thou,  that  so  hadst  err'd, 

So  wept,  and  been  forgiven,  in  trembling  faith 
Didst  cast  thee  down  before  th'  all  conquering  Son, 
Awed  by  the  mighty  gift  thy  tears  and  love  had  won ! 

» 

xv. 

MARY  MAGDALENE  BEARING  TIDINGS  OF  THE  RESURRECTION. 

THEN  was  a  task  of  glory  all  thine  own, 

Nobler  than  e'er  the  still  small  voice  assigned 
To  lips,  in  awful  music  making  known 

The  stormy  splendours  of  some  Prophet's  mind. 

"  Christ  is  arisen  !"— By  thee,  to  wake  mankind, 
First  from  the  Sepulchre  those  words  were  brought ! 

Thou  wert  to  send  the  mighty  rushing  wind 
First  on  its  way,  with  those  high  tidings  fraught — 
"  Christ  is  arisen  /"—Thou,  thou,  the  sin-enthralled, 
Earth's  outcast,  Heaven's  own  ransomed  one,  wert  called 

In  human  hearts  to  give  that  rapture  birth  : — 

Oh !  raised  from  shame  to  brightness ! — there  doth  lie 

The  tenderest  meaning  of  His  ministry, 
Whose  undespairing  Love  still  owned  the  Spirit's  worth. 


1833.]  Antwerp.  807 

ANTWERP. 

IT  sinks  at  last,  that  banner,  which  to  raise 

The  dauntless  seaman  clorabe  aloft  in  vain,  * 
And  heedless  of  the  bomb's  descending  blaze, 

Or  thickest  volley'd  grapeshot's  iron  rain, 
Nail'd  to  the  staff  his  country's  flag  again  : 

Careless  of  limb  or  life's  adventured  loss 
As  he  who,  from  the  high  mast-head  of  Spain, 

Bore  off  the  ensign  she  had  dared  to  toss 
On  free-born  Zealand's  gale,  the  red  Burgundian  cross. 

Who  that  surveys  the  scene  may  rightly  spell 

What  various  feelings  every  bosom  sway, 
When  forth  from  Antwerp's  shattered  citadel 

Its  stern  defenders  sadly  take  their  way  ? 
Sadly  but  proudly.    While  in  mute  array 

The  bands  of  France  receive  them ;  not  with  hail 
Of  shout  or  scoff,  but  as  the  brave  who  pay 

That  reverence  which  the  brave  can  never  fail 
To  yield  where  valour  sinks,  by  fortune  forced  to  quail. 

Yes,  ye  do  well,  who  view  that  scene,  to  bare 

The  head,  like  those  who  round  an  unfilled  grave 
In  reverence  crowd.    And  that  France  does  not  spare 

The  victor's  honours  to  the  vanquished  brave  : 
More  honours  France,  than  all  that  numbers  gave 

Of  triumph  to  her  else  successless  bands — 
Insult  and  scorn  befit  the  Belgian  slave 

Who  sheathed  his  sword  of  lath,  while  foreign  brands 
Won  from  the  free  the  soil  where  now  that  slave  commands. 

Disarmed,  but  not  dishonoured,  to  the  shore 

Forth  from  their  ruined  ramparts  as  they  file, 
The  spirits  of  their  fathers  who  upbore 

Their  country's  sinking  weight,  when  force  and  guile 
Were  leagued  as  now  against  her,  watch  the  while, 

Tracing  their  progress;  o'er  the  ruin  made 
In  Alva's  towers,  the  chiefs  of  Nassau  smile,! 

While  on  the  Tuscan  artist's  esplanade, 
Sire  of  his  country,  stalks  the  silent  hero's  shade.J 


*  Vide  General  Chasse's  dispatch.  The  feat  alluded  to  in  the  concluding  lines  of 
the  stanza,  was  twice  performed  by  a  Dutch  seaman  in  the  war  of  independence. 
Once  in  the  action  in  the  Zuyderzee,  in  which  Bossu,  admiral  of  the  Spanish  and 
Belgian  fleet,  was  defeated  and  taken,  and  afterwards  in  an  action  of  equal  import- 
ance in  the  Scheldt.  The  ensign  of  the  Spanish  fleets,  at  this  period,  was  the  red 
cross  of  Burgundy. 

f  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  state  that  the  citadel  of  Antwerp  was  originally  con- 
structed by  Alva.  The  engineer  Pacietto  or  Pacheco,  who  planned  its  defences,  had 
followed  Alva  from  Savoy,  having  been  lent  by  the  reigning  Duke  of  that  state,  in 
whose  service  Alva  found  him,  for  the  purpose  of  the  expedition  to  the  Netherlands. 
It  is  said  that  he  was  nearly  related  to  Alva.  His  fate  is  alluded  to  in  a  subsequent 
stanza  and  note. 

t  William  of  Nassau,  the  great  founder  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  was  notorious  for 
the  steadfast  taciturnity  with  which  he  matured  in  his  o\vn  bosom  his  schemes  for 
the  salvation  of  his  country.  The  difficulties  with  which  he  had  to  contend,  and 
his  repeated  failures  in  his  attempts  to  cope  with  the  superior  power  of  Spain^by  land, 
are  so  well  known,  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  confirm  the  allusions  of  the  text  by  de- 
tailed reference  to  history. 


808  Antwerp.  [May, 

He,  too,  was  oft  outnumbered,  mastered,  foiled ; 

His  simple  arm,  against  the  mightiest  state 
The  world  contained,  sunk  powerless.     Yet  he  toiled 

Unshaken  onwards.     Nor  could  adverse  fate, 
Zuniga's*  craft,  nor  Alva's  arms  abate 

That  strength  which,  like  Antaeus  to  the  strife, 
Rose  from  the  earth  it  touched,  till  Parma's  hate, 

Backed  by  absolving  Rome,  had  edged  the  knife, 
And  treason  closed  in  blood  brave  William's  patriot  life. 

Young  Adolphf  next,  who,  with  his  worthiest  foe, 

Shared  in  a  common  tomb  the  soldier's  rest, 
When  old  Winschoten's  marsh-fed  stream  ran  slow, 

With  corpses  clogged,  and  many  a  Spaniard's  crest 
Sank  in  the  sullen  deeps.    For  Victory  blest 

With  her  young  martyr's  blood  that  earliest  fight, 
Although  her  orb  delusive  in  the  west 

Set  for  a  season.     While  the  Spaniards'  might, 
With  recreant  Belgium  joined,  was  all  too  strong  for  right. 

Adventurous  LouisJ  follows,  who  sustained 

Holland's  young  freedom,  while  from  Hainault's  hold 
All  Alva's  arms  he  occupied,  and  drained 

The  torrent  o'er  her  fields  which  else  had  rolled. — 
Less  than  his  silent  kinsman  skilled  to  mould 

Each  scheme  with  caution,  craft  with  force  to  blend ; 
His  brow  less  thoughtful,  and  his  smile  less  cold. 

In  him  the  meanest  soldier  mourned  a  friend, 
When  on  Nimeguen's  heath  he  found  his  unrecorded  end. 

The  Boyzots  twain,$  a  death-united  pair — 
Once  known  for  rescued  Leyden's  high  renown, 


*  Louis  Requesens  de  Zimiga,  Alva's  successor  in  the  vice-government  of  the  Ne- 
therlands. 

f  Adolphus,  younger  brother  of  the  House  of  Nassau.  He  fell  in  the  battle  of 
Winschoten  in  Frizeland,  the  first  action  of  consequence  which  took  place  in  the  war 
of  independence.  His  brother  Louis  commanded  the  insurgents,  arid  Count  D1  Arem- 
berg  the  forces  of  Spain.  The  latter  was  killed,  and  was  interred  with  his  young 
antagonist,  Adolph,  in  the  neighbouring  convent  of  Heiliger  See.  D'Aremberg  was 
a  nobleman  of  much  merit,  and  his  loss  was  regretted  by  friends  and  foes.  The  affair 
of  Winschoten  was  an  echavffouree  of  little  consequence,  further  than  as  an  auspicious 
commencement  of  the  contest.  The  Spaniards  obtained  soon  afterwards  sanguinary 
revenge  in  the  battle  of  Jemmingeii,  where  Louis  was  totally  defeated  by  Alva. 

f  Louis,  second  only  to  his  brother  in  his  achievements  for  the  cause  of  liberty. 
By  the  surprise  of  Mons,  in  1572,  he  diverted  Alva  from  marching  upon  Holland, 
which  country,  encouraged  by  the  casual  successes  of  the  Water  Gueuses,  had  just 
thrown  off  the  yoke,  and  must  have  fallen  an  easy  victim.  He  endured  a  long  siege, 
and  obtained  a  brilliant  capitulation,  and  before  Mons  had  surrendered,  Holland  wtts 
in  a  state  of  organized  resistance  not  to  be  suppressed  by  force  of  arms.  No  single 
exploit  contributed  so  palpably  to  the  great  final  result  of  the  war  as  this  apparently 
rash  but  well-planned  enterprise  of  Louis.  He  fell  in  J574,  at  the  battle  of  Mook, 
near  Nimeguen,  together  with  his  brother  Henry,  and  Duke  Christopher  of  the 
Palatinate.  The  manner  of  their  deaths  was  never  ascertained,  and  their  bodies 
were  never  recognised. 

§  The  Boyzots,  Charles  and  Louis.  The  latter  was  illustrious  for  the  principal 
of  the  naval  victories,  by  which,  early  in  the  contest,  the  supremacy  of  the  northern 
seas  was  wrested  from  Spain.  He  also  conducted  the  memorable  enterprise  for 
raising  the  siege  of  Leyden,  which  was  effected  by  inundating  the  surrounding 
country.  His  brother  was  less  distinguished  in  the  field,  but  was  much  employed 
in  diplomatic  affairs  of  moment  by  Orange.  They  both  fell  in  battle,  nearly  at  the 


1833.]  Antwerp.  809 

Gained  when  iipon  the  leaguering  Spaniards'  lair 
Heaven  loosed  its  storms,  and  poured  its  waters  down. 

And  the  pale  inmates  of  that  hungered  town, 
Girt  with  the  rural  wreath  his  victor  brow, 

Who  bade  the  barrier-bursting  waters  drown 

The  Spaniards'  lines,  and  urged  his  saviour  prow 
Where  cattle  late  had  grazed,  and  peasants  drove  the  plough. 

There  eager  Treslong*  stands,  the  first  who  launched 

His  country's  cradled  freedom  on  the  tide, 
L  And  with  the  pleasant  balm  of  vengance  staunched 

Her  gaping  wounds,  when  Alva's  kinsman  cried  f 
In  vain  for  mercy.    While  the  tyrant's  pride, 
Humbled  by  those  he  scoffed  at  in  his  hour 
Of  brief  success,  saw  the  Sea-Beggar  ride 

The  enfranchised  Meuse,  and  the  black  standard  lour, 
The  patriot  pirate's  flag,  from  conquered  Flushing's  tower. 

These  were  the  men,  unshaken  to  the  last, 

No  danger  daunted,  no  defeat  could  quell ; 
They  spent  no  fruitless  sorrow  for  the  past, 

Though  Leyden  trembled,  and  though  Haarlem  fell. 
They  bade  the  lisping  voice  of  freedom  swell, 

Till  with  recover'd  strength  she  learn' d  to  fling 
Back  on  its  savage  source  the  murderer's  yell 

O'er  Egmont  raised,  until  their  bigot  King 
Shook  in  Segovia's  shades  to  hear  its  echoes  ring. 

Then,  ye,  despair  not,  whom  the  artillery's  wrath 

Has  spared  for  fields  perchance  to  come.     Your  sires 
With  their  approving  smile  pursue  your  path. 

Leave  then,  without  a  sigh,  the  slave  who  hires 
The  sword  he  could  not  wield,  to  quench  the  fires 

He  dared  not  light,  with  trembling  step  to  thread 
The  maze  of  ruin,  'mid  the  funeral  pyres 

Of  your  brave  comrades.    Reckless -let  him  tread, — 
Such  conqueror's  step  as  his  cannot  molest  the  dead. 


same  time,  in  1575,  and  in  the  same  scene  of  action,  the  province  of  Zealand.  Charles 
was  killed  in  opposing  the  Spanish  invasion  of  the  isle  of  Schonwen.  Louis  was 
drowned  in  an  enterprise  for  the  relief  of  Zierickzee,  besieged  by  the  Spaniards. 

*  John  of  Blois,  named  Treslong,  author  and  prime  agent  in  the  capture  of  the 
Brill,  in  1572,  by  the  Water  Gueuses.  This  exploit  originated  rather  in  the  accident 
of  weather,  which  had  driven  the  Gueuses,  banished  from  the  ports  of  England  by 
Elizabeth,  into  the  mouth  of  the  Meuze,  than  in  any  previous  design  of  the  free- 
booters. It  was  the  signal  for  insurrection  in  Holland,  which,  since  the  repeated 
failures  of  Orange  in  the  field,  had  remained  in  complete  subjection  to  Spain. 

f  Paciotto  mentioned  above,  He  was  employed  at  Flushing,  in  the  construction 
of  a  citadel  similar  to  that  erected  at  Antwerp,  and,  arriving  at  the  moment  when 
the  city,  following  the  example  of  the  Brill,  had  just  surrendered  to  the  insurgent?, 
under  Treslong,  he  was  taken  prisoner,  and  led  to  instant  execution.  He  prayed 
hard  for  mercy,  or,  atjeast,  for  a  less  ignominious  death  than  that  of  the  gallows,  but 
a  brother  of  his  captor  had  fallen  on  the  scaffold  by  Alva's  order,  and  it  was  known 
that  Paciotto  was  the  favourite,  if  not  the  near  relation,  of  the  tyrant.  He  was 
hanged. 


810  Song  of  the  Water  Giteuse.  [May, 

SONG  OF  THE  WATER  GUEUSE.* 

THE  beggars'  band  that  walks  the  land 

May  roam  the  dale  and  lea, 
But  freer  still  from  man's  command 

Are  those  that  walk  the  sea. 
The  landsman  sues ;  but  to  refuse 

He  leaves  the  rich  man  free. 
But  none  deny  the  Water  Gueuse — 

The  Beggar  of  the  Sea ! 

Nor  corn,  nor  grain,  has  he  the  pain 

To  purchase  or  to  till, 
And  Spanish  churls  their  wines  must  drain 

The  Beggar's  flask  to  fill. 
His  robes  are  roll'd  with  many  a  fold 

Of  canvass  white  and  fine  j 
His  wallet  is  the  good  ship's  hold, 

His  staff  the  mast  of  pine. 

By  land  the  brave,  foul  fortune's  slave, 

May  meet,  by  her  decree, 
The  headsman's  stroke,  the  traitor's  grave 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree  j 
But  ne'er  to  kneel  before  that  steel 

Shall  be  the  Gueuse's  lot, 
Or  writhing  in  mid  air  to  feel 

The  suffocating  knot. 

If  foes  prevail,  not  ours  to  quail 

Or  sue  for  grace  to  Spain ; 
Our  ensign  to  the  mast  we  nail 

And  fire  the  powder-train, 
Nor  ours  to  rest  in  earth  unblest 

Or  rot  beneath  the  turf, 
Old  Ocean  takes  us  to  his  breast, 

And  wrapsjis  in  his  surf. 

And  now  to  trowl  one  lusty  bowl 

Before  we  mount  the  wave, 
Here's  rest  to  gallant  Egmont's  f  soul, 

Health  to  the  living  brave ! 
While  conquest's  fame  gilds  Nassau's  name,— - 

That  leader  of  the  free,— 
No  chain  can  bind,  no  threat  can  tame, 

The  Beggar  of  the  sea ! 


*  When  the  Dutch  first  revolted  against  the  yoke  of  Spain,  the  courtiers  at  Brus- 
sels called  them,  in  contempt,  "  Des  Gueux" — beggars.  These  insurgents,  like  the 
Roundheads  in  England,  and- Sansculottes  in  France,  accepted  the  nickname  as  a  title 
of  honour  ;  the  maritime  insurgents  called  themselves  Les  Gneux  de  Mcr,  Sea-beggar*  ! 

t  On  a  temporary  success  of  the  Spaniards,  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  the  Count  of 
Egmont,  the  patriot  leaders,  debated  what  they  personally  should  do.  The  Prince, 
who  had  no  faith  in  Spanish  mercy,  resolved  to  emigrate";*  Egmont  resolved  to  stay. 
On  parting,  ^the  Count  said,  "  Adieu,  Prince  sans  terre."'  'Nassau  rejoined,  "Adieu, 
Comte  sans  tete,"  The  Prince  judged  rightly.  Egmont  was  brought  to  the  block  ! 


1333.]         On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


811 


ON  POOR'S  LAWS,  AND  THEIR  INTRODUCTION  INTO  IRELAND. 


THE  highest  civilisation  of  the 
world  is  produced  by  LABOUR  in- 
structed by  knowledge.  We  take 
the  word  from  the  great  applications 
( f  human  strength  and  skill  to  fa- 
shion or  bring  into  service  the  gross 
substances  of  material  nature.  But 
we  must  extend  its  acceptation  to 
comprehend  all  exertion  of  the 
powers  of  action  with  which  we  are 
endowed.  If  it  is  labour  to  till,  and  to 
build,  the  work  of  the  artist  who 
produces  on  the  canvass,  or  from  the 
marble,  the  delicate  forms  of  beauty, 
:s  labour  also.  And  not  this  only, 
of  which  the  products  are  material- 
ly embodied  and  visible,  but  the  pa- 
1  ientandsilentmeditation  of  thephilo- 
HOpher,andthe  legislator,  the  thought 
which  discovers  the  laws  that  govern 
ihe  operations  of  nature,  or  imagines 
those  necessary  to  rule  the  actions 
of  men,  must  bear  the  same  deno- 
mination. These  are  all  exertions 
of  the  personal  powers  of  the  human 
being,  directed  to  an  end:  an  end 
suggested  by  his  wants  and  desires, 
whether  those  wants  be  of  his  bodily 
frame,  connected  with  its  preserva- 
tion, of  the  frame  of  the  social  body, 
connected  with  the  same  object — 
those  desires  of  the  senses  satisfied 
with  material  products,  or  of  the  in- 
tellectual faculties,  craving  for  "  an- 
gels' food." 

Whether  then  we  look  to  the  high- 
est or  lowest  condition  ef  human  life, 
we  know  of  no  other  fund  from  which 
its  necessaries  and  conveniences  are 
derived  but  labour.  In  the  one  case 
the  labour  itself  is  painfully  visible, 
and  obtruded  upon  our  eyes,  in  the 
same  unvarying  severity ;  while  the 
products,  at  once  scanty  and  perish- 
able, are  scarcely  apparent  to  the 
visitors  who  chance  to  touch  on  those 
remote  coasts,  and  who  leave  them 
almost  in  ignorance  of  the  means  by 
which  the  nation  prolongs  its  mise- 
rable existence.  In  the  other,  the  la- 
bour is  often  invisible,  or  when  not 
so,  appears  under  such  modifications 
and  transformations  of  an  endless 
and  multifarious  machinery,  that  we 
think  not  of  the  toil  of  the  human 
labourers,  but  of  the  wonderful  com- 
mand which  they  have  gained  for 
their  own  purposes  over  the 


ses  of  nature,  while  on  all  sides  arise 
stupendous  and  enduring  works  with 
which  we  have  been  always  so  fa- 
miliar, that  they  seem  to  us  almost 
self-created  in  their  magnificence. 
The  spirit  of  labour,  keen  and  sleep- 
less, is  at  work  day  and  night,  and 
human  beings  here,  too,  are  toiling 
perhaps  but  for  scanty  bread.  Here, 
too,  amid  all  this  splendid  outward 
shew,  there  is  care,  fear,  anxiety,  hun- 
ger, thirst,  and  disease,  hastening  on 
to  death  under  the  heat  of  forge  or 
furnace,  more  fatal  than  the  sun- 
stroke or  the  blast  of  the  desert,  for 
it  is  still  from  that  same  great  fund, 
Labour,  that  congregated  myriads  are 
seeking  to  derive  the  necessaries  and 
conveniences  of  life, — necessaries 
and  conveniences  the  same  in  kind 
still  as  to  the  dwellers  on  those  in- 
hospitable shores,  for  it  is  still  the 
same  great  animal  appetites  which 
desire  them,  but  along  with  those 
appetites  are  now  rioting  or  raging  a 
whole  host  of  passions  to  that  other 
condition  wholly  unknown,  that  have 
pressed  into  their  service  all  the 
powers  of  intellect,  and  that  bound- 
less by  their  very  being,  shall  never 
be  at  rest  while  imagination  can 
dream  of  new  luxuries,  or  genius 
devise  new  schemes  by  which  those 
luxuries  may  be  prodigally  poured 
into  the  insatiate  bosom  of  beings, 
who,  in  the  pride  of  the  arts  and 
sciences  by  which  they  have  sub- 
jected the  kingdoms  of  nature  to  their 
dominion,  would  fain  believe  them- 
selves to  be  little  less  than  gods  upon 
this  earth ! 

In  this  complicated  and  various 
scene  of  things,  we  are  led  to  enquire 
into  the  principle  of  that  extraordi- 
nary power  which  we  find  to  have 
been  developed.  We  find  in  society 
thus  completed  in  its  constitution, 
an  intricacy  of  structure  which  it  is 
hardly  possible  for  us  to  follow  out 
— a  mighty  whole,  harmoniously  ad- 
justed, of  innumerable  dissimilar 
parts.  What  is  the  principle  that 
binds  together  in  useful  and  perfect 
union  these  dissimilar  parts  ?  It  is 
the  same  which  has  imparted  to  labour, 
once  rude  and  feeble,  its  marvellous 
matured  powers ;  the  separation  of 
the  different  works  of  society  from 


812  On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  mto  Ireland.         [May, 

we  do  not  find  that  it  has  made  much 
permanent  impression  on  the  public 

•     j   :„   .      _.   /"u     •_.!• i j          4 


one  another,  the  resolution  of  every 
work  into  the  manifold  distinct  pro- 


cesses  of  which  it  is  the  aggregate, 
and  the  distribution  to  the  different 
members  of  the  society  of  these  se- 
veral works,  or  of  these  dissevered 
portions  of  its  complex  works,  thus 
to  each  allotting  his  peculiar  office  ; 
but  under  such  a  law  of  universal 
mutual  interchange,  that  the  part  ta- 
ken by  each  is  for  the  benefit  of  all, 
and  the  separate  but  not  independent 
task  which  he  discharges,  becomes 
his  concurrent  contribution  to  the 
common  undertaking  for  the  com- 
mon good. 

It  is  into  the  heart  of  this  system 
that  we  must  look,  before  we  can  be 
qualified  to  understand  what  legisla- 
tive wisdom  and  humanity  may  be 
able  to  do  for  the  well-being  of  the 
vast  multitudes  of  our  brethren  by 
whose  labour  it  is  kept  in  life.  Its 
pulsations  must  be  frequently  felt 
and  counted— but  that  is  not  enough; 
medical,  which  in  this  case  is  moral, 
science,  must  study  the  causes  of 
health  and  disease;  and  the  anti- 
dotes and  remedies  which  are  thus 
discovered,  it  is  the  duty  of  the  state 
to  apply.  True  that  there  is  danger 
of  adopting  the  advice  of  quacks 
pretending  to  be  physicians ;  but  so 
is  there  at  every  bedside  in  hall  or 
hovel. 

In  contemplating  such  a  vast  and 
complicated  system  as  that  by  which 
the  wealth  of  this  country  has  been 
created  and  is  upheld,  intellect  and 
imagination  are  alike  impressed  by 
the  grandeur  of  the  spectacle,  and 
elated  by  the  idea  of  a  self-working 
mighty  machine.  It  is  beautiful — it 
is  noble — wheel  within  wheel  are  all 
instinct  with  spirit — and  by  attempt- 
ing to  interfere  in  any  way  with  its 
operations,  it  is  said  you  will  but 
disorder  or  impede  their  natural  and 
inevitable  play,  which  depends  on 
principles  beyond  your  control,  and 
rejoices  in  perfect  freedom.  Let  it 
alone.  Should  evils  sometimes  shew 
themselves  so  as  to  afflict  your  eyes, 
they  will  soon  cure  themselves ;  and 
after  a  period  of  suffering,  which  by 
striving  to  shorten,  legislation  will 
be  sure  to  prolong,  all  will  be  well 
again,  and  transient  miseries  for- 
gotten by  the  waking  worky  -  day- 
world,  like  a  succession  of  idle  and 
ugly  dreams. 

All  this  is  very  fine  talking—but 


mind  in  any  Christian  land.  An  en- 
lightened humanity  regards  suck 
doctrine  at  best  with  suspicion — and 
places  more  faith  in  the  simple  dic- 
tates of  the  moral  sense  and  religion, 
than  in  the  elaborate  deductions  of 
a  science  of  which  the  very  elements 
are  yet  unascertained,  and  are  seen 
floating  about  in  a  chaos  of  incon- 
sistences,  contradictions,  and  repul- 
sions, to  the  doubt  and  dismay  even 
of  its  most  erudite  doctors,  who  are 
now,  to  the  sore  discredit  of  philo- 
sophy, buffeting  each  other,  after 
the  fashion  of  a  quarrel  among  the 
inmates  of  a  blind  asylum. 

Of  this  science  one  of  the  most  into- 
lerant and  intolerable  dogmas  is — or 
was— that  there  must,  on  no  account, 
be  any  Legal  Provision  for  the  Poor. 
To  doubt  or  deny  that  dogma,  was 
by  the  self-dubbed  doctors  held  suf- 
ficient proof  that  you  were  a  fool. 
They  did  not  mince  the  matter — 
fool  was  the  word — and  they  hinted 
bedlam.  Poor's  laws  inevitably  led 
—they  said — to  all  kinds  of  impro- 
vidence and  profligacy— ^to  the  de- 
struction of  capital,  and  of  produc- 
tive labour — and  to  a  frightful  in- 
crease of  pauper  population,  that 
would  in  nolongtime,likeaplague  of 
locusts,  devour  up  the  land.  A  Com- 
mittee of  the  National  Assembly, 
appointed  to  enquire  into  the  state 
of  the  poor  of  France,  described  the 
poor's,  laws  as  La  Plaie  politique  la 
plus  devorante  de  V Angleterre ;  and 
Englishmen  in  thousands  re-echoed 
the  calumny  of  that  odious  oracle, 
while  England  by  the  might  of  her 
war-sinews  was  heroically  and  suc- 
cessfully fighting  against  France  in 
the  cause  of  Freedom.  That  loath- 
some lie  was  told  in  italics  in  almost 
every  treatise  on  Political  Economy 
— and  sworn  to  be  the  truth.  The 
eye  was  forced  to  look  at  it  in  Mal- 
thus — Ricardo  made  it  his  own  by 
adoption — and  M'Culloch,  of  course, 
transferred  it  to  his  pages,  and  sa- 
vagely thrust  it  down  your  throat. 
The  pack  followed  their  leaders  in 
full  cry — far  from  tuneable;  and 
cross-bred  cur  and  mangy  mongrel 
were  all  rabidly  running  down  the 
Poor. 

But  here  at  least  there  has  been  a 
reaction.  For  the  last  two  or  three 
seasons  the  subscription-pack  has 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland.  813 


IfflKr] 

b3cn  dwindling  away — the  head 
huntsman  is  dead— he  who  was  next 
in  rank  seems  to  have  retired  from 
the  field  in  chagrin  or  rheumatism — 
a  id  one  of  the  noisiest  whippers-in 
has  turned  his  spavined  hack  out  to 
grass,  and  got  mounted  on  a  new- 
hobby  for  a  different  pursuit  by  the 
Governor  of  the  Bank  of  England. 

In  his  examination  before  the 
Select  Committee  of  1830,  on  the 
scate  of  the  poor  in  Ireland,  Mr  M'- 
Culloch  said  that  "  he  was  inclined 
to  modify  the  opinion  he  had  given 
before  the  Irish  Committee  in  1825 ; 
Mat  he  had  then  expressed  himself  as 
hostile  to  the  introduction  of  poor's 
laws  into  Ireland,  supposing  that  it 
Vv'ould  be  impossible  so  to  manage 
t  lem  but  that  they  would  be  perni- 
cious; but  that  farther  reflection 
upon  their  operation  in  England,  as 
fir  as  he  had  been  able  to  ascertain 
it  from  studying  their  history,  had 
convinced  him  that  that  opinion  was 
rotwell  founded, and  that  poor's  laws 
iaay  be  administered  so  as  to  be 
made  productive  of  good  rather  than 
of  evil."  Mr  Rice  seems  not  to  have 
relished  this  change  of  opinion  in 
Peter,  and  tries  somewhat  spitefully 
to  puzzle  him  on  his  paradox  about 
jifysenteeism ;  but  he  is  no  match  in 
his  Limerick  gloves,  for  the  stal- 
wart Gallowegian.  In  the  first  part 
of  Mr  M'Culloch's  very  sensible 
f  vidence,  he  freely  makes  an  admis- 
sion of  the  most  extraordinary  igno- 
rance up  to  the  1825,  that  ever  be- 
c  louded  the  understanding  of  a  man 
of  common  information,  on  the  most 
important  subject  within  the  range 
of  his  own  science.  Yet,  in  that 
utter  darkness  of  that  long  night, 
had  he  been  preaching  to  the  people 
of  England  against  the  poor's  law,  as 
if  its  operation  had  lain  before  him 
in  a  blaze  of  light.  He  had  not,  all 
that  while,  studied  those  "  contem- 
porary writers  of  authority,  who  had 
the  best  means  of  forming  an  accu- 
iate  estimate  as  to  the  operation  of 
the  poor's  laws  in  England,  in  which 
they  state  that  those  laws  have 
tended  to  decrease  the  number  of  cot- 
tages, to  lessen  the  amount  of  popula- 
tion, and  to  raise  the  rate  of  wages" 
He  then  refers  the  Committee  to  ex- 
tracts from  the  Britannia  Languens, 
published  in  1680,  from  Alcock's  Ob- 
nervations  on  the  poor's  laws,  1752, 
ti  pamphlet,  quoted,  as  all  the  world 


knows,  by  Dr  Burns,  in  his  History 
of  the  poor's  laws — from  that  his- 
tory— from  Young's  Farmer  Let- 
ters— from  his  Political  Arithmetic 
— from  Mr  Grave's  speech  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  18th  April, 
1775 — and  from  Brown's  Agricultu- 
ral Survey  of  the  West  Riding  of 
Yorkshire,  1 799.  All  these  authori- 
ties were  patent  to  all  men  ;  yet,  had 
the  Professor  of  Political  Economy 
in  the  University  of  London  re- 
mained in  ignorance  of  them  all  up 
to  the  year  1825  I  Nor  had  he  the 
candour  to  tell  the  Committee,  that 
between  the  1825  and  1830  (and 
long  before  it)  one  and  all  of  those 
authorities  had  been  brought  for- 
ward, and  insisted  on  with  great  abi- 
lity, by  many  writers  in  our  best  pe- 
riodical works,  reviews,  magazines, 
newspapers,  and  innumerable  pam- 
phlets. 

For  many  years  past,  we,  ourselves, 
in  concert  with  other  abler  writers, 
have,  on  those  authorities,  and  by 
reasonings  that  needed  not  their  sup- 
port, defended  the  principles  of  the 
English  poor's  laws ;  and  Mr  M'Cul- 
loch,  in  the  second  edition  of  his  Po- 
litical Economy,  (1830,)  makes  use 
of  all  the  arguments  (see  especially 
our  December  Number  for  1828)  we 
have  repeatedly  employed,  with  an 
air  of  the  most  ludicrous  pomposity, 
as  if  he  were  promulgating  some 
novel  truths  that  had  escaped  all 
other  optics  but  his  own,  and  were 
flashed,  for  the  first  time,  by  his 
genius  for  discovery,  upon  a  startled 
world. 

The  views  we  nave  so  long  and  so 
earnestly  advocated,  were  plain  to  all 
capacities,  not  blinded  or  distorted 
by  that  obstinate  and  darkling  wil- 
fulness  which  is  generated  by  addic- 
tion to  some  narrow  and  exclusive 
creed.  Who,  unless  he  shuts  his  eyes 
and  his  ears,  can  hinder  himself  from 
seeing  that,  in  a  country  like  England, 
great  numbers  of  labourers  must  be 
often  out  of  employment  ?  Who 
knows  not  that  our  manufacturing  la- 
bour depends  in  a  great  degree  for 
employment  on  foreign  markets,  in 
which  the  demand  is  for  ever  fluctu- 
ating ?  Who  knows  not  that,  in  every 
manufacture,  there  is  a  tendency  to 
outrun  consumption  ?  There  cannot, 
according  to  Say,  be  a  universal 
glut.  Be  it  so ;  but  particular  gluts 
do  the  business  j  and  thousands  and, 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland.         [May, 


814 

tens  of  thousands  are  ever  and  anon 
thrown  out  of  bread.  And  who  does 
not  know  that  it  is  impossible  to 
foresee  such  changes  and  reversals, 
which  often  happen  all  of  a  sud- 
den, as  if  in  very  spite  of  the  most 
confident  and  contrary  predictions  ? 
Who  does  not  know,  that  to  say  that 
workmen  thus  flung  out  of  one  em- 
ployment may  find  it  in  another,  is 
contrary  to  the  universally  admitted 
principles  of  the  division  of  labour, 
and  of  the  distribution  of  capital  ? 
Could  the  many  thousands  of  silk- 
weavers  and  throwsters,  who,  in 
]  825-6,  were  reduced  to  destitution, 
find  support  to  life  by  change  of 
place  or  of  employment  ?  Or  the 
many  hundreds  of  thousands  of  ma- 
nufacturing labourers  in  1826,  who 
looked  like  ghosts  from  the  grave  ?  Mr 
M'Culloch  might — must  have  known 
all  this — long  before  the  1830 ;  yet 
then  it  was  that  for  the  first  time  he 
said,  "  In  the  first  place  it  may  be  ob- 
served that,  owing  to  changes  of  fa- 
shion, to  the  miscalculation  of  produ- 
cers and  merchants,  those  engaged  in 
manufacturing  employments  are  ne- 
cessarily exposed  to  many  vicissi- 
tudes ;  and  when  their  number  is  so 
very  great,  as  in  this  country,  it  is 
quite  essential  that  a  resource  should 
be  provided  for  their  support  in  pe- 
riods of  adversity." 

Now,  whatever  may  be  the  effects 
of  poor's  laws,  good  or  bad,  here  are 
multitudes  of  honest  and  hard-work- 
ing men,  with  their  wives  and  child- 
ren, during  seasons  of  frequent  re- 
currence, inevitably  deprived  of  the 
means  of  life  by  the  operation  of 
causes  inherent  in  the  system  of  in- 
ternational trade.  The  poor's  laws 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  produc- 
tion of  such  misery ;  but  they  have 
every  thing  to  do  with  its  relief. 
How  else  can  such  poor  be  saved 
from  starvation  ?  You  dare  not  say 
that  they  should  support  themselves 
on  their  savings — and  at  the  same 
time  call  yourself  a  Christian.  Will 
you  then — and  others  like  you — and 
we  grant  that  you  are  an  average 
human  being  of  the  economical  class 
— come  forward  instantly  to  provide 
them  with  sustentation  ?  No.  It  is 
pleasanter  to  employ  your  pen  than 
your  purse.  Yet  you,  and  others 
such  as  you,  will  subscribe — and  your 
subscriptions  will  be  of  use — of  much 
use-rafter  time  spent  in  setting  them 


agoing,  time  spent  in  collecting  them, 
time  spent  in  settling  how  they  are 
to  be  distributed,  and  time  spent  in 
giving  the  relief.  During  all  the  time 
made  up  of  these  times,  multitudes 
are  suffering  the  pangs  of  hunger,  and 
all  the  moral  evils — worse  than  phy- 
sical —  incident  to  such  indigence 
angrily  agape  for  the  stinted,  and  un- 
certain, and  tardy  alms.  And  in  what 
spirit  are  they  given  ?  Too  often 
sullenly — grudgingly — complaining- 
lyj  and  sometimes  the  supplies,  if 
not  exhausted,  are  stopt  at  the  very 
point  perhaps  of  salvation;  and  cha- 
rity itself  cheated  out  of  its  blessing 
and  its  reward. 

Is  this  the  best  and  wisest  way  to 
preserve  the  national  character  from 
degradation  under  the  pressure  of 
deep  distress  ?  What  is  this  but  beg- 
gary ?  But  relief  given  to  such  suf- 
ferers by  the  law  of  the  land  is  not 
alms.  We  shall  not  say  a  syllable 
here  about  right.  It  is  the  law — and 
that  is  enough,  under  such  circum- 
stances surely,  to  justify  the  giving 
and  the  taking — and  to  render,  too, 
both  effectual  for  the  end  which  is 
righteous  as  the  means,  and  acknow- 
ledged to  be  so  by  all  true  English 
hearts. 

Mr  Barton  is  a  man  of  that  cha- 
racter— and  in  his  Enquiry  into  the 
Causes  of  the  Depreciation  of  Agricul- 
tural Labour,  expresses  sentiments 
which  never  can  be  obsolete  in  a 
Christian  land. 

"  It  is  to  be  remembered,"  says 
Mr  Barton,  "that  even  those  who 
most  strongly  assert  the  impolicy 
and  injurious  tendency  of  our  poor's 
laws,  admit  that  causes  wholly  un- 
connected with  these  laws  do,  at 
times,  depress  the  condition  of  the 
labourer.  Poor  families  are  often 
thrown  into  a  state  of  severe  neces- 
sity by  long-continued  illness  or  un- 
avoidable misfortunes,  from  which 
it  would  be  impossible  for  them  to 
return  to  the  enjoyment  of  decent 
competence,  if  not  supported  by  ex- 
traneous means.  It  is  well  known, 
too,  that  a  general  rise  in  the  price 
of  commodities  is  seldom  immedi- 
ately followed  by  a  rise  in  the  wages 
of  country  labour.  In  the  meantime, 
great  suffering  must  be  endured  by 
the  whole  class  of  peasantry,  if  no 
legislative  provision  existed  for  their 
relief;  and  when  such  a  rise  of  prices 
goes  on  gradually  increasing  for  a 


1&53.] 


On,  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


815 


series  of  years,  as  sometimes  hap- 
pe.is,  the  suffering  resulting  from  it 
must  be  proportionally  prolonged. 
Tlie  question  at  issue  is  simply  this: 
whether  that  suffering  be  calculated 
to  cherish  habits  of  sober  and  self- 
detiying  prudence,  or  to  generate  a 
sp  i-it  of  careless  desperation  ? 

'During  these  periods  of  extra- 
ordinary privation,  the  labourer,  if 
not  effectually  relieved,  would  im- 
perceptibly lose  that  taste  for  order, 
decency,  and  cleanliness,  which  had 
been  gradually  formed  and  accumu- 
lat  cd,  in  better  times,  by  the  insen- 
sible operation  of  habit  and  example. 
And  no  strength  of  argument,  no 
fo  'ce  of  authority,  could  again  instil 
in  o  the  minds  of  a  new  generation, 
growing  up  under  more  prosperous 
circumstances,  the  sentiments  and 
tastes  thus  blighted  and  destroyed  by 
th  3  cold  breath  of  penury.  Every  re- 
tui-n  of  temporary  distress  would, 
therefore,  vitiate  the  feelings  and 
lo.ver  the  sensibilities  of  the  labour- 
ing classes.  The  little  progress  of 
improvement  made  in  happier  times 
would  be  lost  and  forgotten.  If  we 
w  ird  off  a  few  of  the  bitterest  blasts 
of  calamity,  the  sacred  flame  may  be 
ktpt  alive  till  the  tempest  be  past; 
but  if  once  extinguished,  how  hard  is 
th3  task  of  rekindling  it  in  minds 
loig  inured  to  degradation  and 
wretchedness!" 

We  said,  a  little  way  back,  that  no 
man  calling  himself  a  Christian  could 
d<  re  to  affirm,  that  all  persons  be- 
longing to  the  labouring  classes  in 
E  igland,  were  in  duty  bound  to  lay 
by,  out  of  their  wages,  in  good  or 
moderate  times,  enough  to  support 
their  families  in  all  vicissitudes, 
without  assistance  from  the  State. 
M  r  Sadler  illustrates,  with  his  usual 
el  jquence,the  gross  injustice  of  such 
a  demand  on  the  working  classes, 
and  its  gross  folly  too— seeing  the 
cc  nsequences  that  would  inevitably 
ei  sue  from  such  doctrine  being  car- 
ri  3d  into  practice.  The  wages  of  la- 
bour have  a  constant  tendency  to  ac- 
ci  >mmodate  themselves  to  the  actual 
average  expenses  of  those  rendering 
it  Therefore,the  proposal  to  the  work- 
ing classes  that  they  should  dimi- 
n  sh  their  daily  expenditure  in  order 
to  save  money,  would  only  have  the 
ei  Feet,  if  attended  to  universally,  of  di- 
n  inishing  the  remuneration  of  their 
labour  precisely  in  the  same  pro- 


portion as  they  had  diminished  their 
comforts— the  fact  being,  that  no- 
thing but  the  spur  of  necessity  oc- 
casions the  bulk  of  mankind  to 
labour  at  all,  and  they  only  labour 
up  to  their  necessity.  Nothing, 
therefore,  he  truly  says,  can  be  less 
philosophical  than  the  idea  of  ma- 
king the  whole  of  the  labouring 
classes  hoarders  of  money ;  merito- 
rious instances  of  it  do  occur,  it 
is  true ;  but  they  exist  only  as  ex- 
ceptions ;  and  to  render  them  gene- 
ral, were  it  possible,  would  obvious- 
ly defeat  the  intended  purpose,  and 
derange  the  whole  social  system. 
Take  the  numbers  of  the  class  in 
question  as  low  as  you  can,  and  make 
the  diminution  in  their  daily  expen- 
diture as  little  as  is  consistent  with 
the  plan  proposed,  and  it  will  be  in- 
stantly seen,  that  if  this  disinterested 
recommendation  could  be  carried  in- 
to effect,  a  single  year  would  throw 
millions  out  of  employment,  and: 
consequently  out  of  bread,  and  irre- 
trievably ruin  the  finances  of  the 
country. 

Mr  Sadler  deals  well  with  the  au- 
dacious doctrine  of  the  hard-heart- 
ed, that  the  poor  should  be  compel- 
led so  to  lay  up  against  a  time  of 
sickness  or  distress,  or  loss  of  em- 
ployment, or,  lastly,  old  age,  as  not 
to  burden  the  public;  or  that  they 
should  otherwise  be  left  to  th^ir 
fate.  It  is  indeed  shocking  to  tnmK 
how  people,  sitting  in  easy- chairs  at 
blazing  firesides,  and  tables  cove*""1 
with  wine  and  walnuts,  will  belch 
out  opinions  on  the  duties  of  the 
poor.  Sinecurists  —  pensioners  — 
sleeping  partners  in  wealthy  con- 
cerns—  fat  and  nearly  fatuous  elder 
sons  who  have  been  providentially 
born  to  breeches  which  they  never 
could  have  bought — are  all— so  they 
dream — uncompromising  opponents 
of  poor's  laws.  Buthow  stands  it  with 
the  upper  classes  —  ay,  with  the 
rich  ?  Are  there  no  poor's  laws  for  the 
opulent?  "Do  any  of  the  political 
economists,"  asks  Mr  Sadler,  "  who 
make  it  to  the  poor,  address  it  to  the 
other  and  higher  orders  of  society, 
where  its  adoption  would  be  far  more 
reasonable,  practicable,  and  just? 
Have  any  of  the  political  economists, 
who  have  uttered  such  vehement 
things  against  poverty  in  this  particu- 
lar, held  forth  that  the  Ministers,  the 
Chancellors,  the  Judges,  and  all  other 


816 


On  Poors  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


servantsofthe  Crown; — that  all  pub- 
lic officers,  civil,  military,  or  naval; — 
that  all  Bishops  and  ministers  of  the 
Church,  of  all  orders  and  degrees ; 
I  say,  have  they  proposed,  when  the 
health  of  these  fails,  or  they  have 
advanced  far  in  years,  so  as  to  be  no 
longer  fully  capable  of  performing 
the  duties  of  their  several  callings, 
that  they  should  at  once  resign  them, 
and  give  up  their  emoluments  with- 
out any  equivalent,  half-pay,  pension, 
superannuated  allowance,  or  con- 
sideration whatsoever?  Yet  most 
of  these  have  private  fortunes, 
many  of  them  ample  ones ;  while  the 
bounty  of  the  country,  in  the  mean- 
time, enables  them  to  put  the  saving 
plan  into  execution,  without,  in 
many  instances,  sacrificing  an  iota 
of  their  personal  comforts.  But,  no : 
it  is  held  quite  proper  that  many  of 
these  should  be  continued  in  the  en- 
joyment of  their  entire  incomes  till 
death,  and  that,  under  one  denomi- 
nation or  another,  nearly  all  the  rest 
should  have  retiring  allowances, 
amounting,  on  the  whole,  few  as 
their  numbers  comparatively  are,  to 
millions.  Da  pr&tori ;  da  deinde 
tribuno,  as  of  old;  but  that  the 
wretched  should  receive  anything, — 
that  the  poor  worn-out  hind,  who 
has  had  the  misfortune  to  survive 
his  strength,  should  have  a  morsel  of 
the  produce  of  those  fields  which 
h?  T^as  tilled  for  half  a  century, — or 
that  the  cripple  who  has  been  maim- 
ed in  some  of  the  boasted  manufac- 
tories of  the  country,  should  be  al- 
lowed a  few  daily  pence  at  the  pub- 
lic cost; — this  is  the  grievance,  ac- 
cording to  our  political  economists !" 
We  have  been  speaking  hitherto 
chiefly  of  a  legal  provision  for  the 
poor — not  impotent  —  but  thrown 
out  of  employment — and  we  have 
but  touched,  as  it  were,  on  argu- 
ments that  of  themselves  leap  up  ir- 
resistibly to  establish  the  sacred  and 
saving  power  of  such  institution,  at 
once  merciful  and  just.  We  have 
said  little,  except  by  necessary  im- 
plication, of  the  impotent  poor ;  and, 
in  truth,  when  the  whole  subject  is 
rightly  viewed,  there  is  no  such 
distinction.  For  it  has  been  well 
said  by  Mr  James  Butler  Bryan,  we 
believe,  and  after  him  by  Mr  Poulett 
Scrope,  that  forty- eight  hours  of 
want  may  reduce  the  strongest  la- 
bourer in  the  prime  of  life  to  the 


[May, 

condition  of  a  bed-ridden  pauper. 
Many  thousand  able-bodied  men, 
willing  to  work,  may  thus,  in  a  short 
time,  become  feeble  wretches,  un- 
able to  withdraw  the  point  of  a  pick- 
axe from  the  tenacious  clay,  or  to 
drive  it  into  the  hard  gravel.  But 
adopting  the  ordinary  distinction, 
what  say  you  to  depriving  or  with- 
holding from  the  sick,  lame,  blind, 
palsied,  aged  pauper,  all  assistance 
but  what  voluntary  charity  shall  af- 
ford ?  Certainly  these  are  the  very 
persons  whom  voluntary  contribu- 
tions will  most  relieve ;  and  there- 
fore, for  them  a  compulsory  provi- 
sion (as  it  is  called)  must,  to  all  who 
are  for  abolishing  it,  be  worst  of  all, 
because  most  opposed  to  the  natu- 
ral operation  of  the  best  sentiments 
of  the  human  heart.  But  here  we 
meet,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
with  the  strangest  inconsistencies 
and  contradictions  in  the  creed  of 
charity.  Many  who  will  not  that  the 
law  should  afford  any  relief  to  people 
dying  of  hunger  from  being  thrown 
out  of  employment,  are  afraid  to  ex- 
clude from  its  protecting  care  the 
cripple  and  the  blind ;  and  they  ap- 
prove of  that  Christian  clause  in  the 
43  of  Elizabeth,  which  says,  they  and 
others  in  circumstances  equally  ca- 
lamitous shall  not  be  suffered  to 
perish.  Others  are  for  excluding 
even  such  helpless  beings  from  the 
protection  of  a  poor's  law,  but  they 
are  well-disposed  towards  charitable 
institutions,  such  as  infirmaries,  dis- 
pensaries, and  asylums.  There  is  an 
essential  distinction,  they  say,  be- 
tween want  and  disease,  and  the  in- 
stitutions to  relieve  them ;  but  they 
have  wofully  failed  in  establishing  it. 
Legal  and  compulsory  provisions 
for  the  relief  of  want,  they  argue, 
multiply  their  objects — those  for  the 
relief  of  disease  diminish  theirs; 
taking  for  granted  the  very  point  in 
dispute  !  But  grant  even  that  it  were 
so,  would  that  be  a  good  Christian 
reason  against  relieving  want  ?  Here 
are  fifty  men,  women,  and  children, 
dying  of  want.  They  are  saved  from 
starvation,  and  ten  more  are  thereby 
brought  on  the  poor's  list,  who  other- 
wise might  or  might  not  have  been 
able  to  support  themselves?  Must 
we,  because  that  may  happen,  or 
does  happen,  suffer  the  fifty  to  shift 
for  themselves,  to  suffer  all  the 
miseries  of  indigence— because,  if 


1333.] 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


we  do  relieve  them,  the  fifty  may 
become  sixty,  and  we  shall  have  to 
assist  them  all?  Weak  and  worth- 
less persons  there  always  will  be  to 
apply  for  relief  from  all  charities, 
public  and  private,  voluntary  or 
compulsory;  such  is  human  nature; 
but  the  evil  must  be  put  up  with,  and 
guarded  against  to  the  best  of  our 
power  and  prudence;  we  must  not 
be  deterred  from  doing  our  duty  to 
the  honest  indigent  from  fear — even 
if  well-grounded — of  too  often  being 
thereby  brought  under  the  necessity 
of  comprehending  along  with  them 
not  a  few  of  the  vile  and  base. 
People  will  not  break  their  legs,  or 
put  out  their  eyes  to  get  into  an  in- 
firmary, therefore  build  infirmaries ; 
but  people  will  sometimes  be  lazy 
and  protiigate,  trusting  to  a  poor's 
law,  therefore  let  there  be  no  poor's 
la  wa !  And  that  passes  for  sound  logic 
with  men  of  science!  for  sound 
charity  with  the  humane ! 

Mr  Scrope  expresses  himself  very 
strongly,  on  this  point,  against  the 
Political  Economists.  "  They  would 
ivfuse,"  he  says,  "  aught  to  the 
poor  which  can  for  an  instant  of  time 
stand  between  them  and  that  utter 
destitution  which  is  expected  to 
teach  them  to  keep  their  numbers 
within  the  demand  for  their  labour, 
and  which,  at  all  events,  would  kill 
them  off  down  to  the  desirable  limit. 
Alms-houses,  lying-in-hospitals,  dis- 
pensaries, private  charity,  are  all  to 
this  sect  equal  objects  of  dislike." 

"  But  their  abhorrence  is  reserved 
for  a  poor's  law,  for  any  law  which 
Hliould  secure  a  home,  employment, 
and  security  from  absolute  starvation 
to  the  well-disposed  natives  of  this 
wealthy  land.  Even  in  England  it  is 
to  them  intolerable.  *  Abolish  it,' 
they  say,  *  and  all  will  be  well.  Let 
there  be  no  resource  for  the  sick, 
the  maimed,  the  aged,  the  orphan, 
and  the  destitute, but  mendicancy.  Do 
not,  however,  think  of  relieving  men- 
dicants !  For  by  giving  to  one  beggar 
you  make  two.  Let  the  poor  main- 
tain the  poor  as  long  as  they  can  ; 
and  when  their  last  crust  has  been 
shared  amongst  them,  let  all  starve 
together.  This  will  teach  them  riot 
to  marry,  until  ihe  rich  want more  ser- 
vants' " 

This,  at  first  sight,  seems  rather  an 
overstatement.  But,  if  it  be  so,  it  is 

VOL.  XXXIII.   NO.  CCVTII. 


817 

because  of  the  contradictions  and  in- 
consistencies that  are  heard  clashing 
in  the  creed  of  the  political  econo- 
mists. Undoubtedly  Mr  Malthus  did 
once  hold  such  opinions — whatever 
lie  may  do  now — as  are  here  subjec- 
ted to  these  indignant  strictures ;  and 
so  did  Mr  M'Culloch — very  nearly  so 
— though  he  has  had  the  good  sense 
and  feeling  to  abjure  them ;  and 
sorry  are  we  to  be  forced  to  believe 
that  they  are  the  opinions  of  Miss 
Martineau — a  lady  whom,  in  spite  of 
such  aberrations,  we  regard  with 
admiration  and  respect.  Alms-hou- 
ses, lying-in-hospitals,  dispensaries, 
and  private  charity,  are  not  equal  ob- 
jects of  dislike  to  all  the  sect;  but 
they  ought  to  be,  for  it  is  impossible 
to  defend  them  on  any  principles  not 
impugned  equally  by  all  the  sect  in 
their  disqussion  of  the  question  of 
Poor's  Laws. 

It  has  been  said  by  the  present 
Bishop  of  Landaff,  then  the  Princi- 
pal of  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  in  his 
celebrated  letter  to  Mr  Peel,  "  that 
the  fundamental  error  of  the  poor's 
laws  is  the  confusion  of  moral  duty 
with  the  task  of  legislation.  That  what 
all  individuals  ought  to  doy  it  is  the 
business  of  the  laws  to  make  them 
do,  is  a  very  plausible  position,  and 
has  actually  been  adopted  by  some 
of  our  ablest  and  most  virtuous  men. 
But  nothing  in  reality  is  more  falla- 
cious,nothing  lesscougruouswith  the 
nature  of  man,  and  with  that  state  of 
discipline  and  trial  which  his  pre- 
sent existence  is  clearly  designed  to 
be.  In  the  first  place,  it  destroys 
the  very  essence,  riot  only  of  benevo- 
lence, but  of  all  virtue,  to  make  it 
compulsory ;  or,  to  speak  more  pro- 
perly, it  is  a  contradiction  in  terms. 
An  action,  to  be  virtuous,  must  be  vo- 
luntary. It  requires  a  living  agent  to 
give  it  birth.  If  we  attempt  to  trans- 
plant it  from  our  own  bosoms  to  the 
laws,  it  withers  and  dies.  The  error  is 
fostered  by  the  promiscuous  appli- 
cation of  words  to  individuals  and  to 
the  laws,  which,  in  their  proper  ap- 
plication, belong  to  the  former  only. 
We  talk  of  mild,  of  merciful,  of  be- 
nevolent, of  humane  laws.  The  pro- 
fessed object  of  such  laws  is  to  do 
what  mild,  and  merciful,  and  bene- 
volent men  are  disposed  to  do.  But 
even  to  suppose  them  capable  of  ef- 
fecting this— yet  the  humanity  ig  lost, 
3  a 


818 


-On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland?. 


[May, 


as  soon  as  the  act  proceeds  from  a 
dead  letter,  not  from  the  spontaneous 
impulse  of  the  individual.  And,  in 
fact,  this  endeavour  to  invest  the 
laws  with  the  office  of  humanity, 
inconsistent  and  impracticable  as  it 
is,  when  attempted  from  the  purest 
motives,  does  in  reality  often  origi- 
nate from  an  imperfect  sense  of 
moral  .obligation,  and  a  low  degree 
of  benevolence  in  men  themselves. 
Absurd  as  the  thought  is,  when  ex- 
pressed in  words,  man  would  be 
virtuous,  be  humane,  be  charitable, 
by  proxy.  This,  however,  not  only 
the  divine  purpose  and  the  declared 
end  of  our  being,  but  common  sense 
itself,  forbids.  To  throw  off  the 
care  of  want,  and  disease,  and  mi- 
sery, upon  the  magistrate,  is  to  con- 
vert humanity  into  police,  and  reli- 
gion into  a  statute-book." 
.  The  sentiments  in  this  passage 
seem,  in  the  following  one,  borrow- 
ed and  translated  by  JL)r  Chalmers. 

"  The  error  of  aPoor's  Law  consists 
in  its  assigning  the  same  treatment  to 
an  indeterminate,  which  is  proper 
only  to  a  determinate  virtue.     The 
virtue  of  humanity  ought  never  to 
have  been  legalized,  but  left  to  the 
spontaneous  workings  of  man's  own 
willing  and   compassionate  nature. 
Justice,  with  its  precise  boundary 
and  well-defined  rights,  is   the   fit 
subject  for  the   enactments  of  the 
statute- book,    but  nothing   can    be 
more  hurtful  and  heterogeneous  than 
thus  to  bring  the  terms  or  the  mini- 
strations of  benevolence  under  the 
bidding  of  authority     *     #     #     * 
could  the  ministrations  of  relief  have 
been  provided  by  law  and  justice, 
then  compassion  may  have  been  dis- 
pensed with  as  a  superfluous  part  of 
the    human    constitution,    whereas 
the  very  insertion  of  such  a  feeling 
or  tendency  within  us,  is  proof  in  it- 
self, of  a  something  separate  and  ad- 
ditional for  it  to  do;   of  a  distinct 
province    in  human  affairs,  within 
which  this  fine  sensibility  of  the  heart 
met  with  its  appropriate  objects,  and 
by  its  right  acquittal  of  them,,  ful- 
filled the  design  which  nature  had 
in  so  endowing  us.     But  by  this  un- 
fortunate transmutation,— this  meta- 
morphosis of  a  thing  of  love  into  a 
thing  of  law, — this  invasion  of  vir- 
tue beyond  its  own  proper  domain 
in  the    field   of   humanity,  nature 
has  been  traversed  in  her  arrange- 


ments,  and  the  office  of  one  human 
faculty  has  been  awkwardly  and 
mischievously  transferred  to  an- 
other." 

With  all  respect  due  to  such  emi- 
nent and  excellent  men,  we  demur  to 
such  reasonings  as  these,  and  venture 
to  deny  that  there  is  in  our  moral 
nature  such  a  distinction  as  this  be- 
tween the  virtues  of  Justice  and  Be- 
nevolence— such  distinction  as  this 
between  their  respective  provinces 
in  the  world  of  active  duties.  Grant 
that  compassion — sympathy  with  hu- 
man sufferings  and  sorrows — is  the 
principle  which  provides  the  minis- 
trations of  relief.  Even  an  instinctive 
and  unreasoning  sympathy  in  some 
measure  does  so ; 

"  His  pity  gave  e'er*  charity  began," 

is  a  line  that  speaks  the  experience  of 
every  bosom.  But  a  wisely  instruct- 
ed sympathy  becomes  an  almost  un- 
impassioned    emotion,    if  we    may 
venture  to  use  the  word  in  that  sense ; 
and  is  in  truth  common  Feeling,  or 
Sense,   or   Reason,  or    Conscience. 
We  know  and  feel  by  it  that  it  is 
right  to  lighten  a  brother's  burden. 
Charity  is  not  a  mere  humane  impulse, 
but  is   thoughtful,  and    has  regard 
to  many  contingencies  for  which  it 
would  provide.     This  "  fine  sensi- 
bility of  the  heart,"  strengthened  by 
strong  reflection  of  the  mind,  meets 
with  its  "  appropriate  objects,"  not 
in  "  one  province  of  human  affairs," 
but  in  them  all— for  its  spirit  is  "  wide 
and  general  as  the  casing  air."     The 
more  we  know  of  human  affairs,  the 
more  sadly  are  we  persuaded  that 
"its  appropriate  objects"  are  very 
numerous,  too  numerous  to  be  at  all 
times  within  reach  of  our  individual 
hands,  even  though  they  should  be 
"open  as  day  to  melting  charity." 
But  with  most  of  us,  engrossed  as 
we  are  with  our  own  cares,  hands 
are  not  thus  benignantly  open — we 
too  often  shut  them — and,  to  use  a 
vulgar,  perhaps,  but  strong  expres- 
sion, become  close-fisted.  Conscious 
that  "  our  fine  sensibility"  is  exceed- 
ingly liable  to    lose  its    edge  and 
temper,  we  do  what  we  can  to  pre- 
serve it  unimpaired,  either  by  too 
frequent  use,  or  by  desuetude,  and 
to  call  in  to  its  aid  general  rules  and 
maxims.    To  succour  the  distressed 
it  is  not  necessary  that  we  should  be 
under  the  influence  of  any  very  lively 


1833.] 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


819 


compassion ;  for  we  are  acquainted 
with  the  melancholy  constitution  of 
the  lower  world.     We  devise  plans 
for  the  alleviation  of  sufferings  over 
which  it  is  unwise  to  weep,  because 
it  is  idle ;  and  with  composure  and 
complacency  we  leave  them  benefi- 
cently to  effect  our  benignant  pur- 
poses by  means  that  partake  of  our 
own  prudence.     We  do  so  on  many 
occasions — and  having  infused  the 
npirit  of  charity  into  our  scheme,  we 
allow  it  to  work.     Why  may  not  a 
poor's  law,  providing  for  the  helpless 
vvhose  faces  we  never  saw,  be  of  this 
gracious  kind  ?     Our  contributions 
10  a  public  fund  do  not  cease  sure- 
ly to  be  charitable,  because  our  mo- 
nies are  not  given  out  of  our  own 
hand  to  the  same  poor  persons  whom 
otherwise  we  should  have  directly 
relieved ;  nor  is  our  warm  benevo- 
lence   necessarily   transmuted    into 
(old  justice  by  being  united  on  prin- 
( i  pie  with  thatof  our  brethren,  and  the 
i  um  distributed  upon  system  to  the 
poor.  It  seems  to  us  a  strange  thing 
to  say  that  under  such  a  humane  law 
fs  this,    "compassion    may  be   dis- 
pensed with  as  a  superfluous  part  of 
the  human  constitution."  For  out  of 
that  very  compassion  has  arisen  the 
law,  and   to  that  very   compassion 
that  law  makes  a  perpetual  but  not 
importunate  appeal.  In  that  fund  the 
charities  of  the  nation  are  consolida- 
ted— and  the  hearts  of  the  humane 
are  at  rest.     The  law  was  not  im- 
posed upon  the  people — they,  through 
the  wisdom  of  their  wisest,  sought  it 
ior    themselves — nor,   when  left  to 
their  own    feelings   and   their  own 
j  idgments,have  the  people  ever  been 
i  npatient  of  the  burden.     Charities 
t  icre  will  always  be  left  entirely  free 
to  all  men — but  they   will   not   be 
reglected  because  they  are  compara- 
tively few.     Should  they  sometimes 
le  neglected,  there  is  a  great  com  fort 
in  the  knowledge  that  provision  has 
I  een  made  for  millions  ;  and  with  the 
1  iw  it  is  rare  indeed  that  any  wretch 
f  inks  down  in  inanition  and  dies.'  '  A 
1hing  of  law"  may  also  be   "  a  thing 
(  f  love."  For  example — marriage.  It 
is  surely  not  true  that 

'  Love,  free  as  air,  at  sight  of  human  ties, 
Jipreads  his  light  wings,  and  in  a  moment 
flies," 

The  illustration  may  seem  scarcely 
serious  enough  for  the  occasion.  But 


we  can  imagine  no  illustration  more 
serious  and  more  to  the  point.  If 
mutual  affection  between  a  young 
man  and  a  young  woman,  "  in  that 
distinct  province  of  human  affairs, 
where  the  fine  sensibility  of  the  heart 
has  met  with  its  appropriate  object," 
be  cemented  by  marriage,  then  love 
and  law  are  congenial,  and  so  may 
they  be  when  leagued  to  lighten  the 
distresses  of  others,  by  "  ministra- 
tion of  relief."  What,  asks  Mr  Sad- 
ler, do  the  poor's  laws  form  "  but  a 
great  National  Club,  or,  as  our  Saxon 
ancestors  would  have  denominated 
it,  a  Guild,  to  which  all  that  are  qua- 
lified contribute  in  behalf  of  the  dis- 
tressed members  ?" 

We  do  then  most  cordially  go 
along  with  MrDavison  in  the  follow- 
ing beautiful  passage,  of  which  the 
sentiments  run  directly  counter  to 
those  of  the  Bishop  of  Landaff  and 
Dr  Chalmers ;  and  perhaps  they  will 
find  favour  in  the  eyes  of  many  who 
may  be  less  disposed  to  be  per- 
suaded by  any  thing  we  can  say. 

"  The  humanity  which  it  was  de- 
signed by  the  original  text  of  the 
main  statute  upon  this  subject,  to  in- 
fuse into  the  law  of  the  land,  is  a  me- 
morial of  English  feeling,  which  has 
a  right  to  be  kept  inviolate  ;  and  its 
just  praise  will  be  better  understood, 
when  it  comes  to  be  purified  from 
the  mistake,  which  either  a  careless 
abusive  usage,  or  an  unpractised  and 
inexperienced  policy  in  the  extent  of 
its  first  enactment,  may  have  com- 
bined with  it.  It  is  the  page  of  many 
in  a  book,  which  has  to  deal  much, 
of  necessity,  in  severer  things ;  and 
there  is  a  spirit  of  kindness  in  it, 
particularly  fitted  to  recommend  the 
whole  authority  of  law,  as  a  system 
framed  for  the  well-being  of  its  sub- 
jects. I  would  therefore  as  soon  see 
the  bestclause  of  Magna  Chartaerased 
from  the  volume  of  our  liberties,  as 
this  primary  authentic  text  of  human 
legislation  from  our  statute-book. 
And  if,  in  the  course  of  a  remote 
time,  the  establishments  of  liberty 
and  of  humanity  which  we  now  pos- 
sess are  to  leave  us,  and  the  spirit  of 
them  to  be  carried  to  other  lands,  I 
trust  this  one  record  of  them  will 
survive,  and  that  charity,  by  law,  will 
be  a  fragment  of  English  history,  to 
be  preserved  wherever  the  succes- 
sion of  our  constitution  or  religion 
shall  go." 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


820 

YPS — Charity  by  law.  Call  it  not 
on  that  account — in  the  common 
sense  of  the  term — compulsory.  Let 
us  remember  Wordsworth's  noble 
lines  to  Duty. 

"  Thou  who  art  LIBERTY  AND  LAW  !" 

The  feeling  is  still  free.  It  is  suc- 
cinct, not  shackled— and  fitter  for 
service.  Without  fear  of  omission 
or  negligence,  charity  surveys  her 
domain.  She  has  a  seat,  and  a  scep- 
tre, and  subjects — and  her  power  is 
stable.  Christianity  itself  is  part  of 
the  law — yet  is  its  spirit  free  as  the 
breath  of  heaven. 

Benevolence  and  Justice  thus  go 
hand  in  hand.  The  humane  do  not 
feel  that  their  contributions  are  less 
voluntary,  because  given  according 
to  enlightened  regulation;  the  cal- 
lous have  not  the  face  openly  to  com- 
plain, and  become  reconciled  to  gi- 
ving, which,  if  not  under  such  volun- 
tary control,  they  would  evade ;  and 
the  miser's  self,  with  heart  even  more 
withered  than  his  hand,  he  indeed  is 
forced  to  contribute  his  mite  to  the 
relief  of  those  necessities,  which 
others,  being  yet  human,  painfully 
endure,  but  which  in  him  are  a 
source  of  unnatural  and  diseased  en- 
joyment. 

Mr  Malthus,  an  elegant  and  elo- 
quent writer,  contrasts  strongly  with 
the  "  forced  charity"  of  poor's  laws, 
which,  according  to  his  views,  leaves 
no  satisfactory  impression  on  the 
mind,  and  cannot,  therefore,  have  any 
very  beneficial  effect  on  the  heart 
and  affections,  that  "  voluntary  cha- 
rity, which  makes  itself  acquainted 
with  the  objects  which  it  relieves, 
which  seems  to  feel,  and  to  be  proud 
of  the  bond  that  unites  the  rich  with 
the  poor,  which  enters  into  their 
houses,  informs  itself  of  their  habits 
and  dispositions,  checks  the  hopes  of 
clamorous  and  obtrusive  poverty, 
with  no  other  recommendations  but 
rags,  and  encourages  with  adequate 
relief  the  silent  and  retiring  sufferer, 
labouring  under  unmerited  difficul- 
ties." We  say,  "Peace  be  to  such,  and 
to  their  slumbers  peace."  Thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  such  truly 
Christian  spirits  are  there  this  day  in 
England.  The  picture  is  beautiful,  and 
it  is  true.  Nor  do  they  who  act  thus 
grudge  tho  poor's  rates.  Would  too 
that  all  who  do  pretend  to  follow  Mr 
Malthus,  were  convinced  like  him  of 


[May 


the  humanity  of  their  opinions.   But 
it  is  not  so.  Nine  out  of:  ten  of  them, 
if  not  compelled  to  do  it,  would  give 
nothing  to  the  poor.     They  are  not 
the  persons  who  would  play  the  part 
painted  in  that  captivating  picture. 
He  is  a  kind-hearted  man;    but  his 
disciples  are  in  general  scrubs.  You 
see  that  in  the  scurvy  shabbiness  of 
their   sneaking   sentences  which   it 
sickens  one's  stomach  to  read  aloud, 
and  sends  over  an  audience  one  uni- 
versal scunner.     Mr  Malthus  quotes 
with  high  admiration  a  passage  from 
Townsend,  than  which  nothing  can 
be  imagined  more  unjust.  "  Nothing 
in  nature  can   be   more   disgusting 
than  a  parish  pay-table,  attendant 
upon  which,  in  the  same  objects  of 
misery,  are  too  often  found  combined 
snuffy   gin,   rags,    vermin,  insolence, 
and  abusive  language  ;  nor  in  nature 
can  any  thing  be  more  beautiful  than 
the  mild  complacency  of  benevolence, 
liastening  to  the  humble  cottage  to 
relieve  the  wants  of  industry  and 
virtue,  to  feed  the  hungry,  to  clothe 
the  naked,  and  to  soothe  the  sorrows 
of  the  widow  with  her  tender  or- 
phans; nothing  can  be  more  plea- 
sing, unless  it  be  their  sparkling  eyes, 
their  bursting  tears,  and  their  uplift- 
ed hands,  the  artless  expressions  of 
unfeigned  gratitude  for  unexpected 
favours." 

This  is  somewhat  too  sentimental 
— and  in  any  other  writer  but  a  Po- 
litical Economist,  such  a  style  would 
meet  with  little  admiration.  Snuff 
is  not  disgusting  to  Mr  Coleridge  or 
Christopher  North ;  and  so  insignifi- 
cant a  pleasure  might  be  tolerated 
even  to  a  pauper.  Rags  are  often  more 
a  misfortune  than  a  sin — and  so  are 
vermin.  Gin,  and  insolence,  and 
abusive  language,  admit  of  no  de- 
fence ;  and  too  common  they  are  at 
such  a  table.  Yet  with  proper  ma- 
nagement they  need  not  be  there ; 
and  of  such  a  table,  under  proper 
management,  ought  here  to  have 
been  the  picture.  For  how  pret- 
ty the  interior  of  that  contrasted 
cottage,  and  how  attra'ctive  its  in- 
mates! No  snuff — no  rags — no  ver- 
min. Yet  in  many  thousand  cot- 
tages, had  poor's  laws  never  been  in 
England,  would  all  such  nauseous 
nuisanceshave  been  plentifully  found. 
As  for  Scotland — let  the  good  Chris- 
tians— male  and  female — who  pay 
charitable  visits  to  the  poor  in  the 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


821 


auld  town  of  Edinburgh,  say  what 
fchey  see  and  smell  in  many  of  those 
abodes  of  wretchedness  and  sin. 
Snuff,  tobacco,  rags,  vermin,  gin,  in- 
solence, and  language  worse  than 
abusive — enough  and  to  spare. 

Heaven  forbid  we  should  even 
seem  to  say  a  single  syllable  in  dis- 
paragement of  private  charities !  But 
let  us  not  set  the  "  disgusting" 
against  the  "  beautiful."  'Twould  be 
easy  to  do  so  with  far  more  power- 
ful effect  than  Mr  Townsend.  'Tis 
a  false  and  foolish  way  altogether  of 
treating  so  sad  a  subject  as  misery, 
whether  merited  or  unmerited;  and 
no  one  has  told  the  world  so  with 
more  convincing  eloquence  than  Dr 
Chalmers. 

Neither  is  it  difficult  to  paint  af- 
fecting pictures  of  virtuous  poverty, 
religiously  bearing  its  lot  in  unre- 
lieved and  uncomplaining  privacy, 
and  in  humility,  not  pride,  unac- 
quainted with  alms.  "  Verily,  they 
shall  have  their  reward."  But  let  us, 
— "  because  that  we  have  all  one 
human  heart" — beware  how  we  load 
with  our  laudation  any  "  custom  of 
the  country,"  that  would  cruelly  im- 
pose such  endurance  on  the  virtu- 
ous poor.  A  sad  sight  it  is  to  the 
eyes  of  a  Christian,  some  aged  woman, 
who  may  have  seen  perhaps  far  other 
days,  wasting  away  over  a  cup  of 
thin  tea  and  a  mouldy  crust.  She  is 
no  pauper — not  she  indeed — and  you 
must  not  insult  her  with  your  alms. 
Yet,  had  the  "  custom  of  the  coun- 
try," been  to  give  her — and  all  like 
her— a  claim — a  right  to  relief — 
would  it  not  have  been  far  better, 
and  not  less  beautiful,  to  see  her  eat- 
ing her  loaf  of  Love  and  Law  ?  She 
had  not  needed  then  to  feel  the 
blush  of  shame  on  her  clayey  cheek  ; 
for  what  she  ate  would  have  been 
her  own  as  rightfully  as  any  veni- 
son-pasty ever  was  theirs,  while  be- 
ing devoured  by  the  members  of  the 
Political  Economy  Club  at  a  Gau- 
deamus. 

And  here  we  cannot  do  better  than 
again  quote  a  noble  passage  from 
Mr  Sadler. 

"  In  closing  these  observations  up- 
on the  sacred  right  of  the  poor  to 
relief,  as  further  confirmed  by  di- 
vine revelation,  I  must  remark  that 
this  title  does  not  rest  upon  the  foun- 
dation of  individual  worthiness,  nor, 
indeed,  does  personal  demerit  abro- 


gate it;  though  such  circumstances 
may,  properly  enough,  be  taken  into 
due  consideration  in  its  ministration. 
It  is  placed  upon  a,  very  different 
basis — upon  human  suffering,  and 
the  pleasure  of  God  that  it  should  be 
relieved.  If  there  be  one  point  more 
preeminently  clear  in  our  religion 
than  another,  it  is  that  we  are  totally 
inhibited  from  making  merit  the  sole 
passport  to  our  mercy  ;  the  founda- 
tion of  the  modern"  code.  Every 
precept  touching  this  divine  virtue 
instructs  us  to  the  contrary,  and  I 
defy  those  who  hold  the  opposite 
notion  to  produce  one  in  their  fa- 
vour. A  feeling  that  has  to  be  exci- 
ted by  some  delicate  sentimental 
touches,  some  Shandean  scene,  and 
is  to  be  under  the  guardianship  of 
worldly  policy,  may  be  the  virtue  of 
political  economy ;  but  this  fancy- 
cliarity  has  nothing  in  common  with 
that  disinterested,  devoted,  unbound- 
ed benevolence,  which,  as  Tertullian 
says,  is  the  mark  and  brand  of  Chris- 
tianity. Nor  must  I  omit  to  add 
that,  agreeably  to  this  religion,  the 
feelings  of  the  poor  are  no  more  to 
be  insulted  in  relieving  them  than 
are  their  wants  to  be  neglected.  Mr 
Malthus  may,  indeed,  say,  that  *  de- 
pendent poverty  ought  to  be  held 
disgraceful ;'  but  to  save  it  from 
that  disgrace,  God  has  taken  poverty 
under  his  peculiar  protection,  and  it 
remains  so  connected,  in  every  form 
of  religion,  throughout  the  earth. 
'  Jesus  Christ'  (I  quote  from  Tillot- 
son)  '  chose  to  be  a  beggar,  that  we, 
for  his  sake  might  not  despise  the 
poor  :'  or,  to  use  the  language  of  an- 
other distinguished  prelate,  '  he 
seems  studiously  to  have  bent  his 
whole  endeavours  to  vindicate  the 
honour  of  depressed  humanity,  to 
support  its  weakness,  to  countenance 
its  wants,  to  ennoble  its  misery,  and 
to  dignify  its  disgrace.'" 

But  have  not  the  poor's  laws  de- 
graded— destroyed  the  English  cha- 
racter ?  Have  they  not  extirpated  all 
manliness  and  independence,  among 
the  lower  classes,  and  produced  a 
pauper  population  of  unprincipled 
reprobates  and  coward  slaves  ?  Have 
they  not  deadened  all  charity  among 
the  higher  classes,  in  whose  barren 
bosoms  now  lie  benumbed  and  palsy- 
stricken  in  hopeless  torpor,  alt  those 
noble  and  generous  feelings  that  be- 
longed of  old,  as  if  by  divine  right, 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland.  [May 


822 

to  the  gentlemen  of  England  ?  Have 
they  not  banded  by  antipathy,  in 
"frowning  phalanxes," the  tillers  and 
the  lords  of  the  soil,  who,  in  mu- 
tual abhorrence,  are  regarded  now 
as  implacable,  because  natural  ene- 
mies ?  Has  not  la  plaie  politique,  la 
plus  devot  ante  de  C Anyleterre,  ate  like 
a  cancer  into  the  vitals  of  her  strength? 
And  is  not  poor,  wasted,  worn-out, 
debilitated,  staggering,  and  fainting 
Eogland,  just  about  to  lie  down  and 
die,  like  a  sheep  in  the  rot  behind  a 
stone  wall,  among  the  horrid  hop- 
ping and  croaking  of  ravens,  "  saga- 
cious of  their  quarry  from  afar  ?" 

So  she  may  seem  to  be  condition- 
ed, in  the  drunken  dreams  of  French 
vanity  and  impudence;  and  we  re- 
member in  what  horror  those  pra- 
ting Parisian  physicians  and  surgeons 
who  came  over  to  see  our  Cholera, 
held  up  their  monkey  paws  at  the 
hideous  filth  and  poverty,  and  profli- 
gacy of  our  Town  Poor — bad  enough 
in  all  conscience,  we  allow,  in  too 
many  a  Sunderland.  But  the  Cho- 
lera, though  capricious,  took  a  dif- 
ferent view  of  the  subject, and  "  made 
lanes  through  largest  families"  in  the 
gay  city  of  the  Seine,  in  a  style  that 
established  its  preeminence  in  dirt 
and  disease  beyond  all  the  capitals 
of  Europe.  Strange  that,  with  a 
pauper  population,  England  could 
subsidize  the  whole  Continent — with 
armies  of  her  own  native  cowards 
drive  the  Flower  of  the  French,  with 
the  Bravest  of  the  Brave  at  their 
head,  helter-skelter  through  all  the 
fastnesses  of  the  Peninsula,  and  right 
over  the  Pyrenees.  How  came  the 
soil  of  England  to  be  cultivated  as 
we  now  behold  it,  by  the  lazy  and 
reluctant  hands  of  slaves?  To  be 
"intersected  in  almost  every  spot  by 
a  close  network  of  communication, 
by  roads,  canals,  and  railroads?" 
To  be  more  glorious  in  the  accumu- 
lation of  her  enormous  mass  of  capital 
than  ever  was  Babylon  of  old,  with 
her  hanging  gardens  aslope  in  the 
sunshine,  and  towered  circumference 
of  lofty  walls,  on  which  many  cha- 
riots could  be  driven  abreast,  and 
then  abreast  gallop  through  her  hun- 
dred gates  ?  "  Who  can  look  to  the 
immense  amount  of  the  public  and 
private  charities  of  England,  reach- 
ing certainly  to  upwards  of  a  million 
a-year,  and  reassert  that  a  poor's  law 
deadens  spontaneous  charity  ?"  And 


how  dare  the  Scotch  so  much  as  to 
utter  the  word  "  generosity,"  with 
the  example  of  the  English  before 
their  eyes  ?  What  subscription  was 
ever  set  agoing  for  private  or  public 
purpose  in  Scotland,  that  did  not, 
like  a  wounded  lizard,  drag  its  short 
length  along,  arid  then,  suddenly 
stopping,  turn  over  on  its  back,  and 
die  in  the  dust? — We  are  a  worthy, 
and  a  rational,  and  no  very  immoral 
or  irreligious  race,  but  we  have  a 
better  right  to  pride  ourselves  on  our 
prudence  than  our  benevolence,  and 
the  whole  nation  doth  too  often  look 
like  a  School  of  Utilitarians.  "  Look 
at  Scotland"  is  still  our  cry — and 
England  does  look  at  her  often  with 
at  least  as  much  admiration  as  she 
deserves,  and  sometimes — it  must  be 
so — in  derision  of  her  huge  cheek- 
and  jaw-bones,  her  vulgar  drawl,  and 
her  insufferable  habits  of  ratiocina- 
tion, which  to  that  noble  race  by  na- 
ture gifted  with  intuitions  of  the 
loftiest  truths  must,  in  their  mirth- 
ful moments,  afford  food  for  inextin- 
guishable laughter. 

But  we  dearly  love  Scotland — 
"  our  auld  respeckit  mither" — and 
dearly  doth  she  love  us; — so  let 
us  with  Mr  Sadler  take  a  look  at 
France.  He  finely  says, — "  When 
she  had  trampled  upon  the  rights  of 
property,  public  and  private,  and 
revelled  in  the  spoliation — had  put 
down  her  sacred  institutions,  and 
filled  the  land  with  dismay  and  suf- 
fering, she  seized  upon  the  sacred 
funds  which  the  piety  of  preceding 
ages  had  accumulated  in  behalf  of 
suffering  humanity,  and  swept  away 
the  Right  of  the  Poor'1  After  having 
seized  their  funds, the  Cornitede  Men- 
dicite  recommended  no  other  mode 
of  provision;  and  how  is  Paris  at 
this  day  ?  Mr  Sadler  tells  us  how  she 
is.  "  The  '  sore'  of  England,  if  her 
charity  must  be  so  denominated,  we 
know.  Has,  then,  the  political  chi- 
rurgery  of  France  removed  from  that 
country  the  deformity  of  poverty  by 
their  rescissory  operation  ?  Much  is 
said  about  the  pauperism  in  London ; 
let  us  compare  it  with  that  of  Paris, 
the  focus  of  the  fashionables,  and 
consequently  of  the  superfluous 
wealth  of  Europe;  and  then  let  us 
see  to  which  belongs  the  appellation 
of  this  '  plaie  la  plus  devorante.'  And 
to  end  all  disputes  on  the  point,  I 
will  take  one  of  the  most  expensive 


1833.] 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


823 


nnd  burdensome  years  England  has 
^ret  experienced;  since  when,  not- 
withstanding the  'absorbent'  system 
of  our  modern  quacks,  the  expenses 
of  the  poor  have  very  considerably 
liminished;  and  if  large  sums  did 
not  appear  on  the  face  of  the  rates, 
which  are  in  reality  the  wages  of  la- 
bour, the  declension  would  appear 
still  greater.  We  have  particulars  of 
the  year  1813  published.  In  the  year 
1811,  the  metropolis  contained  a  po- 
pulation of  1 ,009,546  souls ;  that  num- 
ber was  doubtless  increased  in  1813, 
when  there  were  35,593  persons  per- 
manently relieved  in  and  out  of  the 
several  workhouses,  and  75,310  occa- 
sionally, amounting  in  the  whole  to 
110,903,  and  involving  an  expense  of 
L.517,181.  Turn  we  now  to  Paris. 
In  the  twelve  arrondissements,  con- 
tainingin!823a  population  of  71 3,966 
souls,  the  report  of  the  Bureaux  de 
Charite  sums  up  as  follows : 

*  Total  des  indigens  secourus  a 

domicile  ou  autrement,          125,500 

*  Population  des  hopitaux  et  hos- 

pices, 61,500 

187,000' 

To  this  appalling  number  must  still 
be  made  many  very  heavy  additions, 
such  as  enfans-trouvesy  &c.  &c.  The 
expense  of  maintaining  these  I  hold 
to  be  far  the  least  important  part  of 
the  examination.  The  twelve  Bu- 
reaux of  Charity,  it  appears,  distri- 
buted 1,200,000  francs  in  money; 
747,000  loaves  of  four  pounds  weight 
each ;  270,000  pounds  of  meat;  19,000 
ells  of  cloth;  7000  pairs  of  sabots, 
1500  coverlets,  &c.  But  in  the  re- 
port from  which  I  am  quoting,  it  is 
added,  that  these  bureaux  form  a  part 
only  of  the  public  benevolent  insti- 
tutions of  Paris ;  then  follows  an  ac- 
count of  the  various  establishments, 
the  numbers  received  into  which,  in- 
dependently of  schools,  amounts  to 
75,200 ;  most  of  these,  I  presume,  are 
included  in  the  61,500,  as  reported  to 
be  in  the  hopitaux  and  hospices.  The 
report  of  the  Consul  general  des  Ho- 
pitaux (annee  1823)  states,  that  the 
relief  afforded  to  the  indigent  popu- 
lation of  the  capital,  by  his  admini- 
stration, amounted  to  3,300,000  francs, 
of  which  the  foundling  hospitals  ab- 
sorbed a  third.  As  to  the  private  cha- 
rities distributed,  the  article  says, 

*  on  ne  peut  savoir  le  montant/  But 


the  conclusion  of  this  important  re- 
port must  not  be  omitted  ;  and  I  call 
the  particular  attention  of  those  to  it 
who  are  so  loud  in  their  admiration 
of  the  proper  and  judicious  conduct 
of  the  French  committee  de  mendicite, 
in  rejecting  the  English  plaie  la  plus 
devorante.  It  runs  thus  : 

"  '  It  is  painful  to  terminate  this 
enumeration  of  the  relief  given  to 
the  indigent  of  the  capital,  by  the 
observation,  that  her  streets,  her 
quays,  and  all  her  public  places,  are 
filled  with,  mendicants  /' 

"  These  are  distressing  statements, 
and  there  is,  alas !  no  room  to  hope 
they  are  exaggerations;  they  receive 
a  melancholy  confirmation  by  the  sta- 
tistics of  mortality.  One-third  of  the 
dead  of  Paris  are  buried  at  the  public 
expense !" 

The  statement  needs  no  confir- 
mation —  but  see  Dupin's  Secours 
Publiques,  and  Degerando's  Visiteur 
du  Pauvre  ;  and  you  will  be  told, 
that  "  in  the  country,  in  the  dead 
season,  want  and  misery  abound, 
and  there  are  no  means  of  relief!" 
The  wisdom  of  the  gentlemen, 
then,  whom  Mr  Malthus  eulogizes 
so  highly,  is  therefore  manifested, 
says  Mr  Sadler,  "  in  the  vast  ex- 
pense which  is  now  entailed  upon 
the  Government,  leaving  the  coun- 
try still  very  inadequately  relieved, 
and  swarming  from  one  end  to  the 
other  with  mendicants." 

Mr  Sadler  then  quotes  a  great 
number  of  authorities  in  proof  that 
mendicancy  is  the  alternative  of  ha- 
ving no  poor's  laws — not  in  France 
alone  —  but  all  over  the  South  of 
Europe.  No  expense,  however 
great,  no  establishment,  however 
magnificent,  seem  to  compensate 
the  want  of  a  regularly  organized 
system  of  public  relief  for  the  poor. 
He  then  turns  to  the  Netherlands ; 
and  finds  that  in  a  population  of 
5,721,724,  (Official  Report  made  to 
the  States-'General,  1823,)  there 
were  but  about  two  thousand  men- 
dicants, but  that  the  number  of 
those  who  were  at  the  "  charge  pub- 
lique,"  and  whom  we  should  dis- 
dainfully call  paupers,  exclusive- 
ly, both  of  the  "  atteliers  de  cha- 
rite,"  whom  we  should  certainly 
class  with  them,  and  of  those 
who  receive  education  at  the  pub- 
lic expense,  was  682,185,  or 
near  an  eighth- part  of  the  entire 


824 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


IMay, 


population.  The  expenditure  was 
10/212,976  florins.  In  this  report 
the  Provinces  are  divided  into 
Southern  and  Northern,  the  latter 
including  Old  Holland.  The  popu- 
lation of  the  nine  Northern  Pro- 
vinces was  2,148,339,  their  poor 
196,053  ;  and  on  them  was  expend- 
ed 5,955,030  florins — about  30  florins 
each  —  something  more  perhaps 
than  three  quarters  of  wheat,  at  the 
average  Amsterdam  prices  of  that 
year;  whereas  in  1813,  (he  had  not 
the  returns  for  the  same  year,)  the 
number  of  paupers  in  England  and 
"Wales  was  971,913,  on  whom  was 
expended  L.6,679,657  ;  or  about  ten 
bushels  each,  not  half  of  the  former 
quantity;  and  though  the  fall  of 
grain  has  since  increased  that  al- 
lowance, it  still  falls  far  short  of  that 
made  to  their  poor  by  the  Dutch. 
"Here  then,"  says  Mr  Sadler  fine- 
ly, "  is  the  real  secret  of  the  ma- 
nagement of  the  poor  of  Holland ;  it 
is  not  that  she  has  an  extensive  fo- 
reign trade,  or  sends  forth  numerous 
colonial  emigrations,  or  that  she 
possesses  an  extremely  unhealthy 
country  (these  are  the  reasons  of 
euch  as  conceive  that  the  only  way 
to  cure  poverty  is  to  expel  or  desert 
it)  :  no  !  those  who  live  at  the  pub- 
lic cost  are,  proportionably,  at  least 
as  numerous  as  are  such  in  Eng- 
land ;  but  generous  and  unwearied 
attention  to  wretchedness  and  dis- 
tress is  her  plan.  Perpetually  ac- 
cused of  selfishness,  where  is  gene- 
rosity like  this  to  be  found? — of 
coldness,  where  does  the  flame  of 
Christian  charity  burn  with  so  bright 
and  so  steady  a  flame,  as  in  Hol- 
land ?  Possessed  of  a  narrow  un- 
tractable  territory,  and  an  unpropi- 
tious  climate,  loaded  with  taxes  and 
with  a  declining  trade ;  still  she  sets 
an  example  to  every  nation  upon 
earth ;  which  speaks  as  loudly  as 
human  conduct  can,  Go  and  do  thou 
likewise ! 

"  I  will  close  these  remarks  on 
the  poor's  laws  of  Holland,  by  an 
anecdote  which,  to  me,  is  very  im- 
pressive, as  evincing  that  there  is 
something  in  the  very  nature  of  cha- 
rity that  strikes  those  hearts  that  are 
dead  to  every  other  duty,  and  which 
inspires  their  deepest  reverence 
even  where  it  fails  to  excite  their 
imitation.  *  When  the  Duke  of  Lo- 
therdal,  jeering  about  the  fate  of 


Holland,  then  threatened  by  Louis, 
and  basely  deserted  by  Charles  the 
Second,  said  that  oranges  would  be 
scarce  when  the  French  should  have 
plundered  Amsterdam,  Charles,  who 
knew  Holland  well,  as  a  resident 
there,  interrupted  his  mirth,  and,  for 
once  serious,  replied,  I  am  of  opi- 
nion that  Godwill  preserve  Amster- 
dam from  being  destroyed,  if  it  were 
only  for  the  great  charity  they  have 
for  their  poor.' " 

For  twenty  years  after  the  publi- 
cation of  Mr  Malthus's  celebrated 
work  in  1803,  the  country  had  been 
taught  to  regard  the  national  charity 
not  merely  as  a  vast  national  burden, 
but  as  a  growing  one,  threatening  to 
"  absorb"  the  entire  property  of  the 
kingdom.  Mr  Malthus  asserted — 
most  absurdly — that  in  1803,  more 
than  one  half  of  the  population  was 
reduced  to  the  condition  of  pau- 
pers. Another  authority  told  us 
that  one-eighth  part  of  the  popula- 
tion supported  the  other  seven  ;  and 
Mr  Malthus,  that  his  supposition  had 
been  nearly  realised  "  of  eighteen 
shillings  in  the  pound  !"  In  compa- 
rison with  such  a  system  of  evil  it 
was,  said  he,  justly  stated,  "  that  the 
national  debt,  with  all  its  magnitude 
of  terror,  is  of  little  moment!"  Mr 
Sadler  shews,  that  in  1803,  the  poor 
relieved  by  law  were  but  one-thir- 
teenth of  the  population  ;  and  that  the 
actual  rate  (expended  on  the  poor) 
on  the  rack-rental  of  England  and 
Wales  was,  on  the  pound,  2s.  Ifd! 
What  was  it  on  the  produce  of  the 
land  ?  Eighteen  farthings  ?  Eighteen 
half-pence  ?  Which  you  will. 

Mr  Sadler  next  enters  into  a  learn- 
ed and  luminous  enquiry,  to  ascer- 
tain whether,  since  that  period,  the 
poor's  rate  has  manifested  that  con- 
stant tendency  to  increase,  so  as  to 
merit  the  appellation  of  being  so  de- 
vorante — threatening  to  absorb  the 
whole  rental  and  property  of  the 
country.  We  cannot  accompany  him 
through  all  his  details,  collected  with 
such  unerring  sagacity ;  but  we  can 
give  the  results  of  his  elaborate  in- 
vestigation. In  a  table,  constructed 
from  all  the  best  authorities,  which 
are  all  referred  to  in  a  note,  he  states, 
at  intervals,  from  1601  to  I827,(when 
that  was  possible,)  the  proportion  of 
the  poor's  rate  to  the  revenue — to 
the  exports  —  and  to  the  national 
debt  i  and  the  proportion  of  the  num- 


1833.] 


On  Poor's  Lau'S,  find  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


l>er  of  paupers  to  the  whole  popula- 
tion. William  Smith  O'Brien,  Esq. 
II. P.,  we  observe,  prints  the  Table 
c.t  the  end  of  his  very  able  pamphlet 
on  the  relief  of  the  poor  in  Ireland, 
tailing  it  "  an  extremely  curious,  in- 
teresting table;"  but  adding,  "al- 
though I  have  not  had  leisure  to  ex- 
amine the  accuracy  of  its  statements, 
and,  therefore,  cannot  be  prepared  to 
acquiesce  in  its  conclusions."  Why, 
Mr  O'Brien  would  need  to  have  a 
good  deal  of  leisure  "  to  examine  the 
accuracy  of  its  statements,"  for  they 
are  compiled  from  a  range  of  reading 
t'lat  would  occupy  him  several  years. 
It  Mr  O'Brien  never  "  acquiesces  in 
the  accuracy  of  any  statement"  that 
he  has  not  with  his  own  good  pair 
of  eyes  examined,  he  must  believe  in 
a  singularly  narrow  creed.  We  shall 
acquiesce  in  their  accuracy  till  their 
inaccuracy  has  been  shewn,  arid  they 
have  now  been  before  the  public  for 
a  >out  five  years.  The  poor's  rate  in 
1301  was  to  the  revenue  as  10  to  30 
—in  1783  as  10  to  43— in  1825  as  10 
to  98  ,•  at  those  periods  respectively, 
they  were  to  the  exports,  (1601  not 
given,)  as  10  to  43,  and  10  to  100  ;  to 
the  interest  of  the  national  debt  as 
]••)  to  38,  and  10  to  50;  while,  in 
1 780,  the  paupers  were  to  the  popu- 
lation as  10  to  45,  and  in  1815  as  10 
to  120.  Mr  Sadler  has  thus  confirmed 
tl>e  memorable  words  of  Sir  Frede- 
rick Morton  Eden,  written  at  the 
close  of  the  last  century — "  Great 
and  burdensome  as  the  poor's  rates 
may  appear,  from  the  returns  which 
were  made  to  Parliament  in  the  year 
1 786,  and  from  the  more  recent  com- 
muiiications  which  are  detailed  in 
my  second  volume,  the  rise  of  the 
poor's  rates  has  not  kept  pace  with 
other  branches  of  national  expendi- 
ture, or  even  with  our  increased 
ability  to  pay  them." 

The  same  cheering  view  of  the 
subject  is  taken  by  an  able  writer  in 
the  Quarterly  Review,  (No.  Ixv.  p. 
4-)4,)  who  says,  "  the  whole  of  the 
funds  now  actually  expended  on  the 
poor,  (even  if  we  include  in  this 
liirge  amount  the  very  large  propor- 
tion which  is  now  paid  to  able-bo- 
died labourers,  and  which  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  constitutes  apart 
ot  the  wages  of  labour,)  bears  a  much 
smaller  proportion  to  the  present  re- 
sources of  the  country,  than  the  to- 
tal amount  of  the  contributions  rai- 


825 

sed  for  the  sustenance  of  the  poor, 
bore  to  the  whole  of  its  wealth  in, 
the  time  of  Elizabeth."  And  the 
same  admission  is  made  by  Mr  M'- 
Culloch.  Who  then  can  hesitate  to 
agree  with  the  author  of  "  Collec- 
tions relative  to  Systematic  Relief," 
"  that  it  will  be  found  a  certain 
truth,  that  the  charities  of  other 
countries  have  never,  at  any  period, 
been  so  conducted,  as  to  relieve  the 
poor,  of  an  equal  population,  so  ade- 
quately as  the  poor's  law,  with  less 
encouragement  of  idleness,  or  with 
better  stimulus  to  industry  ?" 

The  newspapers  are  all  filled,  at 
present,  with  extracts  from  the  "  Ex- 
tracts from  the  Information  received 
by  his  Majesty's  Commissioners  as 
to  the  administration  and  operation 
of  the  poor's  laws."  And  painful  in 
the  extreme  is  the  picture  therein, 
given  of  the  pernicious  abuses — and, 
above  all,  of  one  abuse— that  have 
for  nearly  half  a  century  been  per- 
mitted to  vitiate  the  system.  Some 
editors  of  newspapers  are  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  subject,  and  are 
therefore,  though  pained,  not  sur- 
prised by  these  narrations.  They 
are  merely  farther  evidence  of  the 
intensity  and  extent  of  evils  whose 
deep  arid  wide  existence  has  been 
long  known  and  deplored,  and  against 
which  we  do  trust  some  decisive 
legislative  measures  will  speedily  be 
directed.  These  evils  have  under- 
gone scrutiny  in  no  fewer  than  seven 
Select  Parliamentary  Committees — r 
those  on  the  poor's  laws  of  1817, 
1819,  1828,  and  1831  ;  on  Labourers' 
Wages  in  1824;  on  Emigration  in 
1826,  and  on  Criminal  Commitments 
in  1827  ;  they  have  been  exposed  in 
many  excellent  articles  in  the  Quar- 
terly Review,  during  these  dozen 
years ;  many  pamphlets  have  been 
written  to  point  out  their  magnitude 
arid  inveteracy,  of  which  perhaps  the 
ablest  and  most  instructive  is  Mr 
Brereton's;  the  editor  of  the  Morn- 
ing Chronicle  has  charged  them  in 
a  hundred  columns ;  Mr  Sadler  ad- 
verted to  them  with  indignation  in 
his  Book  on  Ireland ;  Mr  M'Culloch 
has  lately  seen  that  almost  all  that 
has  ever  been  truly  urged  against 
the  poor's  laws,  has  been  urged 
against  this  sad  and  sore  abuse,  and 
has  ably  animadverted  on  it  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  and  in  his  Poli- 
tical Economy ;  Dr  Chalmers  has  a 


82(5 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


long  and  eloquent  chapter  on  it  in 
his  Civil  Economy  ;  nor  have  we 
been  wanting  in  zeal  in  our  efforts 
to  turn  attention  to  the  flagrant  and 
enormous  sin  that  has  stolen  into  a 
system  so  benignant  in  principle,  and 
so  beneficent  in  right  practice.  It  is 
time  now  that  the  Government  be 
up  and  doing,  that  it  take  the  bull 
by  the  horns,  and  twisting  the  neck 
of  the  monster,  fling  it  down  never 
to  recover  its  feet. 

The  evils  of  the  "  Allowance  Sys- 
tem," have  long  been  notorious  to 
the  whole  world.  "  In  many  exten- 
sive districts,  [Quarterly  Review, 
No.  66,]  a  plan  has  been  regularly 
organized  of  paying  labourers  a 
weekly  sura,  considerably  under  the 
fair  wages  of  labour,  and  giving 
those  who  are  married  an  allowance 
outof  the  poor's  rates  proportioned  to 
the  size  of  their  families.  A  single 
man  thus  receives  less  for  his  work 
than  a  married  labourer  ;  he  is  paid 
no  more  than  six  or  seven  shillings 

Eer  week,  while  his  married  neigh- 
our  receives  fourteen  or  sixteen 
shillings  ;  and  to  such  an  extent  does 
this  practice  prevail,  that  we  find  the 
magistrates  in  various  districts,  not 
only  conniving  at  the  system,  but  ac- 
tually establishing  a  regular  scale  of 
allowances  to  able-bodied  labourers, 
to  be  paid  out  of  the  parish  funds." 
There  is  ne  need  farther  to  explain 
the  nature  of  this  abuse  ;  it  speaks 
for  itself;  and  no  doubt  is,  as  the 
admirable  writer  now  quoted  shows, 
an  iniquitous  scheme  devised  by  the 
owners  and  occupiers  of  land,  with 
the  view  of  shifting  from  their  own 
shoulders  a  considerable  part  of  the 
wages  of  agricultural  labourers,  to 
be  borne  by  others  who  do  not  em- 
ploy them  ;  asystem,not  only  grossly 
unjust  towards  the  manufacturers, 
tradesmen,  and  mechanics,  who  are 
assessed  to  the  poor's  rates,  but  most 
oppressive  to  that  race  of  small  far- 
mers, who,  in  conjunction  with  the 
members  of  their  own  families,  per- 
form all  the  regular  work  of  their 
farms,  obtaining  perhaps  some  trifling 
assistance  occasionally  in  the  time 
of  harvest.  All  these  small  occu- 
piers are  forced  to  contribute  to- 
wards the  payment  of  wages  earned 
by  labourers  employed  by  their  more 
wealthy  neighbours! 

These  evils  are  shortly  and  ener- 
getically stated  in  the  Report  of  the 


Select  Committee  on  Labourers' 
Wages,  1 824 — that  the  employerdoes 
not  obtain  efficient  labour  from  the 
labourers  whom  he  hires;  that  far- 
mers who  have  no  need  of  farm- 
labour,  are  obliged  to  contribute  to 
the  payment  of  work  done  for  others; 
and  that  a  surplus  population  is  en- 
couraged, so  that  the  supply  of  la- 
bour is  by  no  means  regulated  by  the 
demand,  and  parishes  are  burdened 
with  30, 40,  or  50  labourers,  for  whom 
they  can  find  no  employment,  and 
who  serve  to  depress  the  situation 
of  all  their  fellow-labourers  in  the 
same  parish. 

"  We  will  marry,  and  you  must  main- 
tain us," 

But  these  evils,  great  as  they  are, 
are  as  nothing  in  comparison  with 
the  havoc  made  by  this  iniquitous 
scheme  on  the  moral  habits  of  the 
labourers  themselves — the  sobriety, 
steadiness,  and  honesty  of  the  men, 
the  chastity  (in  too  many  places  a  vir- 
tue nearly  extinguished)  of  the  wo- 
men. 

In  all  fair  and  honest  argument  on 
the  poor's  laws  of  England,  this  fatal 
abuse  must  be  exscinded  from  the 
question  ;  for  it  is  not  only  an  infrac- 
tion of  the  spirit,  but  of  the  letter  of 
the  law  of  Elizabeth,  and  before  1795 
it  had  hardly  an  existence ;  but  ha- 
ving so  long  prevailed,  difficult,  alas  ! 
will  it  be  to  correct  it.  But  being 
brought  now  to  the  question  of  a 
poor's  law  for  Ireland,  can  we  allow 
for  a  moment  that  it  must  not  be  in- 
troduced, because  England,  however 
greatly  she  may  have  been  benefited 
by  her  poor's  law  while  practice  re- 
mained true  to  principle, has  suffered 
much  evil  since  that  ceased  to  be  the 
case  ?  "  This  would  be  miserable 
logic.  Ireland  will  have  the  benefit 
of  the  experience  of  England  both 
in  good  and  in  evil.  The  system  to 
be  adopted  there  must  be  assimilated 
to  that  which  will  be  the  law  in  Eng- 
land, after  the  wisdom  of  Parliament 
has  dealt  with  a  bold  hand  with  all 
this  miserable  abuse.  What  are  the 
immediate  objects  a  poor's  law  in 
Ireland  is  intended  to  secure  ?  They 
are  stated  in  a  few  words  by  Mr 
Scrope.  First,  The  productive  em- 
ployment of  all  able-bodied  Irishmen 
who  cannot  find  work  for  them- 
selves ;  secondly,  The  relief  of  the 
sick,  maimed,  and  impotent,  who 


1S33.J 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


827 


have  neither  means  of  their  own,  nor 
relatives  capable  of  maintaining 
them;  thirdly,  The  suppression  of 
mendicancy  aud  vagrancy.  It  is  es- 
sential to  the  attainment  of  such  most 
desirable  objects,  Mr  Scrope  strong- 
ly says,  that  a  broad  and  impassable 
line  be  drawn  between  relief  to  the 
impotent  and  work  to  the  able- bodied. 
It  fs  of  paramount  importance  that 
the  two  main  objects  of  a  poor's  law, 
the  setting  to  work  the  unemployed, 
ar  d  the  giving  food,  medicine,  or  mo- 
ney to  the  infirm,  should  be  kept 
as  distinct  as  possible.  The  confu- 
sion of  those  two  modes  of  relief,  and 
classes  of  paupers,  he  truly  says, 
is  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  abuses 
which  have  arisen  in  England,  and 
hns  occasioned  both  a  wasteful 
extravagance  of  the  public  funds, 
ar  d  the  demoralization  and  depres- 
sion of  the  able-bodied  labourer.  Mr 
Burrington,  even  Dr  Doyle,  and 
others,  suppose  that  the  poor's  law 
of  Elizabeth  goes  to  support  able- 
bodied  paupers  in  idleness,  at  the 
expense  of  the  public ;  whereas  its 
miin  object  was  to  prevent  their 
being  supported  in  idleness  at  the 
expense  of  the  public,  and  to  set 
them  to  work  to  earn  their  subsist- 
eiice  by  their  labour.  And  so  strong- 
ly impressed  is  Mr  Scrope  with  the 
necessary  connexion  in  nature  and 
society  between  the  repression  of 
mendicancy  andvagrancy,  aprovision 
for  relieving  the  destitute,  and  for 
Betting  to  work  the  unemployed  at 
the  public  expense  and  for  public 
objects,  that  he  cannot  tolerate  for 
an  instant  the  notion  of  confining  the 
law  of  relief  to  the  sick,  maimed,  and 
impotent,  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
alle-bodied,  who  cannot  find  work. 
A  id  on  this  he  shews  his  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  whole  question. 
A  *  for  O'Connell's  opinions,  to  which 
lie  alludes,  the  unprincipled  agitator 
hrs  no  opinions  at  all  on  the  subject 
for  which  he  cares  a  straw.  Some 
yc  af s  ago,  when  Mr  M'Culloch  paid 
a  short  visit  to  Ireland,  O' Council 
publicly  used  such  language  about 
him  on  account  of  his  defence  of 
absenteeism,  and  his  abuse  of  poor's 
laws,  which  was  then  violent  in  the 
extreme,  that  we  remember  the  Edi- 
tor of  the  Scotsman  charging  the 
Irishman  with  an  intention  of  insti- 
gating Pat  to  slay  Sawney,  and  bury 
hi  n  in  a  bog.  We  all  know  the 


quarrel  between  Dr  Doyle  and  O'- 
Connell  about  a  poor's  law  for  Ire- 
land, the  demagogue  having  incensed 
the  Doctor  by  his  fierce  opposition 
to  any  such  measure.  Not  long  ago, 
O'Connell,  as  Mr  Scrope  says,  de- 
clared himself  in  the  House  in  fa- 
vour of  a  poor's  law  for  the  sick  and 
impotent ;  and  he  has  since,  on  read- 
ing the  extracts  from  the  informa- 
tion received  by  the  Commission,  de- 
clared that  he  will  have  nothing  to  do 
with  any  poor's  law  atall, and  that  he 
will  not  suffer  the  Whigs  to  add  that 
to  all  the  other  curses  they  have  in- 
flicted on  Ireland.  Before  the  7th  of 
May,  when  Mr  Richards,  we  believe, 
is  to  bring  the  subject  before  Par- 
liament, he  will  probably  have  chan- 
ged his  mind  for  the  fifth  time — and 
his  opinions  will  depend  in  a  great 
measure  on  Mr  Stanley. 

Here  we  have  one  of  the  finest 
countries  in  the  world,  with  eight 
millions  of  people  with  fine  natural 
endowments,  (nobody  denies  that,) 
which  yet  we  cannot  think  of  with- 
out amazement  and  sorrow — such  is 
the  distraction  and  destitution  that 
everywhere  meets  our  eyes.  That 
the  people  should  be  turbulent,  we 
can  understand,  for  we  are  almost 
inclined  to  believe,  with  our  good 
friends  the  Phrenologists,  that  the 
organs  of  Combativeness  and  De- 
structiveness  are  of  miraculous  mag- 
nitude in  the  Green  Isle.  But  that 
millions  of  men,  women.,  and  chil- 
dren, should  be  perpetually  in  want 
of  sufficient  food,  and  frequently  in 
a  state  of  absolute  starvation,  would 
transcend  belief,  if  we  did  not  some- 
times hear  them,  literally,  howling 
for  very  hunger.  And  this  state  of 
things  has  lasted  long ;  while  the  rich 
soil  that  is  traversed  by  innumerable 
ambulatory  human  scarecrows,  sends 
forth  corn  aud  cattle,  to  the  value  of 
ever  so  many  millions  of  money,  to 
be  devoured  by  the  inhabitants  of 
another  part  of  the  kingdom,  called 
Great  Britain,  whose  Government 
(one  and  the  same  with  its  own) 
looks  coolly  across  the  Channel,  arid 
smiles  on  the  strange  scene  of  dis- 
ease, despair,  and  death. 

Here,  then,  is  a  pauper  population 
in  the  midst  of  plenty,  nor  propaga- 
ted under  the  pernicious  excitement 
of  poor's  laws.  What  is  "  the  fine 
sensibility  of  the  heart"  doing  for 
their  behoof  ?  Which  is  in  the  more 

<=•'     ~      "~t          >   *   '  °    -'    \UJK?I*(FJ 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


828 

flourishing  condition,  the  province  of 
Justice  or  of  Benevolence  ?  In  the 
province  of  Justice,  at  dead  of  night, 
amidst  the  mingled  howlings  of  mur- 
derers and  shriekings  of  the  murder- 
ed, horrid  incremations  of  \vood  and 
bone,  thatch  and  flesh,  with  sudden  il- 
lumination shoot  roaring  up  the  black- 
ness of  heaven.  Or  at  day's  meridian, 
the  horseman  traveller,  or  gentleman 
in  his  gig,  or  clergyman  walking  on 
his  own  gravel-path  that  leads  from 
house  to  garden,  sees  but  for  an  in- 
stant the  scowl  of  savage  faces,  ere 
bullet  has  pierced  or  stake  or  stone 
battered  his  scull  in  upon  the  brain, 
and  spluttered  the  brain  all  over 
the  bloody  tramplings.  This  is  the 
province  of  what  Bacon  calls  wild 
Justice— of  Revenge.  In  the  Pro- 
vince of  tame  Justice,  in  every  coun- 
ty town,  and  in  many  a  town  be- 
side, you  see  men  with  haggard  fa- 
ces, but  unrepentant  hearts,  stand- 
ing side  by  side — cousins  perhaps 
— or  brothers — or  a  father  and  his 
sons — on  platforms — with  nightcaps 
on  their  heads— and  halters  round 
their  necks — and  a  creature  like  a 
bear  reared  on  end— he  is  the  hang- 
man— and  you  hear  them  with  a  low 
suppressed  voice  muttering,  or  with 
a  loud  stormy  voice  showering,  cur- 
ses on  their  oppressors,  through  lips 
that,  ha  !  are  now  bitten  through 
in  the  death-agony,  for  the  drop  of 
the  scaffold  has  fallen  to  a  sudden 
storm  of  shrieks,  and  the  Whitefeet 
are  swinging  like  so  many  pendulums, 
— yet  a  little  while,  and  though  per- 
pendicular, motionless,  as  if  in  their 
coffins.  And  there,  are  the  coffins. 
The  hangman  huddles  them  in — 
each  into  his  unrocking  cradle—and 
carts  them  off,  within  a  bristle  of 
bayonets,  for  dissection.  For  gibbet- 
ing is  out  of  fashion  now — the  law 
abolishing  it  was  retrospective— and 
on  the  church-tower  of  Naas  you 
miss  the  grinning  but  chap-fallen 
face  of  that  bold  rebel,  the  School- 
master. 

But  let  us  turn  from  such  spec- 
tacles to  the  pleasant  province  of  be- 
nevolence. The  landowners  in  Ire- 
land we  have  seen  stated  at  eight 
thousand,  the  rental  at  nine  and  at 
twelve  millions ;  that  paid  to  ab- 
sentees being  calculated  by  Mr  Bryan 
as  high  as  three  millions.  Some  ab- 
sentees cannot  help  themselves;  some 
may  be  pardoned  for  preferring  for 


[May, 


various  reasons  to  live  in  England  ; 
and  not  a  few  behave  as  well  to  their 
country,  through  their  agents,  as  the 
case  will  permit.  But  absenteeism 
is  at  best  an  evil — at  the  worst,  a 
curse.  "What,"  asks  Mr  Sadler,"  must 
be  the  certain  consequence,  when 
those  whom  civil  institutions  have 
placed  in  the  highest  rank,  and  in- 
vested with  the  most  extensive  influ- 
ence, totally  abandon  their  proper 
sphere,  and  desert  their  numerous 
and  degraded  dependents  ?  As  to 
wealth  being  accumulated  or  diffu- 
sed under  such  circumstances,  the 
very  idea  is  preposterous.  There 
are  none  to  give  employment  to  those 
who,  in  an  advancing  state  of  society, 
are  liberated  from  the  lowest  drud- 
geries of  life  ;  none  to  excite  genius, 
or  reward  merit,  none  to  confer  dig- 
nity and  elegance  on  society;  to  lead 
in  the  march  of  civilisation  ;  to  dif- 
fuse knowledge  or  dispense  charity. 
That  state  of  .society  which  has  a 
tendency  to  separate  itself  into  two 
classes  only,  the  rich  and  the  poor, 
has,  from  the  time  of  Bacon  down- 
wards, been  reprobated  by  all  whose 
opinions  are  deserving  of  regard ; 
but  that  in  which  poverty  constitutes 
the  sole  class,  is  still  more  pernicious 
and  unnatural.  And  thus  it  is  wher- 
ever absenteeism  universally  pre- 
vails; there  wealth  shuns  the  labour 
by  which  it  is  fed,  and  the  industry 
by  which  it  is  distinguished :  rigo- 
rously exacting  all  its  dues,  fancied 
or  real,  and  returning  none  to  those 
to  whom  they  are  as  truly,  though 
not  as  legally,  owing;  carry  ing  off  the 
products  of  the  vintage  of  nature, 
even  to  the  very  gleanings,  to  a  far 
country,  and  leaving  the  refuse  to 
those  who  cultivate  the  soil  and  ex- 
press the  juice ;  muzzling  the  mouth 
of  the  ox  that  treadeth  out  the  corn, 
which  is  fed  with  the  husks,  and 
goaded  to  desperation. 

"  But  this  abandonment,  simply, 
is  not  all  with  whicjh  absenteeism 
stands  charged.  It  substitutes,  for 
neglected  duties,  positive  wrongs  of 
the  deadliest  character.  Absent  in 
the  body,  it  is  indeed  ever  present  in 
the  spirit  of  cruelty  and  oppression. 
Its  very  existence  implies  a  train  of 
evils,  which  have  been  for  centuries 
past  the  most  cruel  scourges  of  the 
country:  I  mean  the  underletting 
system.  Amongst  these  middlemen, 
as  they  are  called,  there  may  be,  and 


1333.]  On  PooSs  Laws,  and  their 

no  doubt  are,  men  of  high  honour 
and  humanity;  but  such  exceptions 
render  the  cruelty  and  extortion  of 
th  3  entire  class  the  more  conspicuous. 
The  sacred  bond  which  ought  to 
ui.ite  the  superior  and  the  inferior, 
the landlordand  the  tenant,  is  broken : 
mere  mercenary  connexions  are  all 
that  remain,  a  thousand  of  which  may 
be  dissolved  at  once  without  costing 
a  single  thought.  This  is  a  system  of 
which  the  middlemen, nay,  very  often 
in  my  subordinate  ranks  of  these  car- 
nivorse,  are  the  ministers,  whose  sole 
possible  motive  is  present  gaiu,  and 
whose  conduct  corresponds  with  it. 
The  experimental  labours  of  this 
class  are  highly  beneficial  to  the 
whole  body  of  landed  proprietors ; 
thsy  can  calculate  to  a  nicety  how 
nuch  and  how  long  a  little  culti- 
vator can  endure ;  and  know  the 
precise  period  when  it  is  best  to 
'drive  him.'  They  thus  not  only 
act  for  the  absentee,  but  are  a  sort 
of  pioneers  for  the  rest  of  the  land- 
lords, and  by  constantly  exercising 
their  instruments  of  devastation, 
hf.ve  certainly  cleared  the  way  for 
those  enormously  high  rents,  which, 
to  the  great  discredit  of  too  many  of 
the  proprietors,  are  extorted  from 
the  suffering  peasantry  of  Ireland." 

When,  on  a  failure  of  the  potato 
crop,  fever  creeps  like  a  mist  over 
the  land,  and  thousands  of  wasted 
wretches  are  seen  eating  grass  and 
sea-weeds — do  the  absentees  hear 
of  the  famine  ?  We  fear  they  do.  In 
thecalamitous  summer  of  1822,a  sub- 
KC  liption  was  made  for  the  relief  of 
the  poor  of  a  certain  district  by  the 
resident  country  landowners  and 
clergy — and  an  application  being 
made  to  the  absentee  proprietors, 
who  annually  subtracted  £83,000, 
their  subscriptions  altogether  mount- 
t'.il  to  eighty-three  pounds  !  So  much 
for  one  district  in  the  province  of  Be- 
nevolence. 

Among  the  resident  landowners 
ol  Ireland  are  very  many  excellent 
admirable  men  ;  and  in  Ireland  there 
are  a  great  number  of  charitable  in- 
stitutions. But  let  us  take  a  glance 
at  its  multitudinous  beggary.  It  in- 
deed beggars  description.  Mr  Towns- 
end  was  disgusted,  not  without  rea- 
son, with  the  snuff, rags,  and  vermin  of 
the  paupers  at  an  English  pay-table; 
but  we  venture  to  say,  they  were  all 


Introduction  into  Ireland. 


829 


shabby-genteel,  in  comparison  with 
the  rabble-  rout  of  the  Gem  of  the  sea. 
Thousands  on  thousands  are  as  nearly 
naked  as  indecency  arid  indigence 
will  permit — and  the  covering  of  most 
of  them — whatever  it  be — is  certainly 
not  clothes.  A  beggar's  stock  of  trade 
is  of  course  a  vast  number  of  naked 
and  crying  children,  many  rendered 
miserable  and  deformed  to  excite 
compassion,  "  with  sores  and  ulcers, 
cultivated,  and  carefully  kept  from 
healing" — and  we  need  not  say,  that 
every  where  among  them  are  great 
numbers  of  able-bodied  persons  of 
the  most  vicious  character ;  and  the 
more  vicious  they  are,  says  Dr  Doyle, 
the  more  effrontery  they  have,  and 
the  more  they  extort  from  the  chari- 
table and  humane.  Mr  Ensor,  who 
lives  at  Armagh,  and  is  an  enemy  to 
poor's  laws  for  reasons  best  known 
to  himself,  for  we  cannot  djstect  any 
in  his  evidence  before  the  Com- 
mittee, says  that  the  relief  given  by 
charity  in  ordinary  times  is  adequate 
to  the  existing  distress,  "and  far  more 
than  any  compulsory  relief  could 
effect."  But  it  does  not  appear  to 
be  of  a  good  sort.  On  going  into  the 
market-towns  and  fairs  in  that  part 
of  Ireland,  the  most  wretched  objects 
are  placed  on  the  road  side,  who 
seem  utterly  destitute  of  all  means 
of  support;  but  those  apparently 
miserable  cripples  are  sometimes 
worth  more  than  half-a-guinea  a- 
day,  live  sumptuously,  and  get 
notoriously  drunk.  "  Were  poor's 
houses  to  be  built  for  the  reception 
of  such  inmates,"  he  says,  "  it  would 
be  necessary  to  chain  them,  if  in- 
differently fed,  because  they  are  ex- 
ceedingly'well  fed  now."  "  They  af- 
ford," he  quaintly  adds,  "  the  great- 
est proof  of  the  profligacy  of  the 
charity  of  the  people," — in  his  own 
immediate  neighbourhood,  in  the 
Province  of  Benevolence. 

We  shall  desist  from  any  attempt 
to  describe  the  beggars  and  vagrants 
of  Ireland,  and  merely  ask  by  whom 
these  wretched  beings  are  kept  in 
life  ?  By  the  poor.  They  live  upon 
the  small  occupiers  of  laud — on  the 
mere  cotteirs — on  all  who  have  a 
handful  of  meal  or  a  potato  to  spare. 
Thousands  of  them  are  neither  more 
nor  less  than  robbers.  Thousands  on 
thousands  most  vicious— as  many 
more,  debased  by  such  contentment 


630 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


[May, 


as  belongs  to  the  inferior  creatures 
. — and  innumerable,  no  doubt,  are 
the  real  objects  of  pity — for  who 
shall  say,  that  though  not  so  silent 
and  retiring  as  Mr  Townsend's  cot- 
tagers, they  have  not  been  visited 
by  "  unmerited"  distress  ? 

The  character  which  Dr  Doyle 
gives  of  the  farmers  who  chiefly 
support  their  paupers,  does  one's 
heart  good  to  read;  their  feelings, 
•—he  says  truly — are  of  the  best  de- 
scription. Though  paying  high  rents, 
they  plant  sometimes  one,  sometimes 
two,  sometimes  three  acres  of  pota- 
toes, which,  from  the  time  of  plant- 
ing, they  destine  for  the  support  of 
the  poor ;  and  he  has  seen  farmers 
holding  from  '200  to  300  acres  of 
land,  distributing,  of  a  morning,  with 
their  own  hands,  assisted  by  a  ser- 
vant maid,  stirabout  to  upwards  of 
forty  or  fifty  paupers,  and  doing  so, 
not  for  one  day,  or  two,  but  regu- 
larly during  a  whole  season  of  dis- 
tress. He  knew  a  farmer  in  Kil- 
dare,  who  not  only  continued  that 
practice,  and  distributed  the  milk  of 
twenty  or  thirty  cows,  almost  every 
day,  to  relieve  mendicants;  but  at 
Christmas  had  a  bullock  killed,  and 
given  to  the  people.  "  I  could  not, 
were  I  to  speak  till  the  sun  went 
down,  convey  a  just  picture  of  the 
benevolence  prevailing  in  the  minds 
and* hearts  of  the  middling  class  in 
Ireland;  but  it  is  sufficiently  proved 
by  this,  that  the  poor  are  now  sup- 
ported almost  entirely  by  them,  al- 
though they  form  a  class  not  over 
numerous,  and  a  class  subject  to 
great  pressure ;  for,  of  the  million 
and  a  half,  or  two  millions,  now  in- 
tended to  support  the  Irish  poor, 
nearly  the  entire  falls "  upon  the 
farmers,  and  other  industrious  clas- 
ses." Dr  Doyle  then  speaks  with  much 
feeling  of  the  charity  of  the  poor  to 
the  poor.  "  You  cannot,"  he  says, 
"  be  among  them  for  a  day,  without 
witnessing  the  exercise  of  it  in  the 
most  touching  manner.  In  visiting 
a  poor  creature  in  a  hovel,  when 
sickness  and  misery  prevail,  you 
find  the  poor  creature  surrounded 
by  poor  neighbours, — one  of  whom 
brings  him  a  little  bread  or  meal, 
another  a  little  meat,  or  a  little  broth 
or  soup,  and  they  all  comfort  him 
with  their  conversation  and  society. 
If  the  clergyman  be  invited,  they 


put  the  little  place  in  order,  and  seek 
to  make  it  clean ;  and  their  expres- 
sions of  sympathy  for  the  poor  crea- 
ture in  disease,  are  such  as  console 
one's  heart  in  the  midst  of  that  dis- 
tress." No  question  is  put  to  the 
Doctor  about  the  benevolent  and  cha- 
ritable feelings  of  the  higher  classes; 
— these,  we  presume,  were  known  to 
the  Committee — but  he  tells  what  he 
knows  unasked.  "  When  you  ascend 
to  a  higher  class,  you  find  many 
individuals  of  great  goodness,  and 
singular  beneficence  and  charity ;  but 
you  find  a  much  greater  number  who 
seem  to  be  very  anxious  to  throw  the 
whole  burden  upon  the  industrious 
people,  and  who  seem  indifferent  to 
all  the  wants  of  the  poor." 

There  is  no  exaggeration  here- 
all  bears  the  impress  of  the  simple 
truth.  That  those  who  behave  thus 
to  the  poor,  who  are  to  them  neither 
kith  nor  kin,  should  be  affectionate 
dutiful  parents  and  children  is 
no  more  than  we  should  expect — 
and  they  are  so — to  a  degree  even  of 
passionate  devotedness  at  once  the 
glory  and  disgrace  of  Ireland. 

Now,  what  think  ye  was  the  secret 
aim  of  all  this  questioning  by  the 
Committee  ?  Here  it  comes  out. 
"  How  do  you  conceive  that  these 
kindly  feelings,  and  the  good  works 
consequent  on  them,  would  be  acted 
on  by  a  system  of  parochial  relief?" 
"  Do  you  think  there  would  be  the 
same  necessity  for  their  exercise  ?" 
"  Do  you  think  the  same  impulse 
would  act  under  a  lesser  necessity 
for  its  exercise  ?"  "  Supposing  aid 
were  provided  by  parochial  assess- 
ment, would  there  be  the  same  ne- 
cessity for  its  exercise  ?" 

To  one  and  all  of  those  foolish,  and 
more  than  foolish  questions,  Dr 
Doyle  gives  the  calmest,  most  deci- 
sive, and  most  satisfactory  answers— 
"  By  the  system  I  have  had  the 
honour  of  submitting  to  the  Commit- 
tee, I  do  not  think  those  feelings 
would  be  in  any  sensible  degree 
diminished."  "  I  do  not  think  the 
same  necessity  would  exist;  but  I 
think  the  poor  are  prompted  by  a 
kindly  feeling,  which  is  not  so  much 
the  fruit  of  reflection  as  the  impulse 
of  nature.  When  the  Irish,  who  are  a 
warm-hearted  people,  find  distress 
near  them,  they  approach  to  it,  and 
seek  to  relieve  it."  "  There  might 


1833.] 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland, 


831 


b'i  some  drawback  from  it ;  but  then 
the  proposed  relief  would  only  afford 
assistance  to  the  people." 

It  is  not  easy  to  keep  one's  tem- 
per on  seeing  the  drift  of  the  ex- 
aminer. We  have  much  respect  for 
tl  e  talents  of  Mr  Spring  Rice  j  but 
h  s  understanding  must  have  got  a 
sf.d  twist  before  he  could  have  put 
such  a  string  of  silly  or  rather  sense- 
less questions  to  such  a  man  as  Dr 
Doyle.  That  charity  may  be  kept 
alive,  a  statesman  would  choose  to 
k-jep  up  beggary  !  Because  men  of 
moderate  or  small  means  are  willing 
t<  relieve  misery,  nothing  must  be 
d  me  to  do  away  with  the  misery 
itself!  This  is  purchasing  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  province  of  Benevo- 
lence at  too  high  a  price,  and  ne- 
greeting  altogether  the  province  of 
Justice.  It  is  no  deduction  from  the 
goodness  of  the  farmer,  who  for 
months  together  gave  abundance 
d.iily  to  forty  or  fifty  paupers,  and 
tl  e  milk  of  twenty  or  thirty  cows, 
and  a  bullock  at  Christmas,  to  say 
tl  at  in  spite  of  the  gratification  his 
k  nd  and  warm  heart  must  have  de- 
rived from  the  sight  of  assuaged  dis- 
tress, he  must  have  felt  such  de- 
struction of  his  property  a  severe 
hardship;  and  with  all  sincere  re- 
spect for  Mr  Rice,  we  beg  to  say 
tl  at  the  man  (not  he)  who  could 
seriously  wish  the  continuance  of 
such  a  state  of  things,  must  be  a 
heartless  and  a  brainless  blockhead. 

The  examination  of  Dr  Doyle  was 
n<>xt  day  resumed  —  on  the  moral 
n  iture  of  man  and  his  natural  affec- 
tions. He  is  requested  to  solve  this 
p  -oblem — "  Do  you  think  the  paren- 
tal and  filial  affections  could  exist  in 
tl>eir  present  strength,  or  be  proved 
bi>  the  same  acts  and  sacrifices,  were 
a  provision  to  be  made  by  law,  either 
for  the  young  or  for  the  old,  in  a 
state  of  destitution?"  How  could 
any  full-grown  man,  not  drunk,  ask 
such  a  question?  Why,  the  same 
a<  ts  and  sacrifices  in  the  changed 
condition  supposed,  would  not  be 
re  quired — they  would  not  be  right— 
f<  r  the  misery  would  be  relieved— 
ai;d  parents  and  children  would  not 
have  to  hug  one  another  in  a  passion 
ot  love,  grief,  anguish, and  tribulation. 
\Vhy  so  anxiously  seek  sacrifices 
from  poor  people?  Are  they  thus 
cockered  by  a  conservative  system  of 
in  isery  among  ourselves  ?  How  dare 


we  demand  of  them  a  vehemence  of 
parental  or  filial  affection,  and  a  cor- 
responding severity  of  suffering  in, 
the  discharge  of  its  duties,  which  we 
never  dreamt  of  exacting  from  our 
own  easy  hearts  and  idle  hands,  and 
yet  have  not  been  slow,  perhaps,  to 
pride  ourselves  on  our  piety  ?  But 
folly  brought  out  wisdom — and  we 
are  grateful  to  the  questioner  for  Dr 
Doyle's  reply.  "I think  the  feelings  of 
men  bear  a  very  intimate  relation  to 
the  state  of  society  which  they  at  any 
particular  period  compose ;  and  it 
may  happen  that  in  a  population, 
rude  and  undisciplined  as  the  poor 
population  of  Ireland  at  present  is, 
there  may  be  exhibitions  of  feelings 
at  the  present  time,  which  would 
not  appear  if  society  were  better 
formed,  if  men  generally  had  more 
comforts,  and  with  it  a  greater  de- 
gree of  selfishness,  which  in  every 
community  grows  up  in  a  ratio  with 
domestic  comfort.  In  reply  to  the 
question,  I  should  think  that  if  you 
had  a  well-organized  system  of  re- 
lief for  the  poor,  you  might  not  wit* 
ness  exhibitions  of  charity  and  kind- 
ness, exactly  similar  to  those  which 
are  seen  now,  but  I  have  no  doubt 
that  there  would  be  at  all  times  in 
Ireland  a  display  of  neighbourly 
affection  and  parental  kindness  as 
great  as  would  be  desirable  in  any 
well-ordered  community." 

What  more  could  the  Chairman 
desire  Dr  Doyle  to  say  ?  Yet  he  is 
not  satisfied — and  requires  farther 
information.  We  should  like  to  have 
heard  the  Doctor  examining  him  on 
filial  and  parental  affection — for  a 
sad  mess  of  the  matter  would  he  have 
made,  and  spoken  like  a  whimsical 
and  barren  bachelor,  who  had  been 
born,  what,  in  Ireland,  is  called  a 
posthumous  child.  "  Do  you  not 
think  that  those  feelings  are  called 
forth  in  proportion  as  a  necessity  for 
their  active  exercise  arises  ;  that,  for 
instance,  the  feeling  of  a  child  for  a 
parent  is  more  called  forth  accord- 
ing as  the  age  of  that  parent  ad- 
vances, as  the  difficulty  of  provi- 
ding for  that  parent  increases,  and  as 
the  period  of  life  makes  him  more 
unprotected,  and  more  exposed  to 
vicissitude  and  suffering  i*"  How 
did  it  happen,  we  wonder,  to  escape 
occurring  to  the  thought  of  the  wor- 
thy and  most  inquisitive  chairman, 
that  that  state  of  things  cannot  be  the 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  ihtir  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


most  favourable  for  a  man's  provi- 
ding for  the  wants  of  the  increasing 
age  of  his  parent,  as  it  is  more  and 
more  exposed  to  vicissitude  and  suf- 
fering, (how  glibly,  softly,  sweet- 
ly, and  primly,  the  words  "  age," 
"  vicissitude,"  and  "  suffering," 
leave  his  lips  !)  which  prevents  him 
from  providing,  by  any  possibility, 
even  for  himself?  That,  or  some- 
thing like  it,  should  have  been  our 
answer— but  the  Doctor  is  more 
mild, — "  I  think  the  feelings  of  af- 
fection, wherever  displayed,  bear  al- 
ways a  very  intimate  proportion  to 
the  degree  of  the  distress  or  misery 
which  excites  those  feelings ;  and  as 
at  present  the  sufferings  of  the  poor 
are  intense,  it  is,  therefore,  but  rea- 
sonable, that  the  exhibition  of  feel- 
ings on  the  part  of  parents,  or  chil- 
dren, or  neighbours,  witnessing  those 
sufferings,  should  be  also  very  great ; 
but  instead  of  thinking  that  to  be  a 
desirable  state  for  men  to  live  in,  I 
think  the  state  of  society  would  be 
much  better,  if  exceeding  sympathy 
or  exceeding  feeling  were  not  so  fre- 
quently called  into  action  as  it  now 
is  in  Ireland,  for  when  the  hearts  of 
men  are  moved  greatly,  even  to  good, 
they  are  liable  to  be  easily  moved 
also  to  evil;  so  that  I  think  the  ex- 
treme feeling  which  is  now  mani- 
fested in  Ireland,  in  affording  relief 
to  the  distressed,  are  amongst  the 
causes  why  our  people  have  less  of  a 
settled  character  than  the  people  of 
other  countries,  in  which  society  is 
established  on  a  better  dome." 

It  is  not  often  that  such  philoso- 
phy as  this  is  heard  in  a  Select  Com- 
mittee, and  it  is  all  Greek  or  Hebrew 
to  the  Chairman.  Mr  Irving  or  Miss 
Cardale  might  as  well  have  tipp'd 
him  a  blast  of  the  unknown  tongue. 
He  imagines  that  he  has  driven  the 
Doctor  into  a  corner  of  the  ring,  and 
has  him  balancing  across  the  ropes, 
whereas  he  is  sponing  a  toe  at  the 
scratch,  and  without  troubling  him- 
self about  a  guard  with  the  left,  holds 
out  his  right  ready  to  knock  Spring 
down  again  with  a  flush  hit  on  the 
osfrontis.  "  Then  would  any  alte- 
ration of  system  which  tended  to 
deaden  or  lessen  those  sensibilities, 
or  restrict  their  exercise,  be  a  matter 
morally  beneficial  to  the  character  of 
the  people  ?" — "  I  would  think  it  of 
great  advantage  to  remove  the  excess 
of  those  feelings,  and  the  causes  which 


[Mar, 

produced  that  excess,  and  I  do  not 
suppose  that  any  plan  which  could 
give  more  comfort  to  the  people 
would  have  the  effect  of  deadening 
those  good  feelings;  it  would  only 
moderate  them,  and  subject  them  to 
the  rule  of  reason." 

The  Committee  might  be  supposed 
by  this  time  in  pretty  full  possession 
of  Dr  Doyle's  sentiments ;  but  the 
Chairman  is  not  yet  satisfied,  and 
asks  him  if  he  thinks  that  the  inter- 
position of  the  State,  by  a  compul- 
sory system  of  relief,  could  be  relied 
upon  as  producing  the  moral  effects 
which  he  had  described,  rather  than 
applying  moral  causes  by  means  of 
education,  and  religious  causes  and 
religious  instruction,  to  produce  such 
result  ?  And  now  comes  the  clencher 
— <!  I  think  that  the  interposition  of 
the  legislature  is  required  in  Ireland, 
in  order  to  produce  those  good  feel- 
ings in  that  reasonable  degree  to 
which  the  question  and  late  answer 
may  be  referred  ;  nor  do  I  think  that 
in  the  present  condition  of  Ireland 
there  is  any  moral  agenc3r,  either  in 
operation,  or  likely  to  come  into 
operation,  if  unassisted  by  legislative 
interposition,  which  will  produce 
that  state  of  society  which  all  equal- 
ly desire  to  see  established  in  this 
country." 

That  able  and  excellent  man,  Mr 
Bicheno,  thinks  that  a  compulsory 
assessment  would  diminish  the  cha- 
ritable dispositions,  both  of  the  rich 
and  of  the  poor  themselves — "that  the 
rich  would  im  mediately  send  the  poor 
to  be  relieved  at  the  pai  ish-tabie,  and 
that  the  poor  themselves  would  en- 
sure themselves  from  charity,  because 
there  would  bean  established  provi- 
sion, and  thus  would  be  broken  up 
what  is  of  vital  importance  to  a  good 
state  of  society — the  virtuous  exer* 
cise  of  the  social  feelings." 

Well — suppose  that  the  rich  were 
immediately  to  send  the  poor  to  the 
parish-table.  What  the  worse  would 
the  poor  be  of  that  ?  They  would  get 
a  good  coarse  belly  full— and  would 
look  less  lank  on  coming  out  into  the 
open  air.  The  fewer  poor  that  go  to 
the  parish-table  the  better;  and  too 
many  in  many  parts  of  England  do 
go  there  who  might  dine  at  their 
own  cost  at  home!  But  we  are  in 
Ireland.  And  the  question  is,  is  it 
better  that  the  poor,  rather  than  "  be 
sent  by  the  rich  immediately  to  the 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland.  833 

that  they  are  in  the  habit  of  commit- 
ting towards  each,  other  multiplied 
atrocities  of  the  most  unexampled 
character.  The  inconsistency  is  only 
in  appearance.  It  is  the  very  force 
of  their  sympathy  which  urges  them 
to  acts  of  dreadful  revenge  upon 
those  whom  they  consider  agents  in 
the  oppression  of  their  friends  and 
connexions.  Is  a  family  ejected  from 
the  small  farm  which  forms  their 
sole  chance  of  subsistence — their 

charity  !"  And  why  not?  The  excuse  sympathizing  neighbours  join  them 
would  be  held  a  good  one  in  any  court  in  forcibly  intimidating  the  succeed- 
of  conscience  in  Christendom.  It  is 


)  833.] 

parish-table,"  should  either  have  no- 
thing to  eat  at  all,  or  prey  upon  the 
e canty  means  of  persons  almost  as 
poor  as  themselves?  Are  the  rich 
cioing  all  they  ought  now  for  the 
] tour  ?  Is  their  charity  so  pure  and 
powerful  that  we  must  beware  of 
polluting  or  impairing  it  by  any  sys- 
tematic plan  of  ours  for  helping  them 
to  feed  the  famished  ?  And  the  poor, 
they,  in  case  of  an  established  provi- 
sion, "would  excuse  themselves  from 


wicked— ay,  very  wicked — to  lay  a 
heavy  burden  of  charity  on  the  backs 
c  f  the  poor.  It  is  abhorrent  from  right 
reason.  Mr  Bicheno  speaks  of  "  a 
good  state  of  society."  But  the  ques- 
tion regards  the  worst  state  of  society 
i  i  Europe.  "  The  virtuous  exercise  of 
tie  social  feel  ings,"  forsooth  !  a  min- 
gled mass  of  mendicancy  and  chari- 
table indigence  all  in  motion  with 
raisery — laughing,  weeping,  groan- 
i  ig,  blissing,  despairing,  dying,  rob- 
bing, cursing,  and  murdering — and 
by  no  means  to  be  "  broken  up," 
I  ecause  of  "  vital  importance"  to  a 
"  good  state  of  society !"  Well  says 
Mr  Scrope,  "  that  the  sentimen- 
talists, who  are  so  fearful  of  deaden- 
ing the  condition  of  the  poor,  forget 
that  extreme  sympathy  with  the 
miserable,  is  liable  to  take  the  di- 
rection of  revenge  upon  their  oppres- 
sors, real  or  supposed;  that  the 
transition  is  not  very  unnatural  from 
pitying  the  famished  agonies  of  the 
expelled  tenant,  to  burning  his  suc- 
cessor in  his  bed  ;  that  the  passions 
a  *e  never  so  easily  turned  to  vio- 
lence as  when  strongly  excited  with 
the  glow  of  pity.  This  should  be 
recollected,  at  the  present  moment 
especially,  when  outrages  on  life 
a  id  property  have  become  so  terri- 
fically frequent,  as  to  be  considered 
by  the  Government  and  Legisla- 
ture to  require  the  suspension  of 
the  law  and  the  constitution,  and  the 
establishment  of  arbitrary  power 
throughout  Ireland.  It  is  acknow- 
ledged by  the  opposers  of  poor's 
laws;  nay,  as  has  been  seen,  it  is 
e  en  advanced  by  them,  as  one  of 
their  most  forcible  arguments,  that 
the  lower  Irish  are  characterised  by 
ft  elings  of  compassion  and  kindness 
tc  wards  each  other  of  the  strongest 
nature.  And  yet  we  see,  too  plainly, 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  COVIH. 


irig  tenant,  and,  if  he  refuse^  to  give 
way  to  intimidation,  in  executing 
their  sanguinary  threats  upon  him. 
And  is  it  for  the  sake  of  keeping  up 
this  excited  feeling  at  its  full  pitch 
of  intensity,  that  we  are  called  on  to 
refrain  from  interfering  with  the  ex- 
clusive right  of  the  poor  to  relieve 
each  other?" 

And  now  we  come  to  look  at  the 
subject  in  its  most  dismal  light. 
Grant  at  once  that  the  consolidation 
of  many  small  farms — and  portions  of 
land  that  have  no  title  to  the  name 
even  of  "  pelting"  farms — bits  of 
potato-ground,  each  with  its  hovel 
— is  for  the  good  of  Ireland.  The 
system  may  be  carried  too  far— 
to  the  extinction  of  much  that  is 
valuable  in  the  mind,  morals,  and 
manners  of  a  people — and  conse- 
quently to  the  detriment  of  the 
State.  But  such  infinite  subdivision 
as  had  taken  place  in  Ireland  was  on 
many  accounts  to  be  lamented,  and 
the  source  of  many  evils.  We  shall 
not  enter  upon  any  enquiry  into  the 
causes  that  led  to  it.  They  were 
various;  but  it  is  allowed  on  all 
hands,  that  the  larger  landowners 
encouraged  it  from  cupidity,  just  as 
the  smaller  did  from  necessity,  and 
that  there  was  a  vast  increase  of 
population .  We  say  from  cupidity ; 
for  there  was  no  other  motive  but  a 
mercenary  one  with  most  of  the  ab- 
sentees in  accumulating  tenantry; 
and  to  them  chiefly  belongs  the 
merit  of  having  created  the  class  of 
middlemen.  The  same  system  was 
pursued  by  the  resident  gentry ;  and 
by  them, too,  carried  much  too  far; 
though  their  humanity,  we  doubt  not, 
was  often  ready  to  alleviate  the  wret- 
chedness which  was  daily  submitted 
to  their  eyes  all  over  their  heredi- 
tary estates.  We  shall  never  bring 
ourselves  to  heap  indiscriminate 


On  PooSs  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


834 

abuse  on  the  Irish  gentry;  for 
among  them  are  many  of  the  prime 
men  of  the  earth.  But  such  was 
the  system  pursued;  and  it  long 
flourished  to  their  great  emolument 
— and  the  prodigious  advance  of 
their  rental. 

But  a  new  light — and  we  believe 
a  better— broke  over  the  land ;  and 
the  land-owners  being,  to  a  certain 
extent,  men  of  science,  saw  that  the 
time  for  accumulating  was  gone  by, 
and  that  the  timehad  come  for  clear- 
ing tenantry  ;  >nd  they  set  about 
that  newi)usiness,  which  should  have 
been  delnt  with  "  gently,  and  with  a 
hand  of  healing,"  with  a  cruel  ala- 
crity— if  not  blind,  worse — impro- 
vident of  the  certain  suffering  about 
to  be  spread  far  and  wide ; — a  cruel 
alacrity,  which  in  a  few  years  redu- 
ced millions — ay,  millions— for  the 
plague  of  poverty  runs  fast  as  wild- 
lire —  to  irremediable  misery.  By 
the  wretches  thus  driven  to  wander 
whithersoever  they  willed,  had  they 
who  expelled  them  from  the  soil 
been  supported  all  their  lives,  in 
comfort  or  in  splendour, — at  home 
or  abroad.  Here  then  was  atroci- 
ous wickedness —  if  ever  there  was 
wickedness  on  this  earth  —  cold- 
blooded, scientific,  and  systematiz- 
ed ingratitude  of  the  blackest  grain 
— most  devilish. 

Mr  Sadler  has  been  accused  of 
writing  intemperately  of  the  men 
guilty  of  such  atrocities ;  we  say,  his 
eloquence  is  lighted  up  with  the 
flashes  of  indignant  virtue.  "  Clear- 
ings !"  «  Drivings  I"  What  shock- 
ing words  to  apply  to  human  beings 
in  a  Christian  land  I  Be  consistent, 
and  call  them  at  once  "  cattle." 

"  The  infection  of  cruel  selfish- 
ness," he  truly  says,  "  is  to  be  traced 
to  absenteeism  ;  and  once  intro- 
duced, such,  alas  !  is  our  nature, 
whenever  interest  is  concerned,  we 
are  predisposed  to  take  the  conta- 
gion, which  has  spread  like  a  leprosy 
through  a  whole  country,  and  tills  it 
with  suffering,  and  sorrow,  and  des- 
titution." Who  can  read  the  follow- 
ing passage  without  feeling  its  jus- 
tice ? 

"  Leaving,  then,  wholly  out  of  out- 
consideration  the  more  apparent  and 
constantly  operating  evils  of  this  pest 
of  Ireland ;  that  mass  of  poverty 
which  is  created,  that  distress  which 
is  unrelieved ;  that  idleness  which  is 


[May, 


unemployed;  that  ignorance  which 
is  uninstructed ;  together  with  all  the 
crime  and  suffering  from  which  such 
a  state  of  things  is  inseparable ;  what 
is,  lastly,  its  conduct  in  regard  to  its 
victims  in  the  extremity  of  nature, 
when  disease  is  added  to  poverty, 
multiplying  its  sorrows  in  a  ratio  of 
which  wealth  can  have  no  adequate 
conception  ?  when  the  desertion,  as 
it  respects  such  sufferers,  is  irrepa- 
rable and  final  ?  when  those  last  du- 
ties, which  the  humane  heart  will  not 
allow  itself  to  perform  by  proxy,  are 
not  performed  at  all  ?  In  that  awful 
season,  from  every  quarter  of  Ire- 
land, there  came  from  the  death-bed 
— bed  did  I  say!— from  the  scanty 
straw  which  spread  the  cold  ground 
in  many  a  temporary  shed  ;  in  such 
as  which,  were  the  pampered  beast 
of  many  a  proud  absentee  put  for  a 
single  night,  he  would  probably  make 
the  air  ring  with  his  reproofs;  but 
which  were  crowded  with  patient 
and  grateful  sufferers,  with  the  in- 
fected, the  dying,  and  the  dead :  from 
scenes  like  these,  I  say,  there  came  a 
voice  as  audible  as  if  it  had  been 
pealed  forth  in  thunder :  *  I — I,  whose 
labour  has  supplied  all  your  wants, 
and  supported  your  grandeur ;  con- 
tenting myself  with  the  refuse,  in  or- 
der to  satisfy  your  exactions, till  even 
that  failed  me,  and  I  sank — I  was  sick 
— and  ye — DESERTED  ME  !'  " 

Is  there  no  restraint  on  such  con- 
duct ?  No.  Statute  after  statute  has 
been  enacted  within  a  few  years  ex- 
pressly to  increase  the  power  of 
Irish  landlords  over  their  tenants ; 
the  Civil  Bill  Ejectment  Act;  the 
Joint  Tenancy  Act ;  the  Absconding 
Tenant  Act;  and  the  Subletting 
Act.  Such  has  been  the  conspiracy 
of  the  rich  against  the  poor,  of  the 
powerful  against  the  weak  ;  these  are 
the  "  things  of  law,"  where  are  the 
"  things  of  love  ?"  Nothing  is  there 
to  prevent — all  facilities  are  there  to 
enable  any  individual  —  let  us  use 
the  words  of  Mr  Scrope — "  any  in- 
dividual residing,  perhaps,  at  a  dis- 
tance, out  of  sight  and  hearing  of 
the  agonies  he  may  inflict,  from  pass- 
ing a  sentence  of  death  upon  hundreds 
who  have  been  encouraged  to  breed 
and  multiply  on  his  estate,  up  to  the 
moment  when  he  became  aware, 
from  the  lessons  of  Political  Econo- 
mists, the  change  of  general  opinion, 
or  caprice,  that  it  was  against  his 


1933.1 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction,  into  Ireland. 


835 


iidividual  interest  any  longer  to  al- 
1  )w  them  to  live  there — nothing  to 
1  inder  him  turning  them  out  of  their 
1  ouses  on  the  wide  world,  to  starve, 
c  r  die  of  fever,  engendered  by  want, 
after  infecting  and  severely  burden- 
i  ig  the  charity  of  the  neighbouring 
tjvvns — nothing  but  the  chance  of  his 
I  aving  a  human  or  an  inhuman  heart 
ii  his  bosom." 

Look  then  again  at  the  MENDICANCY 
cf  Ireland.  It  assumes  before  "  the 
eyes  of  our  soul"  an  awful  character. 
We  see  not  now  one  mighty  mass — 
or  many  hordes — of  profligate  im- 
t  osture — of  indolent  indigenccr— of 
wicked  want — of  disgraceful  disease 
— of  crime — of  sin  suffering  but  its 
cwn  punishment  under  the  decrees 
cf  eternal  justice  unconvicted. 
All  these  are  there — but  they  have 
s  unk  away  into  shadow.  We  see 
EOW  sorrow  as  sincere — anguish  as 
acute — and  as  unmerited — as  ever 
wept  or  groaned;  honest  industry 
driven  from  its  homestead,  not  to 
work,  but  to  wander  on  the  high- 
ways; and  rather  than  steal,  prepa- 
red to  perish ;  penury  on  which  there 
is  shame,  but  no  disgrace — for  that 
lists  with  the  oppression ;  fever,  and 
consumption,  and  atrophy,  and  le- 
prosy, all  borne  patiently  by  people 
who  lately  were  all  healthy  in  their 
huts  or  hovels  now  mixed  with  the 
r  >ad  mire;  and  weseethere,too,many 
virtues  indigenous  to  the  soil — for 
a-e  not  the  parental  affections  and 
filial  piety,  virtues? — and  bravery  in 
men—and  chastity  in  women — and 
v  here  are  they  to  be  seen  in  "  strong- 
e  •  strength"  than  among  those  who 
v  ere  once  the  small  tenantry  of  the 
C  Teen  Isle,  and  in  cabins  in  the  wild 
v  ood,  "  once  sang  the  bold  anthem 

0  '  Erin-go-bragh  ?"  Read  this. 

"  Rev.  M.  O' SULLIVAN,  Q.  6257.— 

1  o  you  know  what  becomes  of  the 
tenantry  at  present    ejected    from 
e  states  in  Ireland? — I  fear  very  many 

0  '  them  perish" 

"  "  R.  SMITH,  Esq.  Q.  2930.— What 
b  3comes  of  the  dispossessed  tenants  ? 
--I  cannot  inform  the  Committee 
\\  hat  becomes  of  them  ;  but  in  one 
o'  the  cases,  to  which  I  now  allude, 

1  was    informed   that    upwards  of 
twenty  families   were   turned   out, 
aid   in  the  other   case  more   than 
tl  irty ;  the  consequence  was,  that  the 
p  u-sous  so  dispossessed  did  not  sub- 
m  .t  quietly,  and,  in  revenge,  cut  the 


tails  off  the  cattle  of  the  proprietor 
of  the  estate,  and  committed  various 
outrages.  In  the  other  case,  the 
people  who  were  turned  out  muster- 
ed a  strong  armed  force,  and  at  night 
attacked  the  persons  who  had  been 
put  into  possession,  whereby  some 
lives  were  lost.  I  should  here  ob- 
serve, that,  previous  to  these  occur- 
rences, the  county  in  which  it  hap- 
pened had  been  peaceable." 

"  Dr  DOYLE,  Q.  4364.— It  would 
be  impossible  for  language  to  convey 
an  idea  of  the  state  of  distress  to 
which  the  ejected  tenantry  have  been 
reduced,or  of  the  disease  and  misery, 
and  even  vice,  which  they  have  pro- 
pagated in  the  towns  wherein  they 
have  settled ;  so  that  not  only  they 
who  have  been  ejected  have  been 
rendered  miserable,  but  they  have 
carried  with  them  and  propagated 
that  misery.  They  have  increased 
the  stock  of  labour;  they  have  ren- 
dered the  habitations  of  those  who 
received  them  more  crowded ;  they 
have  given  occasion  to  the  dissemi- 
nation of  disease;  they  have  been 
obliged  to  resort  to  theft,  and  to  all 
manner  of  vice  and  iniquity,  to  pro- 
cure subsistence ;  but  what  is,  per- 
haps, the  most  painful  of  all,  a  vast 
number  of  them  have  perished  from 
want. 

"  Q.  What  is  the  change  which  takes 
place  with  the  ejected  tenants  ? — In 
some  cases,  they  wander  about  with- 
out a  fixed  residence.  The  young 
people,  in  some  instances,  endeavour 
to  emigrate  to  America.  If  the  family 
have  a  little  furniture,  or  a  cow,  or 
a  horse,  they  sell  it,  and  come  into 
the  small  towns,  where  very  often 
they  get  a  license  to  sell  beer  and 
whisky.  After  a  short  time,  their 
little  capital  is  expended,  and  they 
become  dependent  upon  the  charities 
of  the  town.  They  next  give  up  their 
house,  and  take  a  room;  but,  at 
present,  many  of  them  are  obliged 
to  take,  not  a  room,  but  what  they 
call  a  corner  in  some  house.  It  may 
be  necessary  to  state  to  the  Com- 
mittee that  in  all  the  suburbs  of 
our  towns,  there  are  cabins,  having 
no  loft,  of  suppose  twenty  feet 
long  by  twelve  feet  wide,  with  a 
partition  in  the  centre.  I  have  not, 
myself,  seen  so  many  as  seven  fa- 
milies in  one  of  these  cabins;  but 
I  have  been  assured  by  the  officiating 
clergyman  of  the  town,  that  there  are 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


836 

many  instances  of  it.  Then  their 
beds  are  merely  a  little  straw,  strew- 
ed at  night  upon  the  floor,  and  by 
day  wrapped  up  in,  or  covered  by,  a 
quilt  or  blanket.  They  are  obliged 
to  do  it  up  in  that  manner  by  day,  in 
order  to  have  some  vacant  space.  In 
these  abodes  of  misery,  disease  is 
often  produced  by  extreme  want. 
Disease  wastes  the  people ;  for  they 
have  little  food,  and  no  comforts  to 
restore  them.  They  die  in  a  little 
time.  I  have  known  a  lane,  with  a 
small  district  adjoining,  in  the  town 
in  which  I  live,  to  have  been  peo- 
pled by  thirty  or  forty  families  who 
came  from  the  country;  and  I  think 
that,  in  the  course  of  twelve  months, 
there  were  not  ten  families  of  the  thirty 
surviving — the  bulk  of  them  had  died." 
— Q.  4383,  4384. 

"  The  children  begotten  in  this 
state  of  society  become  of  an  inferior 
caste;  the  whole  character  of  the 
people  becomes  gradually  worse  and 
worse ;  they  diminish  in  stature,  they 
are  enervated  in  mind ;  the  popula- 
tion is  gradually  deteriorated,  till,  at 
length,  you  have  the  inhabitants  of 
one  of  the  finest  countries  in  the 
world  reduced  to  a  state  of  effemi- 
nacy which  makes  them  little  better 
than  the  Lazzaroni  of  Naples,  or  the 
Hindoos  on  the  coast  of  Malabar. 

"  We  have,  in  short,  a  disorganized 
population  becoming  by  their  poverty 
more  and  more  immoral,  and  less 
and  less  capable  of  providing  for 
themselves:  and  we  have,  besides 
that,  the  frightful,  and  awful,  and  ter- 
rific exhibition  of  human  life  wasted 
with  a  rapidity,  and  to  a  degree,  such 
as  is  not  witnessed  in  any  civilized 
country  upon  the  face  of  the  earth." 
— Q.  4528,  4529.  ; 

Did  laws  for  the  poor  ever  work 
such  evils  as  those  which  have  all 
been  created  by  laws  for  the  rich  ? 
Yet  who  among  the  Economists  has 
lifted  up  his  voice  against  this 
"  sweaty  sway"  of  oppression  ?  Not 
one.  They  all  approve  of  it  to  a 
man.  And  as  if  those  tides  of  hu- 
man beings  were  all  but  so  much 
ditch-water,  they  talk  coolly  of  their 
being  all  in  good  time  "  gradually 
absorbed  !"  Ay — they  are  absorbed 
— and  faster  far  than  many  imagine 
— by  the  suction  of  the  soil — into 
thousands  on  thousands  of  small  pits, 
vulgarly  called  graves. 

An  opinion  has  been  frequently 


[May. 


expressed,  that  the  surplus  and  re- 
dundant  population  of  Ireland  may 
be  absorbed,  as  that  of  Scotland  has 
been  during  the  last  century,  with- 
out poor's  laws,  by  the  mere  opera- 
tion of  a  steady  government,  and 
growing  demand  for  labour.  A  very 
slight  consideration  of  the  difference 
between  the  two  countries  must  be 
sufficient  to  shew  that  this  expecta- 
tion is  utterly  chimerical. 

In  the  first  place,  there  is  no  rea- 
son to  believe  that  the  surplus  popu- 
lation of  Scotland,  at  the  close  of  the 
17th  century j  was  by  any  means  so 
considerable  as  that  of  Ireland  is  at 
this  time.  Fletcher  of  Saltoun,  in- 
deed, estimates  the  Scotch  sturdy 
beggars  at  200,000;  but  there  is 
every  reason  to  believe  that  his  num- 
bers are  grossly  overrated.  It  is 
difficult  to  see  how,  in  a  country 
situated  as  Scotland  then  was,  im- 
perfectly cultivated,  and  without 
manufactures,  so  great  a  body  of 
unproductive  labourers  could  have 
been  maintained.  Certain  it  is,  that 
on  no  occasion  did  Scotland,  even 
when  hardest  pressed,  ever  assemble 
50,000  men  in  the  field ;  a  fact  which 
seems  inconsistent  with  so  great  an 
accumulation  of  unemployed  poor 
as  is  here  supposed. 

In  the  next  place,  it  is  a  mistake 
to  suppose  that  during  the  last  cen- 
tury Scotland  has  had  no  poor's  rates. 
On  the  contrary,  for  two  hundred 
and  fifty  years  the  legal  rights  of 
the  Scottish  poor  to  maintenance 
have  been  nearly  as  extensive  as  in 
England ;  and  at  this  moment,  there 
is  hardly  a  town  of  any  magnitude  in 
North  Britain,  where  poor's  rates  have 
not  long  been  established.  By  the 
acts  1579  and  J661,  and  the  Royal 
Proclamation  in  1693,  the  rights  of 
all  the  destitute  poor  to  be  relieved 
has  been  distinctly  recognised.  The 
poor's  rates  of  Scotland,  indeed,  are 
light  in  comparison  of  those  of  Eng- 
land; but  that  is  merely  because 
their  administration  being  intrusted 
to  the  heritors,  who  pay  the  assess- 
ment, has  been  more  vigilantly  look- 
ed after  than  in  England,  where  it  was 
imposed  by  the  church-wardens,  and 
because  Scotland  is  only  now  be- 
ginning to  arrive  at  that  complicated 
state  of  society  where  the  aid  of 
legal  assessment  to  relieve  the  poor 
is  indispensable.  Wherever  manu- 
factures or  great  towns  prevail,  poor's 


1333.] 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


837 


rates  in  this  country  have  been  long 
established. 

In  the  third  place,  Scotland  never 
v/as  overwhelmed  with  a  mass  of  in- 
d  igence  at  all  approaching  to  the  men- 
cicity  which  now  exists  in  Ireland  ; 
for  this  plain  reason,  that  she  had  not 
till  recent  times  the  means  of  bound- 
less subsistence  of  the  humblest  kind 
to  the  labouring  classes.  Fot  the  last 
half  century,  the  contemporary  wri- 
ters have  been  full  of  the  grievous 
evils  arising  from  Irish  immigration  ; 
tut  the  writers  a  hundred  and  thirty 
years  ago  contain  no  similar  com- 
plaint of  the  redundance  or  over- 
flowing habits  of  the  Scotch  poor, — 
a  clear  proof  that  no  great  accumu- 
lation of  indigence  was  experienced; 
for  wherever  it  has,  the  Scotch  have 
cover  been  found  backward  in  emi- 
grating to  the  other  more  favoured 
regions  of  the  globe.  From  the 
earliest  times,  indeed,  the  annals  of 
other  states  have  been  filled  with  ob- 
servations on  the  Scotch  settlers;  but 
t'ae  complaint  always  was,  that  they 
were  too  thriving,  not  that  they  were 
a  nuisance  from  their  beggarly  habits; 
a  certain  indication  that  it  was  the 
better  and  educated  classes,  not  the 
more  indigent  poor,  who  migrated 
to  foreign  countries. 

In  the  fourth  place,  the  great  and 
crying  evils  which  have  long  existed 
in  Ireland,  and  operated  as  a  perpe- 
tual stimulus  upon  the  production 
of  an  indigent  and  wretched  popula- 
tion, never  were  known  in  Scotland. 
The  enormous  grievances  of  absentee 
proprietors,  middlemen,  a  rebellious 
Catholic  priesthood,  and  political  in- 
stitutions for  which  the  people  were 
totally  unfitted,  never  existed  in  this 
country.  Property  has  been  here  at 
all  times  comparatively  protected, 
industry  safe,  artificial  wants  and 
habits  of  frugality  universal.  Never 
was  it  found  necessary  from  predial 
and  political  disturbances  like  those 
of  Ireland  to  suspend  the  constitution, 
find  establish  martial  law,as  has  there 
I  ecome  indispensable.  It  is  need- 
1  esshere  to  enquire  to  what  causes  this 
difference  in  the  history  and  present 
Labits  of  the  two  countries  has  arisen; 
suffice  it  to  say  that  it  exists,  and 
that  its  existence  must  render  alto- 
gether chimerical  the  expectation 
that  the  Irish  poor  can  be  absorbed 
l>y  the  same  means,  and  in  the  same 
manner,  as  the  Scotch  have  been. 


If  Scotland  were  to  be  cursed  fo1 
ten  years  with  an  insurgent  peasant- 
ry, a  Catholic  priesthood,  an  absentee 
body  of  proprietors,  and  a  grinding 
race  of  middlemen,  all  the  boasted 
frugality  and  caution  of  the  Scotch 
character  would  disappear,  and  in 
its  stead,  we  should  soon  have  the 
recklessness,  redundant  increase,  and 
misery  of  Ireland. 

In  a  word,  Ireland  has  arrived  at 
that  stage  in  political  disease  where 
all  ordinary  remedies  fail,  and  the 
powers  of  evil  are  infinitely  too 
strong  for  the  gradual  and  insulated 
efforts  of  individuals.  Nothing  but 
the  strong  hand  of  Government,  both 
to  repress  evil,  and  do  good,  can 
now  avail  the  state ;  and  the  disor- 
ganization and  insecurity  of  the  coun- 
tryis  such,that  without  public  works, 
paid,  and  relief  generally  adminis- 
tered by  Government,  all  other  reme- 
dies will  be  found  to  be  utterly  in- 
effectual. 

But  the  parallel  runs  straighter  be- 
tween the  state  of  Ireland  now,  and 
that  of  England  in  the  reign  of  Eli- 
zabeth. This  has  been  clearly  shown 
by  Nimmo,  and  Sadler,  and  Scrope, 
and  Doyle,  and  many  others,  from 
the  best  authorities  and  the  most  cer- 
tain documents ;  and  as  the  misery 
is  the  same— so  must  be  the  remedy 
— Provision  for  the  Poor  by  law. 

The  misery  was  the  same — as  may 
be  seen  in  Strype.  He  speaks  of 
the  number  of  poor  that  died  on  the 
streets  of  London  of  cold,  and  lay 
sick  at  the  doors,  perishing  of  hun- 
ger. And  whence  came  they  there  ? 
The  destruction  of  tillage,  and  demo- 
lition of  cottages,  sent  them  thither 
from  the  country  where  they  had 
neither  "  work  nor  harbour." — "  It  is 
a  common  custom  with  covetous 
landlords,  to  let  their  housing  to  de- 
cay, that  the  farmer  shall  be  fain,  for 
a  small  regard,  or  none  at  all,  to  give 
up  his  lease;  that  they,  taking  the 
grounds  into  their  own  hands,  may 
turn  all  to  pasture.  So  now,  old  fa- 
thers, poor  widows,  and  young  child- 
ren, lie  begging  in  the  miry  streets." 
And  hear  Bernard  Gilpin  preaching 
before  the  King  of  the  "  great  op- 
pression of  landlords  towards  their 
tenants,  by  turning  them  out  of  all, 
to  their  utter  undoing." 

"Now  the  robberies,  extortions, 
and  open  oppressions  of  covetous 
cormorants  Jiave  no  end  or  limits,  on 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  fk&f  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


838 

banks  to  keep  in  their  vileness.  As 
for  turning  poor  men  out  of  their 
holds,  they  take  it  for  no  offence,  but 
say  the  land  is  their  own  ;  and  so  they 
turn  them  out  of  their  sheds  like 
mice.  Thousands  in  England,  through 
such,  beg  now  from  door  to  door, 
who  had  kept  honest  homes." — 
"These,"  he  added,  "  had  such  quick 
smelling  hounds,  that  they  could  live 
at  London  and  turn  men  out  of  their 
farms  and  tenements,  a  hundred, 
some  two  hundred  miles  off." 

Was  this  wretchedness  let  alone  to 
be  "gradually absorbed?"  No.  Du- 
ring half  a  century  acts  were  passed 
by  the  legislature  for  its  relief  and 
cure — but  all  were  ineffectual — till, 
by  the  43d  of  Elizabeth,  all  parishes 
were  compelled  to  relieve  their  impo- 
tent inhabitant,  and  send  to  work  the 
unemployed.  Then  began  the  natural 
"  absorption  ;"  then  came  the  "  gol- 
den days  of  good  Queen  Bess ;"  for 
from  her,  and  the  luminaries  that 
shone  round  her  throne,  there  was 
an  efflux  of  that  noble  spirit  which 
has  never  since  altogether  left  the 
character  and  the  councils  of  the 
rulers  of  England. 

But  the  misery  is  not  only  of  the 
same  kind  now  in  Ireland  that  then 
was  in  England,  but  it  is  far  greater; 
and  unless  it  be  speedily  remedied, 
that  noble  island  is  lost  not  only  to 
us,  but  to  itself;  and  whether  there 
be  a  "  Repeal"  or  no  Repeal,  if  left 
much  longer,  Ireland,  without  a  pro- 
vision for  her  starving  millions  of 
some  sort,  (and  what  other  sort  is  in 
the  sight  of  any  seer  but  a  poor's  law  ?) 
must  be  drenched  in  all  the  horrors 
of  rebellion  and  civil  war. 

"  Agitation  !"  There  has  indeed 
been  enough  of  it.  Recommended 
to  all  ranks  in  Ireland  by  the  Mar- 
quis of  Anglesea,  it  has  been  preach- 
ed by  O'Connell  even  beyond  the 
desire  of  the  Lord-lieutenant — and 
we  see  the  fruits.  Mr  Stanley,  too, 
talked  of  "  extinguishing  tithes ;"  and 
in  Parliament  we  almost  every  day 
hear  denunciations  of  wrath  against 
all  Church  Establishments,  and  pro- 
posals for  making  religion  a  free 
trade.  Down  with  the  Protestant 
Church  in  Ireland,  is  no  longer 
an  Irish — it  is  also  an  English  howl 
—and  who  remembers  now  the — 
Reformation?  All  that  is  best  and 
holiest  in  Ireland  and  that  has  been 
not  only  her  safeguard  and  her  suc- 
cour, but  her 


[May, 


ANTISM — is  under  a  cloud  of  displea- 
sure with  our  rulers ;  and  it  would 
seem  as  if  they  had  the  folly, 
and  the  madness  to  believe,  or  the 
weakness  and  wickedness  to  act  as 
if  they  believed,  while  they  knew 
better,  that  the  involution  of  crime 
with  misery,  at  which,  in  that  dis- 
tracted country,  we  now  gaze  aghast, 
was  caused  in  a  great  measure  by  a 
vestry-cess  of  some  L.30,000  a- 
year !  while  the  fount,  from  which 
almost  all  the  national  calamities 
have  in  bloody  torrents  been  derived, 
stands  open,  and  might,  if  not  dried, 
be  sealed  up  by  the  law,  and  the 
whole  land,  if  not  tranquillized, 
lightened  by  one  enactment.  "  That 
this,"  says  Mr  Scrope,  "is  the  true 
source  of  the  horrible  outrages  which 
are  now  in  almost  daily  perpetration 
in  Ireland,  is  proved  beyond  a  pos- 
-sibility  of  doubt  by  an  examination 
of  the  nature  of  these  offences. 
Against  whom  are  these  sanguinary 
attacks  and  threats  of  attack  for  the 
most  part  levelled  ?  The  tithe-own- 
ers, or  their  proctors  ?  The  magis- 
trates and  gentry?  Excisemen,  or 
travellers  ?  No !  But  against  the 
'  land-takers'  as  they  are  called,— 
the  incoming  tenants  of  farms,  whose 
former  occupiers  have  been  turned 
out  to  make  room  for  them  !  Against 
those  who,  in  the  desperate  compe- 
tition for  the  occupation  of  land,  as 
the  only  means  of  existence,  outbid 
the  herd  of  houseless  wretches,  and 
excite  in  them  the  same  rabid  jea- 
lousy as  rouses  a  pack  of  gaunt  and 
starving  wolves  against  the  one  who 
may  get  possession  of  the  morsel  for 
which  all  are  contending." 

Here  is  to  be  found  the  origin  of 
the  Whiteboy- system— with  its  Peep- 
of- day-boys,  Thrashers,  Whiteboy s, 
Raters,  Carders,  Shanavests,  Cara- 
ighats  Rockites,  Blackhens,  Riscaval- 
las,  Ribbon-men,  Lady-clares,  and 
Terry-alts.  What  care  they  for  be- 
ing hanged  ?  Revenge  is  sweet — if 
death  be  bitter.  So  felt  Redmond 
the  murderer  on  the  scaffold.  "  I 
was  resolved  on  vengeance,  and  now 
that  I  have  taken  it,  I  am  content  to 
die."  And  there  have  been,  and 
will  be,  many  Redmonds.  What 
though  he  Died  ?  For  his  old  father 
had  not  been  ill-used  by  his  landlord 
—and  was  himself  an  unreasonable 
ruffian.  The  son  was  a  murderer, 
it  may  be  said,  almost  by  profession 
»— and  on  principle ;  and  had  assisted 


1 833.]          On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


et  five  shocking  slaughters.  But, 
like  many  other  reformers,  he  had  de- 
luded himself,  in  his  ferocity,  into  a 
belief  that  he  was  in  life  a  patriot, 
nnd  in  death  a  martyr.  Bulls  driven 
mad  even  by  the  echoes  of  their  own 
bellowing  among  the  mountains, 
gallop  about  with  swarthy  eyes, 
seeking  something  human  to  toss 
end  trample  j  and  Redmond  was  just 
such  another,  a  mad  bull — as  bloody 
£  nd  as  bestial ;  for  though  no  goad 
had  happened  to  enter  deep  into 
his  own  flesh,  he  had  learned  to  bel- 
low; yet  were  there  sounds  to  mad- 
den him  besides  the  echoes  of  those 
he  himself  had  made,  for  the  air  of 
sill  his  native  region  was  alive  with 
curses. 

Murders  perpetrated  by  your  Red- 
nonds,  and  other  vulgar  villains, 
though  sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of 
•;he  Sheas,  (and  is  not  Wild-goose- 
lodge  now  a  dismal  sound?)  very 
comprehensive,  belong  to  the  retail- 
•lealers  in  such  commodities;  but, 
when  "  alandlord,  writing  fromLon- 
ion  or  Paris,  directs  his  agent  to 
3Ject  ten,  twenty,  or  thirty  indus- 
trious families,  from  their  little 
farms,  on  which  they  and  their  fore- 
fathers were  reared,"  he,  beyond  all 
question  is,  and  therefore  we  call 
him  so — your  wholesale  dealer  in 
murder. 

We  wish  Mr  Bicheno  were  with 
us  on  the  poor's  laws ;  he  is  with  us 
on  most  we  have  said  about  the 
"  bad  relation  between  landlord  and 
tenant."  "  The  landlords  in  Ireland 
do  not,"  he  says,  "  understand  their 
business,  which  is  to  cultivate  a  good 
understanding  with  their  tenan- 
try." English  landlords  do  this; 
and  their  "  dignity  and  consequence 
are  upheld  by  a  respectable  and 
numerous  tenantry,  to  whom,  when 
in  distress,  his  generosity  re- 
mits a  portion  of  rent,  and  treats 
with  such  kindness,  that  he  comes 
even  to  command  their  opinions." 
True  and  good ;  but  in  Ireland,  he 
says,  there  are  no  such  feelings, — 
"  all  the  landlord  looks  to  there  is 
the  improvement  of  his  income,  and 
the  quantity  of  rent  he  can  ab- 
stract." True  and  bad.  In  what  se- 
cret and  undisturbed  corner  of  their 
breasts  then,  we  ask,  reside  "  the 
charitable  dispositions  of  the  rich," 
which  Mr  Bicheno  fears  might  be 
deadened  or  destroyed  by  a  legal 


839 

provision  for  the  poor  ?  Is  the  land- 
lord at  once  greedy  and  generous, 
callous  and  pitiful  ?  Does  he  with 
the  one  hand  "  abstract  the  greatest 
quantity  of  rent,"  and  with  the  other 
perform  "  the  virtuous  exercise  of 
the  social  feelings?"  His  mind  be- 
tween the  two  must  be  in  a  queer 
puzzlement;  and  in  his  quandary  he 
will  be  apt  to  violate  the  Christian, 
injunction,  not  to  let  the  "  right  hand 
know  what  the  left  is  doing." 

Provision  by  law  must  therefore 
be  made  for  the  poor  in  Ireland.  Can 
the  absentee  Irish  landlords  utter  a 
syllable  against  such  a  provision,  on 
the  score  of  injustice  ?  If  they  do, 
they  must  be  hissed  and  hooted 
dumb.  Will  the  resident?  Many, 
we  solemnly  believe,  will  not ;  not, 
if  the  cause  of  the  Irish  poor  be 
taken  up,  heart  and  hand,  by  Eng- 
land. England  may  have  done  Ire- 
land wrong  ;  now  she  seeks  to  right 
her  ;  not  by  Coercive  Bills  alone — 
not  by  Church  Spoliation  Bills — but 
by  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  sent  by 
Justice  on  a  mission  of  Mercy.  She 
would  fain  see  done  for  her,  what  in. 
similar  circumstances  was  done  for 
herself  by  one  of  the  wisest  of  her 
own  monarchs,  and  by  the  wisest  of 
her  own  statesmen- 

In  the  net  annual  produce  of  the 
soil  there  is  a  fund  from  which  the 
legislature  ought  to  authorize  the 
Government  to  levy  a  tax  in  the 
shape  of  apoor'srate ;  the  application 
of  which  to  labour  would  soon 
change  the  aspect  of  things,  and  in 
progress  of  time,  by  the  prodigious 
impulse  that  would  be  given  to  the 
whole  energies  of  the  people,  would 
"scatter  plenty  over  a  smiling  land." 

We  have  seen  of  what  materials 
the  pauper  population  is  composed ; 
and  how — that  is,  on  what  and  by 
whom— at  present  it  is  fed.  It  does 
not  subsist  wholly — though  in  great 
part — on  air;  but  it  devours  pota- 
toes and  water.  Frequently  when 
obliged  to  "rough  it,"  it  eats  land 
and  sea  refuse — and  it  is  wonderful 
for  how  long  it  can  get  on  upon — 
nothing.  At  bridals,  often  is  there 
no  richer  fare  than  "  potatoes  and 
point ;"  and  at  funerals  the  salt  lies 
untasted  on  the  breast  of  the  corpse. 
Yet,  would  you  believe  it,  such  main- 
tenance even  as  this  is  too  expensive 
for  the  country's  means  ?  Different 
calculations  give  different  amounts ; 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


840 

butthe  cost  cannot  be  far  short  of  two 
millions.  Call  it  one — and  you  Lave 
a  grievous  and  an  iniquitous  tax. 
The  more  it  is,  the  more  crying  the 
necessity  that  it  should  be  removed ; 
the  less  it  is,  the  easier  will  it  be 
found  to  supply  its  place  by  such 
means  and  modes  as  may  seem  to 
give  some  indications  that  we  are 
not  living  in  an  utterly  barbarous 
age,  and  without  any  government. 

It  is  proposed,  then,  by  means  spe- 
cified, to  set  all  this  countless  multi- 
tude of  bodies,  legs,  and  arms,  now 
idle,  or  worse  than  idle,  to  work; 
and  it  is  hoped,  that  thereby  may  be 
fed,  more  cheaply  and  more  copious- 
ly, all  that  countless  multitude  of 
mouths.  Suppose  that  the  tax — the 
poor's  rate — raised  double  the  amount 
of  what  is  now  thus  expended  on 
this  miserable  multitude — say  three 
millions  of  money — and  that  the  value 
of  the  work  done  was  but  one-half 
of  that — then  are  the  people  em- 
ployed no  worse  off,  but  better,  be- 
cause employed,  than  before — and 
there  is  nowhere  any  loss.  But  sup- 
pose the  labour  set  a-going  by  the 
three  million  as  productive  in  Ire- 
land, as  it  would  be  in  Scotland  or  in 
England ;  and  what  then  ? 

Now  the  truth  is — and  in  the  face 
of  such  evidence  as  has  been  given, 
nobody  has  been  found  so  audacious 
as  directly  to  deny  it — that  millions 
on  millions  might  be  employed  in 
Ireland,  on  labour  that  would  be  in- 
finitely more  productive  than  in  any 
other  part  of  the  United  Kingdom. 

We  should  like  to  have  a  look  at 
the  man  who,  with  the  Parliamentary 
Reports  in  his  hands,  directly  denied 
this ;  but  there  are  still  wiseacres 
among  us  who  insist  that  capital — as 
it  is  called — always  finds  employ- 
ment for  itself— and  the  very  best 
employment  too — and  that  nothing 
can  be  done  by  legislature  or  govern- 
ment, but — 'tis  the  old  story — to  let 
capital  alone — and  it  will  work  at 
will  its  own  wonders.  This  is  just 
saying,  that  whatever  any  and  every 
man  voluntarily  does  with  ,his  own 
is  the  best  possible — not  only  for 
himself — but  for  his  country — and 
for  the  human  race.  The  pleasant 
Optimists ! 

It  would  be  much  nearer  the  truth 
to  say — in  the  case  of  Ireland — that 
the  rule  of  action  has  been  just  the 
reverse  of  all  thisj  and  that  govern- 


[May, 


ment  alone  can  or  will  turn  capital 
there — by  a  compulsory  provision — 
and  other  means — into  productive 
employment — whereby  capital  shall 
create  capital — not  beyond  the  un- 
certain dreams  of  vain  and  ignorant 
imagination — but  up  to  the  settled 
and  splendid  visions  of  calmest  and 
wisest  reason. 

It  has  been  often  said,  and  will,  we 
daresay,  be  often  said  again,  that 
whatever  is  given  by  the  possessors 
of  property  to  the  maintenance  of 
the  poor  is  just  so  much  deducted 
from  a  capital  that  would  be  other- 
wise employed  in  productive  labour, 
and  thus  is  there  just  so  much  loss 
of  the  country's  wealth.  The  truth 
of  this  depends  upon  many  lies — 
and  especially  on  these  two  supposi- 
tions— that  the  poor  thus  maintained 
do  nothing — and  secondly,  that  they 
are  in  themselves,  of  less  worth  than 
beasts.  If  they  cannot  work,  it  would 
be  somewhat  unreasonable  to  re- 
quire that  they  should ;  and  as  they 
are  not  positively  put  to  death,  nor 
yet  generally  permitted  to  perish, 
they  are  somehow  or  other  maintain- 
ed !  if  they  can,  it  would  be  equally 
unreasonable  not  to  make  them 
tackle  to;  and  unless  we  greatly 
mistake,  such  is  the  object  at  present 
in  view.  But  should  that  object  not 
be  fully  attained — or,  rather  should 
such  labour  not  furnish  an  equiva- 
lent for  its  support,  have  they  no  such 
claim  on  the  capital  of  Christians  as 
that  loudly  urged,  and  cheerfully 
granted,  by  studs  of  horses  and  packs 
of  hounds?  The  labour  of  those  ani- 
mals is  productive  of  much  pleasure, 
but  of  no  provender — for  the  fox, 
though  he  is  fond  of  poultry,  and  like- 
wise of  lambs,  is  supported  at  less  per 
sonal  expense  than  the  hound  that 
kills  him,  -or  the  hunter  that  is  in  at 
the  death.  All  the  foxes,  however,  are 
supported  by  the  landed  interest — 
besides  other  items — at  the  expense 
of  all  the  horses  and  all  the  hounds  ; 
and  it  is  not  for  us,  who  are  no  very 
skilful  arithmeticians,  to  say  how 
many  Irishmen  might  live  luxuri- 
ously on  the  best  of  potatoes,  mealy 
or  waxy,  at  the  cost  of  one  old  dog- 
fox. 

But  supposing  we  have  not  put 
this  according  to  the  principles  of 
political  economy — Dr  Doyle  surely 
has — "  if  the  rich  encourage  arts  and 
agriculture  by  useless  and  luxurious 


On  Poor^s  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


1833.] 

consumption ;  if  the  capital  thus  ex- 
ponded  by  them  be  not  withdrawn 
from  productive  labour,  how  can  it 
bo  said  that  the  food  and  raiment 
furnished  to  the  pauper  is  a  draw- 
buck  from  the  resources  of  the  coun- 
try ?  We  may  import  spices  from 
the  East,  and  extract  gems  from  the 
depths  of  the  ocean;  we  may  collect, 
for  our  amusement,  the  beasts  of  the 
earth,  the  fowls  of  the  air,  and  the 
fishes  of  the  sea ;  we  may  gratify  all 
our  appetites,  whether  regular  or 
unruly;  we  may  expend  upon  the 
idle, the  fractious, and  the  profane, the 
fruit  of  labour,  and  the  products  of 
industry  ,"without  trenching  upon  the 
capital  to  be  employed  in  productive 
labour ;  but  if,  from  our.excesses  and 
fictitious  wants,  we  deduct  a  mite 
for  the  widow,  or  a  crust  for  the 
orphan,  industry  will  perish  and  the 
state  decay !" 

The  Doctor  is  here  speaking  of  the 
poor  who  do  not,  because  they  can- 
not, work ;  and  his  argument  is  con- 
clusive; but  we  speak  of  the  poor 
who  can  and  will  work,  and  for  them 
there  is  no  need  of  any  argument  at 
all.  "  The  poor's  rate,  it  is  true,"  he 
ssys, "  will  not  be  sown  in  the  ground, 
and  the  food  and  raiment  given  to 
tie  pauper  will  not  increase  and 
multiply;"  but  the  shillela  is  laid 
aside  for  fairs  and  patterns — fire- 
arms fall  into  rusty  desuetude — and 
pickaxes,  and  spades,  and  shovels, 
and  gavelocks,  and  scythes,  and 
sickles  are  flourishing  in  all  direc- 
tions, far  more  beautifully  than  in 
any  row  that  ever  did  honour  to 
wake  or  funeral. 

Employment  for  capital  and  la- 
bour !  What — must  we  at  this  time 
of  day  paint  a  Picture  of  Ireland  ? 
We  humbly  decline  doing  so;  but 
may  mention  the  millions  of  fertile 
acres  lying  yet  uncleared — through 
which,  were  solid  arid  liquid  roads 
to  go  straight  as  arrows  or  sinuous 
as  serpents,  we  should  soon  see  a 
new  world  of  wealth.  Bogs,  in  which 
whole  armies  might  sink;  why  are 
they  not  firm  plains  of  green  pas- 
turage or  yellow  corn  ?  They  would 
pny.  They  have  promised — they 
hiive  sworn  to  do  so — and  hitherto 
huve  always  kept  their  oaths.  In  a 
vc  ry  few  years  .all  those  that  under 
cultivation  pledged  their  faith  to  re- 
pjsy  its  cost,  have  redeemed  it;  they 
justly  returned  the  capital  they  had 


841 

"  absorbed,"  and  generously  made  a 
present  in  perpetuity  of  themselves 
in  land  worth  30s.  per  acre  rent  to 
their  benefactors  thus  enriched  by 
their  judicious  kindness  to  the  poor. 
There  is  gratitude.  Rivers  ?  Nature 
has  made  them  magnificent — let  art 
make  them  useful,  and  then  poet 
and  political  economist  and  patriot 
may  all  equally  rejoice  in  the  beau- 
tiful country  from  source  to  sea. 
Sea?  Of  what  other  island  have 
the  coasts,  iron-bound  or  emerald- 
cased,  been  indented  by  the  sleepless 
and  scientific  surges,  into  such  calm 
and  capacious  bays  and  harbours, 
where  all  the  navies  of  the  world 
might  ride  ?  And  shall  such  rivers, 
but  "  for  want  of  a  shallow  here  and 
there  being  deepened,  or  a  pier 
built,"  still  flow  through  "  districts 
poor  and  barbarous,"  "  cut  off  from 
all  means  of  communication  with 
markets  and  civilisation,"  while  a 
million  of  men  are  crying — "  give  us 
work  or  we  die  ?"  Shall  such  seas 
in  vain  thunder  or  whisper  in  our 
ears  to  turn  to  blessing  "  the  respi- 
ration of  the  tides,"  in  vain  stretch 
out  their  arms  to  bear  all  our  float- 
ing industry  out  upon  the  broad 
bosom  of  the  bountiful  deep  ? 

All  this  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking  is  now — waste.  Could  ca- 
pital, then,  be  got — and  to  get  it,  it 
is  not  necessary  to  be  able  to  say 
what  it  is — there  is  labour  enough 
and  to  spare,  ready  to  execute,  and 
work  to  do  which,  when  done,  would 
be  wealth.  "  I  consider,"  says  Mr 
Wiggins,  "  that  in  no  part  of  these 
islands  can  capital  be  so  profitably 
employed  as  in  Ireland,  under  its 
presentcircumstances — certainly  not 
in  England  or  Wales."  "  I  scarcely 
know  any  place  in  Ireland,"  says  Mr 
Hardy,  "  where  the  investment  of 
capital,  judiciously  laid  out,  would 
not  produce  a  profit  far  beyond  the 
interest  of  the  money  expended." 
"  I  am  decidedly  of  opinion,"  says 
Dr  Doyle,  "  that  a  quantity  of  capi- 
tal, such  as  I  would  hesitate  to  name, 
might  be  profitably  expended,  both 
in  the  improvement  of  the  lands  now 
enclosed,  and  in  the  reclaiming  lands 
now  waste."  "  There  is,"  says  Mr 
Ensor,  "  scarcely  any  field  that  is 
cultivated  as  it  ought  to  be."  "  In 
consequence,"  says  Mr  Williams, 
"  of  the  sum  of  L.l(>7,000,  being  ex- 
pended by  Mr  Nimmo,  in  Connaught 


On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland. 


842 

alone,  in  seven  years,  the  increase  of 
the  annual  revenue  to  Government 
has  since  been  equal  to  the  whole  of 
that  expenditure.  In  the  Cork  dis- 
trict, Mr  Griffiths,  the  Government 
engineer,  expended  L.60,000  in  seven 
years  ;  and  the  increase  of  Govern- 
ment revenue  in  customs  and  excise 
has  been  L.50,000  a-year,"  and  all  this 
chiefly  from  increasing  facilities  for  a 
profitable  interchange  of  produce — 
coal,  turf,  manure  of  all  sorts,  slates, 
bricks,  lime,  building-stone,  tim- 
ber, potatoes,  and  other  provisions. 
The  whole  of  this  produce,  observes 
Mr  Scrope,  which  must  be  presumed 
to  bear  the  proportion  of  at  least 
ten  to  one  in  annual  value  to  the 
revenue  collected  upon  it,  must  be 
considered  in  the  light  of  a  new 
creation,  called  into  existence  on 
these  spots  in  a  few  years  by  the  ju- 
dicious outlay  of  a  comparatively 
insignificant  capital. 

We  have  seen  that  the  present  an- 
nual provision  for  the  poor  in  Ireland 
is  estimated  by  Dr  Doyle  at  a  mil- 
lion and  a  half — by  Mr  Wilmot  Hor- 
ton  at  three  millions.  Were  by  far 
the  greater  part  of  that  vast  sum  em- 
ployed under  a  poor's  law — on  able- 
bodied  men,  each  tearing  away  like 
tigers  at  such  productive  work  as  we 
have  been  speaking  of,  instead  of 
being  given  to  them  merely  to  keep 
them  alive  in  idle  indigence,  would 
it  not  be  for  the  benefit  of  Ireland  ? 
Could  you  count  the  capital  that 
would  be  thereby  created  in  fifty 
years  ? 

Suppose  that  no  relief  at  all  were 
given  to  the  landholders — to  those 
who  at  present  suffer — but  that  they 
continued  to  pay,  as  they  now  do,  the 
whole ;  under  regulation  they  would 
at  least  get  something  for  their  mo- 
ney ;  but  it  is  proposed  that  the  half 
should  be  paid  by  the  landowners. 
No  man  in  his  senses  holds  Mr  M'Cul- 
loch's  doctrine  about  absenteeism. 
Now,  these  gentry  spend  all  their 
income,  and  some  of  them  contrive 
to  spend  a  good  deal  more,  out  of 
Ireland — to  the  amount — it  is  be- 
lieved— of  some  three  millions.  A 
poor's  rate  sends  back,  or  keeps  part 
of  it,  to  be  employed  as  capital — 
and  were  they  taxed  double,  it  could 
hardly  be  called  unjust.  But  per- 
haps that  could  not  be  effected.  If 
you  believe  that  the  resident  land- 
owners now  spend  all  their  incomes 


[May, 


in  the  best  way  possible,  it  would  be 
absurd  to  tax  them  as  proposed  ; 
but  you  cannot  believe  that,  without 
disbelieving  all  you  have  ever  seen, 
heard,  or  read  of  Ireland,  and  decla- 
ring yourself  a  universal  sceptic. 
You  must,  in  other  words,  be  a  goose, 
and  in  rainy  weather  ought  always 
to  stand  on  one  leg. 

We  have  heard  it  seriously  recom- 
mended, as  the  only  way  to  improve 
the  condition  of  the  Irish  people,  to 
cultivate  and  encourage  in  them  a 
taste  for  better  living — that  is,  board 
and  lodging,  and  dress.    It  seems  to 
us  that  it  would  be  injudicious  to  do 
so — nay,  inhumane.    They  would  be 
very  unhappy,  were  they  to  lose  their 
taste  for  potatoes,  and  acquire  one 
for  animal  food,  without  being  able 
to  gratify  it  but  by  killing  their  only 
pig,  perhaps  enceinte,'  their  hovels 
have  been  long  little  better  than  styes, 
but  many  thousands  of  them  have 
been  swept  away,  and  the  poor  crea- 
tures think  that  they  were  little  pa- 
laces, now  that  they  know  not  where 
to  lay  their  heads ;  in  their  "  loop'd 
and  window'd  raggedness"  they  are 
not  ripe  for  the  pride  of  apparel.   It 
seems  to  us  far  from  paradoxical  to 
say,  that  if  there  had  been  for  the 
last  half-century  few  absentees — and 
if  the  landowners — the  nobility  and 
gentry — had  acted  on  something  like 
the  same  principles  as  those  of  Eng- 
land— it  would  have  been,  in  the  na- 
ture of  things,  impossible  that  cattle 
and  corn  could  have  been  annually 
exported  to  the  value  of  not  a  few 
millions  of  money — while  not  a  few 
millions  of  human  mouths  remained 
unacquainted  with  flesh-meat  and 
meal,  and  conversant  but  with  one 
subterraneous   root.     The  nobility 
and  gentry  would  not  have  allowed 
it  j  and  there  would  in  all  such  mat- 
ters have  been  a  very  respectable 
standard  of  taste.  Nay,  whether  they 
would  have  been  willing  to  allow  it 
or  not,  it  could  not  have  been  j  for 
when  society  is  in  a  natural  state, 
there  cannot  be  one  law  for  the  rich 
and  another  law  for  the  poor.    An 
enlightened  and  resident  nobility  and 
gentry,    and  a  dark  and   destitute 
tenantry,  were  never,  we  venture  to 
say,  seen  even  in  Dream-land.     The 
population  of  Ireland  would,  in  our 
opinion,  have  been  far  greater  than 
it  now  is  j  it  would  have  been  pros- 
perous ;  and  yet  the  resources  of  the 


1333.]  On  Poor's  Laws,  and  their  Introduction  into  Ireland.  843 


country  seen  inexhaustibly  opening 
out.  for  an  increase  of  happier  and 
happier  numbers. 

But  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  Ire- 
land have  not  done  their  duty.  They 
IT  ust  be  compelled  to  do  it ;  they 
ir  ust  be  taxed,  that  the  character  and 
condition  of  the  people  they  have 
umaturally  neglected  may  be  raised 
from  pitiable  and  shameful  degrada- 
tion— or  rather,  that  the  people  may 
bo  enabled  by  their  own  labour  to 
n,ise  their  character  and  condition 
for  themselves. 

There  would  soon  be  plenty  of  ca- 
p  tal ;  it  would  then  be  borrowed  in 
all  the  stock-markets  of  Europe,  on 
sc  curity  of  the  cultivated  soil  of  one 
o '  the  richest  islands  in  the  world, 
then  enjoying  the  strange  visitation 
o"  peace.  Ay— all  blessing  and  all 
power  are  in  that  one  word — peace. 

A  few  millions  are  all  that  is 
wanted  to  begin  with— and  they  are 
to  be  had  for  a  word.  There  are 
tie  men— there  are  the  wastes— if 
wastes  they  maybe  called — which  we 
know  can  in  a  few  years  defray  the 
c<  >st  of  cultivation— and  endless  other 
employment  for  productive  labour 
beside.  So  far  from  being  Utopian, 
tie  plan  proposed  is  one  of  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence,  proved  by  ex- 
perience to  be  practicable,  and  to  be 
curried  into  execution  by  the  self- 
SKnie  machinery  that  has  everywhere 
else  in  the  civilized  world  been  em- 
ployed to  improve  the  condition  of 
man. 

We  have  been  told  by  some  that 
this  is  purely  an  Irish  question.  But 
tl  at  is  not  true.  It  is  a  question  af- 
ft  cting  all  the  British  dominions— it  is 
a  question  of  humanity.  But,  view- 
ed in  the  simplest  light,  how  does 
it  directly  affect  England  ?  A  popu- 
Iftion  of  eight  millions,  afflicted  by 
d  Test  poverty,  sends  annually  across 
n  any  bridges  numerous  starving 
bands  to  assist  in  her  agriculture. 
Li  her  present  condition,  we  cannot 
b  ?lieve  that  such  an  influx  of  labour- 


ers, whose  wages  at  home,  when 
they  have  any,  are,  on  the  average 
of  a  year,  not  more  than  fourpence 
a-day,  can  be  for  good.  But  wiser 
persons  than  we  pretend  to  be,  think 
it  may  be  so — so  let  that  pass.  All 
agree,  however,  that  the  permanent 
settlement  in  England,  of  an  immense 
number  of  Irish  immigrants,  is  a  sore 
national  calamity;  and  most  now 
believe  that  the  evil  can  be  stopt 
only  by  the  establishment  of  a  poor's 
law  in  Ireland.  Some,  indeed,  think 
— and  there  will  always  be  a  few 
fools  to  think  any  thing — that  the 
better  off  the  Irish  are  in  their  own 
country,  the  readier  will  they  be  to 
leave  it.  Certain  it  is,  that  the 
amount  of  thepoor'srates  in  England 
is  raised  by  this  one  cause — operating 
directly  and  indirectly — nearly  two 
millions ;  so  that  England  and  Ire- 
land together  now  pay  four  millions 
at  least  on  account  of  Irish  poor — a 
far  greater  sum  than  what  any  body 
has  ever  dreamt  would  be  required, 
(except  those  who  talk  about  the  ab- 
sorption of  the  whole  rental,)  were 
there  a  poor's  law  for  Ireland  to  set 
to  work  at  home,  and  in  the  be- 
neficial way  described,  all  her  un- 
employed population. 

Long  as  this  article  is,  we  have  but 
opened  the  question.  We  know  that 
it  is  one  of  great  difficulty,  and  that 
it  will  need  all  the  wisdom  of  the  le- 
gislature to  bring  it  to  a  satisfactory 
settlement.  We  shall  hear  something, 
we  suppose,  of  the  opinions  of  Mi- 
nisters, when  Mr  Richards  brings  it 
before  the  House.  They  have  told  us 
indeed  that  they  do  not  intend  to 
propose  any  measures  respecting  it 
this  session ;  and  it  would  perhaps  be 
unreasonable  to  expect  they  should  ; 
but  surely  they  must  be  preparing — 
maturing — some  in  their  mighty 
minds  ;  and  after  they  have  disposed 
of  the  Church  of  England  in  Ireland, 
and  in  England,  they  will  be  more 
at  leisure  to  legislate  for  the  poor  of 
both  countries. 


844 


Songs  after  the  French  of  Bet -anger. 


[May, 


SONGS  AFTER  THE  FRENCH  OF  BERANGER. 


J. 


THEvSTUDIES  OF  THE  LADIES  (A  LA  FHANCOIS.) 


MAMMA — this  Fenelon's  a  quiz  : 

I  hate  his  sanctimonious  airs : 

Why,  what  a  tedious  fool  he  is — 

His  masses,  needles,  pins,  and  prayers ! 

A  concert,  new  ballet,  or  ball, 

Would    better   teach   what    we   should 

know. 

Ho,  ho,  ho  !  the  ladies  all, 
Ho,  ho,  ho  !  they  study  so. 

Your  Missy  to  her  sampler  set ; 
My  music-master  waits,  Mamma, 
We've  got  to-day  the  new  duet 
(A  charming  piece)  of  Armida; 
I  seem  in  singing  to  recall 
The  very  flames  which  made  her  glow. 
Ho,  ho,  ho !  the  ladies  all, 
Ho,  ho,  ho !  they  study  so. 

Let  little  Miss  her  pantry  tend, 
For  me,  Mamma,  an  hour  or  two 
With  Monsieur  Chassez  I  must  spend, 
To  learn  my  "  pas  voluptueux ;" 


My  frock's  so  long,  I'll  surely  fall, 
Let's  tuck  it  up  before  I  go. 
Ho,  ho,  ho!  the  ladies  all, 
Ho,  ho,  bo  !  they  study  so. 

Good-bye,  Mamma,  I  must  be  gone; 

'Tis  only  to  the  gallery,  where 

To  admiration  I  have  drawn 

An  outline  of  the  Belvidere. 

Heavens,  what  a  form  !  how  strong,  how 

tall! 

What  graces  all  his  members  show  ! 
Ho,  ho,  ho !  the  ladies  all, 
Ho,  ho,  ho  !  they  study  so. 

I  must  get  married,  too — O  la! 
These  customs  are  so  strict  with  us ! 
To  tell  the  truth,  my  dear  Mamma, 
The  case  is  most  necessitous  ; 
For  if  the  world  should  hear  at  all — 
But  then  they  laugh  at  that,  you  know. 
Ho,  ho,  ho  !  the  ladies  all, 
Ho,  ho,  ho  !  they  study  so. 


II. 


THE  LITTLE  BROWN  MAN. 


A  LITTLE  MAN  we've  here, 
All  in  a  suit  of  brown, 

Upon  town  : 

He's  as  brisk  as  bottled  beer, 
And,  without  a  shilling  rent, 

Lives  content ; 

For  d'ye  see,  says  he,  my  plan — 
D'ye  see,  says  he,  my  plan — 
My  plan,  d'ye  see,  's  to — laugh  at  that ! 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  little  brown 
man! 

When  every  mad  grisette 
He  has  toasted,  till  his  score 

Holds  no  more ; 
Then,  head  and  years  in  debt, 
When  the  duns  and  bums  abound 

AH  around, 

D'ye  see,  says  he,  my  plan — 
D'ye  see,  says  he,  my  plan — 
My  plan,  d'ye  see,  's  to — laugh  at  that ! 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  little  brown 
man ! 

When  the  rain  comes  through  his  attic, 
And  he  lies  all  day  a-bed 

Without  bread ; 

When  the  winter  winds  rheumatic 
Make  him  blow  his  nails  for  dire 

Want  of  fire, 


D'ye  see,  says  he,  my  plan — 
D'ye  see,  says  he,  my  plan — 

My  plan,  d'ye  see,  's  to — laugh  at  that ! 

Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  little  brown 
man  ! 

His  wife,  a  dashing  figure, 
Makes  shift  to  pay  her  clothes 

By  her  beaux : 
The  gallanter  they  rig  her, 
The  more  the  people  sneer 

At  her  dear ; 

Then  d'ye  see,  says  he,  my  plan — 
D'ye  see,  says  he,  my  plan — 
My  plan,  d'ye  see,  's  to — laugh  at  that ! 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  little  brown 
man! 

When  at  last  laid  fairly  level, 
And  the  priest  (he  getting  worse) 

'Gan  discourse 
Of  death  and  of  the  devil; 
Our  little  sinner  sighed, 

And  replied, 

Please  your  reverence,  my  plan- 
Please  your  reverence,  my  plan — 
My  plan,  dy'e  see,  's  to — laugh  at  that ! 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  little  brown 
man 


18:330 


Songs  after  the  French  of  Ber anger. 

nr. 


MY  LISETTE,  SHE  IS  NO  MORE 


WHAT!  Lisette,  can  this  be  you? 

5fou  in  silk  and  sarcenet! 
You  in  rings  and  brooches  too  ! 
You  in  plumes  of  waving  jet ! 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
Safely  you  are  not  Lisette  ! 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
My  Lisette,  you  are  no  more  ! 

How  your  feet  the  ground  despise, 

All  in 'shoes  of  satin  set; 
Ahd  your  rouge  with  roses  vies — 
Prithee  where  didst  purchase  it? 

Oh,  no,  no,  no, 
Surely  you  are  not  Lisette  ! 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
My  Lisette,  you  are  no  more  ! 

Round  your  boudoir  wealth  has  spread 

Gilded  couch  and  cabinet, 
Silken  curtains  to  your  bed, 
All  that  heart  can  wish  to  get. 

But  oh  no,  no,  no, 
Surely  you  are  not  Lisette  ! 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
My  Lisette,  you  are  no  more  ! 

Simpering,  you  twist  your  lip 

To  a  smile  of  etiquette  : 
Not  a  sign  of  mirth  must  slip 

Past  the  bounds  your  teachers  set ; 

And  oh  no,  no,  no, 
Surely  you  are  not  Lisette  ! 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
My  Lisette,  you  are  no  more ! 


Far  away  the  days,  alas  ! 

When  in  cabin  cold  and  wet, 
Love's  imperial  mistress  was 
Nothing  but  a  gay  grisette. 

But  oh  no,  no,  no, 
Surely  you  are  not  Lisette  ! 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
That  Lisette,  you  are  no  more  ! 

You,  ah  me  !  when  you  had  caught 

My  poor  heart  in  silken  net, 
Never  then  denied  me  aught, 
Never  played  this  proud  coquette. 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
Surely  you  are  not  Liselte  ! 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
My  Lisette,  you  are  no  more  ! 

Wedded  to  a  wealthy  fool, 

Paying  dear  for  leave  to  fret ; 

Though  his  love  be  somewhat  cooJ, 

Be  content  with  what  you  get. 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
Surely  you  are  not  Lisette ! 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
My  Lisette,  you  are  no  more  ! 

If  that  love's  divine  be  true, 

'Tis  when  fair  and  free  are  met : 
As  for  you,  Madame,  adieu — 
Let  the  haughty  Duchess  fret ! 

For  oh  no,  no,  no, 
Surely  she  is  not  Lisette  ! 

Oh  no,  no,  no, 
My  Lisette,  she  is  no  more ! 


IV. 


THE  DOCTOR  AND  THE  PATIENT. 


I'VE  lived  of  late  by  Doctor's  rule ; 

And  thus  (his  cane  beneath  his  nose) 
Quoth  he,  "  Your  fever  we  shall  cool 

By  abstinence,  and  by  repose." 
Bt;t  in  my  heart  Love's  voice  began, 

"'  A  galopade  or  so.  were  well." 
I  rose  and  waltzed  an  hour  with  Ann. 

But  do  not  tell,  oh,  do  not  tell 

A  word  of  that  to  Doctor  Fell ! 

"  Beware  of  Bacchus,"  says  our  Sage, 
Our  Esculapius,  who  but  he  ? 

Tie  purest  preacher  of  the  age 
Ne'er  so  enjoined  sobriety. 

But  in  my  heart  Love's  voice  began, 
"  To  drink  her  health,  methiriks  'twere 
well." 

So  down  I  sat  and  toasted  Ann.  * 
But  do  not  tell,  oh,  do  not  tell 
A  word  of  that  to  Doctor  Fell ! 


"  We  must  not  sing,  it  hurts  the  chest,'* 
Why  here's  a  pretty  how-d'ye-do  ! 

The  man  must  surely  be  possess'd  ; 
Pray  God  it  a'n't  the  wandering  Jew  ! 

But  in  my  heart  Love's  voice  began, 
"  One  stave,  and  all  will  soon  be  well." 

You  choruss'd  me  while  singing  Ann  : 
But  do  not  tell,  oh,  do  not  tell 
A  word  of  that  to  Doctor  Fell ! 

"  Affect  not  womankind,"  quoth  he, 
"  All  passion  we  must  pretermits," 

Now  on  my  soul  the  knave  must  be 
A  Trappist  or  a  Jesuit ! 

But  in  my  heart  Love's  voice  began, 
"  A  kiss  would  surely  make  you  well." 

I'm  going  now  for  one  from  Ann— 
But  do  not  tell,  oh,  do  not  tell 
A  word  of  that  to  Doctor  Fell ! 


846 


Twaddle  on  Tiveedside. 


[May, 


TWADDLE  ON  TWEEDSIDE. 


FAREWELL,  O  Winter  !  gentle- 
manly Old  Man ;  and  hail,  O  Spring ! 
most  ladylike  of  Young  Women ! 
Frequent  flirtation  had  there  been 
for  a  month  or  two  between  Grey- 
beard and  Green  Mantle,  and  at  one 
time  we  thought  it  would  have  been 
a  match.  But  mine  ancient's  heart 
failed  on  the  very  evening  of  the 
Sabbath,  after  publication  of  banns ; 
he  disappeared  like  "  snaw  aff  a 
dyke,"  and  'tis  rumoured  that  he  has 
gone  with  Captain  Back  to  the  frozen 
regions,  perhaps  of  the  Pole.  Lovely 
Spring,  noways  cast  down,  seemed 
to  feel  that  she  had  made  a  narrow 
escape  from  hirpling  Eld;  and,  if 
we  do  not  greatly  mistake  the  mat- 
ter, she  will,  ere  long,  be  leaning  her 
ear  "  in  many  a  secret  place,"  to  the 
soft  solicitations  of  Summer,  and 
yielding  herself  up  with  the  usual 
sort  of  struggles  to  his  blameless  em- 
braces. The  marriage,  we  predict, 
will  be  celebrated  on  the  first  of 
June,  for  in  Scotland  'tis  reckoned 
unlucky  to  wed  in  May;  and  we,  as 
Poet-Laureate  of  Cupid  and  Hymen, 
shall  with  our  Flamingo  write  their 
Epithalamium. 

Let  us,  for  love  of  heaven  and 
earth,  get  out  of  Edinburgh.  Here, 
ever  since  November,  have  we  been 
harbouring  among  houses,  till  we 
have  almost  hardened  into  stone  and 
lime, — into  the  part  of  Wall.  Our 
system  has  got  smokified;  and  a 
queer  fish  at  all  times,  you  might  take 
us  now  for  a  dried  haddock.  Our 
circulation,  unlike  that  of  Maga,  is 
low  and  slow ;  was  there  ever  such 
a  pulse  ?  one  in  the  minute.  Our 
eyes  that  have  been  likened  to  eagles' 
are  more  like  oysters' ;  the  roses  on 
our  lips  are  lilies ;  and  our  cheeks 
outochre  a  sick  dandelion.  We  shall 
not  say — whatever  we  may  think — 
that  our  shanks  are  shrivelled ;  but 
we  confess  we  do  not  relish  these 
wrinkles  in  our  hose ;  and  it  is  not 
unalarming  to  observe  that  these 
shorts,  always  easy,  are  now  wide, 
and  assuming  the  appearance  of  pet- 
ticoats. "  This  will  never  do."  Let 
us,  for  love  of  heaven  and  earth,  get 
out  of  Edinburgh. 

Ha !  we  hear  the  phaeton.  No 
dawn  yet — but  Peter  is  regular  as 


clock-work — and  at  four — 'tis  stri- 
king in  the  lobby — the  Set-out  is  at 
the  door.  Let  us  take  a  caulker. 
Curse  your  coffee — at  the  best  'tis 
but  birstled  beans.  But  bruised 
barleycorn  is  Glenlivet.  A  few 
mouthfuls  of  bap— and— ham — never 
mind  the  steps — the  crutch  is  our 
leaping  pole— all's  right,  Peter— canny 
on  the  causeway — but  at  the  Maca- 
dam let  go  the  tits — we  give  you 
four  hours  to  do  the  distance — thirty 
miles  and  a  trine — you  may  pull  up 
for  a  minute  to  wet  their  mouth  at 
Torsonce — and  now  for — CLOVEN- 
FORD. 

The  mornings  are  chill  yet — and 
there  is  nothing  like  a  close  carriage. 
There  is  something  exceedingly  snug 
in  this  clever  contrivance  of  a  head. 
No  phaeton  had  ever  a  more  magni- 
ficent developement.  He  is  fit  to  be 
president  of  the  phrenologists.  These 
windows  of  his  are  eyes — and  we  are 
the  spirit  that  looks  through  them— 
CHRISTOPHER  THE  FAR-KEEKER. 

There  is  surely  snow.  Smoothly 
as  in  a  sleigh  are  we  gliding  along 
one  way,  and  the  trees  another.  If 
they  keep  on  at  that  rate,  they  will 
be  at  the  Tron  Church  before  we 
are  at  Fushie  Bridge.  Dim  is  Dal- 
keith  in  the  dawn ;  but  the  houses 
are  beginning  to  bestir  themselves, 
and  by  and  by  the  old  church  tower 
will  be  audibly  counting  his  beads 
to  the  number  of  five,  and  looking 
out  for  the  light  from  the  sea.  There 
is  Arniston  gate,  with  its  elephants. 
One  might  imagine  himself  in  India, 
about  to  beat  up  the  quarters  of  some 
native  Nabob. 

We  suspected  as  much.  Ay,  we 
have  been  taking  a  snooze — and  'tis 
broad  morning.  What  is  there  to 
"  prate  of  our  whereabouts  ?"  We 
have  given  the  go-by  to  our  ex- 
cellent friend  Mitchelson's  beauti- 
ful woods  of  Middleton;  and  the 
mists  are  leaving  Lammermoor. 
That  hare  ought  erenow  to  have 
been  at  home  on  the  liill — but  you 
may  bark  and  brastle  as  you  choose, 
my  worthy  colley;  pussey  is  but 
playing  with  you,  and,  carelessly  al- 
teringlher  lazy  limp  into  a  easy  gal- 
lop, without  putting  herself  to  the 
trouble  of  laying  back  her  lugs,  cocks 


1833.] 


Twaddle  on  Tweedside. 


847 


he-fad,  and  while  you  are  yet  plou- 
teriny  among  the   rashes,  the  fleet 
fur  is  far  away  up  the  sheep-nibbled 
groensward;  nay,  by  this  time  couch- 
ed in  her  form  among  the  fern  above 
tin;   line   of    the    dwarf    birk-tree 
groves.     Partridges  !  we  declare — a 
breeding  pair — bobbing  their  heads 
ak  ng  the  barley-braird  on  a  patch  of 
cultivation    on  the    marshy  moor. 
Ti  at  black  breast — almost  of  moun- 
tain— glooming    among    the    green 
hills,  is  no  doubt    populous   with 
moor-fowl, — and  we  could  think  we 
heir  the  gor-cock  crowing— but  'tis 
a  i  aven.     The  little  lambs  must  be- 
w*re  of  racing  too  far  in  the  sun- 
sh  ne  from  their  woolly  mothers  — 
yes  he  is  fondest  of  carrion — and 
probably  there  is  a  dead  horse  in  the 
cle  uch.     God  bless  thee,  small  sweet 
sibnt  source  of   the  silver  Gala! 
Btt  of  all   these   welling    springs, 
eaoh  with  its  emerald  margin,  which 
is  "he  source  acknowledged  by  the 
"  braw  braw  lads  on  Gala-water." 
Tl  e  charm  of  a  pastoral  country  is 
its  calm.   In  all  the  streamy  straths 
you    see    houses, — store-farms    or 
others — and  seed- time  being  some- 
what late  in  our  South  this  season, 
(in  the   West  'twas    early,)  these 
sil  mt-going  plough-teams  are  cheery; 
but  how  still  all  the  hills,  and  bare  of 
human  life !    Yet  there  is  nothing 
da  %k  or  dismal — a  sweet  serenity  is 
ov^r  all — and  the  prevailing  and  per- 
rm.uent  impression  is  that  of  peace. 
Surely  that  white  sea-bird  will  never 
have  the  heart  to  leave  that  quiet 
m<  adow  for  the   stormy  main.     It 
ou^ht  not  to  waver  about  by  itself 
so,  but  to  mix  with  those  other  snowy 
wl.eelers,  and  be  for  life  a  dove. 

Peter  looks  over  his  shoulder,  and 
wonders  to  see  us  sitting  Kit-cat  in 
fu  1  view ;  for,  some  miles  back,  we 
hai  adroitly  let  down  the  head  of 
tho  phaeton, — and  in  our  rich  fur 
gown — a  gift  from  the  Emperor  of 
all  the  Russias — we  have  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  opossum.  Torsonce 
is  an  admirable  inn  ;  but  the  Tits 
ar  j  swinging  along  at  eight  knots ; 
and  silvan  Stow,  with  its  knoll- 
climbing  cottages,  brown  kirk,  and 
pear  -  tree  -  blossoming  manse,  in 
which,  after  morning  prayer,  the 
worthy  pastor  is  issuing  for  a  stroll 
in  his  garden,  is  no  sooner  come  than 
go  ic  ;  and  we  cannot  help  forgetting 
it  i  a  this  long  line  of  woods.  There 


are  no  leaves  yet  on  the  oaks  or 
elms — and  as  for  the  ashes, 'twill  be 
July  at  the  soonest  ere  they  are  in 
full  and  fine  feather ;  but  the  larches, 
and  the  birks,  and  the  alders,  are 
greening    every   sunny    hour,   and 
shewing    sweet  symptoms    of   the 
sappy  spirit  that  is   stirring  in  all 
the  old  forest-trees,  and  will  soon 
be   crowning   them  with   umbrage. 
What  buds  on  that  horse-chestnut ! 
each  as  big  as    our  fist,   and  just 
about  bursting  from  its  balmy  cere- 
ment.   And  are  not  these  sycamores 
promising  striplings  —  every  year's 
shoot  a  yard  long — and  thus  thirty 
feet  high  —  the  lowest  of  them  — 
though  we  remember  seeing  them 
planted — as  if  yesterday  !     No  nest 
more    comfortable  than    a  crow's. 
We  just  see  her  neb.     Many  a  one 
have  we  harried ;  for  in  our  school- 
boy   days    we    were    monkeys    at 
speelmg,  and  have  invaded  even  the 
heron's  domicile,  as  it  swung  to  and 
fro    on    the    elm-tree  top,  "  when 
winds  were  piping  loud,"  and  ur- 
chins on  the  mossy  greens  ward  below 
were  picking  lip  the  broken  branch- 
es, in  intervals   of  upward  -  gazing 
admiration  —  for  as  that  dare-devil 
in  Shakspeare — we  never  remember 
precise  words — says,  we  and  danger 
were  two  lion  whelps,  littered  in  one 
day — but  "we  the  elder  and  more 
terrible" — hem — hem — hem  ! 

We  begin  to  feel  an  appetite  for 
something ;  and  scenery  never  looks 
so  pleasant  as  under  an  appetite. 
Seen  on  a  full  stomach,  nature,  in 
some  strange  sympathy,  seems  la- 
bouring under  a  surfeit — too  blow- 
zy to  be  beautiful — with  a  flushed 
after-dinner  face  expressive  of  no- 
thing better  than  an  inclination  to 
repose.  Hence  it  is  that  poets  so 
love  the  morning.  In  herself  no 
doubt  she  is  lovely,  with  or  without 
her  diamonds;  but  in  your  eyes  she 
is  a  very  angel,  for  no  particle  of 
divine  air  has  left  your  spirit,  and 
you  see  her  in  the  pure  light  of 
imaginative  love.  So  Milton  felt 
when  he  breathed  that  immortal 
line — 

"    Under    the   opening    eyelids   of  the 
Morn !" 

In  Nature  he  saw,  as  it  were,  a  se- 
raph waking  from  sleep ! 

Vegetation  cannot  have  progress- 
ed much  since  the  last  milestone; 


SIS 


twaddle  on  Twcedsictc. 


[May 


nor  earlier  here  than  there  can  sure- 
ly be  the  spring;  yet  all  the  earth 
is  greener— and  bluer  is  the  sky ;  less 
sober  is  our  cheer  of  heart — and  we 
are  happier  because  hungrier — that 
is  the  secret.  Our  system  is  juve- 
nilized  by  all  matin  rural  influences; 
this  is  our  wedding-day,  and  Nature 
is  our  bride.  We  could  get  out  of 
the  phaeton,  and  on  that  half-sunny 
half-shady  spot  lie  down  with  her  in 
our  arms,  and  hug  her  to  our  heart. 
O  Nature  !  how  balmy  is  thy  breath ! 
How  fresh  thy  soft- swell  ing  bosom  ! 
How  couldst  thou  — thou  blessed 
creature  —  throw  thyself  away  on 
Us,  when  all  the  world  were  dying 
for  love  of  Thee,  and  crowding  to 
kiss  thy  feet ! 

Steady  down  hill,  Peter — tighter 
on  Priam,  Peter — softly  with  Rufus 
—Peter ; — there  we  spin — "  and  the 
keen  axle  kindles  as  we  go."  Let 
us  see.  In  three  hours  and  five  mi- 
nutes from  Moray  Place  to  Cloven- 
ford.  Nothing  like  a  long  stride — 
only  thorough-breds,  Peter,  can  do 
the  business  in  style  after  all ; — 
blood,  bone  and  bottom  —  nothing 
like  the  descendants  of  the  Godol- 
phin  Arab. 

The  wayside  inns  of  staid  Scot- 
land will  not  bear  comparison  with 
those  of  merry  England.  There  you 
see  them  smiling,  with  their  trellised 
gables,  low  windows,  and  overhang- 
ing eaves  all  a- twitter  with  swallows, 
a  little  way  off  the  road,  behind  a  fine 
tree,  palisaded  in  the  front  circle, — 

"  In  winter,    shelter,   and    in  summer, 
shade." 

The  porch  is  bloomy;  and  the 
privet  hedge  running  along  the  low 
wall,  does  not  shut  out  a  culinary 
garden,  deficient  neither  in  flowers 
nor  in  fruits,  with  a  bower  at  the 
end  of  the  main  gravel-walk,  where, 
at  tea  or  toddy,  in  love  or  friend- 
ship, you  may  sit,  "  the  world  for- 
getting, by  the  world  forgot;"  or 
take  an  occasional  peep  at  the  vari- 
ous arrivals.  Right  opposite,  on  en- 
tering, you  see  the  bar, — and  that 
pretty  bar-maid,  she  is  the  landlord's 
daughter.  "  The  parlour  on  the 
left,  sir,  if  you  please,"  says  a  silver 
voice,  with  a  sweet  southern — that 
is,  English  accent — so  captivating  to 
every  Scotchman's  ear — and  before 
you  have  had  timeto  read  the  pastoral 
poem  on  the  paper  that  gives  the 


parlour  walls  their  cheerful  charac- 
ter, the  same  pretty  creature  comes 
trippingly  in  with  her  snooded  hair 
comb  surmounted,  and  having  placed 
you  a  chair,  begins  to  wipe  the.  table, 
already  dustless  as  the  mirror  in 
which  she  takes  a  glance  at  her 
shadow,  as  you  take  a  gaze  on  her 
substance;  and  having  heard  your 
sovereign  will  and  pleasure  express- 
ed with  all  the  respectful  tender- 
ness of  a  subject,  retires  with  a 
curtsy, — and  leaves  you  stroking 
your  chin,  in  a  mood  of  undefinable 
satisfaction  with  her,  with  yourself, 
and  with  all  the  world. 

Clovenford  is  not  exactly  such  a 
wayside  inn;  but  the  accommoda- 
tion of  all  kinds  is  excellent — bed, 
board,  and  washing — and  he  who 
cannot  make  himself  comfortable 
here,  as  we  now  are  doing,  cannot 
have  a  calm  conscience.  There  is 
nothing  particular  to  look  at  out- 
doors ;  some  stabling — a  cottage  that 
seems  a  shop,  where  you  may  buy 
snuff  and  sweeties;  fields  with  hedges 
and  gates,  over  one  of  which  a  long- 
nosed  mare,  with  a  foal  at  her  foot 
(an  early  production)  is  nowwhinny- 
ing  after  Priam  or  Rufus;  a  good  bit 
off,  trees  among  which  the  high-road 
disappears;  and,  at  about  a  mile's 
distance  hills,  some  of  them  wooded, 
under  the  line  of  which,  you  would 
know,  without  being  told  it,  from  a 
dim- blue  sort  of  mysterious  aerial 
haze,  must  be  flowing  a  river — and 
what  river  can  itbe  but  the — TWEED  ? 

Helen !  do  you  know  that  you  are 
a  very  bonny  lass  ?  a  commonplace, 
perhaps  inappropriate,  but  popular 
expression  and  one  that  rarely  if 
ever  'gives,  offence;  though  some- 
times they  may  strive  to  look  sulky, 
and  answer  you  by  silence.  But, 
Helen  is  comely,  and  a  most  obli- 
ging creature.  Tuere  is  a  mild  mo- 
desty about  Helen,  that  makes  it 
pleasant  to  be  waited  on  by  her;  and 
though  she  is  never  in  a  hurry,  it  is 
surprising  what  she  puts  through  her 
hands.  We  have  known  her  attend- 
ing, by  her  single  self,  on  three 
tables,  each,  of  course,  in  a  different 
parlour,  one  at  each  end,  and  one  in 
the  middle  of  the  trrms,  and  yet  she 
never  seemed  missing  from  your 
elbow.  Helen  keeps  her  eyes  (hazel) 
perpetually  on  the  watch ;  and  you 
never  need  to  ask  for  an  article.  Pep- 
per, mustard,  or  ketchup— bread, 


J  833.1 


Twaddle  on  Tweedsicle. 


849 


batter,  or  some  more  gravy — what 
you  will — but  wish  for  it — and  she 
presents  it  to  you  with  a  smile — 
not  right  and  rough  over  your  shoul- 
der— as  is  the  use  and  wont  of  some 
nymphs  in  Arcadia — but  standing 
near,  not  close,  in  an  attitude  at  once 
affectionate  and  respectful — and 
more  of  the  former— at  least  so  it 
h.'is  sometimes  seemed  to  us — the 
more  elderly  you  are — if  not  absolu- 
tely old — and  then  she  treats  you 
with  reverence.  Not  a  word  had 
wa  breathed  about  breakfast — yet 
here  comes  the  daughter  of  Leda 
with  the  tray. 

We  read  in  her  eyes  a  vivid  re- 
membrance of  this  very  same  morn- 
ing, of  the  very  same  month,  last 
spring.  All  the  intermediate  year  is 
bj  us  too  forgotten;  and  it  would  re- 
qtire  much  metaphysical  subtlety 
to  analyse  our  feelings  compounded 
of  the  Past  and  Present,  so  as  to 
form  a  new  Tense.  The  Then  and 
the  Now  are  coexistent;  and  slight- 
ly tinged  too  with  a  colouring  of  the 
When.  We  are  conscious  of  a 
wus-is-and-to-be-ish  emotion  on 
looking  at  those  four  eggs,  evident- 
ly new-laid,  those  four  penny  loaves 
in  close  cohesion  with  their  auburn 
crusts— that  plateful  of  wet,  and 
th;it  rack  of  dry  toast — and  above  all, 
th;it  pound  of  butter.  Nor  is  jam  nor 
jelly  not  causative,  each  in  its  own 
degree,  of  our  composite  spiritual 
state;  nor  that  ham.  The  stroup  of 
tho  tea-pot  alone  seems  changed — it 
having  met  with  an  accident  that 
serves  to  dissolve  the  doubtful  iden- 
tity of  the  Two-times-in-one,  and  to 
restore  memory  to  her  seat  of  office, 
which  had  thus  been  usurped  by 
that  strange  faculty,  Imagination. 

We  do  not  dislike,  it  is  pretty  well 
known,  dining  in  company  with  a 
feiv  friends ;  but,  it  is  known  but  to 
ourselves,  -that  we  abhor  any  such 
public  breakfast.  'Tis  with  us  al- 
ways a  solitary  meal.  We  should 
murder  the  man  whom,  in  the  morn- 
injr,  we  heard  munch  munching, 
and  snorting  with  his  nose  in  a  tea- 
cup, like  a  post-horse  at  the  end  of 
a  ^ge  with  his  head  in  a  pail  of 
wster.  There  is  something  mon- 
strous in  the  manner  most  men  eat 
eg:;s — putting  the  open  mouth  of  the 
shell  to  their  own,  and  sucking  in 
white  and  yolk  at  once  with  a  shock- 
ing slobber.  Alone,  one  can  beblame- 

VOL.  XXIII.  NO.  CCVIII. 


lessly  guilty  of  all  enormities,  and 
plump  in  lumps  of  sugar  that  none 
but  an  outlaw  could  venture  on 
in  presence  of  any  other  mortal. 
Tea  should  be  like  toddy—hot, 
strong,  and  sweet ;  and  the  fourth 
and  final  bowl  should  be  toddy,  with 
a  gay  gurgle  of  Glenlivet.  An  egg 
to  the  penny-loaf  is  the  natural  pro- 
portion— and  after  these  eight,  you 
sit  more  composedly,  "  playing  at 
will  your  virgin  fancies,"  with  the 
wet  and  dry  toast  which,  towards 
the  conclusion,  you  "  lay  it  on  thick" 
with  jam  or  jelly — but  mind,  never — 
as  you  hope  to  be  shaved — spread 
the  fruit  with  a  knife — steel  or  silver 
— but  drop  it  on  in  blobs  or  splashes, 
from  a  table-spoon  (not  a  tea-spoon), 
or  in  the  case  of  thin  jelly — and 
especially  if  it  be  white-currant — 
perhaps  the  most  delicious  of  all— 
and  especially  if  it  has  been  what  is 
called  spoilt  in  the  boiling — you  will 
act  wisely  by  letting  it  run  off  from 
the  slowly  inclined  can — without  any 
intermediate  aid — directly  down  up- 
on the  expectant  and  well-buttered 
bun,  which  will  then  be  food  equal 
to  any  ever  presented  in  Paradise  by 
Eve  to  Adam* 

Whoo !  Now  let  us  take  a  look  at 
our  tackle — Mrs  Phin's.  Seldom 
have  we  seen  finer  gut.  The  Gut  of 
Gibraltar  is  a  joke  to  it;  gossamer 
coarse  in  comparison.  This  bunch  of 
lark-winged  hair-lugs  has  a  killing 
look — and  so  have  these  water- 
mouse-bodies  with  wings  of  grey 
mallard.  But  here  are  the  heckles 
that  will  harry  the  river — Professors 
— red  and  black — with  brown  mal- 
lard wings — dressed  fine  on  number 
four  kirby-bend — sharp  as  clegs—- 
yet  almost  minute  as  midges.  The 
trout  that  licks  in  one  of  these  "  wee 
wicked  deevils"  with  his  tongue, 
will  rue  the  day  he  was  spawned  on 
the  banks  of  gravel.  No  loops  on 
any  casting  line  of  ours — all  knots ; 
the  drop-flies — for  we  always  use 
three — depending  four  and  five 
inches  ;  and  the  casting  line  itself  the 
length  of  the  rod  to  a  tittle.  No 
multiplying  reel  for  us— in  all  things 
we  love  simplicity — and  should  we 
even  hook  A  FISH,  with  this  small 
machine  we  shall  prove  his  master. 
Shoot,  spring,  summersault,  or  wal- 
lop as  he  will,  he  is  a  dead  salmon. 

But  the  landlord's  pony's  at  the 
door,  with  a  boy  to  bring  him  back, 
3  I 


850 


who  is  stroking  the  long  forelock 
down  smooth  on  his  Roman  nose,  and 
picking  out  the  straws  till  it  looks 
quite  tidy.  It  would  not  be  easy  to 
determine  his  colour — but,  whatever 
it  is,  he  is  no  chameleon,  and  keeps 
to  it ;  his  ears  are  none  of  the  short- 
est, yet  surely  he  cannot  well  be  a 
mule  either ;  and  though  his  tail,  on 
the  contrary,be  one  of  the  shortest,  yet 
he  seems  anxious  to  make  the  most 
of  it,  and  has  acquired  a  custom  of 
switching  it  in  a  style,  that  if  it  were 
any  thing  more  than  a  mere  stump, 
might  prove  awkward  to  his  rider  in 
miry  waather.  But  let  us  not  any 
longer  criticise  the  worthy  animal,for, 
after  all  he  is  a  choice  article. 

No — no — not  in  the  least — not  hurt 
in  the  least— yet,  devil  take  it— land- 
lord— you  ought  to  be  a  little  more 
particular  about  your  stirrup-lea- 
thers. 'Tis  fortunate  we  fell  off  be- 
fore we  had  got  on  ;  for  we  had  in- 
tended to  start  at  full  gallop — and  as 
on  making  play  we  uniformly  stand 
in  the  stirrups,  had  that  strap  broken 
as  we  were  crossing  the  bridge,  we 
should  have  spoiled  the  pool  below 
for  this  day's  angling.  Peter — you 
are  an  ingenious  and  dexterous  old 
fellow — but  how  will  you  contrive 
to  manage  your  breeches  till  his  re- 
turn, without  braces  ? 

'Tis  about  a  long  Scotch  mile  from 
Clovenford  to  the  hill-top  from 
which  you  get  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  Tweed—at  Ashiestiel.  Ashie- 
stiel !  There  it  stands,  half-embow- 
ered, above  the  bowers  that  here, 
more  than  anywhere  else,  to  our 
eyes  do  indeed  beautify  the  Tweed. 
It  holds  in  kind  command  all  the 
banks  and  braes  about — with  their 
single  trees  dropt  here  and  there  "  in 
nature's  careless  haste,"  and  rich 
with  many  a  stately  grove  over- 
hanging the  river's  gleam,  or  within 
hearing  of  its  murmurs.  But  the 
green  hills  behind  the  house  are  now 
sloping  away  up  to  the  far  mists  that 
seem  to  be  hiding  mountains ;  and 
the  scene,  though  sweet,  is  not  with- 
out grandeur  —  at  this  dim  hour, 
a  melancholy  grandeur.  A  few 
hundred  yards  farther  on  —  and 
closed  at  either  end  with  wooded 
hills— and  cheerful  along  its  wide 
flat  with  ploughed  fields  and  ancient 
pastures — rich  holm  lands — with  a 
few  cottages — each  standing  single 
— and  of  different  characters— from 


Twaddle  on  Tweedside.  [May, 

the  mere  hut  to  the  farm-house— 


and  one  by  the  water's  edge  seems 
to  be  the  miller's— a  long  reach  of 
vale,  in  its  own  serenity,  is  itself  all 
one  home — and  of  yore  it  was  the 
home  of — THE  MAGICIAN.  Here  we 
first  saw— Walter  Scott.  'Tvvas  in 
the  summer  he  was  writing  Mar- 
mion.  He  rode  with  a  party  of  us 
over  the  hills  to  Newark-Tower  on 
the  Yarrow  —  and  we  had  some 
roughish  galloping  after  the  grey- 
hounds. The  Minstrel,  we  remem- 
ber, was  in  at  the  death  of  the  sole 
hare  killed,  and  held  her  up,  on  the 
hill  side,  to  us  below,  with  an  air  of 
triumph.  A  young  Oxonian  tried 
in  vain,  on  the  way  home,  to  win  him 
to  speak  about  poetry;  but  had  to 
put  up  with  a  snatch  of  some  old 
song  or  border  ballad,  chanted  with 
a  kindling  eye  and  impassioned 
voice,  but  having  no  connexion  either 
with  the  scene  around  us,  or  with 
any  thing  that  had  been  passing  in 
conversation.  It  seemed  to  us — that 
though  far  from  being  absent,  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  that  word  —  his 
mind  went  and  came  to  and  fro  the 
visionary  world  of  the  olden  time, 
familiar  with  it  as  with  this  real  sur- 
rounding life.  In  the  evening,  he 
chanted  from  the  quarto  sheets  the 
two  first  cantos  of  Marmion — and 
with  look,  voice,  and  action,  as  ap- 
propriate to  the  spirit-stirring  poetry 
of  war,  as  Wordsworth's  to  the  soul- 
composing  poetry  of  peace. 

Well,  we  shall  jog  up  to  the  head 
of  our  favourite  stream — not  half  a 
mile  above  Ashiestiel — and  keep  all 
day  to  a  few  faithful  pools  that  never 
yet  have  deceived  us — for  what's 
the  use  of  whipping  much  water,  if 
you  know  the  best,  and  are  scientifi- 
cally master  of  the  "  silent  trade  ?" 
There,  my  lad — your  master  is  going 
to  Galashiels — so  away  with  your 
curly  head — but  do  not  burst  the 
pony.  And  be  sure  you  let  Peter 
again  have  his  braces — for  without 
them  he  is  really  not  fit  to  appear  in 
the  kitchen  among  ladies. 

Angling,  in  boyhood,  youth,  and 
manhood's  prime,  was  with  us  a 
passion.  Now  it  is  an  affection.  The 
first  glimpse  of  the  water,  caught 
at  a  distance,  used  to  set  our  hearts 
a-b eating,  and — 

fci  Without  stop  or  stay  down  the  rocky 
way" — 


1853.] 


Twaddle  on  Tweedside. 


851 


ve  rushed  to  the  pastime.  If  we 
saw  a  villain  with  a  creel  on  his 
lack,  wading  waist-deep,  and  from 
tie  middle  of  the  stream  command- 
i  ig  every  cranny  in  among  the  tree 
roots  on  both  sides — in  spite  of  copse 
or  timber — we  cursed  and  could  al- 
most have  killed  him;  and  how  we 
guftawed  when  such  a  reprobate,  at 
a  chance  time,  losing  his  footing 
a  tnong  the  coggly  and  sliddery  stones, 
with  many  staggers  fell  sprawling 
first  back  and  then  forwards,  and 
finally  half-choked  and  grievously 
incommoded  by  the  belt  of  his  emp- 
tied basket  coiling  round  his  thrapple, 
while  the  dead  trouts  were  seen 
floating  about  with  their  yellow  bel- 
lies, wenthatless  down  the  current, 
aid  came  sneaking  out  at  the  ford 
like  a  half-drowned  rat— pity  that 
the  vagabond  had  not  gone  over  the 
waterfall — a  better  death  than  his  fa- 
ther's, who,  it  was  well  known,  was 
h  mged  for  sheep-stealing  at  Carlisle. 
Now  we  can  look  carelessly  at  a 
whole  regiment  of  leathern-aprons, 
a  1  at  once  in  single  file  poaching  the 
1  weed  the  whole  way  from  Peebles 
to  Innerleithen.  Nothing  that  may 
hippen  in  this  world  now  would 
n  ake  us  lose  our  temper.  With  the 
utmost  equanimity  we  can  now  look 
up  to  our  tail-fly — both  bobbers — 
a;  id  several  yards  of  line,  inextrica- 
b  y  hanked,  high  up  a  tree ;  or  on 
tl.e  whole  concern  by  a  sudden  jerk 
converted  into  an  extraordinary  hair- 
b  ill,  such  as  one  reads  of  having  been 
found  in  the  stomachs  of  cows.  The 
s  idden  breaking  of  our  top  just  at 
the  joint,  which  is  left  full  of  rotten 
wood — no  knife  in  our  pocket  and 
n>  spare  top  in  our  but — a  cala- 
n  ity  which  has  caused  frequent  sui- 
c  des — from  us  elicits  but  a  philo- 
sophical smile  at  the  Vanity  of  Hu- 
n  an  Wishes. 

There's  as  pretty  a  piece  of  work- 
n  anship  as  poor  Phin  ever  put  out 
o*  hand — light  as  cork,  and  true  as 
s  eel — and  such  a  run !  Now,  let  us 
c  loose  an  irresistible  leash  of  insects 
-  -and  we  lay  a  sovereign  to  a  six- 
p  ance  that  we  are  fast  in  silver- 
s' -ales  before  half-a-dozen  throws. — 
\  /here  the  deuce  is  our  book  ?  Not 
ii.  this  pocket — nor  this — nor  this 
--nor  this.  Confound  it — that' is 
v  jry  odd — it  can't  surely  be  in  our 
b  -eeches  —  no  —  no — not  there — 
c  irse  it — that  is  very  queer— nor  in 
tie  crown  of  our  hat  — no  — dang 


it— that  is  enough  to  try  the  pa- 
tience of  a  saint !  Where  the  devil 
can  it  be  ?  Not  in  our  basket — no 

and  Tommy !  can  we,  like  an 

infernal  idiot,  have  left  our  book 
on  the  breakfast-table  at  Cloven- 
ford? 

O  the  born  idiots  of  the  Inn  !  not 
to  see  our  book  lying  on  the  break- 
fast-table. The  blind  blockheads  must 
have  taken  it  for  the  family  Bible. 
And  Helen,  too !  not  to  see  and  send 
it  after  us  by  Peter  on  Priam !  Never 
again,  were  we  to  drag  on  a  miser- 
able existence  like  Methusaleh's, 
will  we  have  the  wretched  folly  to 
come  out  to  Clovenford !  From  this 
blasted  hour  we  swear  to  give  up 
angling  for  ever— and  we  have  a 
mind  to  break  into  twenty  thousand 
pieces  this  great,  big,  thick,  coarse, 
clumsy,  useless  and  lumbering  rod ! 
We  beseech  us  to  look  at  that— 
the  take — the  take  is  on — by  all  that 
is  prolific,  the  surface  of  the  water 
is  crawling  with  noses  and  back-fins 
— scores  of  pounders  are  plumping 
about  in  all  directions — and  oh,  Ge- 
mini! the  ripple  over  by  yonder, 
in  the  shallow  water  of  that  little 
greensward  bottomed  bay,  betrays  a 
monster.  Such  a  day,  and  such  an 
hour,  and  such  a  minute  for  certain 
slaughter — for  bloody  sport — never 
saw  we  with  our  eyes — though  we 
have  for  fifty  years  and  more  been 
an  angler.  People  in  pulpits  preach, 
patience — blockheads  in  black  and 
with  bands — smooth  and  smug  smi- 
ling sinners  who  never  knew  disap- 
pointment nor  despair — nor  have  the 
souls  of  the  poor  prigs  capacity  to 
conceive  such  a  trial  as  this.  There 
they  go — heads  and  tails — leap— leap 
—leaping — but  no  splash — for  the 
largest  dip  noiselessly  as  the  least—- 
and we  hear  only  a  murmur. — Oh 
lord ! 

Why  are  not  people  planting  po- 
tatoes somewhere  in  sight?  No- 
body dibbling  in  this  garden.  Door 
of  the  house  locked — but  we  might 
walk  into  the  byre.  The  fools  have 
gone  to  the  fair.  We  are  deafened 
by  eternal  talk  about  education  in 
Scotland — why  then  is  there  not  here 
a  school— that  we  might  get  a  boy 
to  run  to  Clovenford  for  our  book  ? 
It  seems  especially  absurd  for  the 
county  to  have  put  itself  to  great 
expense  in  making  a  turnpike  road 
through  such  an  uninhabited  district 
as  this.  Not  a  soul  to  be  seen  far 


852 


Twaddle  on  Tweedside. 


[May 


as  the  eye  can  reach — nothing  in  the 
live  way  but  sheep  and  rooks — and 
they  do  bleat  and  caw,'  it  must  be 
confessed,  to  an  odious  degree,  and 
in  a  most  disgusting  manner.  As  to 

foing  back  all  the  way,  two  Scotch — 
ut  many  English  miles — to  Cloven- 
ford  for  our  book — and  then  coming 
back  to  begin  fishing  about  the 
middle  of  the  day — when  it  is  well 
known  that  it  often  unaccountably 
happens  you  may  then  as  well  angle 
in  the  Tweed  for  oysters — that  would 
be  madness ;  yet  staying  here  with- 
out tackle  is  folly ;  and  in  such  a 
dilemma,  what  the  devil — we  say 
again — is  to  be  done  ?—That  was  a 
horrid  suggestion  of  the  enemy  ! 

Heaven  bless  thy  bright  face,  thou 
golden-headed  girl !  whence  comest 
thou  into  this  nook  of  earth — yes — 
from  Fairy-Land.  What  ?  Herding 
cows  ?  Well— well— child  !  don't 
be  frightened — you  have  overheard 
us  talking  to  ourselves — and  perhaps 
think  us  "  the  strange  Gentleman;" 
but  it  was  a  mere  soliloquy — so  see — 
here's  half-a-crown — run  you  to 
Clovenford  and  ask  Helen  for  our 
book — our  tackle-book — and  you 
shall  have  another  on  your  return — 
provided  you  are  back  within  the 
hour.  Never  mind  about  the  cows.  We 
will  look  after  them — CHRISTOPHER 
NORTH  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OF  COW- 
HERD— what  a  subject  for  our  dear 
Wullie  Allan  !  Yet  did  not  Apollo 
for  nine  years  guard  the  flocks  of 
Admetus  ? 

Why  'tis  but  nine  now.  Time 
enough  from  ten  to  six  to  crowd  our 
creel,  till  the  lid  fly  open.  Many  a 
man  would  have  been  much  discom- 
posed on  such  an  occasion  as  this ; 
but  thanks  to  a  fine  natural  temper, 
and  to  a  philosophic  and  religious  edu- 
cation, we  have  kept  ourselves  cool  as 
a  cucumber.  This  forgetfulness  of 
ours  is  likely  to  prove  a  lucky  acci- 
dent after  all,  for  hitherto  there  has 
been  hardly  a  breath  stirring,  and 
we  did  not  much  like  that  glimmer 
on  the  water.  True,  a  few  fins  were 
visible — but  they  were  merely  play- 
ing, and  we  question  if  a  single  snout 
would  have  taken  the  fly.  But  now 
the  air  is  beginning  to  circulate,  and 
to  go  rustling  up  among  the  thick- 


budded,  and  here  and  there  almost 
leafy  trees,  in  little  delightful  whirl- 
winds. The  sun  is  sobered  in  the  mild 
sky  by  the  gentle  obscuration  of  small 
soft  rainy  or  rather  dewy-looking 
clouds;  one  feels  the  inexpressible 
difference  between  heat  and  warmth, 
in  this  genial  temperature ;  and 
what  could  have  been  the  matter 
with  our  eyes  that  they  were  blind, 
or  with  our  soul  that  it  was  insen- 
sible, to  that  prodigal  profusion  of 
primroses  embedding  the  banks  and 
braes  with  beauty,  in  good  time  to 
be  succeeded  by  the  yet  brighter 
broom ! 

"  Come,  gentle  Spring,  ethereal  mildness, 
come, 

And  from  the  bosom  of  yon  dropping 
cloud, 

While  music  wakes  around,  veil'd  in  a 
shower 

Of  shadowing  roses,  on  our  plains  de- 
scend!" 

There  is  no  possibility,  surely,  of 
her  not  bringing  the  Book  ?  No- 
no.  She  will  bring  it ;  for  the  crea- 
ture, as  she  stood  a-tiptoe,  ere  away 
she  flew,  was  an  impersonation  of 
that  divine  line  in  Collins, 

"  And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  wa- 
ved her  golden  hair !" 

We  begin  not  to  care  whether  she 
bring  the  Book  or  not.  Reconcile- 
ment sweet  is  breathed  over  our 
vacant  leisure  by  the  balm  of  these 
budding  woods  —  these  "  hanging 
shaws" — is  warbled  over  it  by  the 
mingling  melodies — how  various,  yet 
all  accordant— we  surely  may  call  it 
harmony — of  an  unseen  wonderful 
multitude  of  amorous  birds.  We 
shut  our  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
scarcely  can  support  the  music — 'tis 
so  thick  with  joy. 

"  For  love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is 
love." 

We  hope,  from  the  bottom  of  our 
souls,that  she  will  not  bring  the  Book. 
We  trust  we  have  lost  it— that  it  bob- 
bed out  of  our  pocket  over  that  pretty 
dear  little  bridge.  Should  she  un- 
fortunately find  it,  it  may  lure  us 
away  from  our  vernal  meditations, 
and  much  profound  poetry  be  lost  to 
the  world.  The  Advent  of  Spring ! 


Oh  I  gracious  Power  !  for  thy  beloved  approach 
The  expecting  Earth  lay  wrapt  in  kindling  smiles 
Struggling  with  tears,  and  often  overcome. 


[833.]  Twaddle  on  Tweedside.  853 

A  blessing  sent  before  thee  from  the  heavens, 

A  balmy  spirit  breathing  tenderness, 

Prepared  thy  way,  and  all  created  things 

Felt  that  the  Angel  of  Delight  was  near. 

Thou  cam'st  at  last,  and  such  a  heavenly  smile 

Shone  round  thee,  as  beseem'd  the  eldest-born 

Of  Nature's  guardian  spirits.    The  great  Sun, 

Scattering  the  clouds  with  a  resistless  smile, 

Came  forth  to  do  thee  homage ;  a  sweet  hymn 

Was  by  the  low  winds  chanted  in  the  sky; 

And  when  thy  feet  descended  on  the  Earth, 

Scarce  could  they  move  amid  the  clustering  flowers 

By  Nature  strewn  o'er  valley,  hill,  and  field, 

To  hail  her  blest  deliverer !     Ye  fair  trees, 

How  are  ye  changed,  and  changing  while  I  gaze ! 

It  seems  as  if  some  gleam  of  verdant  light 

Fell  on  you  from  a  rainbow !  but  it  lives 

Amid  your  tendrils,  bright'ning  every  hour 

Into  a  deeper  radiance.    Ye  sweet  birds, 

Were  you  asleep  through  all  the  wintry  hours, 

Beneath  the  waters,  or  in  mossy  caves  ? 

There  are,  'tis  said,  birds  that  pursue  the  Spring 

Where'er  she  flies,  or  else  in  death-like  sleep 

Abide  her  annual  reign,  when  forth  they  come 

With  freshen'd  plumage  and  enraptured  song, 

As  ye  do  now,  unwearied  choristers, 

Till  the  land  ring  with  joy.    Yet  are  ye  not, 

Sporting  in  tree  and  air,  more  beautiful 

Than  the  young  lambs,  that  from  the  valley-side 

Send  a  soft  bleating  like  an  infant's  voice, 

Half  happy,  half  afraid  I     O  blessed  things  ! 

At  sight  of  this  your  perfect  innocence, 

The  sterner  thoughts  of  manhood  melt  away 

Into  a  mood  as  mild  as  woman's  dreams. 

The  strife  of  working  intellect,  the  stir 

Of  hopes  ambitious  ;  the  disturbing  sound 

Of  fame,  and  all  that  worshipp'd  pageantry, 

That  ardent  spirits  burn  for  in  their  pride, 

Fly  like  disparting  clouds,  and  leave  the  soul 

Pure  and  serene  as  the  blue  depths  of  heaven. 

Mortal  man  in  this  world  must  either  On  the  banks  of  that  fishy  loch  we 

make  a  merit  of  necessity,  and  so  stood,eyeing  the  sunshine  beautifully 

succumb  to  his  lot,  however  severe  warming  the  breezy  dark  moss-wa- 

the  suffering  or  bitter  the  disappoint-  ter.  We  unscrewed  the  brass  head 

ment — or  he  must  reconcile  himself  of  our  walking-cane,  to  convert  it  into 

to  it,  as  we  have  done  now,  by  call-  a  rod;  when,  lo !  the  hollow  was  full 

ing  to  his  aid  the  power  of  Poetry,  of  emptiness!  We  had  disembowelled 

Philosophy,  and  Religion.  Shall  we  it  the  evening  before,  and  left  all  the 

take  a  swim  ?  The  cow-herdess  might  pieces  on  the  chest  of  drawers  in  our 

surprise  us  in  the  pool,  and  swarf  bedroom !  This  was  as  bad  as  being 

with  fear  at  sight  of  the  water-kelpy,  without  our  Book.  The  dizziness  in 

our  head  was  as  if  the  earthhad  dwin- 

"  A  dream  of  old,  born  of  that  sudden  ^]e(j  down  to  the  size  of  the  mere 

smile  spot  on  which  we  stood,  but  still 

Of  watery  sunshine,  comes  across  our  kept  moving  as  before  at  the  same 

brain-"  rate,  on  its  own  axis,  and  round  the 

Twenty  years  ago— at  two  o'clock  of  sun.  On  recovering  our  stationary 

a  summer  morning,  we  left  the  school-  equilibrium,  we  put  our  pocket-pistol 

house  at  Dalmally,  where  we  were  to  our  head,  and  blew  out  its  brains 

lodging,  and  walked  up  Glenorchy—  into  our  mouth— in  the  liquid  charac- 

fourteen  miles  long— to  Inveruren.  ter  of  Glenlivet,  Then  down  the 


854 


Twaddle  on  Tweedside. 


glen  we  bounded  like  a  deer  belling 
in  his  season,  and  by  half-past  seven 
were  in  the  school-house.  We  said 
nothing — not  that  we  were  either 
sullen  or  sulky ;  but  stern  resolution 
compressed  our  lips,  which  opened 
but  to  swallow  a  few  small  loaves 
and  fishes — and  having  performed 
twenty-eight  miles,  we  started  again 
for  the  Loch.  At  eleven — for  we 
took  our  swing  easily  and  steadily — 
our  five  flies  were  on  the  water.  By 
sunset  we  had  killed  twenty  dozen 
—none  above  a  pound — and  by  far 
the  greater  number  about  a  quarter 
—but  the  tout- ensemble  was  impo- 
sing— and  the  weight  could  not  have 
been  short  of  five  stone.  We  filled 
both  creels,  (one  used  for  salmon,) 
bag,  and  pillow-slip,  and  all  the  poc- 
kets about  our  person — and  at  first 
peep  of  the  evening  star  went  our 
ways  again  down  the  glen  towards 
Dalmally.  We  reached  the  school- 
house  "  ae  wee  short  hour  ayont  the 
twal,"  having  been  on  our  legs  al- 
most all  the  four-and-twenty  hours, 
and  for  eight  up  to  the  waist  in  wa- 
ter— distance  walked,  fifty-six  miles 
— trouts  killed,  twenty  dozen  and 
odd — and  weight  carried 


[May, 

"  At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet 

was  still, 
And   mortals   the   sweets   of  forgetfulness 

proved," 

certainly  seventy  pounds  for  four- 
teen miles;  and  if  the  tale  be  not 
true,  may  May-day  miss  Maga. 

And,  now,   alas !    we   could  not 
hobble  for  our  book  from  the  holms 
of  Ashiestiel  to  Clovenford ! 
"  Tempora  mutantur,  nos  et  mutamur  in 
illis." 

Not  that  we  look  much  amiss — in 
our  own  eyes— yet;  and  here  is  a 
mirror.  "Tis  a  lown  place  this,— 
nearly  encircled  with  trees, — and  the 
river  winds  about  so,  and  parts  in- 
to such  sweet  perplexing  stream- 
lets, that  we  might  almost  suppose 
we  were  on  a  little  island.  Aye, 
here  is  a  glass,  magical  as  that  in 
which  the  Italian  wizard  shewed 
Lord  Surrey  his  faithful  Geraldine. 
No, — 'tis  no  female  form — 'tis  not 
the  ladye  of  his  love — but  Christo- 
pher himself  in  all  his  glory — rod  in 
one  hand,  and  crutch  in  the  other — 
crutch  being  fitted  up  as  a  landing- 
net.  What  a  pleasing  reflection! 
Wordsworth,  like  a  true  seer,  by  an- 
ticipation painted  the  picture : — 


"  In  a  deep  pool,  by  happy  choice  we  saw 
A  two-fold  image :  on  a  grassy  bank 
A  SNOW-WHITE  RAM  ;  and  in  the  crystal  flood 
Another  and  the  same  !     Most  beautiful, 
On  the  green  turf,  with  his  imperial  front 
Shaggy  and  bold,  and  wreathed  horns  superb, 
The  breathing  creature  stood ;  as  beautiful 
Beneath  him  shewed  his  shadowy  counterpart. 
Each  had  his  glowing  mountain,  each  his  sky, 
And  each  seemed  centre  of  his  own  fair  world : 
Antipodes  unconscious  of  each  other ; 
Yet,  in  partition,  with  their  several  spheres, 
Blended  in  perfect  stillness  to  our  sight. 
Ah  !  what  a  pity  were  it  to  disperse, 
Or  to  disturb,  so  fair  a  spectacle, 
And  yet  a  breath  can  do  it!" 


The  similitude  is  perfect,  all  but  the 
horns. 

'Twas  long  believed  by  the  whole 
old  women  of  the  noisy  world  that 
Wordsworth  was  no  poet — and  by 
a  part  of  them  that  the  moon  was 
made  of  green  cheese.  But  the 
dwellers  in  the  world  that  is  "  silent 
and  divine,"  all  knew  that  the  Bard 
was  from  heaven  on  a  mission ;  and 
to  the  eyes  of  all  whose  "  visual 


nerve  has  been  purged  with  rue  and 
euphrasy,"  he  has  for  ever  beautified 
the  "  light  of  common  day,"  render- 
ed the  "  beauty  still  more  beau- 
teous," and  given  glimpses  "  of  some- 
thing far  more  deeply  interfused," 
which  we  may  see  in  all  its  native 
glory  in  a  higher  state  of  Being. 

But  here  comes  Iris,  with  our 
Book  in  her  bosom.  She  espies  us, 
and  holding  it  up  above  "  her  beau- 


1833.] 

tiful  and  shining  golden  head,"  it 
soems  to  our  ears  as  if  the  kind  crea- 
ture were  singing  a  song. 

Now,  Mary — we  knew  your  name 
was  Mary,  the  moment  we  saw  you 
— Mary  Riddle— we  ken  you  sing — 
sue  gie's  a  sang,  my  bonnie  bit  wee 
winsome  lassie — while  we  are  rum- 
maging our  Book — But  what's  the 
matter  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  "  O 
sir,  you've  no  been  leukin'  after  the 
kye — for,  mercy  me  !  there's  three  o' 
the  twa-year-auld  Hielan'  nowt  got- 
ten into  the  garden.  O  Sir  !  you're 
a  bad  herd!" 

Mary  Riddle  has  soon  cleared  the 
garden  of  kye  and  nowt,  and  beg- 


Twaddle  on  Tweedside. 


ging  pardon  for  "  haen'  sae  far  for- 
gotten hersel',  as  to  speak  sae  rudely 
to  sae  kind  an  auld  gentleman," 
offers  "  to  do  her  best  at  a  sang." 
"  She  sings" — she  says — "  to  auld 
tunes,  or  natural  tunes  o'  her  ain 
like,  the  maist  feck  o'  Gilfillan's 
sangs — him  that  leeves  in  Leith,  and 
that's  reckoned  a  bonny  writer  a* 
owre  this  part  o'  the  kintra."  We 
are  glad  to  hear  from  Mary  Riddle, 
that  our  ingenious  friend  Gilfillan's 
songs  are  so  popular  among  the  pas- 
toral dwellers  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tweed,  the  Ettrick,  and  the  Yarrow, 
and  ask  for  "  Mary's  Bower." 


MARY'S  BOWER. 

Set  to  an  original  melody  by  Peter  MacLeod^  and  sung  by  Mary  Riddle,  on 
the  Holms  of  Ashiestiel,  to  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH,  April  23,  1833. 

The  mavis  sings  on  Mary's  bower, 

The  lav'rock  in  the  sky; 
An*  a'  is  fair  round  Mary's  bower, 

An'  a'  aboon  is  joy ! 
But  sad's  the  gloom  in  Mary's  bower, 

Though  a'  without  be  gay ; 
Nae  music  comes  to  greet  the  morn, 

Nae  smile  to  glad  the  day. 

Her  lover  left  young  Mary's  bower, 

His  ship  has  crossed  the  main ; 
There's  waefu'  news  in  Mary's  bower, 

He  ne'er  returns  again. 
A  breaking  heart's  in  Mary's  bower, 

A  wasting  form  is  there ; 
The  glance  has  left  that  e'e  sae  blue, 

The  rose  that  cheek  sae  fair. 

The  mavis  flees  frae  Mary's  bower, 

The  lav'rock  quits  the  sky ; 
An'  simmer  sighs  o'er  Mary's  bower, 

For  coming  winter's  nigh. 
The  snaw  fa's  white  on  Mary's  bower, 

The  tempests  loudly  rave ; 
The  flowers  that  bloomed  round  Mary's  bower 
.  Now  wither  on  her  grave ! 


Sung  like  a  lintie !  And  you  tell 
u  s,  Mary,  you  are  eleven  years  old 
come  Midsummer — that  your  pa- 
rmts  are  both  dead — and  that  you 
do  not  remember  having  seen  their 
f  ices — and  that  you  have  neither 
brother  nor  sisters — nor  any  blood 
relations,  except  some  "  distant 


coosins  that  dinna  leeve  in  this 
pairt" — and  that  you  are  "  as  happy 
as  the  day  is  lang" — for  that  "  the 
puirest  creature  is  aye  safe  in  the 
haun  o'  God."  "  Now  you  maun  gie 
us  another  bit  sangie — but  let  it  be 
a  cheerfu'  lilt."  "  What  say  ye,  sir, 
to  *  Janet  and  Me  ?' " 


856  Twaddle  on  Tweedside.  [May, 

JANET  AN*  ME. 

Tune — "  Iyd  rather  hae  a  piece  than  a  kiss  o'  my  Joe." 
Sung  by  ditto — to  ditto — at  ditto — on  ditto. 

O,  wha  are  sae  happy  as  me  an'  my  Janet  ? 

O,  wha  are  sae  happy  as  Janet  an'  me  ? 
We're  baith  turning  auld,  an'  our  walth  is  soon  tauld, 

But  contentment  ye'll  find  in  our  cottage  sae  wee. 
She  spins  the  lang  day  when  I'm  out  wi'  the  owsen, 

She  croons  i'  the  house  while  I  sing  at  the  plough  ; 
And  aye  her  blythe  smile  walcomes  me  frae  my  toil, 

As  up  the  lang  glen  I  come  wearied,  I  trow ! 

When  I'm  at  the  Beuk  she  is  mending  the  cleadin', 

She's  darnin'  the  stockings  when  I  sole  the  shoon ; 
Our  cracks  keeps  us  cheery — we  work  till  we're  weary, 

An'  syne  we  sup  so  wans  when  ance  we  are  done. 
She's  bakin'  a  scon  while  I'm  smokin'  my  cutty, 

When  I'm  i'  the  stable  she's  milkin'  the  kye  ; 
I  envy  not  kings,  when  the  gloamin'  time  brings 

The  canty  fireside  to  my  Janet  an*  I ! 

Aboon  our  auld  heads  we've  a  decent  clay  biggin', 

That  keeps  out  the  cauld  when  the  simmer's  awa; 
We've  twa  wabs  o'  linen  o*  Janet's  ain  spinnin', 

As  thick  as  dog-lugs,  an'  as  white  as  the  snaw ! 
We've  a  kebbuck  or  twa,  an'  some  meal  i'  the  girnel, 

Yon  sow  is  our  ain  that  plays  grumph  at  the  door; 
An'  something,  I've  guess'd,  's  in  yon  auld  painted  kist, 

That  Janet,  fell  bodie,  's  laid  up  to  the  fore ! 

Nae  doubt,  we  have  haen  our  ain  sorrows  and  troubles, 

Aften  times  pouches  toom,  an'  hearts  fu'  o'  care ; 
But  still,  wi'  our  crosses,  our  sorrows  an'  losses, 

Contentment,  be  thankit,  has  aye  been  our  share  ! 
I've  an  auld  roosty  sword,  that  was  left  by  my  father, 

Whilk  ne'er  shall  be  drawn  till  our  king  has  a  fae  ; 
We  hae  friends  ane  or  twa,  that  aft  gie  us  a  ca', 

To  laugh  when  we're  happy,  or  grieve  when  we're  wae. 

The  laird  may  hae  gowd  mair  than  schoolmen  can  reckon, 

An'  flunkies  to  watch  ilka  glance  o'  his  e'e ; 
His  lady,  aye  braw,  may  sit  in  her  ha', 

But  are  they  mair  happy  than  Janet  an'  me  ? 
A'  ye,  wha  ne'er  ken't  the  straught  road  to  be  happy, 

Wha  are  na  content  wi'  the  lot  that  ye  dree, 
Come  down  to  the  dwallin'  of  whilk  I've  been  tellin', 

Ye'se  learn't,  by  lookin'  at  Janet  an'  me  ! 

Allan  Ramsay — Robert  Fergusson  time,  to  how  many  gifted  sons  of  ge- 

— Robert  Burns — James  Hogg — Al-  nius 
Ian    Cunninghame — Robert  Tanna- 

hill-Robert  Gilfillan-when  did  the  '  *>*  Nature '  SITe  hf  ™"8I°  plPf' 

air  of  merry  England  ring  with  the  And  hcr  8weet  trumping  strams? 

warblings  of  such  sky-larks  as  these  ?  Charles  Lamb   ought  really  not  to 

Born  were  they  all  "  in  huts  where  abuse  Scotland  in  the  pleasant  way 

poor  men  lie" — and  then  in  the  olden  he   so   often    does   in    the    sylvan 


j  333.]  Twaddle  on  Tweedside.  857 

shades  ofEnfield;  for  Scotland  loves  he  learns  lessons  of  humanity,  even 

Charles  Lamb;  but  he  is  wayward  from  the  mild  malice  of  Elia,   and 

and  wilful  in  his  wisdom,  and  con-  breathes  a  blessing  on  him  and  his 

ceits  that  many  a  Cockney  is  a  better  household  in  their  Bower  of  Rest 

man  even  than  Christopher  North.  Why — Mary — we    do    sometimes 

But  what  will  not  Christopher  forgive  attempt  such  a  thing—and  we  cannot 

to  genius  and  goodness  ?  Even  Lamb  refuse  thee — so  here  goes  Gilfillan's 

bleatinglibelsonhisnativeland.  Nay,  "  Jean  Pringle." 

PITY  THE  LADS  THAT  ARE  FREE. 

Tune. — "  Ihae  a  wifetf  myain" 
Sung  on  Tweedside  by  Christopher  North  to  Mary  Riddle,  April  23,  1833. 

Pity  the  lads  that  are  free, 

Pity  the  chiels  that  are  single ; 
For  gude  sake  !  tak  pity  on  me, 

I'm  teased  night  an'  day  wi'  Jean  Pringle. 
For  lasses  I  carena  a  preen, 

My  heart's  my  ain  an'  I'm  cheery, 
An',  were't  nae  for  that  cutty  Jean, 

I'd  sleep  as  soun'  as  a  peerie ! 

What's  beauty !— it  a'  lies  in  taste ! 

For  nane  o't  wad  I  gie  a  bodle ! 
But  hers,  hauntin'  me  like  a  ghaist, 

Is  whiles  like  to  turn  my  noddle  I 
She's  wooers — but  what's  that  to  me  ? 

They're  walcome  to  dance  a'  about  her ; 
Yet  I  like  na  her  smilin'  sae  slee 

To  lang  Sandy  Lingles  the  souter  ! 

Yestreen  I  cam  in  frae  the  plew, 

The  lasses  were  a'  busy  spinnin' ; 
I  stoitered  as  if  I'd  been  fou, 

For  Jeanie  a  sang  was  beginnin'. 
I  hae  heard  fifty  maids  sing, 

Whiles  ane,  an'  whiles  a'  thegither ; 
But  nane  did  the  starting  tears  bring 

Till  she  sung  the  "  Braes  of  Balquhither." 

Last  Sunday,  when  gaun  to  the  kirk, 

I  met  wi'  my  auld  aunty  Beeniej 
I  looked  as  stupid's  a  stirk 

When  simply  she  said—"  How  is  Jeanie  ?" 
An'  at  e'en,  when  I,  wi'  the  rest, 

Was  carritched  baith  Larger  an'  Single, 
When  speared — Wham  we  suld  like  best  ? 

I  stammered  out — "  Young  Jeanie  Pringle  !" 

Last  ouk  I  gaed  in  to  the  fair, 

To  wair  out  my  Hallowmas  guinea ; 
When  wha  suld  I  fa'  in  wi'  there, 

A'  dinkit  out  finely — but  Jeanie  ; 
I  couldna  gang  by  her  for  shame, 

I  couldna  but  speak,  else  be  saucy, 
Sae  I  had  to  oxter  her  name, 

An'  buy  a  silk  snood  to  the  lassie. 
It's  no  but  she's  baith  gude  an'  fair, 

It's  qo  but  she's  winsome  an'  bonnie ; 


858  Twaddle  on  Tweedside.  [May, 

Her  een,  glancing  'neath  gowden  hair, 

Are  brighter,  I  daursay,  than  ony. 
But  pawkie  een's  naething  to  me, 

Of  gowd  locks  I  want  nae  the  straikin' ; 
Folk  speak  about  love — but  they'll  see, 

For  ance,  by  my  faith !  they're  mistaken. 

I  promised  the  lasses  a  spree, 

I  promised  the  lads  a  paradin', 
I  canna  weel  hae't — let  me  see—     .Si  » 

Unlesi  I  get  up  a  bit  waddin'. 
I  think  1'se  send  ower  for  the  dark, 

He  might  cry  us  out  the  neist  Sunday ; 
It's  winter — we're  nae  thrang  at  wark, 

Sae  I  think  I'll  just  marry  'gin  Monday ! 

Mary  Riddle— you  shall  have  sent  to  Riddle,  have  you  forgotten  our  ad- 

you  from  Edinburgh — bound  in  red  vice  below    the   trees   on    Tweed- 

— with  a  green  silk  ribbon  in  it—to  side  ?"  Nay— Mary— we  wished  not 

mark  the  chapter  where  you  left  off  to  set  you  aweeping ;  and,  along  with- 

— a  Bible.   We  know  you  have  one  the  Bible,  will  come  some  yards  of 

of  your  own— but  'tis  much  worn—  dimity  for  a  gown  for  the  braes,  and 

the  brown   binding  is  tatter'd  and  some    of  a  better    sort,  plain,  but 

worm-eaten— the  pages  very  yellow  pretty,  for  your  dress  on  the  Sabbath. 

— and  some  words  at  many  places  so  And  perhaps  a  trifle  or  two  beside 

indistinct  that  even  your  eyes  cannot  — such  as  some  pink  ribbons,  and  a 

easily  make  them  out  in  the  gloaming,  silk    handkerchief  or   two — which, 

or  by  the  flickering  peat-light.     We  with  care,  may  last  till  you  are  a 

need  not  bid  you  read  the  Bible  maiden  with  a  sweetheart.    But  part 

often  now — but  continue  to  do  so  we  must  not,  till  you  even  give  us 

when  you  grow  up — and  should  days  another  song.    So  wipe  your  eyes — 

pass  by  without  your  looking  into  it,  aye,  the  sleeve  of  your  gown  will  do 

remember  the  old  man  whose  name  — and  as  there  is  nothing  like  being 

you  will  see  written  along  with  your  happy — hear   the  birds — let's  have 

own  on  one  of  the  blank  pages,  and  again  something  gay  of  Gilfillan's — 

who  will  then  be  in  his  grave.  Think  say  "  Young  Willie,  the  Ploughman." 
you  hear  his  voice  saying,  "Mary 

YOUNG  WILLIE,  THE  PLOUGHMAN, 

Tune—"  Bonnie  Dundee." 
Sung  by  Mary  Riddle,  on  Tweedside,  to  Christopher  North,  April  23,  1833. 

Young  Willie,  the  ploughman,  has  nae  land  nor  siller 

An'  yet  the  blythe  callant's  as  crouse  as  a  king  j 
He  courts  his  ain  lass,  an'  he  sings  a  sang  till  her, 

Tak  tent  an'  ye'se  hear  what  the  laddie  does  sing : — 
"  O!  Jenny,  to  tell  that  I  loe  you  'fore  ony, 

Wad  need  finer  words  than  I've  gatten  to  tell ! 
Nor  need  I  say  to  ye,  Ye're  winsome  and  bonnie, — 

I'm  thinkin'  ye  ken  that  fu'  brawly  yourseF ! 

"  I've  courted  ye  lang — do  ye  hear  what  I'm  telling  ? — 

I've  courted  you,  thinkin'  ye  yet  wad.be  mine; 
And  if  we  suld  marry  wi'  only  ae  shilling, 

At  the  warst,  only  ae  shilling,  Jenny,  we'se  tine. 
But  love  doesna  aye  lie  in  gowpens  o'  guineas, 

Nor  happiness  dwall  whar  the  coffers  are  fu' ; 
As  muckle  we'll  surely  aye  gather  atween  us, 

That  want  ne'er  sal  meet  us,  nor  mis'ry  pursue. 


1833.]  Twaddle  on  Tweedside.  859 

"  The  chiels  that  are  christened  to  riches  an*  grandeur, 

Ken  nought  o'  the  pleasure  that  hard  labour  brings ; 
What  in  idleness  comes,  they  in  idleness  squander, 

While  the  lab'ring  man  toils  a'  the  lang  day  and  sings ! 
Then  why  suld  we  envy  the  great  an'  the  noble  ? 

The  thocht  is  a  kingdom — it's  ours  what  we  hae  ! 
A  boast  that  repays  us  for  sair  wark  an'  trouble ; 

*  I've  earned  it !'  is  mair  than  a  monarch  can  say. 

"  The  green  buds  now  peep  through  the  auld  runkled  timmer, 

The  sun,  at  a  breath,  drinks  the  hale  morning  dew, 
An'  nature  is  glad  at  the  comin'  o'  simmer, 

As  glad  as  I'm  aye  at  the  smiling  o'  you ! 
The  flowers  are  a'  springing,  the  birds  are  a'  singing, 

And  beauty  and  pleasure  are  wooin'  the  plain ; 
Then  let  us  employ  it,  while  we  may  enjoy  it, 

The  simmer  o'  life,  Jenny,  comes  na  again!" 


"  Good  Mary  Riddle— good  be  wi' 
you ;"— away  she  trips— and  we  feel 
th.3  pathos  of  these  two  lines  of 
Wordsworth, 

"  E'er  she  had  wept,  e'er  she  had  mourn- 
ed, 
A  young  and  happy  child." 

There  we  have  him— at  the  Tail- Fly. 
My  eye !  but  he's  a  bouncer.  Why, 
he  springs  like  a  whitling.  Hooked  by 
the  dorsal  fin.  Then  'tis  a  ten  mi- 
nutes'job— and  where  shall  we  land 
him — for  the  bank  is  lined  with  trees 
—celebrated  by  the  name  of  "  The 
Grenadiers,"— and  he  knows  better 
than  to  stem  the  current  ?  Shall  we 
in  ?  A  fifteen  feet  rod  is  nothing  to 
our  right  arm  —  (biceps  fourteen 
inches),  and  under  our  left  oxter  the 
crutch.  The  landing-net  won't  be 
much  the  worse  for  a  rub  on  the 
gravel.  So  here't  goes.  Pretty  chill 
—  for  there  is  yet  in  the  river  some 
"  nna'-broo."  Na !  na !  You  think  of 
stealing  a  march  on  us  by  a  double— 
do  you  ?  But  Christopher's  wide 
awake— and  has  wound  up  a  dozen 
yards  in  a  jiffey,  so  he  has  you  hard 
in  hand— and  if  you  do  not  "tak 
teat"  of  what  you're  about,  he  will 
run  you  right  ashore,  high  and  dry, 
or  the  silver  sand,  where  you  will 
w;illop  about  till  you  seem  basted  for 
the  frying-pan.  Avast!  or  you  will 
upset  us  by  running  between  our 
le  *s — fair  play's  a  jewel.  Off  at  a  right 
ar  gle  like  a  shot.  What!  You  have 
m  ide  up  your  mind  to  dash  in  among 
ths  intertwistment  of  those  muddy 
oil  roots  ?  But  you  should  have  tried 
th  it  earlier  in  your  career  j  for  there 
—there,  my  darling— we  give  you  the 

ta ft -till  yw  hog-back  is 


the  water,  and  you  look  like  a  hulk 
that  has  dr opt  anchor.  Why  don't  you 
keep  moving?  Aye — we  thought 
'twou'd  be  so — floundering  down  the 
stream  you  go,  like  a  child  drowning 
— and  you  must  know  now  that 
your  days  are  numbered.  Poor 
fellow!  he  has  lost  heart,  and  we 
almost  pity  him — we  have  about 
as  much  pity  for  him  as  would  "  fill 
a  wren's  eye" — so  this  way  again,  if 
you  please — aye,  that's  the  way — 
swimming  against  the  stream's  not 
so  difficult  as  you  thought — near  the 
edge  in  smooth  water — come  away, 
my  jewel— the  transparent  fluid's 
not  much  more  than  your  own  depth 
now— why,  wriggling  so,  you  seem 
more  like  a  serpent  than  a  trout — 
but  now  you  have  lain  down  to  take 
a  nap — and  we  shall  lift  you  up  so 
gently  in  our  landing-net,  which  in 
another  capacity  has  settled  the  hash 
of  many  a  larger  lubber,  that  you 
will  slip  away  through  your  slumbers 
into  the  unsubstantial  flowing  of  the 
piscatory  paradise  provided  for  all 
fishes  that  have  led  a  tolerably  ho- 
nest life  in  the  troubled  waters  of 
this  sublunary  world. 

You  seldom  kill  such  a  trout 
as  that  in  the  Tweed  with  the  fly. 
The  truth  is,  he  had  no  intention  of 
taking  it.  But  'tis  perilous  at  times 
rashly  to  rub  shoulders  with  a  profes- 
sor. The  minnow  is  your  bait  for  mon- 
sters. But  we  are  not  a  great  master 
of  minnow — and  we  abhor  worm. 
There  is  cruelty  in  worm,  and  also 
in  minnow — and  we  are  not  cruel. 
As  for  this  two- pounder,  (he  is  not 
nearly  three,)  what  has  he  suffered  ? 
A  struggle — "  a  sleep — and  a  forget- 
ting".-^ cad—but  of  that  he  could 


860 


Twaddle  on  Tweedside. 


have  no  prefigured  idea— in  a  fry. 
We  have  endured  more  anguish — 
mental  and  bodily—in  one  minute—- 
than all  he  ever  did  during  his  whole 
life — the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  in- 
cluded; and  we  have  our  doubts 
whether  even  then  his  state  was  not 
that  of  enviable  enjoyment.  It  was 
at  least  far  from  being  one  of  ennui ; 
all  his  energies  were  called  into  ac- 
tive play;  the  alternations  of  fear  and 
hope,  in  all  cases  where,  as  in  this, 
hope  is  the  prevailing  passion,  yield 
more  pleasure  than  pain ;  and  many 
millions  of  men,  struggling  against 
the  stream  as  desperately  as  he  did, 
and  yielding  to  it  more  reluctantly, 
whether  with  happier  or  as  disas- 
trous issue,  would  laugh  in  your  face 
were  you  to  call  them  miserable,  and 
set  you  down  in  their  turmoil  for  a 


Out  of  this  long  pool  we  have 
many  a  day  creeled  two  dozen— 
and  there  would  seem  to  be  a  law 
prohibiting  any  trout  from  gaining  a 
settlement  in  the  parish  under  ten 
inches.  There  are  no  paupers — ex- 
cept, indeed,  upon  the  principle  that 
all  paupers  are  well  fed — but  we 
believe  few  of  the  population  are 
out  of  employment.  Here  is  an 
Alderman.  And  here  the  Dean  of 
Guild.  By  and  by  we  shall  have 
basketed  the  whole  Corporation.  Yet 
you  cannot  call  them  fat.  Red  about 
the  gills  they  are ;  but  that  in  a  fish 
is  a  proof  of  temperance — that  they 
drink  nothing  but  water.  Small 
heads  —  round  shoulders  —  thick 
waists — tapering  tails — so  elegant— 
that,  but  for  brown  back  and  yellow 
belly,  you  might  think  them  small 
salmon. 

"  A  brace  of  trouts !"  You  might 
as  well  speak  of  a  brace  of  herrings. 
Yet  there  are  noble  trout  in  your 
English  rivers.  We  do  not  mean  in 
the  North  of  England—for  that,  to 
all  intents  and  purposes,  is  Scotland 
—but  all  over  England.  But  in  still- 
water  preserves,  what  with  gross 
feeding,  and  what  with  gross  indo- 
lence, they  lose  all  vigour,  and  make 
about  as  much  play  as  logs  of  wood 
of  the  same  dimensions.  We  re- 
member once  borrowing  a  pin  and  a 
bit  of  pack-thread  from  an  old  wo- 
man who  was  sweeping  the  gravel 
walks  in  the  beautiful  grounds  of 
Hagley ;  and  having  stolen  a  worm, 
we  pitched  it  oa  the  crocked  brass 


[May, 

before  the  nose  of  a  fine-looking  fel- 
low, who  was  slowly  sailing  about 
near  the  edge  of  a  sort  of  shallow 
artificial  lakelet.  He  took  it  as  kind- 
ly as  Don  Key  would  have  taken  a 
mouthful  of  calipash;  and  began  to 
shift  his  quarters  towards  some 
weeds,  which  we  presume  were 
meant  for  an  island.  With  the  feeblest 
inclination  of  our  wrist  possible, 
we  deflected  him  from  his  first  in- 
tention ;  but  found  it  no  easy  mat- 
ter either  to  persuade  or  convince 
him  that  he  was  pin'd ;  and  when  he 
did  begin  to  suspect  that  something 
was  amiss  with  his  mouth,  even  then 
he  waddled  away  more  like  a  bro- 
ken-winged duck  than  a  trout  in  the 
"  policy"  of  a  British  nobleman.  In 
the  Tweed — even  when  low — he 
would  have  been  beaten  to  mummy 
against  the  stones  in  five  minutes — 
but  only  think  of  him  in  a — spate  ! 
Yet  his  colour  was  pretty  good — nor 
were  his  proportions  to  be  sneezed 
at;  he  was  manifestly  of  a  good  strain 
of  spawn — but  that  lazy  life  had 
melted  the  very  soul  within  him, 
and  he  was  as  tedious  as  a  toad. 
The  pack-thread  could  hardly  have 
spun  a  cock-chafer ;  and  yet  it 
brought  him  to  shore  without  stretch- 
ing; there  he  lay,  gasping  in  his 
fatness,  half  a  brace  ;  and  looking  at 
him,  not  without  pity,  we  thought, 
not  without  contempt,  of  the  Cock- 
neys. 

But  of  your  true  London  anglers, 
we  have  always  held  and  said  that 
they  are  at  the  top  of  the  tree.  They 
have  trained  themselves  up  to  the 
utmost  fineness  and  delicacy  of  exe- 
cution, and  in  shyest  water,  where 
no  brother  of  the  angle  in  all  Scot- 
land could  move  a  fin,  they  will  kill 
fish.  Their  tackle,  of  course,  is  of  the 
most  exquisite  and  scientific  kind 
— their  entire  set-out  at  the  river's 
edge  perfect.  We  should  not  pre- 
sume to  throw  a  fly  with  the  least 
celebrated  proficient  of  the  Walton 
Club.  That  we  have  been  elected 
an  Honorary  Member  of  that  Society, 
true  it  is  that  we  are  most  proud ; 
but  ashamed  are  we  to  think,  that, 
from  an  inevitable  confusion  and 
misunderstanding  at  the  time  we 
received  the  Secretary's  letter,  com- 
municating to  us  the  pleasant  intel- 
ligence, it  remains,  as  too  many  others 
do  from  the  most  respected  quarters, 
without  acknowledgment;  and  per- 


1835.] 


Twaddle  on  Tweedsidc. 


haps  our  name  is  no  longer  on  the 
list.  Should  it  be  so,  we  shall  la- 
ment it  as  a  misfortune  all  our  life ; 
but  hope  it  may  not  be  too  late  yet . 
to  make  amends  for  our  seeming  in- 
gratitude, and  remain  or  become 
one  of  that  band  of  brothers. 

Were  any  body  to  ask  us  which  is 
the  best  trouting  river  in  Scotland, 
wi!  should  say  T;he  Tweed.  Many 
anglers — as  good  and  better  than  us 
—  vvould  say  the  Clyde.  We  so  dear- 
ly love  the  Tweed,  that  we  may  pro- 
nounce judgment  under  a  bias.  Both 
rhers  are  full  of  fins.  We  have 
known  two  hundred  dozen  net- 
dr  iwn  in  about  a  hundred  yards  of 
the  Clyde  in  one  night — nor  was  the 
an  ^ling  on  the  very  same  ground  one 
whit  the  worse  a  week  after — which 
wj:s  strange — for  the  trout-popula- 
tion are  not  of  wandering  habits,  and 
they  sleep  where  they  feed.  There- 
fore either  those  prodigious  draughts 
had  not  thinned  their  numbers,  or  if 
they  had,  that  one  long  pool  had  been 
spaedily  repeopled  by  emigration 
from  many  other  parts  of  the  river. 
We  have  burned  the  Tweed;  and 
when  looking  for  salmon  with  the 
lister,  we  have  often  seen  such  im- 
mense multitudes  of  trouts,  that  were, 
we  to  describe  them,  we  should  be 
suspected  of  romancing ;  yet  we  are 
confident  we  speak  within  bounds, 
when  we  say  that  we  have  seen  se- 
ve.-al  thousand  all  gathered  together 
in  deep  water — for  what  purpose  it 
is  not  easy  to  conjecture — as  it  were 
in  one  knot  —  as  numerous  as  any 
shoal  of  minnows — we  had  almost 
sa  d  as  powheads  in  a  ditch.  There 
th-.jy  were  floating — hanging  almost 
motionless — with  their  heads  to  wards 
a  common  centre — in  a  circular  mass 
se/eral  feet  deep,  arid  at  least  two 
yards  in  diameter  of  surface.  Could 
th  ^y  all  belong  to  that  one  pool  ?  Or 
were  they  deputations  of  the  silent 
people  from  all  the  pools,  celebrating 
so  ne  great  national  commemoration? 
We  are  inclined  to  believe  that  they 
wore  all  inhabitants,  perhaps  natives 
of  that  one  long  stretch  of  rarest  breed- 
in  r  and  richest  feeding  ground,  the 
m  >st  prolific  and  opulent  perhaps  of 
all  the  Elie-bank  woods.  Nor,  after 
al  ,  does  this  prodigious  populousness 
of  the  modern  trout  nations  in  the 
Tweed,  exceed  what  mighthave  been 
es  pectedby  any  manwhohasjstood  in 
al  nost  any  one  of  its  streams,  during 


a  shower  of  March  Browns.  A  few 
minutes  before,  you  had  no  reason 
from  what  you  saw  to  conclude  that 
there  were  any  more  trouts  in  the 
Tweed  than  on  the  highroad  along 
the  banks.  All  at  once  the  whole  river 
is  alive — and  they  are  leaping  be- 
tween your  legs.  We  are  losing  the 
best  of  the  day  in  thus  sitting  on  a 
knowe  and  soliloquizing ;  but  we  see 
two  anglers  flogging  the  floods  be- 
low, so  shall  remain  a  while  longer 
on  our  hurdles  like  a  colley. 

In  the  appendix  to  Edward  Jesse's 
delightful  "  Gleanings  in  Natural 
History,"  which  we  had  the  sense  to 
put  in  our  pocket  this  morning,  we 
find  here  a  facetious  and  clever 
paper,  entitled  "  Maxims  and  Hints 
for  an  Angler,  by  a  Bungler."  We 
suspect  he  is  in  his  way  a  Dab — a 
Deacon  in  the  Art.  Many  of  his 
maxims  shew  what  a  very  different 
kind  of  affair  angling  is  in  England 
and  in  Scotland.  The  first  question 
to  be  settled,  he  says,  is,  "  are  there 
any  fish  in  the  river  to  which  you  are 
going?"  Now  a  river  in  Scotland 
without  any  fish  would  indeed  be  a 
phenomenon  which  could  be  account- 
ed for  only  on  the  ground  of  its  being 
without  any  water.  Yet  there  are 
many  lochs  in  Scotland  without  fish 
— witness  the  Moor  of  Leckan,  in 
Argyleshire.  That  wide  moor  is  full 
of  lochs — some  of  them  with  trout, 
and  fine  trout  too — some  finless; 
and  nothing  can  be  more  puzzling 
than  to  know  how  long  a  prudent 
but  ignorant  man  should  continue  at 
work  on  one  of  those  lochs,  without 
having  got  a  rise.  Perhaps  had  he 
waited  one  minute  longer,  he  might 
have  filled  his  basket  with  spangled 
spankers;  perhaps  caught  nothing 
beyond  a  frog,  had  he  persisted  till 
doomsday.  \Ve  spent  a  whole  day 
in  going  from  loch  to  loch  with  a 
drunken  and  doited  mole-catcher, 
who  had  the  character  of  being  in 
the  art  a  perfect  Cotton ;  but  on  ta- 
king a  look  at  each  particular  loch, 
(tarns,)  he  was  still  at  an  equal 
loss  to  say  whether  it  had  fish,  or 
simply  frogs. 

The  ingenious  "  Bungler,"  in  his 
second  maxim,  advises  his  friends  to 
"  get  some  person  who  knows  the 
water,  to  shew  you  whereabouts  the 
fish  usually  lie;  and  when  he  shews 
them  to  you,  do  not  shew  yourself 
to  them."  In  many  angling  places 


862 


Ttvaddle  on  Tweedsidc. 


round  about  London,  and  elsewhere 
in  the  South,  such  a  person  is  useful 
to  the  uninitiated;  but  what  should  we 
think  of  the  wight  who  employed 
worthy  Watty  Ritchie  of  Peebles,  for 
example,  to  shew  him  where  the  fish 
usually  lie  in  the  Tweed  ?  Nay,  to 
shew  him  the  very  fish  themselves, 
as  plain  as  if  they  were  on  a  plate  or 
in  a  pan.  Pools  there  are  of  pecu- 
liar opulence,  but  the  population  is 
pretty  equally  distributed  here  ;  and 
any  man  with  half  an  eye  in  his  head 
can  see  for  himself  which  are  the 
most  promising,  and  in  what  parti- 
cular part  the  fish  are  likely  to  lie.  As 
for  seeing  the  animals  themselves, 
if  there  be  a  "  blue  breeze,"  you 
might  with  magnifiers  "  pore  on  the 
brook  that  bubbles  by,"  from  "  morn 
till  dewy  eve,"  without  seeing  any 
thing  more  animated  than  stones  and 
gravel.  As  for  the  fish  seeing  you, 
there  is  no  sense  to  be  sure  in  stamp- 
ing along  the  banks  within  an  inch  of 
the  brink;  but  at  a  moderate  distance, 
and  in  a  right  position  with  respect 
to  the  sun,  there  is  no  risk  of  your 
being  seen;  nor,  were  you  seen, 
would  a  Tweed  trout  care  a  pin 
about  you,  unless  you  had  a  very  un- 
common appearance  indeed,  and 
were  something  truly  terrific. 

From  another  maxim,  it  would  ap- 
pear that  the  fish  in  some  rivers 
about  London  lead  a  life  of  perpe- 
tual unhappiness  and  anxiety.  "  Do 
not  imagine  that  because  a  fish  does 
not  instantly  dart  off  on  first  seeing 
you,  he  is  the  less  aware  of  your 
presence;  he  almost  always  on  such 
occasions  ceases  to  feed,  and  pays 
you  the  compliment  of  devoting  his 
whole  attention  to  you,  whilst  he  is 
preparing  for  a  start  whenever  the 
apprehended  danger  becomes  suffi- 
ciently imminent."  This  lively  max- 
im gives  us  melancholy  insight  into 
most  English  angling.  We  see  clear, 
still  water,  and  at  the  bottom  a  trout. 
He  is  "  alone  in  his  glory,"  and  the 
glutton  is  at  dinner — on  what— it  is 
not  said;  but  probably  on  slugs. 
All  the  while  he  is  nuzzling  in  the 
mud,  his  mind  is  abstracted  by  being, 
in  self- defence,  under  the  necessity  of 
keeping  an  eye  on  the  "  gentleman  in 
black;"  and  both  parties — he  who  is  al- 
ways over  head  and  ears  in  water,  and 
he  who  is  but  occasionally  so — are 
attempting  to  take  every  advantage 
of  each  other,  by  means  of  a  system 


[May, 

of  mutual  espionage,  which  ought 
not  to  be  tolerated  in  a  free  coun- 
try. How  any  fish,  liable  at  all 
times  of  the  day,  in  any  thing  like 
fine  weather,  to  such  unprovoked 
persecution,  can  get  fat,  surpasses 
our  comprehension,  and  would  seem 
to  argue  much  obtuseness  of  feeling; 
but  we  find  that  his  perceptive, 
emotive,  and  locomotive  powers,  are 
all  of  the  highest  order;  and  that 
his  perspicacity  in  seeing  danger, 
and  his  alacrity  in  escaping  it,  are 
such  as,  on  the  principles  of  the 
inductive  philosophy,  could  only  have 
been  acquired  by  a  perpetual  course 
of  such  active  exercise  as  must,  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  nature,  have 
kept  him  in  a  state  of  lankness, 
equal  to  that  of  Pharaoh's  lean  kine, 
or  Mr  Elwes's  greyhounds. 

"  If,"  says  our  excellent  '  Bung- 
ler/ "  during  your  walks  by  the 
river-side,  you  have  remarked  any 
good  fish,  it  is  fair  to  presume  that 
other  persons  have  marked  them 
also ;  suppose  the  case  of  two  well- 
known  fish,  one  of  them  (which  I 
will  call  A),  lying  above  a  certain 
bridge,  the  other  (which  I  will  call 
B)  lying  below  the  bridge;  sup- 
pose farther,  that  you  have  just 
caught  B,  and  that  some  curious 
and  cunning  friend  should  say  to 
you,  in  a  careless  way,  *  Where 
did  you  take  that  fine  fish?'  A 
finished  fisherman  would  advise  you 
to  tell  your>nquiring  friend  that  you 
had  taken  your  fish  just  above  the 
bridge,  describing,  as  the  scene  of 
action,  the  spot  which,  in  truth,  you 
knew  to  be  still  occupied  by  the 
other  fish  A.  Your  friend  would 
then  fish  no  more  for  A,  supposing 
that  to  be  the  fish  which  you  have 
caught;  and  whilst  he  innocently 
resumes  his  operations  below  the 
bridge,  where  he  falsely  imagines  B 
still  to  be,  A  is  left  quietly  for  you, 
if  you  can  catch  him." 

Here  the  whole  meanness,  wretch- 
edness, misery,  wickedness,  vice, 
guilt,  and  sin  of  the  system  are  brought 
out  in  one  maxim.  Hiring  a  spy  to 
shew  you  a  fish  at  his  dinner,  that  you 
may  steal  upon  him  in  shadow  and 
murder  him  at  his  maggot,  by  luring 
him  to  prey  on  poisoned  food,  is 
conduct  that  admits  only  of  this  ex- 
tenuation, that  the  fish  is  himself 
such  a  suspicious  and  dangerous 
character,  that  ten  to  one  he  con- 


1833.] 


Twaddle  on  Tweedside. 


863 


t rives  not  merely  to  elude  your  pis- 
cicidal  arts,  but  to  outwit  you  at 
}  our  own  game,  by  homicidally 
causing  you  by  a  false  step  to  get 
3  ourself  drowned  in  the  river ; — but 
to  murder  one  out  of  two  well- 
Inownfish  (videlicet  B,  him  who 
i  sed  to  lie  below  the  bridge)  and 
then,  that  nobody  but  yourself  shall 
rmrder  the  remaining  half-brace  of 
tie  two  well-known  fish  (videlicet 
A,  him  who  is  still  lying  above  the 
I  ridge),  to  play  to  your  friend  the 
j  art,  not  only  of  a  finished  fisher- 
nan,  but  of  a  finished  liar — exhibits 
— we  must  say — to  our  uncorrupted 
r  lind,  such  a  picture  of  complicated 
\illany,  that  we  do  not  hesitate  for 
a  moment  indignantly  to  declare, 
t  iat  the  fiend  in  human  shape,  who 
could  not  only  perpetrate  such 
enormities,  but  instigate  and  instruct 
the  angling  youth  of  England  to  imi- 
tnte,  and  perhaps  surpass  them  (no — 
that  is  impossible  in  nature),  deserves 
— if  not  no  longer  to  be  permitted 
to  exist  on  the  surface  of  our  globe — 
certainly  to  be  cut  off,  by  ban  of 
excommunication,  from  Fire  and 
Water. 

Yet  is  the  ineffable  enormity  of 
tie  sin  sunk  in  the  inconceivable 
s  lliness  of  the  system.  Two  well- 
kaown  fish!  One  above  and  the 
oJier  below  the  bridge,  and  all 
the  angling  vicinage  occupied  during 
a  whole  season  in  attempting  to  en- 
tiap  the  two  fir&t  capital  letters  of 
tl  e  alphabet,  A  and  B ! 

But  what  comes  here  ?  We  call 
tl  at  poaching,  cross-fishing  with  the 
double  rod.  Our  good  friend  the 
"  Bungler,"  in  maxim  xviii,  says  the 
h  arned  are  much  divided  in  opinion 
at;  to  the  propriety  of  "  whipping 
vs  ith  two  flies."  Now,  here  come  a 
couple  of  unconscionable  Edinburgh 
c-  >ckneys  whipping  with  forty.  Hu- 
nc  an  nature  cannot  stand  that — inci- 
p  ent  convulsions  are  in  our  midriff. 
The  conceited  coofs  had  heard  of 
tl  e  double  rod  from  Maule  or  Gol- 
d  e,  or  some  other  top-sawyers,  and 
tl  ey  too  must  try  it !  From  opposite 
st  mces  they  regard  each  other  with 
nj  utual  and  equal  anxiety,  as  to  the 
m  ovements  and  measures  most  likely 
to  be  next  carried  into  immediate 
el  'ect  by  the  perplexed  brethren  of 
tie  braes.  The  imitative  being  a 
st  rong  instinctive  principle  in  hu- 
n,an  nature,  (also  in  more  mere  ani- 


mals than  is  generally  thought — for 
there  are  others  almost  as  much  so  as 
the  monkey  and  the  penguin,)  do  take 
notice — we  beseech  us — how,the  mo- 
ment one  begins  to  attempt  to  wind 
up,  the  other  is  working  at  his  reel 
too,  like  a  Jew  at  a  barrel-organ.  No 
line  could  stand  that,  were  the  ma- 
chinery brought  into  actual  play; 
but  great  impediments  have  been  en- 
countered— nor  does  it  seem  proba- 
ble—judging from  the  posture  of  af- 
fairs—that for  some  time  they  will  be 
overcome  by  the  gentlemen  of  the 
opposition.  They  are  shouting 
across  one  of  the  widest  pools  keen 
complaints  of  some  fishing-tackle- 
monger  in  London — for  our  choicest 
Edinburgh  cockneys  get  every  thing 
"from  town."  "Of  course,"  they 
have  been  diddled ;  and  the  machi- 
nery is  at  a  stand- still.  Perhaps  'tis 
better  so,  than  that  both  lines  should 
have  been  broken  on  the  wheel. 
Meanwhile  all  the  forty  flies  are  fly- 
ing in  the  air— and  even  at  this  dis- 
tance, we  see  they  are  a  strange  set. 
Not  a  few  are  larger  than  humming- 
birds— many  are  manifestly  sea-trout- 
flies,  gay  but  not  gaudy — and  (oh ! 
grant  gracious  heaven  that  we  do  not 
split!)  what  possible  contrivances 
can  those  others  be  that  are  dangling 
among  the  insects  ?  Artificial  min- 
nows !  by  Daedalus ! 

That  is  merciful.  But  those — yes, 
they  are— those  are  real  worms,  and 
very  large  worms  too — so  much  so, 
that  we  thought  they  were  eels. 
Cross-fishing  with  the  double-rod  by 
a  couple  of  Edinburgh  Cockneys, 
evidently  belonging  to  no  particular 
profession — the  line  laden  with  sal- 
mon flies,  artificial  minnows,  and  na- 
tural worms  !  We  experience  consi- 
derable curiosity  to  observe  the  effect 
of  a  sudden  descent  of  all  that  furni- 
ture into  the  liquid  element.  There ! 
now  we  call  that  making  a  splash. 
Fish  are  easily  alarmed;  but  they 
soon  recover  from  an  ordinary  fright, 
and  do  not  remain  all  day  beneath  a 
bank,  because  they  had  the  misfor- 
tune of  catching  a  gruesome  gli*ipse 
of  your  countenance  pretty  early  in 
the  morning.  Out  of  sight  out  of 
mind — you  seldom  for  more  than  a 
few  minutes  disturb  their  tranquilli- 
ty by  merely  looking  at  them;  but 
the  effect  of  a  splash  of  this  sort  is 
more  lasting ;  for  on  venturing  from 
their  various  places  of  retreat  to  in- 


864 


Ticaddle  on  Ttveedside. 


[May, 


spect  warily  the  cause  of  their  unea- 
siness, they  are  "  perplexed  in  the 
extreme,"  and  of  "  their  wondering 
find  no  end,"— above  all  at  the  artifi- 
cial minnows.  What  they  can  be,  the 
wisest  trout  cannot  hazard  a  conjec- 
ture, but  doubts  not  that  they  must 
be  very  dangerous ;  salmon  flies,  it 
is  true,  they  have  all  frequently  seen 
before,  but  not  behaving  as  they  now 
do,  and  they  too  are  shrewdly  sus- 
pected of  being  novelties  that  bode 
mischief  to  the  people ;  while  as  for 
the  worms — foul  enormous  lobs — 
they  would  be  permitted  to  putrify 
in  a  general  famine.  But  what's  the 
matter  now?  The  pea-green  cock- 
ney has  broken  his  top,  and  he  in 
the  fiery  tartan  has  got  entangled  in 
a  tree.  Angry  words  are  beginning 
to  be  bandied — exaggerated  accusa- 
tions of  aggravated  crimes — the  mu- 
tual rage  has  been  exacerbated  by 
its  first  gesticulations  having  been 
misinterpreted  from  such  an  incon- 
venient distance — and  now — oh,  fie  1 
the  gentlemen  are  brandishing  at 
one  another  the  butt-ends  of  their 
rods— all  the  cross- tackle  having 
disappeared — and — (loud  cries  of 
shame  !  shame !  oh  !  oh  !)  they  are 
throwing  stones  at  one  anotheracross 
the  Tweed— a  regular  bicker  ! 

We  have  for  many  years  acted 
on  the  principle  of  non-interference. 
Let  private  individuals  or  public  na- 
tions fight  as  they  choose,  either  at 
close  quarters,  or  across  channels — 
so  long  as  they  don  t  meddle  with 
us,  we  don't  meddle  with  them — we 
care  nothing  for  the  balance  of  power. 
But  that  big  blockhead  in  the  tartan 
shies  a  strong  stone;  and  'tis  as 
perilous  to  be  here  in  this  unpro- 
tected position,  as  in  the  trenches  be- 
fore Antwerp.  Shall  we  fiy  or  shew 
fight?  We  used  to  excell  equally  in 
hipping ,  hocking,  and  flinging,  (we 
speak  not  now  of  wrestling;)  and 
surely  if  his  flints  reach  us,  ours  will 
reach  him — and  as  poor  Pea- green 
appeared  to  us  to  be  shamefully  used 
by  Tartan,  we  shall  assist  him  against 
the  Celt  born  of  Irish  parents  in  the 
Canongate.  There — we  call  ["that 
battering  in  breach.  Christopher 
continues  hipping,  hoching,and  fling- 


ing  stones  at  his  enemy  across  the 
T\veed,  invisible  all  the  while  as 
Apollo  or  the  Plague,  when,  beneath 
his  arrows,  dogs,  mules,  and  men  of 
the  Grecian  army,  fell  festering  at 
their  ships. 

Coleridge  says  that  the  dullest 
wight  is  sometimes  a  Shakspeare  in 
his  sleep.  We  say  that  every  wight 
is  at  all  times,  more  or  less,  a  Shak- 
speare, broad  awake.  Mark,  more 
or  less;  and  a  Shakspeare,  not  to  a 

high,  but  a  respectable  degree, is 

Christopher  North.  Saw  you  never 
a  Bird — an  old  Eagle — gambolling 
in  the  air  like  a  madman — heaven 
knows  why;  when  all  at  once  steady- 
ing himself  on  the  wing,  "a  thing 
most  majestical,"  slowly  away  he 
saileth  in  among  the  blue  mist  of  the 
mountains,  or  some  old  forest's  pro- 
founder  gloom  ? 

"  O    sylvan    Tweed !     Thou  wanderer 
through  the  woods," 

not  for  the  sake  alone  of  such  pas- 
time, 

"  Though  dear  to  us  the  angler's  silent 

trade, 
Through  peaceful  scenes  in  peacefulness 

pursued," 

come  we  now — in  the  creeping 
hours  of  age — to  wander,  rod  in  hand, 
along  thy  houseless  solitudes,  and 
by  thy  cottaged  banks  and  braes, 
where  children  are  playing  among 
the  primroses,  and  in  the  fields  be- 
low are  seen  all  the  cheerful  on- 
goings of  half-agricultural,  half-pas- 
toral life !  Sweet  relief  from  carking 
care  to  world- wearied  man  !  But  oh ! 
how  more  than  sweet  the  sense  of  yet 
unabated  gladness  in  the  serenities 
of  nature,  of  gratitude  for  all  her 
goodness,  as  tender  and  far  more 
profound  than  ever  touched  our 
spirit  in  sensitive  but  thoughtless 
youth !  Then  all  was  joy,  or  all  was 
grief — bliss  keen  as  anguish— hope 
bright  as  faith — fear  dark  as  despair. 
Now  all  spiritual  affections  are  more 
mildly  mingled ;  the  mind's  experi- 
ences and  its  intuitions  coalesce; 
and  human  life  is  seen  lying — in  a 
less  troubled — in  a  more  solemn — 
in  a  holier  light ! 


Printed  by  Ballantyne  and  Company,  Paul's  Work,  Edinburgh, 


BLACKWOOD'S 

EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


No.  CCIX. 


JUNE,  1833. 


VOL.  XXXIII. 


THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY.* 


No.  I. 


POETRY  is  now  a  drug;  all  the 
European  markets  are  overstocked ; 
tiere  is  a  universal  glut;  prices 
have  fallen  far  below  prime  cost; 
t  le  sons  of  the  Muses  are  all  bank- 
rupt; they  flourish  only  in  the  Ga- 
zette. Prose  is  a  drug  too;  and  thus 
your  bookseller's  shop  has  absolutely 
tlie  smell  of  an  apothecary's;  citizens 
sicken  and  hold  their  noses  as  they 
pass  by ;  and  are  glad  to  get  beyond 
the  suburbs  for  a  mouthful  of  fresh 
air.  Yet  drug  as  it  is,  people  will  be 
composing  poetry;  pounding  verses 
v/ith  pestle  and  mortar;  making 
out  prescriptions;  and  offering  their 
medicines  in  small  paper  parcels  to 
that  patient,  the  public,  in  spite  of 
ler  plainly  expressed  repugnance 
to  pill  and  potion ;  nay,  some  seem 
rasolved  that  she  shall  swallow,  and 
seek  by  manual  dexterity  or  violence 
to  insinuate  or  force  them  down  her 
throat.  They  will  take  no  denial 
from  Maga ;  but  insist  on  subjecting 
her  to  a  perpetual  course  of  medi- 
cine, enough  to  destroy  the  strongest 
constitution,  and  to  bring  even  her 
auburn  locks  in  a  few  years  with  sor- 
r  3W  to  the  grave. 

Will  our  poetical  correspondents, 


without  taking  offence,  where  none 
is  given,  permit  us  now  openly  to 
say,  that,  with  a  few  exceptions, 
about  whjch  there  can  be  no  mistake, 
we  receive  their  contributions  with 
mixed  feelings  of  pity,  disgust,  and 
indignation  ?  Many  thousand  times 
have  we  requested,  in  the  most  gen- 
tlemanly terms,  that  they  would  send 
their  verses  elsewhere ;  but  no — like 
deaf  adders,  they  will  not  hear  the 
voice  of  the  charmer,  charm  he  ever 
so  wisely ;  and  our  affairs  are  now 
in  such  a  condition,  that  we  almost 
despair  of  ever  being  able  to  relieve 
ourselves  from  the  superincumbent 
load  of  poetry  that  has  been  long 
accumulating  upon  us — often  from 
quarters,  too,  the  most  cruelly  unex- 
pected, and  against  which  the  most 
watchful  prudence  cannot  always  be 
on  its  guard. 

Oh  heavens!  have  druggists  no 
bowels  ?  They  should  remember  that 
Maga  has;  that  we  have;  that  the 
myriads  have,  who  seek  and  find  in 
her  pages  the  balm  of  life.  Once  more, 
then,  we  beseech  them  to  desist; 
and  they  may  depend  on  it  that  they 
will  soon  find  their  reward  in  the 
unspeakable  satisfaction  of  a  calm 


*  Collections  from  the  Greek  Anthology.  By  the  late  Robert  Bland  and  Others.  A 
^  ew  Series ;  comprising  the  Fragments  of  Early  Lyric  Poetry,  with  Specimens  of  all  the 
I  oets  included  in  Meleager's  Garland.  Longman  and  Co.  and  John  Murray,  London,  1833. 

VOL.  XXXHI.  NO.  CCIX.  3  K 


866 


The  Greek  Anthology.   No.  I. 


[June* 


conscience.  As  they  value  not  merely 
our  peace  of  mind,  but  our  existence, 
let  them  desist ;  we  appeal  to  them 
as  Christians. 

Let  them  never  for  a  moment  for- 
get, that  it  is  not  of  a  few  paltry  hun- 
dred poetical  contributors  that  we 
have  been  so  long,  so  bitterly,  and, 
alas !  so  unavailiiigly  complaining ; 
but  of  a  multitude  beyond  all  calcu- 
lation ;  of  a  population  doubling  itself 
every  three  months ;  of  a  people,  now 
far  more  numerous  than  the  Chinese; 
probably  one-half  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  globe  !  What  though  thousands 
and  tens  of  thouands  be  swept  away, 
every  moon,  by  death  or  rejection  ? 
they  are  no  more  missed  than  so 
many  midges.  This  summer  threat- 
ens to  be  a  warm  one ;  and  we  fear 
to  think  on  the  twilights.  We  must 
go  to  sea. 

But  to  be  serious  on  a  serious  sub- 
ject, will  not  our  poetical  persecu- 
tors for  a  little  while  perpend,  and 
they  will  not  fail  to  perceive  that  the 
remaining  part  of  the  public  is  into- 
lerant of  their  proceedings,  and  de- 
voutly wishes  they  were  dead  ?  Not 
only  is  poetry  felt  to  be  a  drug,  but 
poets  themselves  are  felt  to  be  pests. 
They  are  regarded  with  unusual 
fear  and  abhorrence;  though  we 
verily  believe  that  many  of  them  are 
good,  most  of  them,  but  for  the  dis- 
ease that  afflicts  them,  harmless 
men  that  would  not,  with  malice  pre- 
pense, hurt  a  fly.  Nor  can  we  bring 
ourselves  to  believe  that  this  disease, 
though  inveterate,  is  incurable ;  but 
therein  the  patient  must  administer  to 
himself;  and  we  simply  suggest  that, 
as  the  first  step  towards  ultimate 
recovery,  he  forthwith  issue  orders 
to  "  his  footboy  in  green  livery"  to 
remove  pen,  ink,  and  paper  from  the 
premises,  and  that  all  the  windows 
in  the  house,  many  or  few,  be  kept 
open  from  sunrise  to  sunset.  Pro- 
bably his  usual  allowance  of  animal 
food  may  not,  in  his  case,  be  suscep- 
tible with  safety  of  any  considerable 
diminution ;  but  he  must  beware  of 
strong  coffee,  especially  at  evening, 
for  'tis  a  dangerous  stimulant  to  the 
imagination;  and  for  hot  rolls  to 
breakfast,  we  kindly  and  respectfully 
recommend  the  substitution  of  oat- 
meal parritch  and  small  beer.  That 
aliment  is  nutritive,  without  being 
heating;  and  if  pertinaciously  ad- 
hered to,  will  in  no  long  time  so  tame 


the  fancy,  sober  the  feeling,  and 
strengthen  the  judgment,  that  the 
patient,  then  a  patient  no  more,  will, 
in  the  genial  glow  of  bodily  and 
mental  health,  begin  with  looking  in- 
credulously back  on  himself  of  other 
days,  and  finish  in  scornful  disbelief 
of  any  kind  of  relationship  between 
the  fine  cheerful  honest  fellow  at  hia 
elbow  in  his  own  house,  and  the  puny 
wretch  once  hopelessly  pining  away 
his  spleen  for  admission  into  Poets' 
Corner  in  this  Magazine.  Why  will 
not  people  poetically  disposed  open 
their  eyes,  when  reading  our  Miscel- 
lany, for  by  means  of  that  single  ope- 
ration they  would  see  that  herein 
there  is  no  Poets'  Corner  ?  Let  them 
die  at  once,  and  get  buried,  with  a 
monument,  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
There  is  more  room  for  them  there, 
crowded  as  it  is,  than  in  this  temple. 
But  we  have  heard  that  burial-places, 
on  a  great  scale,  are  about  to  be  set 
a-going  somewhere  abou  t  the  suburbs 
of  London,  Glasgow,  and  other  large 
cities ;  so  that  by  and  by  there  will 
be  plenty  of  commodious  Poets'  Cor- 
ners. They  can  all  provide  them- 
selves, by  a  small  tax  on  their  own 
genius,  with  suitable  inscriptions; 
and  thus,  without  laying  us  under 
contribution,  enjoy  the  highest  per- 
haps of  all  spiritual  delights,  the  pro- 
phetic anticipation — the  foretaste  of 
posthumous  and  immortal  fame. 

And  is  it  true  that  Poetry  is  indeed 
a  drug  ?  No,  it  is  most  false,  unless 
by  "  drug"  you  mean  medicine  for  a 
mind  diseased,  for  a  mind  in  health 
"  celestial  food." 

"  Hermes'  moly, 

Sybilla's  golden  bough,  the  great  elixir 
Imagined  only  by  the  alchymist, 
Compared  with  her,  are  shadows,  she  the 

substance 

And  guardian  of  felicity." 
Ours  is  a  poetical  age.  But  over  its 
surface  glanced  all  kinds  of  unstead- 
fast  and  transitory  apparitions ;  and 
each,  as  it  came  and  went,  was  thought 
by  those  whose  weak  eyes  it  dazzled, 
to  be  an  emanation  of  genius.  Foolish 
people  were  agape  for  novelties ;  as 
one  glanced  by,  they  were  on  the 
look-out  for  another;  ever  and  anon, 
like  Wordsworth's  beggar-boys, 

"  Off  to  some  other  game  they  all  together 
flew." 

But  the  pleasure  true  poetry  in- 
spires, is  at  once  passionate  and  per- 


1833.] 


The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I. 


manent ;  once  loved,  the  strains  of 
higher  mood  charm  for  ever;  and 
world- wearied  minds  derive  restora- 
tion to  all  their  faculties  from  the 
sweet  or  solemn  music  heard,  at  in- 
tervals, as  from  the  spheres.  Much 
music  of  that  celestial  kind  has  been 
the  birth  of  our  own  time ;  it  mingles 
harmoniously  with  that  awoke  long 
ugo ;  and  there  is  yet  loving  wor- 
ship of  the  compositions  of  all  the 
Masters — living  or  dead — native  or 
alien — in  whatever  tongue  they  gave 
utterance  to  their  inspirations. 

Bad  or  poor  verses  are  a  drug  now, 
as  they  have  ever  been  and  will  be ; 
and  this  brings  us  back  again— but 
for  a  moment — to  the  druggists.  If 
their  effusions  will  not  be  taken  by 
their  fellow-creatures,  but  "  with 
sputtering  noise  rejected,"  when  of- 
fered in  a  series  of  separate  and  in- 
dependent pills,  all  bound  up  toge- 
ther in  one  comprehensive  paper- 
parcel  called  a  Volume  of  Poems, 
Chiefly  Lyrical,  or  not,  as  it  may  hap- 
pen, how  can  they  hope  against  all 
hope,  that  people  of  principle  like  us 
should  become,  not  only  privy,  but 
art  and  part,  in  any  attempt — if  not 
wicked,  surely  most  vain — to  palm 
them  off  in  our  columns,  on  any  por- 
tion, however  small,  of  a  Public  that 
has  so  long  placed  implicit  confi- 
dence in  our  honour  and  humanity  ? 

We  give  the  Public  poetry,  and  she 
receives  it  from  our  hands  with  de- 
lighted gratitude.  No  reviewers  by 
profession  are  we ;  no  authors  need 
sond  us  their  books,  except  as  a  tri- 
bute of  love  and  admiration ;  but  it 
has  rarely  happened,  that  even  on 
the  most  secluded  banks  and  braes 
in  pastoral  or  silvan  places,  beautiful 
flowers  have  been  born  to  blush 
unseen  by  our  eyes,  or  that  we  have 
neglected  to  cull  some  of  them  with 
a  gentle  hand,  when  desirous  of 
fornjing  for  our  friends  a  summer  or 
a  winter  garland.  And  thus  are  all 
the  true  poets — high  and  low — our 
contributors — thus  are  the  pages  of 
Maga  ever  alive  with  the  light  of 
genius.  They  are  the  stars,  and  she 
is  the  sky. 

We  pledge  ourselves  that  there 
shall  never  be  a  Number  of  the 
Matchless  without  j)oetry ;  not  fugi- 
tive— mind  ye,  not  fugitive;  not  ori- 
ginal— mind  ye,  not  original ;  we 
mean,  not  fugitive,  not  original, in  the 


867 

silly  sense  of  such  words ;  but  in  the 
right  sense,  at  once  fugitive  and  ori- 
ginal as  the  other  heavenly  lumina- 
ries, who  for  ever  keep  moving — 
even  those  that  are  called  the  fixed 
stars — and  have  been  published  for  at 
least  six  thousand  years. 

The  Greek  Anthology !  Few  per- 
sons but  scholars,  and  of  scholars 
but  few,  know  "  what  treasures  un- 
told reside  in  those  beautiful  words.'* 
We  are  no  great  scholars ;  yet  to  our 
intent  gazing  on  Greek,  by  degrees, 
come  breathing  or  burning  forth 
meanings  that  soothe  or  elevate,  till 
the  words  at  last  look  bright  to  the 
eye,  and  sound  clear  to  the  ear  even 
as  those  of  our  own  mother- tongue ; 
and  may  most — or  many  of  those 
meanings  find  adequate  and  corre- 
sponding expression  in  English? 
We  think  they  may;  but  we  are  not 
going  to  try  your  patience  by  an 
essay  on  translation.  Though  you, 
like  Shakspeare,  may  "  have  little 
Latin  and  no  Greek,"  be  not  unhap- 
py on  that  account  any  more  than  he 
was  unhappy;  and,  fortunately  for 
you,  you  may  enjoy  far  more  delight 
from  the  poetry  of  the  Latins  and  the 
Greeks  than  was  within  his  power ; 
for  the  spirit  of  much  of  it  has  been 
transfused  into  our  language,  al- 
though it  may  be  shining  there  in  a 
somewhat  bedimmed  and  broken 
light.  How  much  of  the  spirit  of 
the  most  exquisite  poetry  must  be 
necessarily  lost  by  translation  from 
one  language  into  another  we  grieve 
to  think ;  the  loss  must  be  chiefly  in 
that  mysterious  vital  power  of  de- 
light which  dwells  in  the  music,  and 
which  is  rarely  communicable  to 
the  full ;  for  in  perfect  versification 
the  words  so  play  into  each  other's 
syllables,  that  by  changing — not  vio- 
lently but  gently — the  place  of  a  few, 
you  may  sadly  change  the  counte- 
nances of  many ;  nay,  touch  but  one, 
and  you  may  feel  how  much  you 
have  impaired  the  beauty  of  the 
whole  composition.  If  this  happen 
even  by  the  substitution  of  one 
word  for  another  almost  synony- 
mous in  the  same  language,  how 
much  more  when  there  is  a  change 
from  one  language  into  another  I  In 
many  passages  where  the  charm  de- 
pends on  the  particular  position  of  a 
word,  the  finer  lines  must  be  weak- 
ened—or rather  suffered— in  spite  of 


The  Greek  Anthology.    J\ro.  I. 


868 

all  that  skilful  love  can  devise— to 
evaporate  in  the  process  of  trans- 
fusion into  other  speech. 

But  a  happy  genius  may  do  wonders 
in  overcoming  even  such  difficulties 
— we  had  almost  said  such  impossi- 
bilities—as these,  in  the  way  of  a 
perfect  version,  if  such  a  thing  may 
be ;  and  by  breathing  a  fresher  or 
brighter  beauty  into  one  part,  he  may 
preserve  the  power  of  the  whole  but 
little,  or  not  at  all,  impaired,  even 
though  there  may  have  been  some- 
thing lost  in  another;  so  that,  even  to 
the  finest  appreciation,  the  poem  in 
English— let  us  say— shall  be  one  and 
the  same  as  the  poem  in  Greek,  the 
felicity  of  the  execution  being  such 
as  that  the  deviation  from  the  ori- 
ginal is  not  felt  to  be  a  flaw,  but  even 
a  better  bringing  out  of  the  thought 
or  feeling  that  constitutes  its  per- 
vading and  prevailing  character. 

A  much  nearer  approach  to  per- 
fection would  be  made  in  the  art  of 
translation,  in  poetry,  were  poets 
themselves  to  cultivate  it,  in  the  same 
spirit  of  love  and  delight  in  which 
they  live  as  makers.  It  ought  never 
to  be  either  task-work,  or  a  mere 
pastime.  Read  Wordsworth's  ver- 
sions— they  are  perfect — of  some  of 
Chiabrera's  epitaphs — and  then  Chia- 
brera's  epitaphs  themselves;  and 
you  know  not  whether  you  are  an 
Englishman  or  an  Italian.  The  illus- 
trious translator  has  seized  on  the 
soul  of  each  inscription,  and  inspired 
by  it,  he  shews  you  another  and  the 
same — Italian  and  English  words 
equally  .beautiful  with  their  melan- 
choly music.  It  is  often  matter  of 
amazement,  the  utter  want  of  sym- 
pathy in  the  mind  of  even  an  able 
translator— attimes  a  good  one — with 
the  spirit  of  his  original  as  it  pervades 
the  poem  traduced — or  rather  the 
total  ignorance  of  its  end,  aim,  object, 
scope,  or  tendency — and  odd  mis- 
conception of  the  entire  concern. 
One  would  think  there  could  be  no 
great  difficulty  in  all  cases  where  a 
poet's  meaning  is  clear,  (and  we  are 
now  speaking  of  such  alone,)  in  seeing, 
or,  at  least,  in  finding  it  out;  yet  no- 
thing more  common  than  to  meet 
with  a  version — say  of  a  Greek  epi- 
gram— done  by  a  fair  scholar  enough, 
who  knows  the  meaning  of  the 
words,  and  has  looked  them  up  in 
the  Lexicon — which  bears  about  as 
much  resemblance  to  the  original,  as 


[June, 


the  dead  corpse  of  a  very  fat  and 
still  uglier  elderly  woman,  fantastical- 
ly bedizened  on  her  bier  with  dande- 
lions, might-  be  thought  to  bear  to  the 
living  body  of  a  slim  and  still  more 
beautiful  young  virgin,  arrayed  like 
a  lily  of  the  field  on  her  bridal  bed. 

The  composition  to  be  translated 
is,  we  shall  suppose,  a  short  one — 
four,  six,  eight,  ten,  or  a  dozen  lines ; 
and  it  contains  one  or  other  of  those 
given  numbers  of  lines,  because  the 
writer  manifestly  desired  to  say  what 
he  had  to  say  within  such  limits. 
The  translator — unless  he  be  a  cruel 
sumph — must  conform — if  possible 
—to  the  same  rule  of  restriction-^ 
for  by  departing  from  it,  he  at  once 
puts  his  original  to  death  on  a  Pro- 
crustean bed,  by  curtailment  or[elon- 
gation.  If  to  conform  be  impossible, 
then,  perhaps,  he  may  lawfully  give 
us  a  paraphrase,  provided  he  calls  it 
so ;  but  it  will  be  found  to  be  a  pre- 
ferable procedure  in  most  cases  of 
that  kind,  for  a  translator  careful  of 
a  good  name,  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf,  or  to  take  up  his  hat  and  gloves 
and  cane,  and  emerge  into  the  open 
air,  to  regale  himself  with  a  consti- 
tutional walk  up  the  "  accustomed 
hill." 

But  who  shall  say  whether  it  be 
possible  or  impossible  in  any  given 
case  to  conform  to  the  rule  of  re- 
striction ?  Nineteen  men,  in  succes- 
sion, make  the  attempt,  and  after 
hours  of  headache  and  much  biting 
of  nails,  all  shamefully  fail;  the 
twentieth  performs  the  feat  to  a  mi- 
racle in  a  twinkling,  and  enriches 
the  language  with  a  new  jewel. 

He  who  would  well  translate  into 
English  a  Greek  epigram,  or  other 
perfect  little  composition,  must  eye  it, 
first  of  all,  with  that  kind  of  undiscri- 
minating,  or  rather  uncriticising,  de- 
light with  which  he  eyes  a  beautiful 
girl.  Having  thus  feasted  for  a  reason- 
able time,  he  must,  still  in  obedience, 
however,  to  the  mood  of  his  own 
mind,  regard  more  wistfully  than  the 
rest,  this  or  that  expression  in  the 
poem,  which  insensibly  appears  most 
peculiar  and  characteristic— just  as 
he  does  this  or  that  feature  of  the 
face  in  which  he  feels  to  reside  the 
chief  power  of  enchantment.  This 
done,  and  poem  or  face  got  by  heart, 
he  translates  the  one  or  paints  the 
other  so  naturally,  that  you  yield  to 
the  delusion,  and  believe  that  you 


The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I. 


are  reading  the  very  lines,  or,  better 
c-till,  kissing  the  very  lips  of  the  ori- 
final. 

But  if  a  translator  of  a  Greek 
epigram,  or  any  other  little  perfect 
piece,  introduce  into  his  translation 
thoughts,  or  feelings,  or  images  that 
are  not  in  the  original,  or  much  ex- 
aggerate or  much  diminish  even  one 
that  is,  then  he  is  neither  more  nor 
l3ss  worthy  of  chastisement  than  a 
portrait  painter  would  be,  who,  ha- 
ving engaged  to  paint  the  portrait  of 
your  "  ain  lassie,"  or  any  other  lit- 
t  e  perfect  piece  of  living  loveliness, 
v/ere  to  change  upon  you  the  colour 
of  her  eyes,  and  in  lieu  of  her  own, 
t:>  furnish  her  with  a  nose  that  would 
have  attracted  notice  in  Rome  du- 
ring a  triumphal  procession  to  the 
Capitol. 

But  we  must,  without  longer  delay, 


fine  specimens  of  translation,  illus- 
t  -alive  of  the  truth  of  what  we  have 
been  saying,  and  in  themselves  most 
interesting  to  all  who  are  not  insen- 
sible to  the  glorious  spirit  of  Greece 
i-i  the  olden  time.  So  far  back  as 
the  year  1803,  Mr  Bland  conceived 
the  design  of  exhibiting  in  an  English 
dress  some  of  the  most  beautiful,  or 
otherwise  remarkable,  of  the  pieces 
ascribed  to  the  minorpoets  of  Greece, 
more  especially  the  writers  of  the 
Anthology ;  and  in  1806  he  collected 
a  number  of  epigrams,  fragments, 
and  fugitive  pieces,  translated  by 
himself  and  two  or  three  friends  for 
the  Monthly  Magazine,  and  published 
them  with  additions  in  one  small 
octavo  volume.  In  1813,  the  entire 
substance  of  that  volume  was  inclu- 
ded in  a  new  work,  entitled  "  Col- 
lections from  the  Greek  Anthology, 
and  from  the  Pastoral,  Elegiac,  and 
Dramatic  Poets  of  Greece,"  which, 
besides  very  considerable  additions 
from  the  rich  storehouse  of  the  An- 
thology, and  from  other  classical 
sources,  that  had  been  contributed, 
d  uring  the  interval,  to  the  Monthly 
Magazine  and  the  Athenaeum  (a  peri- 
odical conducted  by  Dr  Aikin),  was 
constructed  on  the  principle  of  an 
etitirely  new  arrangement,  being 
divided  into  distinct  heads  or  sub- 
jects— the  Amatory,  the  Convivial, 
the  Moral,  the  Sepulchral,  the  De- 
scriptive, the  Dedicatory,  and  the 


869 

Humorous  or  Satirical,  along  with 
metrical  versions  of  passages  from 
the  Greek  Drama,  and  a  variety  of 
illustrations  both  in  prose  and  verse, 
in  notes  of  a  very  miscellaneous 
character.  Mr  Bland  died  curate  of 
Kenilworthin  1825,  and  Mr  Merivale., 
his  gifted  coadjutor  in  the  two  former 
editions,  has  now  given  us  a  third, 
freed  from  what  he  rightly  considers 
their  blemishes  and  superfluities, 
besides  exhibiting  a  more  correct  and 
classical  representation  of  the  origi- 
nal Anthology,  by  a  more  abundant 
infusion  of  the  best  specimens,  and 
by  returning  to  the  earlier  plan  of 
assigning  each  to  its  several  author, 
and  placing  the  authors  themselves 
in  a  chronological  order  of  succession. 
More  than  three-fourths  of  the  con- 
tents of  the  present  are  additions  to 
the  former  work;  and  on  those  which 
are  republished,  so  much  of  correc- 
tion and  amendment  has  been  freely 
admitted,  as  to  render  them  in  many 
instances  new  versions  of  the  origi- 
nal, except  with  respect  to  Mr 
Eland's  translations,  which,  with  a 
fine  and  delicate  feeling  towards  a 
departed  friend,  Mr  Merivale  has  not 
thought  himself  at  liberty  to  alter  in 
any  essential  matter.  The  death  of 
Mr  Bland  was  an  irreparable  loss  to 
a  widow  and  several  children ;  and 
the  chief  motive  that  urged  Mr  Me- 
rivale to  this  publication,  was  the 
hope,  in  which  he  cannot  be  disap 
pointed,  of  its  proving  a  source  of 
profit,  however  inconsiderable,  in- 
tended to  be  applied  exclusively  in 
aid  of  the  eldest  son  on  his  removal 
to  college  from  the  Charter-house. 
Mr  Robert  Bland  is  a  youth,  we  un- 
derstand, of  excellent  talents  and 
acquirements,  and  some  translations 
from  his  pen  are  exceedingly  ele- 
gant; so  are  a  good  many  by  Mr 
Charles  Merivale,  of  St  John's  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  one  of  the  accom- 
plished sons  of  the  Editor,  who  ac- 
knowledges with  paternal  pride  the 
material  assistance  afforded  by  him 
in  the  arrangement  of  the  work.  He 
numbers  among  his  contributors 
those  elegant  and  distinguished  scho- 
lars, Dr  Hay-garth,  Henry  Nelson 
Coleridge,  Thomas  Denman  (Lord 
Chief  Justice),  Benjamin  Keen,  and 
F.  Hodgson,  the  admirable  translator 
of  Juvenal,  who  had  with  several 
exquisite  specimens  enriched  the 
earlier  editions. 


870  The  Greek  Anthology*    No.  1.  [June 

The  first  division  of  the  volume  the  date  of  whose  birth  has  been 
contains  specimens  of  the  early  lyric  fixed  at  556,  and  of  his  death  at 
poets — Archilochus,  Arion,  Sappho,  467  B.  c.;  and  whose  memory  is  as- 
Erinna,  Alcaeus,  Stesichorus,  Ibycus,  sociated  with  the  great  events  which 
Alcman,  Melanippides,  Anacreon,  formed  the  subject  of  the  principal 
Cleobulus,  Simonides,  Bacchylides,  parts  of  his  remaining  works.  A 
and  the  Scolia  of  various  poets.  A  third  Simonides,  a  native  also  of 
mournful  exhibition  indeed — as  H.  Ceos,  and  nephew  to  the  second, 
N.  Coleridge  finely  calls  them— of  possesses  the  best  title  to  such  of  the 
the  "  torsos"  of  those  bards.  Let  us  epigrams,  as,  from  the  date  of  the 
turn  to  Simonides.  It  appears  that  events  recorded  in  them,  cannot  be 
there  were  at  least  three  poets  of  that  ascribed  to  the  writer  without  an 
name.  The  Eldest  was  a  native  of  anachronism.  To  Simonides  the  Great 
the  island  Amorgos,  and  probably  is  attributed  the  invention  or  esta- 
contemporary  with  Archilochus,  who  blishment  of  the  elegy,  in  the  sense 
is  placed  by  Tatian,  (see  Fynes  of  a  funereal  poem.  A  very  few  of 
Clinton, Fasti Hellenici,  vol.  i.p.  296,)  his  elegies  remain,  but  a  good  many 
as  having  flourished  about  the  twenty-  of  his  epigrams— chiefly  on  those 
third  Olympiad,  corresponding  with  who  fell  in  battle  against  the  Per- 
the  year  688  B.C., or  about  500  years  sians.  "  They  are  all  characterised," 
later  than  the  date  commonly  ascri-  says  H.  N.  Coleridge,  in  a  noble  artU 
bed  to  the  Trojan  War,  and  200  years  cle  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  "bjr 
previous  to  the  battle  of  Marathon,  force,  downrightness,  and  terse  sim- 
To  him  is  ascribed  a  set  of  Iambic  plicity — uQitexx, — in  the  highest  de- 
verses  on  the  characters  of  Wo-  gree  of  any  to  be  found  in  the  An- 
men,  of  which  we  promise  our  read-  thology."  Here  are  a  few  of  the 
ers  an  admirable  translation  in  our  finest.  We  can  afford  to  give  but 
next  number.  Simonides  the  Great  one  of  them  in  the  original — of  which 
is  he  of  Ceos,  the  son  of  Leoprepes,  we  add  a  literal  prose  translation. 

ON  OTHRYADES.— MERIVALE. 

O  native  Sparta  !  when  we  met  the  host 
In  equal  combat  from  th'  Inachian  coast, 
Thy  brave  three  hundred  never  turn'd  aside, 
But  where  our  feet  first  rested,  there  we  died. 
The  words,  in  blood,  that  stout  Othryades 
Wrought  on  his  herald  shield,  were  only  these— 
"  Thyrea  is  Lacedaemon's !" — If  there  fled 
One  Argive  from  the  slaughter,  be  it  said,     - 
Of  old  Adrastus  he  hath  learn'd  to  fly. 
We  count  it  death  to  falter,  not  to  die. 

ON  MEGISTIAS  THE  SOOTHSAYER. — MERIVALE, 

This  tomb  records  Megistias'  honour'd  name, 
Who,  bravely  fighting  in  the  ranks  of  Fame, 

Fell  by  the  Persians,  near  Speichius'  tide. 
Both  past  and  future  well  the  prophet  knew ; 
And  yet,  though  death  lay  open  to  his  view, 

He  chose  to  perish  by  his  monarch's  side. 

ON  THOSE  WHO  FELL  AT  THERMOPYLAE.— BLAND. 

Greatly  to  die — if  this  be  glory's  height — 

For  the  fair  meed  we  own  our  fortune  kind. 
For  Greece  and  Liberty  we  plunged  to-nighf, 

And  left  a  never-dying  name  behind. 

THE  SAME  SUBJECT.-HVIERIVALE. 

These,  for  their  native  land,  through  death's  dark  shad* 

Who  freely  passed,  now  deathless  glory  wear. 
They  die  not ;  but,  by  Virtue's  sovereign  aidj  * 

Are  borne  from  Hades  to  the  upper  air. 


1833.]  The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  1.  871 

ON  THE  CORINTHIANS  WHO  FELL  AT  SALAM1S.— CHARLES  MERIVALE. 

We  dwelt  of  yore  in  Corinth,  by  the  deep  : 
la  Salamis  (Ajacian  Isle)  we  sleep. 
The  ships  of  Tyre  we  routed  on  the  sea, 
And  Persia, — warring,  holy  Greece !  for  thee. 

ON  CIMON'S  NAVAL  VICTORY.— MERIVALE. 

Ne'er  since  that  olden  time  when  Asia  stood 
First  torn  from  Europe  by  the  ocean  flood, 
Since  horrid  Mars  first  pour'd  on  either  shore 
The  storm  of  battle,  and  its  wild  uproar, 
Hath  man  by  land  and  sea  such  glory  won 
As  for  the  mighty  deed  this  day  was  done. 
By  land,  the  Medes  in  myriads  press  the  ground ; 
By  sea,  a  hundred  Tyrian  ships  are  drown'd, 
With  all  their  martial  host ;  while  Asia  stands 
Deep  groaning  by,  and  wrings  her  helpless  hands. 

ON  THOSE  WHO  FELL  AT  THE  EURYMEDON.— MERIVALE. 

These  by  the  streams'  of  famed  Eurymedon 
Their  envied  youth's  short  brilliant  race  have  run  : 
In  swift-wing'd  ships,  and  on  th'  embattled  field, 
Alike  they  forced  the  Median  bows  to  yield, 
Breaking  their  foremost  ranks.     Now  here  they  lie, 
Their  names  inscribed  on  rolls  of  victory. 


ON  THE  SAME.— R. 

In  life-blood,  streaming  from  those  stubborn  hearts, 
The  lord  of  war  once  bathed  his  barbed  darts. 
Where  are  those  warriors,  patient  of  the  spear  ? 
Dust— soulless,  lifeless  dust — alone  lies  here. 


ON  A  TROPHY  SUSPENDED  IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  MINERVA.— -R* 

From  wound  and  death  they  rest — this  bow  and  quiver- 
Beneath  Minerva's  holy  roof  for  ever  : 
Once  did  their  shafts  along  the  battle  speed, 
And  drink  the  life-blood  of  the  charging  Mede, 


ON  A  VOTIVE  SPEAR.—  MERIVALE. 

Good  ashen  spear,  that  erst  this  arm  did  wield, 
And  hurl,  fierce  hissing  through  the  battle-field  ! 
Now,  peaceful  resting  in  the  sacred  grove, 
Thou  lead'st  the  pomp  of  Panomphsean  Jove* 


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87-2 


The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I. 


[June, 


CO 


LINE  FOR  LINE  AS  IN  THE  ORIGINAL.      BY  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

Of  those  that  died  at  Thermopylae, 

Very  glorious  is  the  fortune,  renowned  too  is  the  fate, 

An  altar  is  their  tomh,  for  libation  (they  have}  the  rememhrance  (of  men.) 

And  the  lamentation  (for  them  is  their}  eulogium. 

Such  a  funeral  as  this, 

Neither  mouldiness,  nor  all-  subduing 

Time,  shall  efface,  —  (the  funeral)  of  brave  men. 

This  sacred  enclosure  of  the  servants 

Of  Greece,  hath  won  for  itself  great  glory. 

This  testifies  Leonidas, 

Sparta's  king,  in  that  he  hath  left  for  himself  the  great 

Adornment,  and  ever-flowing  renown  of  valiant  deeds. 


ON  THOSE  WHO  FELL  AT  THERMOPYLAE. — R. 


In  dark  Thermopylae  they  lie  ; 

Oh  death  of  glory,  there  to  die  ! 

Their  tomb  an  altar  is,  their  name 

A  mighty  heritage  of  fame  : 

Their  dirge  is  triumph  —  cankering  rust, 

And  Time,  that  turneth  all  to  dust, 

These  last  verses  are  part  of  a  hymn 
—  the  others  are  inscriptions.  To 
some  they  may  seem  bald  ;  but  by 
all  Greece  their  simplicity  was  felt 
for  ages  to  be  elevating,  and  assured- 
ly it  is  majestic.  The  high  truth  is 
told  of  the  dead  in  the  fewest  possi- 
ble words  —  nothing  was  needed  but 
a  fervent  record  of  their  deeds  —  a 
statement  of  where,  how,  by  and  for 
whom  died  the  heroes  whose  names 
by  their  grateful  and  glorious  country 
were  to  be  held  in  everlasting  remem- 
brance. 

We  shall  now  quote  the  famous  frag- 
ment of  Simoiides  —  "  Danae"  —  the 
original  —  and  seven  versions  which 
we  have  collected  —  for  the  sake  of 
comparison  of  their  several  merits. 


That  tomb  shall  never  waste  nor  hide, — 
The  tomb  of  warriors  true  and  tried. 
The  full-voiced  praise  of  Greece  around 
Lies  buried  in  that  sacred  mound  : 
Where  Sparta's  king,  Leonidas, 
In  death  eternal  glory  has. 

It  may  perhaps  be  right  to  remind 
some  of  our  readers  that  Acrisius, 
King  of  the  Argives,  having  learned 
from  the  Oracle  that  he  should  be 
killed  by  his  grandson,  shut  up  his 
daughter  in  a  turret,  who  neverthe- 
less became  pregnant  to  Jupiter  of 
the  Golden  Shower.  When  he  un- 
derstood that  she  had  given  birth  to 
a  son,  he  ordered  them  to  be  put 
into  a  chest  or  ark,  and  thrown  into 
the  sea.  The  chest  was  found  by  a 
fisherman,  and  given  to  Pilumnus, 
King  of  the  Rutilians,  who  married 
Danae.  When  Perseus,  her  son, 
grew  up,  he  slew  his  grandfather, 
and  thus  the  oracle  was  fulfilled. 


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1833.] 


The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I. 


873 


LINE  FOR  LINE  WITH  THE  ORIGINAL.      BY  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

Where  on  the  curiously-framed  ark  the  wind 

Blowing  roared,  and  the  agitated  ocean 

Overwhelmed  (Danae)  with  dread,— with  not  unmoistened 

Cheeks,  around  Perseus  she  cast 

Her  hand,  and  said  :  "  Oh  child, 

What  suffering  is  mine  !  but  thou  sleepest-sweetly,  and  on  a  milky 

Breast  thou  slumberest-deeply,  in  a  pleasureless  abode, 

Secured-with-nails-of-brass,  and  during-the-moorishirie, 

(Thou  art)  in  gloomy  darkness: — but  thou,  over  thy  dry 

Deep  hair,  heedest  not  the  wave  passing-by, 

Nor  the  voices  of  the  wind,  in  (thy)  purple 

Little-cloak  lying, — beautiful  countenance  ! 

But  if  verily  to  thee  this  calamity  were  a  calamity, 

Thou  indeed  hadst  to  my  words  thy  little 

Ear  applied, but  sleep  on,  I  charge  thee,  my  child; 

Let  the  sea,  too,  sleep,  and  sleep  mine  immeasurable  evils. 
A-foolish-device  may  this  appear, 

Oh  father  Jupiter,  by  thy  means,  and  what  (is)  indeed  a  daring 
Expression,  I  pray  for  vengeance  for  myself,  by-means-of-this-my- child." 

JORTIN. 

Nocte  sub  obscura,  verrentibus  sequora  ventis, 
Quum  brevis  immensa  cymba  nataret  aqua, 
Multa  gemens  Danae  subjecit  brachia  nato, 
Et  tenerse  lacrymis  immaduere  gense. 
Tu  tamen  ut  dulci,  dixit,  pulcherrime,  soinno 
Obrutus,  et  metuens  tristia  nulla,  jaces. 
Quamvis,  heu  quales  cunas  tibi  concutit  unda, 
Prsebet  et  incertam  pallida  luna  facem, 
Et  vehemens  flavos  everberat  aura  capillos, 
Et  prope,  subsultans,  irrigat  ora  liquor. 
Nate,  meam  sentis  vocem  ?  Nil  cernis  et  audis, 
Teque  premunt  placidi  vincula  blanda  dei, 
Nee  mihi  purpureis  effundis  blsesa  labellis 
Murmura,  nee  natos  confugis  usque  sinus. 
Care,  quiesce,  puer,  ssevique  quiescite  fluctus, 
Et  mea  qui  pulsas  corda,  quiesce,  dolor. 
Cresce  puer ;  matris  cari  atque  ulciscere  luctus, 
Tuque  tuos  saltern  protege  summe  Tonans. 


DENMAN. 


When  the  wind,  resounding  high, 
Bluster'd  from  the  northern  sky, 
When  the  waves,  in  stronger  tide, 
Dash'd  against  the  vessel's  side, 
Her  care-worn  cheek  with  tears  bedew 'd, 
Her  sleeping  infant  Danae  view'd  ; 
And  trembling  still  with  new  alarms, 
Around  him  cast  a  mother's  arms. 
"  My  child  !  what  woes  does  Danae  weep  ! 
But  thy  young  limbs  are  wrapt  in  sleep. 
In  that  poor  nook  all  sad  and  dark, 
While  lightnings  play  around  our  bark, 
Thy  quiet  bosom  only  knows 
The  heavy  sigh  of  deep  repose. 


"  The  howling  wind,  the  raging  sea, 
No  terror  can  excite  in  thee ; 
The  angry  surges  wake  no  care 
That  burst  above  thy  long  deep  hair ; 
But  couldst  thou  feel  what  I  deplore, 
Then  would  I  bid  thee  sleep  the  more  ! 
Sleep  on,  sweet  boy  ;  still  be  the  deep  ! 
Oh  could  I  lull  my  woes  to  sleep ! 
Jove,  let  thy  mighty  hand  o'erthrow 
The  baffled  malice  of  my  foe  ; 
And  may  this  child,  in  future  years, 
Avenge  his  mother's  wrongs  and  tears  !" 


ELTON. 

When  round  the  well-framed  ark  the  blowing  blast 
Roar'd,  and  the  heaving  whirlpools  of  the  deep 


874  The  Greek  Anthology.    No,  1.  [Jutie, 

With  rough 'ning  surge  seera'tl  threatening  to  o'erturn 

The  wide-tost  vessel,  not  with  tearless  speech 

The  mother  round  her  infant  gently  twined 

Her  tender  arms,  and  cried,  "  Ah  me  !  my  child  ! 

What  sufferings  I  endure  !   thou  sleep'st  the  while, 

Inhaling  in  thy  milky-breathing  breast 

The  balm  of  slumber  ;  though  imprison'd  here 

In  undelightful  dwelling ;  brassy-wedged  ; 

Alone  illumed  by  the  stars  of  night, 

And  black  and  dark  within.     Thou  heedest  not 

The  wave  that  leaps  above  thee,  while  its  spray 

Wets  not  the  locks  deep- clustering  round  thy  head  ; 

Nor  hear'st  the  shrill  wind's  hollow-whispering  sounds, 

While  on  thy  purple  downy  mantle  stretched, 

With  count'nance  flushed  in  sleeping  loveliness. 

Then,  if  this  dreadful  peril  would  to  thee 

Be  dreadful,  turn  a  light  unconscious  ear 

To  my  lamenting  :   Sleep  !  I  bid  thee  sleep, 

My  infant !  oh  !  may  the  tremendous  surge 

Sleep  also  !  May  the  immeasurable  scene 

Of  watery  perils  sleep,  and  be  at  rest ! 

And  void  and  prostrate  prove  this  dark  device, 

I  do  conjure  thee,  Jove  !   and,  though  my  words 

May  rise  to  boldness,  at  thy  hand  I  ask 

A  righteous  vengeance,  by  this  infant's  aid." 

(FROM  BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE,  1818.) 

Around  the  helpless  wandering  bark  "  O  lovely  Babe !  around  thy  brow, 
The  gathering  tempests  howled,  Unharmed  the  curlets  play  ; 

And  swelling  o'er  the  ocean  dark  Not  all  the  angry  blasts  that  blow 
The  whitening  billows  rolled.  Can  draw  one  sigh  from  thee. 

The  fair  one  feared ;  she  turned  her  eyes,  "  Yet  did'st  thou  know  how  deep  I  moan, 
Her  eyes  with  anguish  filled,  Thou'dst  bend  thine  infant  ear, 

To  where  her  sleeping  infant  lies,  Thy  little  heart  would  sighs  return, 
She  looked,  and  clasped  the  child.  Thine  eyes  an  answering  tear. 

"  What  griefs  oppress  this  wearied  breast !  "  O  sink,  ye  stormy  winds,  to  rest ! 
«.  Yet  nought  oppresses  thine  ;  Be  still,  thou  troubled  deep  ! 

No  sorrows  break  thy  placid  rest :  O  sleep,  ye  sorrows  in  my  breast, 
Ah  !  were  these  slumbers  mine  !  And  let  me  cease  to  weep ! 

"  Here  e'en  denied  one  scanty  beam  "  Sleep,  sleep,  my  child,  and  may  thine  eyes 
The  gloomy  night  to  cheer,  These  sorrows  never  see ! 

Yet  soft  thou  sleep'st,  nor  dost  thou  dream  On  thee  may  brighter  fortunes  rise 
Of  tempests  f  aging  near.  Than  ever  shone  on  me1  ! 

"  Almighty  Jove  !  to  whom  alone 

The  way  of  fate  belongs, 
O  spare,  O  spare  this  little  one 

To  wreak  his  mother's  wrongs  !" 

BY  BRYANT ,  THE  AMERICAN  fOEt. 

The    night-winds     howl'd  —  the  billows      "  The  moon  is  up,  the  moonbeams  smile— 
dash'd  They  tremble  on  the  main  ; 

Against  the  tossing  chest ;  But  dark  within  my  floating  cell, 

And  Danae  to  her  broken  heart  To  me  they  smile  in  vain. 

Her  slumbering  infant  prest. 

*'  My  little  child,"  in  tears  she  said—  "  Thy  folded  mantle  wraps  thee  warm 
"  To  wake  and  weep  is  mine ;  Thy  curling  locks  are  dry ; 

But  thou  canst  sleep — thou  dost  not  know  Thou  dost  not  hear  the  shrieking  gust, 
Thy  mother's  lot,  and  thine,  Nor  breakers  booming  high. 


1833.]  The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I.  875 

"  Yet  thou,  didbt  thou  but  know  thy  fate,  "  Yet,  dear  one,  sleep,  and  sleep,  ye  winds 

Wouldst  melt  my  tears  to  see ;  That  vex  the  restless  brine— 

And  I,  mcthinks,  should  weep  the  less,  When  shall  these  eyes,  my  babe,  be  seal'd 

Wouldst  thou  but  weep  with  me.  As  peacefully  as  thine  !" 


TRANSLATION.      BY  W.  HAY. 


When  round  the  wondrous  ark  the  winds 

Were  roaring,  and  the  sea 
With  all  its  fierce  and  yeasty  waves, 

Was  booming  mournfully, 

Acrisius'  daughter,  while*  the  tears 
Are  trickling  down  her  cheeks, 

All  terror-stricken,  clasps  her  babe, 
And  thus  the  mother  speaks: — 

*'  Perseus,  my  child,  what  woes  are  mine  ! 

Thou  sleepest, — take  thy  rest, 
Upon  that  breast  which  nurses  thee, 

— Thy  loving  mother's  breast; 

"  Cheerless  abode  for  thee,  my  babe, 

This  brazen-bolted  ark ! 
Which  though  the  moonbeams  flicker  o'er, 

Yet  all  within  is  dark. 


"  Thou  heedest  not  the  surging  waves,—* 
The  wild  waves  rolling  by, 

They  injure  not  thy  deep  long  hair, 
For  every  lock  is  dry  : 

"  Thou  heedest  not  the  angry  brawl 
Of  the  loud  winds  piping  wild, 

Wrapt  in  thy  little  purple  cloak, — 
31y  beautiful ! — my  child  ! 

"  Oh,  if  thou  felt  that  depth  of  woe, 
That  makes  thy  mother  weep, 

How  would  thine  ears  drink  in  her  words !- 
— No,  no,  she  bids  thee  sleep. 

"  Sleep  on,  my  babe,  I  bid  thee  sleep, 
And  sleep,  thou  raging  sea, 

And  sleep,  ye  countless,  cruel  griefs, 
Of  miserable  me. 


u  Grant,  mighty  Jove,  that  this  device 

May  yet  confounded  be, 
And,  daring  prayer  !  may  this  my  son, 

Avenge  thy  Danae." 


The  origittal  is  very  simple,  natural, 
and  pathetic  —  and  reads  like  the 
fragment  of  an  old  Scottish  ballad- 
reminding  us  of  Lady  Bothwell's 
Lament.  Lord  Woodhouselee,  in  his 
elegant  Essay  on  Translation,  says, 
that  Jortin's  "  admirable  translation 
falls  short  of  its  original  only  in  a 
single  particular — the  measure  of  the 
verse.  One  striking  beauty  of  the 
original  is,  the  easy  and  loose  struc- 
ture of  the  verse,  which  has  little 
elne  to  distinguish  it  from  animated 
discourse  but  the  harmony  of  sylla- 
bles ;  and  hence  it  has  more  of  na- 
tural impassioned  eloquence  than  is 
conveyed  by  the  regular  measure  of 
the  translation."  We  feel  that  there 
is  truth  in  that  remark;  and  the 
poem  is  quoted  by  Dionysius  as  an 
apposite  example  of  that  species  of 
composition  in  which  poetry  ap- 
proaches to  the  freedom  of  prose. 
Yet,  no  doubt,  the  versification  is 
constructed  according  to  rule, 
though  we,  for  our  own  parts,  do 
not  know  what  it  is;  and  though 
there  are  various  arrangements  of  it, 
to  our  ear  they  are  all  musical. 
Fragment  as  it  is,  and  probably  in 
itself  imperfect,  it  is  felt  to  justify 


the  character  assigned  to  the  poet  by 
Catullus, 

"  Msestius  lacrymis  Simonideis," 

and  at  its  close  we  can  join  in  the 
wish  so  finely  breathed  by  Words- 
worth— 

"  O  ye  who  patiently  explore 
The  wreck  of  Herculanean  lore, 
What  rapture,  could  ye  seize 
Some  Theban  fragment,  or  unroll 
One  precious  tender-hearted  scroll 
Of  pure  Simonides !" 

Jortin's  version  is  indeed  very  beau-? 
tiful,  and  not  one  of  our  modern 
scholars  wrote  Latin  verse  with  more 
purity  and  delicacy  than  he  did,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  Vinny  Bourne,  whom 
Cowper,  if  we  mistake  not,  preferred 
to  Tibullus.  It  is  very  close,  yet 
misses  one  or  two  effective  touches 
—such  as  oiov  &%&  -rovov  —  and  the 
child's  little  purple  cloak.  "  Teque 
premunt  placidi  vincula  blanda  dei" 
is  sufficiently  classical  for  a  copy  of 
prize  verses  at  College,  but  out  of 
place  and  time  here,  and  not  at  all 
Simonidean. 

"  Et  vehemensflavoseverberataura  capillos," 

is  surely  not  true  to  the  sense  of  the 


The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I. 


876 

original — for  the  inside  of  the  chest 
was  lown;  but  no  more  fault-finding 
with  lines  which  no  living  scholar 
could  excel  or  equal.  Denman's 
version  is  very  good,  and  having 
been  for  twenty  years  before  the 
public,  it  has  become  part  of  our 
English  Poetry.  But  it  is  far  from 
faultless.  Why  "  northern  sky?" 
Why  fastidiously  fear  to  write 
"  chest,"  or  some  other  word,  rather 
than  mere'  vessel  ?  Wordsworth  was 
not  afraid  to  speak,  in  one  of  his 
most  interesting  poems  on  Childhood , 
of 

"  A  washing-tub  like  one  of  those 

That  women  use  to  wash  their  clothes — 

That  carried  the  blind  boy." 

"What  woes  does  Danae  weep" 
—is  very  bad — the  Greek  how  ex- 
quisitely touching !— -And  worse  are 
these  two  lines — 

"  Thy  quiet  bosom  only  knows 
The  heavy  sigh  of  deep  repose." 

Grown  up  people  breathe  hard  in 
deep  sleep ;  but  the  breath  of  Per- 
seus, in  his  little  purple  cloak,  we 
venture  to  affirm,  was  inaudible  even 
to  his  mother's  ear  till  she  kissed  his 
cheek,  and  what  has  become  of  the 
cloak  ?  The  passionate  repetition  of 
the  same  word  "sleep,"  applied  to 
wind,  sea,  and  woe,  is  unaccountably 
— and  it  would  almost  seem  pur- 

Eosely — lostinthe  version — and  with 
;  how  much  is  gone !  There  are 
other  flaws ;  yet  the  lines  flow 
smoothly,  and  the  translator  laudably 
aims  at  a  simplicity  which  he  scarce- 
ly attains.  Read  without  reference 
to  the  original,  they  are  affecting,-— 
but  with  the  original  in  our  heart, 
they  fade  before  "the  tender-hearted 
scroll  of  pure  Simonides."  Elton's 
version  shews  the  scholar.  The 
meanings  of  all  those  comprehensive 
words,  so  difficult  to  the  translator, 
are  fully  and  accurately  given ;  not 
a  thought,  a  feeling,  or  an  image  is 
omitted  ;  the  emphasis  is  always  laid 
on  the  right  place ;  his  heart  and  im- 
agination are  with  the  Danae  of  Simo- 
nides. Blank  verse  is  capable  of  any 
thing,  and  his  blank  verse  is  good  ; 
yet  with  the  simple  sweet  words  of 
the  free-flowing  Greek  strain,  "  all 
impulses  of  soul  and  sense"  still 
lingering  with  us,  we  feel  for  a  while 
as  if  there  were  something  heavy  and 
cumbrous  in  the  measure,  and  cannot 


[June, 


easily  reconcile  ourselves  to  the 
change.  Danae,  in  her  peril,  speaks 
like  a  princess  and  a  poetess  beloved 
of  Jove ;  but  perhaps  there  is  a  slight 
tendency,  in  a  line  or  two  of  Elton's 
version,  towards  a  swelling  wordi- 
ness scarcely  natural  to  such  a 
voyager,  and  some  what  impairing  the 
pathos.  We  shall  not  minutely  cri- 
ticise the  version  quoted  from  an 
early  Number  of  this  Magazine  j  but 
with  a  few  slight  defects,  occasioned 
by  the  difficulties  voluntarily  encoun- 
tered, and  on  the  whole  successfully 
overcome,  in  the  choice  of  a  rhymed 
stanza,  it  is,  we  think,  extremely  ele- 
gant and  true  to  nature  and  Simoni- 
des. Bryant's  version  is  not  properly 
a  version  at  all,  and  we  suspect  he 
never  saw  the  original ;  but  'tis  a 
very  pretty  little  poem,  and  very 
natural,  with  the  exception  of  the 
cold  conceit  in  the  last  two  lines  of 
the  penultimate  stanza,  which  ex- 
presses a  sentiment  the  very  reverse 
of  that  which  was  at  poor  Danae's 
heart,  and  which  must  be  offensive 
to  the  feelings  of  any  mother.  Of 
the  seven,  by  far  the  best,  we  think, 
is  that  of  our  esteemed  friend,  Mr 
Hay ;  nor  do  we  doubt  that  such  will 
be  the  opinion,  too,  of  Mr  Merivale 
and  the  Lord  Chief  Justice.  Mr 
Hay  is  well  known  in  Edinburgh  as 
one  of  our  most  accomplished  clas- 
sical scholars,  and  those  youths  are 
fortunate  who  enjoy  the  benefit  of 
his  tuition.  He  has  been  kind  enough 
to  favour  us  with  a  few  other  trans- 
lations, with  which  we  shall  adorn 
the  second  number  of  this  Series. 

The  true  definition  of  the  Greek 
Scolium  appears  to  be,  a  short  ode, 
or  lyric  composition,  made  to  be 
sung  or  recited  at  banquets.  Arte- 
mon  of  Cassandria,  in  his  second 
book  on  the  use  of  these  Scolia,  as 
we  find  in  the  fifteenth  book  of  Athe- 
naeus,  says,  they  are  of  three  sorts — 
the  first  consisted  of  those  songs 
which  were  sung  by  all  the  guests 
together,  joining  as  in  chorus  j  the 
second  as  sung  by  the  guests,  not 
together,  but  in  regular  succession ; 
the  third,  as  sung  only  by  particular 
persons  who  were  skilled  in  music, 
wherever  placed  at  the  table;  and 
from  these  last  being  seated  out  of 
the  common  order,  the  songs  were 
termed  <r««A/a,  from  trxoxie;,  crooked, 
or  being  sung  by  every  man  in 
his  own  place.  The  examples  given 


1833.]  The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I.  877 

in  Athenaeus  consist  of  short  sen-  fuerit  in  poesi  neque  ipso  Pindaro 
tences,  either  addressed  to  some  god,  minor,"  &c.  It*  authenticity  is  con- 
ov  containing  some  moral  advice  firmed  by  the  story  related  by  Dio- 
conducive  to  the  prosperity  of  hu-  genes  Laertius,  that  the  philosopher 
man  life.  From  the  subject  of  the  underwent  an  accusation  on  the 
Soolia,  the  conversation  turns  on  charge  of  impiety,  for  composing 
Aristotle's  poem  to  Virtue,  which  it  and  daily  reciting  a  hymn  or  poem 
is  contended  is  improperly  called  by  in  honour  of  his  patron,  Hermias, 
tl  at  name,  as  not  being  composed  in  tyrant  of  Atarnse,  a  eunuch,  and 
honour  of  any  deity,  nor  having  the  originally  a  slave.  There  is  an  allu- 
utttial  burthen  of  "  lo  Paean."  Some  sion  in  one  line  to  Memnon,  who, 
part  of  it  is  rather  obscure;  but  it  so  under  the  mask  of  friendship,  he- 
pi  eased  Julius  Caesar  Scaliger,  that  tray ed  Hermias,  and  was  the  cause  of 
he  accounted  Aristotle  as  great  a  poet  his  death.  We  have  not  room  for 
a*  Pindar,-—"  quantus  vir  Aristoteles  the  Greek. 

HYMN  TO  VIRTUE.      BY  ARISTOTLE. 
LINE  FOR  LINE  AS  IN  THE  ORIGINAL.      BY  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

Oh  Virtue,  excessively-laborious  to  the  human  race, 

Noblest  object-of-pursuit  in  the  life  (of  man), 

For  thy  beauty,  oh  Virgin, 

Even  to  die  is  in  Greece  a  lot  to-be-envied, 

And  to  endure  labours  fiery,  unwearied : 

Such  love  dost  thou  infuse  into  the  mind, 

And  fruit  immortal  dost  thou  produce, 

Than  gold  more  excellent,  than  (the  pride  of)  ancestry, 

And  than  pain- alleviating  sleep. 

For  thy  sake  Hercules,  the  son  of  Jupiter, 

And  the  sons  of  Leda,  endured  much, — 

By  their  deeds  announcing  thy  power ; 

From  a  longing  for  thee  did  Achilles 

And  Ajax  visit  the  mansion  of  Pluto; 

Under  the  semblance  of  friendship,  for  thy  sake, 

Did  the  alumnus  of  Atarneus  (Hermeas) 

Deprive  himself  of  the  light  of  the  sun. 

Him  therefore,  by  his  deeds,  song-celebrated 

And  immortal,  shall  exalt  the  Muses 

The  daughters  of  Mnemosyne, — 

Increasing  the  veneration  for  Jupiter  Hospitalis, 

And  the  reward  of  firm  friendship. 

O  sought  with  toil  and  mortal  strife,  Sweeter  than  slumber's  boasted  joys, 
By  those  of  human  birth,  And  more  desired  than  gold, 

V.rtue,  thou  noblest  end  of  life,  Dearer  than  nature's  dearest  ties:  — 
Thou  goodliest  gain  on  earth  !  For  thee  those  heroes  old, 

T  lee,   Maid,  to  win,  our  youth  would      Herculean  son  of  highest  Jove, 

bear,  And  the  twin-birth  of  Leda,  strove 

U  iwearied,  fiery  pains;  and  dare  By  perils  manifold  : 

Death  for  thy  beauty's  worth  ;  Pelides'  son  with  like  desire, 

S(  bright  thy  proffer'd  honours  shine,  And  Ajax,  sought  the  Stygian  fire, — K, 

L  ke  clusters  of  a  fruit  divine. 

The  bard  shall  crown  with  lasting  bay, 

And  age  immortal  make 
Atarna's  sovereign,  'reft  of  day 

For  thy  dear  beauty's  sake : 
Him  therefore  the  recording  Nine 
In  songs  extol  to  heights  divine, 

And  every  chord  awake; 
Promoting  still,  with  reverence  due, 
The  meed  of  friendship,  tried  and  true,— -R, 


878 


The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I. 


[June, 


But  have  we  forgot  Sappho,  Soul 
of  Fire  and  Daughter  of  the  Sun  ? 
Anacreon  never  kissed  her  burning 
lips,  for  those  two  Minnesingers  were 
not  coeval  ;  but  Alcseus,  we  trust, 
often  did  so,  and,  as  he  drunk  their 
dew,  lost  all  remembrance  of  his 
shield,  not  well  left  behind  on  the 
field  of  battle.  Phaon  was  fickle, 
and  she  dared  the  cliff.  Sappho,  we 
dare  say,  was  no  virgin;  but  her 
loves  were  not  numerous  ;  —  intense, 


and  all  hallowed  by  genius.  Ovid 
calls  her  brown  and  of  short  sta- 
ture  ;  so  Shakspeare  says  was  Ce- 
lia,  in  "  As  You  Like  It;"  but  both 
were  beautiful  ;  and  only  think  for 
a  moment  of 
t( 

The  *ou1'  thf  music  breathing  from 

Let  us    look    at  her   two   famous 
Odes. 


ODE  TO  VENUS. 


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IN  LITERAL  PROSE,  LINE  BY  LINE,  AS  IN  THE  ORIGINAL. 


BY  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

Splendidly-enthroned,  immortal  Venus, 
Daughter  of  Jupiter,  intrigue-contriver,  thee  I  supplicate, 
Do  not  with  loathing-anxiety  and  vexation  overwhelm, 
Oh  august  one,  my  soul. 

But  hither  come,  if  at  any  time  and  elsewhere 
Hearing  my  prayers,  thou  often  didst 
Listen  to  them,  and  leaving  thy  father's  mansion, 
Thou  earnest,  thy  golden 

Chariot  having-yoked  :  and  thee  did  bear-along  thy  beautiful 
Swift  sparrows,  above  the  dark  earth 
Oft  waving  their  wings,  —  from  heaven 
Through  mid-air 

Quickly  they  came  :  and  thou,  oh  blessed  one  ! 
Smiling  with  thine  immortal  countenance, 
Didst  ask  what  indeed  it  were  that  I  suffer'd,  and  why 
I  invoked  thee, 


J  The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I.  879 

And  what  I  wish  above  all  to  become 
Of  my  frenzied  soul,  and  what 
Captivating  love  I  am  again  alluring.—"  Who, 
Oh  Sappho,  wrongs  thee  ? 

"  Even  though  he  flee  thee,  quickly  will  he  pursue ; 
Even  though  thy  gifts  he  receive  not,  others  will  he  give; 
Even  though  he  love  not,  quickly  will  he  love, 

Yea,  though  thou  shouldst  not  choose  it." 

Come  to  me  even  now,  and  deliver  me  from  my  vexing 
Perplexities,  and  whatever  for  me  to  be  done 
My  soul  longs  for,  that  do :  thou  thyself 
Be  my  confederate. 


TRANSLATION  INTO  SAPPHICS,  BY  W.  HAY. 

Splendidly-throned,  immortal  Aphrodite, 
Daughter  of  Olympus,  now  I  implore  thee, 
Do  not  my  spirit  o'erwhelm  with  vexation, 
Thou  Goddess  august. 

Come  to  me  now,  oh  !  if  ever  or  elsewhere 
Inclining  thine  ear,  my  prayers  thou  heard'st,  and 
Leaving  the  splendid  abode  of  thy  father, 

Camest  in  thy  gold-car. 

Whither  thy  sparrows  so  swift  and  so  lovely, 
And  o'er  the  dark  earth  oft  waving  their  pinions, 
Bearing  along  through  the  mid-air,  convey'd  thee— 
Quickly  descending. 

Beaming  with  smiles  on  thy  visage  immortal, 
Thou  Goddess  benign,  and  blessed  for  ever, 
Didst  ask  what  indeed  it  were  that  I  suffer' d— 
Why  I  invoked  thee  j 

And  what  above  all  I  wish'd  to  become  of 

My  soul  ever  madden'd  with  frenzy,  and  what  love, 

Captive  myself,  to  my  chains  I'm  alluring, 

"  Sappho,  who  wrongs  thee  ? 

"  Even  though  he  flee  thee,  quickly  will  he  follow; 
Thy  gifts  though  he  scorn,  others  will  he  give  thee  ; 
Even  though  he  love  not,  quickly  will  he  love  thee, 
Yea  though  thou  choose  not." 

Come  to  me  now,  and  deliver  my  spirit 
From  every  care  and  sorrow  whatever ; 
Grant  what  my  soul  in  its  longings  may  yearn  for, 
Thou  my  protectress  ! 

PHILLIPS. 

Oh,  Venus,  beauty  of  the  skies,  If  ever  thou  hast  kindly  heard 

To  wliom  a  thousand  temples  rise,  A  song  in  soft  distress  preferr'd, 

Gaily  false  in  gentle  smiles,  Propitious  to  my  tuneful  vow, 

Full  of  love-perplexing  wiles :  Oh,  gentle  Goddess  !  hear  one  now. 

Oh,  Goddess  !  from  my  heart  remove  Descend,  thou  bright,  immortal  guest, 

The  wasting  cares  and  pains  of  love,  In  all  thy  radiant  charms  confest. 


880 


The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  /. 


[June, 


Thou  once  didst  leave  almighty  Jove, 
And  all  the  golden  roofs  above  : 
The  car  thy  wanton  sparrows  drew  ; 
Hovering  in  air  they  lightly  flew ; 
As  to  my  bower  they  wing'd  their  way, 
I  saw  their  quivering  pinions  play. 

The  birds  dismist  (while  you  remain), 
Bore  back  their  empty  car  again  ; 
Then  you,  with  looks  divinely  mild, 
In  every  heavenly  feature  smiled, 
And  asked  what  new  complaints  I  made, 
And  why  I  called  you  to  my  aid  : 


What  frenzy  in  my  bosom  raged, 
And  by  what  cure  to  be  assuaged, 
What  gentle  youth  I  would  allure, 
Whom  in  my  artful  toils  secure ; 
"  Who  does  thy  tender  heart  subdue, 
Tell  me,  my  Sappho,  tell  me  who  ? 

"  Though  now  he  shuns  thy  longing  arms, 
He  soon  shall  court  thy  slighted  charms  j 
Though  now  thy  offerings  he  despise, 
He  soon  to  thee  shall  sacrifice ; 
Though  now  he  freeze,  he  soon  shall  burn, 
And  be  thy  victim  in  his  turn." 


Celestial  visitant,  once  more 
Thy  needful  presence  I  implore  ! 
In  pity  come  and  ease  my  grief, 
Bring  my  distempered  soul  relief, 
Favour  thy  suppliant's  hidden  fires, 
And  give  me  all  my  heart  desires. 


ui}iwA;0aftfhwTm      ELTON. 
Venus  !  immortal !  child  of  Jove ! 
Who  sitt'st  on  painted  throne  above  ; 
Weaver  of  wiles !  oh !  let  not  Love 
Inflict  this  torturing  flame  ! 

But  haste ;  if,  once,  my  passion's  cry 
Drew  thee  to  listen,  hasten  nigh ; 
From  golden  palaces  on  high 

Thy  harness'd  chariot  came. 

O'er  shadowy  earth,  before  my  sight, 
Thy  dainty  sparrows  wheel'd  their  ffight 
Their  balanced  wings,  in  ether's  light, 
Were  quivering  to  and  fro. 


The  birds  flew  back :  Thou,  blessed  Queen ! 
Did'st  smile  with  heavenly  brow  serene  ; 
And  ask,  what  grief  the  cause  had  been, 
That  summon'd  thee  below  ? 

What  most  I  wished  with  doting  mind : 

Whom  most,  seductive,  I  would  bind 

In  amorous  nets  j  and  "  who  unkind, 

My  Sappho,  wrongs  thee  now  ? 

"  The  fugitive  shall  turn  pursuer  ; 
The  vainly  woo'd  shall  prove  the  wooer : 
The  cold  shall  kneel  to  his  undoer, 
Though  she  disdain  his  vow." 


Come,  then,  now !  come  once  again  ! 
Ease  my  bosom  of  its  pain  ! 
Let  me  all  my  wish  obtain ! 
Fight  my  battles  Thou  ! 


SANDFORD. 


Daughter  of  Jove,  great  power  divine, 
Immortal  Queen  of  amorous  snares  ! 

Ah !  doom  not  thou  this  heart  to  pine, 
With  dull  disgust,  or  torturing  cares. 

But  speed  thee  here — if  e'er  before, 

Struck  with  my  fond  and  frequent  plea, 

Even  from  thy  Father's  golden  floor, 

Thou  heard'st  benign,  and  earnest  to  me. 

o  l*TTtjX   ,»yi^   y 

The  car  was  yoked,  the  coursers  gay, 
Fleet  sparrows  on  the  flapping  wing ; 

Down,  down  to  earth,  from  heaven  away, 
Through  the  mid  air  careering  spring. 


ll 

Their  course  was  sped ;  and  thou,  blest  power, 
Bright  with  thine  own  immortal  smile, 

Did'st  ask  what  griefs  my  breast  devour, 
What  pangs  I  call  thee  to  beguile. 

For  what  my  frenzied  bosom  boils — 
For  whom  the  baffled  huntress  long 

Has  spread  persuasion's  fruitless  toils — 
"And  who,  ray  Sappho,  does  thee  wrong  ? 

"  If  now  he  flies,  he'll  soon  pursue  thee, 
If  gifts  he  takes  not,  give  them  soon ; 

If  kisses  now  he  loathes,  he'll  woo  thee, 
Against  thy  will  to  grant  the  boon." 


,*** 


Again  be  near  !  to  snatch  from  pain, 
From  cankering  cares  relief  to  yield  ! 

My  heart's  whole  wishes  bid  me  gain, 
And  be  thyself  my  mighty  shield  ! 


1333.] 


The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I. 


881 


I;  rimortal  Venus  !    Throned  above 
In  radiant  beauty  !   Child  of  Jove  ! 
C  skilled  in  every  art  of  love, 
And  artful  snare  ! 


HER  I  VALE. 

Soon  they  were  sped — and  thou,  most  blest, 
In  thine  own  smiles  ambrosial  drest, 
Did'st  ask  what  griefs  my  mind  oppress'd— • 
What  meant  my  song — 


E  read  power,  to  whom  I  bend  the  knee  ! 
Eelease  my  soul,  and  set  it  free 
F  om  loads  of  piercing  agony, 
And  gloomy  care ! 

Yet  come  thyself !   if  e'er,  benign, 
T:5y  listening  ear  thou  didst  incline 
T )  my  rude  lay,  the  starry  shine 
Of  Jove's  court  leaving, 

Ir  chariot  yoked  with  coursers  fair, 
T  line  own  immortal  birds,  that  bear 
T  ice  swift  to  earth,  the  middle  air 
With  bright  wings  cleaving. 

Which  of  these  versions,  gentle 
rf  ader,  dost  thou  peruse  with  most 
ei  notion  ?  We  ask  not  what  you  think 
of  the  first  two — Our  prose  and  our 
fr  end  Hay's  Sapphics — which  were 
mere  experiment  done  in  an  hour 
over  our  negus.  Phillips  was  first  in 
the  field,  and  has  won  laurels.  He  does 
not  stand  upon  what  he  thinks  trifles, 
ai.d  smooths  down  the  rough,  and 
levels  the  prerupt,  with  no  unskilful 
shovel.  There  is  rather  too  much  of 
the  glitter  of  conventional  poetic 
language  about  his  version  ;  some  of 
tha  lines  are  feeble,  and  few  or  none 
very  strong;  and  the  hymn  comes 
from  his  hands  not  intensely  Sapphic. 
There  are  thoughts  that  breathe, 
hi  t  no  words  that  burn  ;  and  its  ele- 
gance, although  too  ornamental, 
fo  ind  favour  in  the  eyes  of  Addison. 
It  flows,  but  the  original  rushes  ; 
w-j  glide  down  the  English,  we  are 
lurried  away  by  the  Greek.  Yet 'tis 
a  version  that  will  continue  to  please  j 
fo:'  it  startles  no  heart  from  its  pro- 
priety, and  'twould  be  untrue  to  say 
lh.it  it  is  cold.  'Tis  perhaps  a  pity  it 


What  end  my  frenzied  thoughts  pursue — 
For  what  loved  youth  I  spread  anew 
My  amorous  nets — "  Who,  Sappho,  who 
Hath  done  thee  wrong  ? 

"  What  though  he  fly,  he'll  soon  return — 
Still  press  thy  gifts,  though  now  he  spurn  ; 
Heed  not  his  coldness,  soon  he'll  burn, 
Even  though  thou  chide." 

And  said'st  thou  thus,  dread  Goddess,  O 
Come  then  once  more  to  ease  my  woe  ! 
Grant  all !  and  thy  great  self  bestow, 
My  shield  and  guide  ! 

was  ever  written ;  for  it  has  that  kind 
of  mediocre  merit  that  satisfies  ordi- 
nary minds,  and  its  perusal  incapa- 
citates them  for"  enjoying  a  more 
impassioned  but  less  mellifluous  ver- 
sion. We  suspect  that,  on  the  whole, 
all  things  considered,  it  is  very  good 
— certainly  a  very  clever,  and  even 
graceful  performance. 

Elton's,  though  far  better,  will 
never  supersede  it  in  our  literature. 
It  is  very  true  to  the  original,  leaves 
nothing  out,  and  puts  nothing  in, 
and  is  powerful  in  its  passionate  im- 
precation. It  might  have  brought 
back  Phaon  -"  to  make  love's  quick 
pant"  within  the  Lesbian's  arms.  Sir 
Daniel's  version  is  a  very  fine  one, 
and,  with  more  than  the  elegance  of 
Phillips,  unites  all  the  vigour  of  El- 
ton. Nor  is  there  much  to  choose  be- 
tween it  and  Mr  Merivale's.  That 
gentleman's  has  this  advantage  over 
his  rival,  that  it  is  in  a  measure  of 
closer  kindred  to  that  of  the  original, 
and  is  felt  therefore  to  be  more  Greek- 
ish  and  Sapphic.  Now  for  the  Lines 
on  a  Girl. 


TO  A  GIRL. 


r  < 
(Fistvu,  xcti  Trheccrioy  adv 


ottipw  yXto  G~<rct 

CtVTlX.Ot    "faPCv    "XV^    VTft^i 
OTrTTCtTtF-lV   cf  OV^tV   O^Vjftl, 


<rcll    G-     VTTKXOVtl, 
"   TO   U,0l  'f. 


VOL,  XXXIII.   NO.  CCIX. 


tyxivopcu 


3  L 


882  The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  Jt1-  [June, 

LINE  FOR  LINE  WITH  THE  ORIGINAL.      CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 
Jleq^ajaa  Dtui  ;  decaf  -{-m*  :  .u^2  s,m  ,v,up  y^  Ik  «'o  faw?.  *nufl 

To  me  equal  to  the  gods  seems  that 

Man  to  be,  who  opposite  to  thee 

Sits,  and  near,  as  thou  speakest  sweetly, 

To  thee  listens, 
;u  4«ii  -»u  uiit)  .dlRBT  ~u»woq  y<J  ,birK  /ifsmsd 


As  thou  laughest  lovingly  :  'twas  this  that  my 

Heart  in  my  breast  violently-affected. 

For  when  I  see  thee,  in  a  short  time  to  me  of  voice 

Nothing  any  longer  comes  : 
-tfio: 

But  thoroughly  is  my  tongue  broken  down,  and  a  subtle 
Fire  forthwith  stealthily-runs-through  my  skin, 
With  mine  eyes  nothing  I  see,  tingle  do 
Mine  ears: 

. 

And  a  cold  perspiration  pours-down-over-me,  and  trembling 
Pervades  me  all,  and  greener  than  grass 
I  am  :  and  wanting  little  of  (being  not  far  from)  dying, 
Breathless  I  seem. 

—  C03"  Ui  *•£  '  vjn 
But  all  must  be  dared  —  since  a  poor  —  — 

,yt»v^   .  • 

PHILLIPS. 

Blest  as  th'  immortal  gods  is  he,  My  bosom  glowed  ;  the  subtle  flame 

The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee,  Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame  ; 

And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while  O'er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung  ; 

Softly  speak,  and  sweetly  smile.  My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

'Twas  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest,  In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chill'd, 

And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast  ;  My  blood  with  gentler  horrors  thrill'd  ; 

For,  while  I  gazed,  in  transport  lost,  My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play  — 

My  heart  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost  ;  I  panted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 

ELTON. 

That  man  is  like  a  god  to  me,  My  flushing  skin  the  fire  betrays 

Who,  sitting  face  to  face  with  thee,  That  through  my  blood  electric  plays  ; 

Shall  hear  thee  sweetly  speak,  and  see  My  eyes  seem  darkening  as  I  gaze, 

Thy  laughter's  gentle  blandishing.  My  ringing  ears  re-echoing. 

. 

'Tis  this  astounds  my  trembling  heart  j  Cold  from  my  forehead  glides  the  dew, 

I  see  thee,  lovely  as  thou  art  ;  A  shuddering  terror  thrills  me  through  ; 

My  fluttering  words  in  murmurs  start,  My  cheek  in  green  and  yellow  hue  — 

My  broken  tongue  is  faltering.  All  gasping,  dying,  languishing1.     >yyo[ 

SANDFORD. 

A  rival  for  the  Gods  is  he,  Then  cleaves  my  tongue,  and  subtle  flame 

The  youth  who,  face  to  face  with  thee,          Shoots  sudden  through  my  tingling  frame, 
Sits,  and  looks,  and  lists  to  hear  And  my  dim  eyes  are  fixed,  and  sound 

Thy  sweet  voice  sounding  near.  Of  noises  hums  around  — 

Thou  smilest  ;  at  that  my  bosom  quail**  And  cold,  dank  sweat  upon  me  breaks, 

The  shrinking  heart  within  me  fails  ;  And  every  limb  convulsive  quakes,      -turn 

Soon  as  I  gaze,  with  instant  thrill  And  grassy-pale,  and  breathless  all,  tnilO»_ 
My  stricken  lips  are  still.  In  the  death-swound  I  fall. 

MERIVALE. 

Blest  as  th'  immortal  Gods  is  he,  Thou  smilest  too  ?  sweet  smile,  whose  charm 

The  youth  whose  eyes  may  look  on  tlise,  Has  struck  my  soul  with  wild  alarm; 

Whose  ears  thy  tongue's  sweet  melody  And,  when  I  see  thce,  bids  disarm 
May  still  devour  !  .r-i.-h  vital  power, 


1833.] 

Speechless  I  gaze  :   the  flame  within 
Ri  us  swift  o'er  all  my  quivering  skin; 
My  eyeballs  burn  ;  with  dizzy  din 
My  brain  wheels  round. 

Sappho  has  here  in  imagination  un- 
sexed  herself,  and,  by  power  of  ge- 
ni  is  inflamed  by  wild  experiences,  is 
a  man.  She  durst  not  have  depicted 
a  girl  thus  overcome  to  the  very 
death  by  looking  and  listening  to  a 
ycuth.  She  shews,  in  another  com- 
p<  sition  of  two  lines,  how  near  a 
"puir  bit  lassie"  might  languish  to- 
w.irdsdeliquium  under  such  impulse, 
even  in  the  absence  of  her  beloved 
bry. 


The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  L 


883 


"  Mother  !  sweet  mother  !  'tis  in  vain— 
I  cannot  now  the  shuttle  throw  ; 
That  youth  is  in  my  heart  and  brain, 
Ai.d  Venus'  lingering  fires  within  me  glow." 

The  lines  here  elegantly  paraphrased 
by  Elton  literally  run  thus, 

Sveet   mother!    no  longer  am   I  able    to 

weave  the  web, 
Overcome  by  longing  for  that  boy,   through 

influence  of  Venus  (the  irresistible  ?) 

But  the  ode  is  surcharged  with  more 
inipetuous  passion  —  the  love-sick- 
mss  becomes  a  swoon—  and  the 
svoon  seems  death.  Longinus  says 
tr  ily  that  it  is  sublime.  Is  the  man 
je  ilous  ?  No.  No  more  jealous  than 
a  man  must  be,  who  sees  another 
mm  enjoying,  near  and  close,  the 
breath,  eyes,  words,  and  laughter 
(subdued  and  silvery)  of  the  woman 
w  iom  to  distraction  he  desires  and 
loyes.  They  are  sitting  face  to  face  — 
w  3  may  believe  knee  to  knee  ;  and  in 
th  3  sense  of  the  word  used  above, 
th  3  maddened  wretch  that  watches 
lh?,m  is  jealous;  but  Mr  Elton  well 
says,  "  this  fainting  of  the  spirits  is 
n<  t  likely  to  be  occasioned  by  jea- 
lo  isy,  which  rather  engenders  a 
sullen  or  malignant  temper  of  the 
m  nd,  and  an  angry  contortion  of  the 
countenance.  Longinus  does  not 
qi  ote  the  ode  as  a  just  description 
of  jealous  uneasiness,  but  of  '  amo- 
rois  fervour;'  and  his  expressions 
ar  j,  '  all  things  of  this  kind  happen 
to  those  who  are  in  love  ;  but  the 
se  zure  of  the  chief  particulars,  and 
tb  $  embodying  of  them  in  one  whole, 


And  cold  drops  fall ;  and  tremblings  frail 
Seize  every  limb  ;  and  grassy-pale 
I  grow  ;   and  then — together  fail 
Both  sight  and  sound  ! 

has  effected  the  sublime.' "  Mr  Elton 
adds,  that  he  has  no  doubt  "  that  the 
passion,  of  which  Sappho  describes 
the  paroxysm,  is  a  passion  indulged 
by  stealth,  and  concealed  through 
a  sense  of  guilt  or  apprehension.  The 
first  line  of  the  succeeding  stanza, 
which  is  lost,  seems  to  point  at  a 
disclosure — *  Yet  must  I  venture  all.* 
Plutarch  tells  a  traditionary  story  of 
a  physician  who  discovered  the  love 
of  Antiochus  for  his  mother-in-law, 
Stratonice,  by  comparing  the  effects 
which  her  presence  produced  on  his 
patient,  with  the  symptoms  enumera- 
ted by  Sappho."  "  Is  it  not  wonder- 
ful," exclaims  Longinus — we  avail 
ourselves  of  Sir  Daniel's  translation — 
"  how  she  calls  at  once  on  soul,  body, 
ears,  tongue,  eyes,  colour — all  at 
once  she  calls,  as  if  estranged  and 
vanishing  away !  and  how  with  con- 
tradictory efforts  and  emotions,  she 
freezes,  she  glows,  she  raves,  she  re- 
covers her  reason,  she  shakes  with 
terror,  she  is  on  the  brink  of  death. 
It  is  not  a  single  passion,  but  a  whole 
convention  of  passions."  Longinus 
should  have  said  "he" — not  "she  ;" 
for  'tis  not  fair  to  Sappho  to  suppose 
her  the  gazer,  any  more  than  to 
charge  Milton  with  being  Satan.  In 
further  illustration,  we  would  fain 
quote  the  Ettrick  Shepherd's  cele- 
brated song— beginning, 

"  O  love !  love !  love  ! 
Love's  like  a  dizzines?, 
It  will  not  let  a  puir  body 
Gang  about  bis  bizzines*." 

Catullus — andwhobuthe — hasmade 
the  Greek  Latin  with  all  its  fire. 
Boileau  has  made  it  French  and  flum- 
mery; Phillips,  English  and  mulled 
port, — drink,  when  well  composed, 
at  once  sweet  and  potent,  but  he  has 
given  it  a  dash  of  water,  and  it  smacks 
too  strongly  of  the  cloves  and  cinna- 
mon. Elton's  version  is  felicitous  ; 
the  best  of  them  all,  and  likest  the 
Lesbian.  Sandford's  is  little  inferior ; 
but  "  lists  to  hear"  is  not  good  ;  nor 
is  "soon  as  I  gaze  with  instant  thrill ;" 
but  "grassy-pale"  is  the  thing  to  a 
nicety ;  and  the  last  line  is  a  clencher 
— a  consummation.  Merivale  is 
nearly  as  good  as  is  possible  j  the 


884  The  Greek  Anthology.     No.  I. 

only  flaw  is  "bids  disarm."    Who    considered 
now  knows  not  Sappho  ? 

But  how  happens  it  that  we  have 
overlooked  the  famous  ode  on  Har- 
modius, supposed  to  have  been 
written  by  Callistratus  ?  Collins  be- 
lieved it  was  by  Alcseus;  but  that 
worthy  died  long  before  the  event  it 
celebrates.  Collins's  lines  are  among 
the  noblest  in  our  language— and 
they  dim  the  lustre  even  of  the 
Greek  Song  of  Slaughter. 


"  Who  shall  awake  the  Spartan  fife, 

And  call  in  solemn  sounds  to  life 

The  youthe,  whose  locks  divinely  spread- 

ing, 

Like  vernal  hyacinths  in  sullen  hue, 
At  once  the  breath  of  fear  and  virtue 

shedding, 

Applauding  Freedom  loved  of  old  to  view  ? 
What  new  Alcseus,  fancy-blesf,      ,."  s-jij 
Shall  sing  the  sword  in  myrtles  drest 
At   wisdom's   shrine   awhile   its  flames 

concealing, 
(What  place  so  fit  to  seal  a  deed  re- 

nowned ?)7{niJB-,,  9£{  t;vv.mii/ 
Till   she  her  brightest  lightnings  round 


It  leapt  in  glory  forth  and  dealt  th'  aven- 
ging wound  !" 

We  are  no  great  admirers  —  out  of 
lyrical  poetry  —  of  tyrannicide  —  or 
of  any  other  kind  of  murder,  except 


in  connexion  with  the 
Fine  Arts.  The  assassination  of  Ju- 
lius Csesar  was  a  sorry  sight;  nor, 
setting  aside  other  reasons,  could 
Brutus,  who  was  but  a  third-rate 
man  at  most,  have  had  any  right  in 
nature  to  strike  "  the  foremost  man 
of  all  the  world."  Charlotte  Corday, 
though  a  fine  creature,  had  been  far 
better  at  home  hunting  hens'  nests 
among  the  nettles,  than  stabbing  Ma- 
rat in  his  slipper-bath.  We  hated 
Napoleon,  but  cannot  say  we  wished 
him  treacherously  put  to  death  by  a 
private  hand.  And  we  enjoyed  the 
execution  of  Sandt  with  more  zest 
than  the  murder  of  Kotzebue.  With 
regard  to  Hipparchus,  Cumberland 
calls  him,  on  ancient  authorities, 
"  this  excellent  and  most  amiable 
prince."  He  reigned  for  fourteen 
years,  we  believe;  was  a  lover  of 
poetry  and  science,  and  "  every  inch 
a  king."  Plato,  if  we  err  not,  equals 
his  reign  with  the  golden  reign  of 
Saturn.  However,  Harmodius  and 
Aristogeiton  slew  him ;  twenty  years 
afterwards  his  brother  Hippias — an 
outlaw — was  killed  at  Marathon — 
and  there  was  an  end  to  the  Pisis- 
tradidse.  Base  motives  are  attri- 
buted by  some  to  the  assassins,  but 
all  is  dark.  We  shall  suppose  them 
patriots. 


THE  SONG  OF  HARMODIUS. 


Ev 


On  TOV  rvgttvvav  x 

IffOVQfAOUS   T'   A0r>VKS 


BY  CALLISTRATUS. 

CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 
LIKE  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton, 

The  myrtle-wreathed  sword 
I'll  beat' — when  Athens'  lord  they  slew, 
And  equal  laws  restored. 


I'  I 


'Iv« 

Tvlst 


s  Qa-ffiv  &»/f4?s«. 


Ev  pfyrov  xXuft  TO  £i 
'Slffirs^  'Agft&ios  x  A^iff 
'Or  Ahvctins  lv  Sv*ian 


,  ov  n  vcv  rUrmutf.  Harmodius  dear  !   tliou  art  not  dead  : 

guv  <rt  tya/riv  sivai    "  In  the  islands  of  the  blest 

A%i*.svs,  Thou  art,  where  swift  Achilles 

And  Tydides  Dioined  rest. 

fau  Like  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton, 

uv,  With  myrtle  I'll  entwine 

The  sword,  —  when  they  Harmodius  slew 
ivsrw.  Before  Minerva's  shrine. 

uTxv  For  ever,  orer  all  the  earth, 

sv,  Their  names  shall  be  adored, 

The  men  —  who  Athens'  tyrant  slew, 
And  equal  laws  restored. 

CUMBERLAND. 

He  is  not  dead,  our  best  belove.l  Bind  then  the  myrtle's  mystic  bough, 

Harmodms  is  not  lost,  And  wave  your  swords  around, 

But  with  Troy's  conquerors  icmoved  ad  M  For  so  they  struck  the  tyrant  low, 

To  some  more  happy  coast.  And.  so  their  swords  were  bound. 


Atl  ffQxv  x^ios 
Xra6'  'A.£ft&4  x 
0-n  TOV  rv^avvov  xravsrov 
A8hva,s 


The  Greek  Anthology.  ^ No.  /.  88; 

srt  rfJiw  rroixenaoo  m  owe]      .        .  '.ra-iBaib  ehftf"  ei  WB&  vfno 

1 1  ^o  noiJBflieaBB8B  9fI^;rP^ual  object  ot  our  Jove,      s  nrfqqfig  ion  gworrJ  v/on 

,T  .9    ',  Jlfote   XT*»  *    W^trP^^S^  *""*  ?*  tBfi'  **   WSqqBli   WOli  JuS 

,f03      -  Wh,°'  ^M^VfiMrtrfFm    eUOOTBl  9rfJ  b« 

*l-biLfr  B   JlKi   8BW.  0   ^ruck  and  set  Athens  free. ,f     Qj    bsa  fl 

rrn  bfiri  9Vfirf  (Jeom  Js  HBOI    -sdifiUldD  ?  auiB-u^illB'J  ^ 

>$  O'njJ^jMj^Kl?  1 

I'll  wreathe  my  sword  in  myrtle  bough,  I'll  wreathe  my  sword  in  myrtle  bough, 

1  he  sword  that  laid  the  tyrant  low,  The  sword  that  laid  Hipparchus  low, 

When  patriots,  burning  to  be  free,    ;fiomB  yWhen  at  Minerva's  adverse  fane          79'ffj 

To  Athens  gave  equality.  He  knelt,  and  never  rose  again. 

l>  'JglW  9W7B8  JOflflB'.)  }Jjd 

l:armodius,  hail !  though  'reft  of  breath,  While  Freedom's  name  is  understood, 

Tiiou  ne'er  shalt  feel  the  stroke  of  death  ;  You  shall  delight  the  wise  and  good  j 

T  lie  heroes'  happy  isles  shall  be  You  dar'd  to  set  your  country  free, 

The  bright  abode  allotted  thee.  And  gave  her  laws  equality. 


-..jus 


• 
ANOTHER  TRANSLATION  OF  THE  SAME. 


, 

L  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe,      ,T^q  Tn  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe, 

L:ke  our  patriots  the  noble  and  brave,  Like  our  patriots  the  noble  and  brave ; 

"tt  ho  devoted  the  tyrant  to  death,  Who  devoted  Hipparchus  to  death, 

A  id  to  Athens  equality  gave.  And  buried  his  pride  in  the  grave. 

Lrved  Harmodius,  thou  never  shalt  die  !  At  the  altar  the  tyrant  they  seized, 

T  ie  poets  exultingly  tell,  While  Minerva  he  vainly  implored, 

T>.at  thine  is  the  fulness  of  joy,  And  the  Goddess  of  Wis  om  was  pleased 

Where  Achilles  and  Diomed  dwell.  With  the  victim  of  Liberty's  sword. 

—  nOuJB1.BT»L    IB    DO  I.  a  ifjioT^loig  fli  J(|B9MI 

May  your  bliss  be  immortal  on  high, 
Among  men  as  your  glory  shall  be  ! 
Ye  doom'd  the  usurper  to  die, 
And  bade  our  dear  country  be  free. 

<m  io  l)a[il  i9rtlo  ^HB  10 

ELTON. 
.?;jTAfl' 

K<M  a  J11  myrt^es  veil'd  will  I  the  falchion  wear, 
tHO,:.  For  thus  the  patriot  sword 

biov/«  bsr  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton  bare, 
,  iT&Ia  ysjtfJ  blot  '«*<        When  they  the  tyrant's  bosom  gored ; 
j^.,.,,.  And  bade  the  men  of  Athens  be 
Regenerate  in  equality. 

:  b£»b  ion  rin  i/oifr 

J89ld  arl^QJ1]  beloved  Harmodius!  never 
gijRubA  }'t.?ua^  death  be  thine,  who  livest  for  ever  ! 
Thy  shade,  as  men  have  told,  inherits 
The  Islands  of  the  Blessed  Spirits ; 
<floJb-goianA  ;Wheve  deathless  live  the  glorious  dead, 

9aiv/in^¥lles  fl(>et  of  f°ot'  and  Diomed. 
A  j[e  'UibomifiH  v'sii}  fladw— " 

,-,ni  ,;j;  In  myrtles  veil'd  will  I  the  falchion  wear, 

For  thus  the  patriot  sword 
tdJi£:    Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton  bare, 
<t»9ioi  When  they  the  tyrant's  bosom  gored  ; 

sv/9l*  laBr,n         When,  in  Minerva's  festal  rite, 

Tiny  closed  Hipparchus'  eyes  in  night. 


Harmodius'  praise,  Aristogeitori's  home, 
Shall  bloom  on  earth  with  undecaying  fame  : 
Who  with  the  myrtle- wreathed  sword 
The  tyrant's  bosom  gored; 
And  bade  the  men  of  Athens  be 
Regenerate  in  equalitv. 


"The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I. 


9'JBlq  m  {l98flh  ^O  ^B9(  SffO 

SANDFORD. 


[June, 


Wreathed  with  myrtles  be  ray  glaive, 
Like  the  falchion  of  the  brave* 
Death  to  Athens'  lord  that  gave, 
.srfnw-iPeath  to  tyranny  {^^  W£fj  ?dCl'jjT 
Yes !  let  myrtle-wreaths  be  round, 
Such  as  then  the  falchion  bound 
When  with  deeds  the  feast  was  crown'd, 
Done  for  liberty ! 

Lowth,  in  his  Sacred  Poetry  of  the 
Hebrews,  speaks  enthusiastically  of 
this  song,  saying,  that  it  was  not  to 
be  wondered  at  that  no  one  should 
have  dared  to  attempt  to  restore  the 
tyranny  of  the  Pisistratidse  in  Athens, 
where,  at  all  festive  meetings,  even 
among  the  lowest  of  the  people,  was 
daily  chanted—-"  ^KO^OV  Callistrati 
nescio  cujus,  sed  ingeniosi  certe  po- 
etse,  et  valde  boni  civis;"  and,  allu- 
ding to  the  domination  of  Caesar,  he 
says,  that  had  such  a  patriotic  song 
been  familiar  in  the  mouths  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Suburra, "  plus  Me- 
hercule  valuisset  unum  'A^toS/a  pt*.«s 
quam  Ciceronis  Philippicse  omnes." 
Is  not  that  extravagant  ?  'Tis  spirit- 
reviving  to  sing  aloud 

"  Old  songs  that  are  the  music  of  the  heart ;" 

and  we  have  all  heard  of  that  saying 
of  Fletcher  of  Saltoun— "  Let  others 
make  the  laws,  give  me  the  making 
of  the  songs  of  a  country."  But  the 
power  of  the  Pisistratidee  was  not 
palsied  merely,  it  was  dead  and  bu- 
ried beyond  all  possibility  of  resur- 
rection, long  before  the  singing  of 
this  famous  2x«x/av.  The  elder  Cal- 
listratus  nourished  about  a  century 
after  the  assassination  of  Hipparchus, 
the  younger  half  a  century  later,  and 
the  youngest — for  there  are  three 
spoken  of — about  150  years  only 
before  the  Christian  era. 

The  song  is  a  fine  one,  and  was 
very  popular — national ;  it  struck 
forcibly  a  single  key  that  vibrated 
to  the  core  of  the  people's  heart. 
Chanted  by  a  manly  voice,  with 
accompaniment  of  suitable  action, 
and  the  singer  like  a  hero,  at  some 
festal  entertainment,  where  all  the 
guests  were  full  of  wine  and  patriot- 
ism, the  effect  must  have  been  mag- 
nificent, and  at  its  close  sublime  the 
muttered  thunder  of — "Death  to  all 
tyrants."  But,  on  most  occasions,  a 
little  poetry  will  suffice  to  rouse  the 
imagination  of  a  great  assemblage  to 


Voiced  by  Fame  eternally, 
Noble  pair  !  your  names  shall  be, 
For  the  stroke  that  made  us  free, 
;(J  b.;  When  the  tyrant  fell. 

Death,  Harmodius  !  come  not  near  thee, 
Isles  of  bliss  and  brightness  cheer  thee, 
,  There  heroic  hearts  revere  thee, 
There  the  mighty  dwell ! 

heights  of  noblest  daring;  and  there  is 

but  little  poetry  in  this  famous  strain. 

It  is  of  a  higher  mood,  doubtless, 

than  our  own  King's  Anthem;  yet 

we  remember  the  time  when  loyalty 

was  with  us  a  national  virtue,  and  a 

national  passion,  and  when  the  voices 

of  many  hundreds  of  as  noble  men 

as  ever  sat  at  an  Athenian  feast,  often 

shook  the  theatre  in  a  transport  at 

these  three  no  very  august  lines,— 

"  SEND  HIM  VICTORIOUS, 

HAPPY  AND  GLORIOUS,       < 

LONG  TO  REIGN  OVER  US;  ( 

GOD  SAVE  THE  KING  !" 

But  let  us  take  a  critical  glance  at 
the  translations.  Our  own  is  a  mere 
attempt  to  versify  the  original  lite- 
rally ;  and  while  we  give  it  as  an  ex- 
ample of  the  style  in  which  the  song 
should  be  translated,  we  admit  that 
it  is  poorly  done,  and  nearly  an  en- 
tire failure.  Cumberland's  is  spirit- 
ed; and  it  will  be  noticed  that  he 
supposes  the  song  to  consist  of  but 
three  stanzas.  Denman's  versions 
are  both  good ;  but  faulty  as  well  in 
particular  lines  as  in  the  general 
conception.  Thus,  the  second  line 
of  the  first  version, "  The  sword  that 
laid  the  tyrant  low,"  is  incorrect; 
that  is  asking  the  spectators  and 
auditors  to  believe  too  much,  at  least 
more  than  Callistratus.  The  second 
line  of  the  second  stanza  is  utter  non- 
sense, "  Thou  ne'er  shalt  feel  the 
stroke  of  death."  Harmodius  was  kill- 
ed on  the  spot.  The  song  says, "  Thou 
art  not  dead ;"  nor  was  he,  for  he  was 
in  the  Islands  of  the  Blest — but  he 
had  "  felt  the  stroke  of  death." 
The  spirit  of  the  two  following  lines 
is  destroyed  by  the  use  of  the  fu- 
ture tense  — "  The  heroes'  happy 
isles  shall  be  ;"  they  were — en,  QKITIV 
fasti— and  so  believed  all  who  lived 
under  Minerva ;  "  while  Freedom's 
name  is  understood,"  is  poor  in  com- 
parison with«s'  KKT  Klwt  and  the  song 
was  not  addressed  formally  to  the 
"  wise  and  good,"  of  whom  there  is 


1383.] 


The  Greek  Antholoyy.    No,  I. 


no  mention  because  no  thought,  but 
to  all  who  had  ears  to  hear  the  names 
of  the  deliverers.  In  the  second  ver- 
sion, line  second,  "noble  and  brave" 
is  but  so  so ;  "  the  poets  exultingly 
till"  is  insufferable ;  "  buried  his 
pride  in  the  grave"  is  vastly  fine; 
al  that  about  Minerva  is  good  in  it- 
self, but  lugged  in  ad  libitum;  and 
"may  your  bliss  be  immortal  on  high" 
is  a  sad  slip  in  a  classical  scholar. 
Yet  as  a  paraphrase,  the  composition 
is  certainly  above  mediocrity,  and 
may  be  read  at  any  time  with  plea- 
st  re,  at  times  with  delight.  Sand- 
fcrd's  is  free  from  such  faults,  and  is 
a  fine— a  noble  version.  But  does 
not  the  power  of  the  Greek  song 
d^vell  in  the  names  and  in  the  proud 
repetition — the  loving  iteration— of 
the  names  of  the  destroyers  ?  They 
are  in  every  stanza — the  lines  they 
fill  are  the  words  of  the  spell.  Drop 
them  and  the  charm  is  broken — the 
si  iger  absurd,  with  his  myrtle  and 
svrord.  You  might  just  as  well,  in 
translating  into  another  language— 

"  Scots  wha  hae  vvi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led," 

01  lit  Wallace  and  Bruce,  and 
gi/e  us  "  the  noble  and  brave." 
Eitou  felt  that;  and  therefore  his 
version  has  not  only  bones,  which 
th  3  others  have,  and  soul  which  they 
have  too,  but  the  soul  of  the  poet  and 
th-3  patriot,  as  it  is  flung  into  his 
ex  ulting  and  threatening  song  of  ven- 
geance,  triumph,  and  restoration. 
For  that,  and  for  its  general  flow  and 
gl  )w,  we  pronounce  Elton's  version 
—  which  is  free,  but  not  paraphras- 
tic — by  far  the  best. 

But  we  have  forgot  that  great  Gre- 
ci;m,  Sir  William  Jones,  who  at- 
te  npted,  and,  as  some  say,  succeeded 
in  every  thing,  and  who  of  course 
could  not  be  happy  without  indi- 
th.g  "  An  Ode  in  imitation  of  Callis- 
tn.tus."  We  all  know  how  out  of  five 
Hi  es,supposedtobebyAlcseus,oi;A^^, 
£» .  he  has  spun  thirty — "  What  con- 
stitutesastate,"  £c. — of  which  batch 
th .j  first  baker's  dozen  are  animated 
co  tnmonplaces,  and  frequently  used 
with  effect  in  quotation  by  patriotic 
common-council  men,  and  people 
in  Parliament.  But,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  those  lines,  and  "  Boy,  bid  the 
liq  uid  ruby  flow,"  in  poetry  Sir  Wil- 
liaji  is  as  weak  as  whey,  which  is 
we  11  known  to  be  weaker  than  water. 


887 

Here  is  a  long  leaf  of  tinsel,  in  place 
of  the  solid  gold: 

"  Verdant  myrtle's  branchy  pride 
Shall  my  biting  falchion  wreathe  : 

Soon  shall  grace  each  manly  side 
Tubes- that  speak,  and  points  that  breathe. 

Thus,  Harmodius  !   shone  thy  blade  ; 
Thus,  Aristogeiton  !  thine  : 

Whose,  when  Britain  sighs  for  aid, 
Whose  shall  now  delay  to  shine  ? 

Dearest  youths,  in  islands  blest, 
Not,  like  recreant  idlers,  dead, 

You  with  fleet  Pelides  rest, 
And  with  godlike  Diomed. 

Verdant  myrtle's  branchy  pride 
Shall  my  thirsty  blade  entwine  ; 

Such,  Harmodius  !   deck'd  thy  side  ; 
Such,  Aristogeiton  !   thine. 

They  the  base  Hipparchus  slew 
At  the  feast  of  Pallas  crown'd  ; 

Gods  ! — how  swift  their  poniards  flew  ! 
How  the  monster  tinged  the  ground  ! 

Then  in  Athens  all  was  peace, 
Equal  laws  and  liberty ; 

Nurse  of  arts  and  age  of  Greece  !" 

But  neither  by  the  Greek  nor  by 
the  English  are  our  hearts  made  to 
burn  within  us  as  they  are  made  to 
burn  by  some  of  the  simple  concep- 
tions of  Simonides  on  heroes  who 
had  died  for  their  country  on  the  field 
of  battle — in  victory,  or  in  defeat  a 
victory — at  Thermopylae  ! 

We  wish  we  had  more  remains  of 
Callistratus.  The  few  Mr  Merivale 
gives  us  are  beautiful.  All  poems 
are  good  about  Pan— and  here  is  a 
Paean. 

A  P.EAN.      MERIVALE. 

Io  Pan  !  we  sing  to  thee, 

King  of  famous  Arcady! 

Mighty  dancer  !  follower  free 

Of  the  nymphs,  'mid  sport  and  glee  ! 

Io  Pan !   sing  merrily 

To  our  merry  minstrelsy  ! 

We  have  gain'd  the  victory, 

We  are  all  we  wish'd  to  be, 

And  keep  with  pomp  and  pageantry 

Pandrosos'  great  mystery. 

Callistratus, as  indeed  were'all  the 
fine  spirits  of  antiquity,  was  a  jolly 
soul. 

"  Quaff  with  me  the  purple  wine, 
And  in  youthful  pleasures  join  ; 
Crown  with  me  thy  flowing  hair  ; 
With  me  love  the  blooming  fair  : 

"  When  sweet  madness  fires  my  soul, 
Thou  shalt  rave  without  control  j 
When  I'm  sober,£sink  with  me 
Into  dull  sobriety." 


888  The  Greek  Anthology.    No.  I.  [June, 

The  poet  of  Minerva,  Pan,  and  Bacchus,  must  likewise  be  the  poet  of  Venus 
and  Cupid;  and  here  is  a  pretty  love-lay.    We  shall  give  you  the  Greek. 


ytvoipav   tetpavriw  ytvoipw 

**'  ^  «*„'  ™^  ?TT»   *  *«i  ^  ^  w*  fcg* 


v/ 

[0  looir    Would  that  I  were  a  beautiful  ivory  lyre,  980q- 

And  that  beautiful  youths  might  carry  me  to  the  dance  of  Bacchus  o  ; 
Would  that  I  were  a  large  beautiful  golden  vessel  untried-by-fire,  ,j  jijtij  fenh* 
And  that  a  beautiful  woman  having  a  pure  mind  might  cany  me.  —  C.  N. 
I  wish  I  were  an  ivory  lyre  —  Or  would  I  were  a  chalice  bright, 

A  lyre  of  burnish'd  ivory—    ,^l  ^jr      |^{        Of  virgin  gold  by  fire  untried  — 
That  to  the  Dionysian  choir     ?Or,  eifj  For  virgin  chaste  as  morning  light 

Blooming  boys  might  carry  me  !  To  bear  me  to  the  altar  side.  —  M. 

This  may  be  considered,  Mr  Merivale  says,  as  the  original  of  many  similar 
"  wishes,"  among  the  amatory  poets,  at  least  if  the  ode  ascribed  to  Anacreon 
be  of  subsequent  date.  That  ode,  by  the  by,  is  charmingly  translated  by 
Mr  Merivale  —  and  here  it  is. 

TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Sad  Niobe,  on  Phrygian  shore,  A  crystal  fount,  to  lave  thee, 

Was  turn'd  to  marble  by  despair  ;  Sweet  oyls,  thy  hair  to  deck, 

And  hapless  Progne  learn'd  to  soar  A  zone,  to  press  thy  bosom, 

On  swallow's  wing  thro'  liquid  air.  Or  pearl,  to  gem  thy  neck. 

But  I  would  be  a  mirror,  Or,  might  I  worship  at  thy  feet, 
So  thou  may'st  pleas'd  behold  me,  A  sandal  for  thy  feet  I'd  be. 

Or  robe,  with  close  embraces  Ev'n  to  be  trodden  on  were  sweet, 
About  thy  limbs  to  fold  me.  If  to  be  trodden  on  by  thee. 

The  epigrams  selected  by  the  editor  from  among  the  'A$sf*oru  (uncertain), 
printed  at  the  end  of  Brunck's  and  Jacobs's  collections,  are  principally  such 
as,  from  internal  evidence,  would  seem  to  belong  to  the  earlier  and  better 
ages  of  Grecian  poetry  ;  and  here  is  one  in  which  the  same  kind  of  wish 
has  graceful  expression. 

THE  LOVER'S  WISH.     MERIVALE. 
Oh,  that  I  were  some  gentle  air,  Oh,  that  I  were  yon  blushing  flower, 

That,  when  the  heats  of  summer  glow  Which  even  now  thy  hands  have  press'd, 

And  lay  thy  panting  bosom  bare,  To  live,  though  but  for  one  short  hour, 

I  might  upon  that  bosom  blow  !  Upon  the  Elysium  of  thy  breast  ! 

It  would  be  easy  to  recollect  many  pretty  little  poems  breathing  the  same 
sort  of  amorous  fancy  —  and  it  may  be  pleasant  to  look  at  two  of  the  most 
delightful  —  one  by  Shakspeare,  and  one  by  Burns. 

*{  On  a  day,  (alack  the  day!)  But  alack  !  my  hand  is  sworn,      jlod'/y 

Love,  whose  month  is  ever  May,  Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn  : 

Spied  a  blossom,  passing  fair,  Vow,  alack  !  for  youth  unmeet  ; 

Playing  iri  the  wanton  air  :  Youth  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 

Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind,  Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me, 

All  unseen,  'gan  passage  find  ;  That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee  : 

That  the  lover,  sick  to  death,  Thou  for  whom  even  Jove  would  swear, 

Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath.  Juno  but  an  EthSop  were; 

'  Air,'  quoth  he,  *  thy  cheeks  may  blow;      And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  !  Turning  mortal  for  thy  love.'  " 

Nothing  in  all  the  Greek  Anthology  so  exquisite  !  The  first  feeling  is  here 
as  perfectly  expressed  as  it  could  be  by  any  one  of  those  consummate  mas- 
ters of  expression  ;  and  the  "  Swan,"  after  breathing  it  in  music,  prolongs 
the  strain  as  passionately  as  Sappho's  self  could  have  done,  as  purely  as 
Simonides.  And  hear  the  Scottish  ploughman. 
"  O  that  my  love  were  yon  red  rose,  "  O,  there  beyond  expression  blest! 

That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa',  I'd  feast  on  beauty  a'  the  nicht; 

And  I  myself  a  drap  o'  dew,  Seated  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest, 

Into  her  bonny  breast  to  fa'  J  Till  fley'd  awa  by  Phoebus'  licht." 

*  J  J  uOOW 


1*33.] 


. 


The  French  devolution*  *W 

mH  bos  .OB*!  ^mmM  "to  teoq  »dT 
iotq  u  ai  fyi3rt  has  j  biquO  bus 

THE   FRENCH   REVOLUTION.* 


THE  highest  office  of  human  expe- 
rience is  to  guide  human  conduct ; 
and  the  guidance  of  nations  is  the 
providential  purpose  of  history. 
F  rmly  convinced  of  that  great  doc- 
trine, that  the  fall  of  a  sparrow  is  not 
u  moticed  in  the  largest  scale  of  the 
Divine  Government,  we  are  perfect- 
ly justified  in  the  conclusion,  that 
tra  great  events  of  nations  are  for 
tl  e  wisdom  of  their  posterity.  King- 
d  >ms  may  be  punished  for  their  own 
crimes,  the  corruptions  of  the  popu- 
]( r  mind  may  break  out  in  faction, 
o  •  the  degeneracy  of  sovereigns  may 
b3  visited  by  the  disasters  of  the 
tLrone  ;  but  with  the  evil  of  the  time, 
tl  e  good  of  the  future  is  unquestion- 
ably bound  up.  The  calamities  of 
tl  e  fathers  are  held  forth  as  warn- 
irgs  to  the  steps  of  the  children; 
tl  e  disease  which  broke  down  the 
strength  of  the  past  generation,  as- 
sists the  healing  science  of  the  pre- 
sent ;  the  thunderstorm  which  swept 
a  vay  the  harvests  and  houses  of 
Europe  within  memory, gives  added 
v  gilance  to  our  general  precaution, 
iiakes  us. watch  every  elementary 
movement  with  more  active  antici- 
pation, and  sends  us  to  erect  our 
conductors  in  time. 

We  never  re  quired  this  experience 
n  ore.  We  are  at  this  hour  threaten- 
ed with  a  revolution  in  England. 
There  never  was  a  mine  laid  for  the 
explosion  of  a  citadel  more  palpably, 
tl  an  the  materials  of  violent  and 
t(  tal  change  are  now  laid  under  the 
whole  fabric  of  the  British  constitu- 
tian.  Incessant  appeals  to  popular 
e:  ccitement,  furious  stimulants  to  the 
n  itural  passion  of  the  populace  for 
p  under,  lying  panegyrics  of  their 
ir.erits,  exaggerated  pictures  of  their 
sufferings,  fiendish  calls  to  their  re- 
venge, a  nobility  libelled  as  tyrants, 
a  church  libelled  as  robbers,  and  a 
King  libelled  alternately  as  a  royal 
e  icumbrance  and  a  rebel  leader,  are 
tl  e  preparation.  By  whose  hand 
tl  e  match  is  to  be  applied  is  another 


question.    But  when  the  chief  diffi- 
culty has  been  overcome  with  such 
perfect  ease,  the  minor  difficulty  will 
not  linger  long  to  vex  the  soul  of 
patriotism.  There  are  orators  within 
the  circuit  of  London— perhapswe 
might  draw  the  circle  closer  stil — 
who  would  be  worthy  to  harangue 
in  Pandemonium ;  villains  black  to 
the  core,  outcasts  from  all  character, 
and  conscious  that  they  are  outcasts, 
with  whom  all  considerations  of  ho- 
nour, feeling,  and  principle,  are  swal- 
lowed up  in  one  eager  passion  of  re- 
venge ;  men  who  never  cast  a  pass- 
ing glance  upon  palace,  church,  or 
noble  mansion,  but  with  an  instinct- 
ive admeasurement  of  it  as  an  object 
of  spoil  or  conflagration;  who  never 
speak  without  letting  out  the  dreams 
of  power  and  blood  that  are  fevering 
their  hearts,  nor  will  ever  be  satis- 
fied with  the  broadest  and  most  re- 
morseless change  short  of  utter  over- 
throw, the  general  plunder  of  pro- 
perty, the  general  extinction  of  reli- 
gion, and  the  general  subversion  of 
government,  one  vast,  sanguinary,  and 
final  triumph  of  atheism  and  anarchy. 
In  such  a  time  appear  the  present 
volumes,  the  work  of  a  man  of  ho- 
nour, ability,  and  knowledge ;  a  full 
and  faithful  account  of  a  great  trans- 
action enacted  within  our  memory, 
within  a  few  miles  of  our  shore,  and 
to  this  hour  influencing  the  feelings 
and  fortunes  of  Europe — the  Revo- 
lution of  France.     He  brings  for  our 
knowledge  no  remote  example  of  the 
crimes  or  follies  of  lands  which  have 
now  gone  down  in  the  waters  of 
oblivion;  he  leads  us  over  ground 
which  every  man  may  tread  for  him- 
self; points  to  the  spots  where  king- 
ly weakness  held  its  first  faint  battle 
against  popular  pretension;   shews 
us  the  broken  rampart  where  the 
fury  of  popular  passion  burst  in, 
and  swept  away  the  chivalry  of  the 
nobles  and  the  monarchy;  exhibits 
still  farther  on,  the  ground  covered 
with  the  mutual  havoc  of  those  fero- 


•  The  History  of  Europe  during  the  French  Revolution,  embracing  the  period 
fr  >m  the  Assembly  of  the  Notables  in  1789,  to  the  Establishment  of  the  Directory 
ir  1795.  By  Archibald  Alison,  F.R.S.E.,  Advocate.  In  two  volumes.  Black- 
wood,  Edinburgh ;  Cadell,  London.  1833. 


890 


The  French  Revolution. 


cious  victors  in  the  feasts  and  feuds 
of  their  horrid  supremacy ;  and  final- 
ly, fixing  us  beside  that  huge  and 
rude  sepulchre  into  which  vanquish- 
ed and  victors,  king  and  people,  mo- 
narchy and  anarchy,  at  last  were 
flung  together,  bids  us  draw  wisdom 
for  our  own  direction,  from  the  fear- 
ful and  bloody  catastrophe  before 
our  eyes. 

Mr  Alison  divides  the  Revolution 
into  four  periods.  The  first  com- 
mencing with  the  States-General  in 
1789,  and  ending  with  the  death  of 
the  unfortunate  King,  and  the  com- 
plete establishment  of  the  democracy 
in  1793.  The  second,  with  the 
struggle  of  the  factions  of  the  Giron- 
dist and  Jacobin  clubs,  and  ending 
with  the  establishment  of  a  military 
government  in  179 o.  The  third,  with 
the  rise  of  Napoleon,  and  ending  with 
the  peace  of  Amiens.  The  fourth, 
with  the  seizure  of  the  throne  by 
Napoleon,  and  ending  with  his  fall 
at  Waterloo.  The  first  two  periods* 
thus  give  the  history  of  popular  in- 
fluence upon  the  internal  concerns 
of  the  nation ;  the  latter  two  its  in- 
fluence on  the  general  system  of 
Europe.  The  first  are  the  portrait 
of  Democracy  breaking  up  establish- 
ed institutions,  throwing  the  whole 
state  of  society  into  a  moral  frenzy, 
and  preparing  the  nation,  by  misery 
and  agony  at  home,  to  rush  out  with 
the  preternatural  force  of  frenzy 
on  the  surrounding  nations.  The 
latter,  a  portrait  of  the  most  power- 
ful and  tyrant  despotism  which  the 
world  ever  saw,  forcing  the  whole 
wild  energy  of  the  national  powers 
into  one  purpose ;  urging  that  pur- 
pose, the  domination  of  Europe  and 
the  world,  with  a  steadiness  and 
skill,  a  reckless  resolution,  and  a  de- 
moniac subtlety,  that  made  all  resist- 
ance nearly  hopeless,  and  finally 
overthrown  by  an  indignant  and 
noble  conspiracy  of  mankind  ;  over- 
thrown in  an  attempt  scarcely  more 
in  defiance  of  man  than  of  nature  and 
heaven,  and  by  a  great  and  final  re- 
tribution, less  like  the  fortunes  of 
battle  than  the  direct  judicial  wrath 
of  Providence.  The  two  former  pe- 


[June, 

riods  are  the  subject  of  the  present 
volumes.  The  subsequent  volumes 
will  treat  of  the  Empire.  He  con- 
templates his  topic  with  the  ardour 
without  which  no  man  ought  to  take 
up  the  peri  of  history ;  he  may  be  a 
chronicler,  he  will  never  be  a  histo- 
rian. 

"  A  subject  so  splendid  in  itself," 
says  Mr  Alison,  "  so  full  of  political 
and  military  instruction,  replete  with 
such  great  and  heroic  actions,  adorn- 
ed by  so  many  virtues,  and  darkened 
by  so  many  crimes,  never  yet  fell  to 
the  lot  of  a  historian.  During  the 
twenty-five  years  of  its  progress,  the 
world  has  gone  through  more  than 
five  hundred  years  of  ordinary  exist- 
ence, and  the  annals  of  modern  Eu- 
rope will  be  sought  in  vain  for  a  pa- 
rallel to  that  brief  period  of  anxious 
effort  and  checkered  achievement." 
This  is  true ;  but  the  interest  which 
we  take  in  the  work  of  a  man  of 
principle  and  talent,  makes  us  only 
the  more  desirous  that  it  should  be 
worthy  of  himself,  and  useful  to  his 
country.  In  this  spirit  we  wish  that 
Mr  Alison  would  seriously  consider 
whether  the  following  theorem  is  as 
sound  in  philosophy  as  it  is  eloquent 
in  expression.  He  tells  us,  "  The 
two  first  [the  first  two]  eras,  illus- 
trate the  consequences  of  democra- 
tic ascendency  upon  the  civil  condi- 
tion: The  two  last  [the  latter  two] 
their  effect  upon  the  military  strug- 
gles and  external  relations  of  na- 
tions. In  both,  the  operation  of  the 
same  law  of  nature  may  be  discern- 
ed, for  the  expulsion  of  a  destructive 
passion  from  the  frame  of  society, 
by  the  efforts  which  it  makes  for  its 
own  gratification.  In  both,  the  prin- 
cipal actors  were  driven  forward  by 
an  unseen  power,  which  rendered 
their  vices  and  ambition  the  means  of 
ultimately  effecting  the  deliverance 
of  mankind.  Generations  perished 
during  the  vast  transition,  but  the 
law  of  nature  was  unceasing  in  its 
operation.  And  the  same  principle 
which  drove  the  government  of 
Robespierre  through  the  Reign  of 
Terror  to  the  9th  of  Thermidor,  im- 
pelled Napoleon  to  the  snows  of 


•  Mr  Alison  calls  these  "  Eras."  We  take  the  liberty  of  pointing  his  attention  to 
the  accurate  use  of  this  word,  at  least  among  chronologers.  Era  is  any  indefinite 
time;  period  is  a  time  included  between  tvro  dates,  such  as  those  which  he  has 
given.  The  beginning  and  end  of  the  Period  are  Epochs,  though,  in  common  par- 
lance, Epoch  is  generally  confined  to  events  of  some  distinction. 


The  French  Revolution. 


891 


Russia  and  the  rout  of  Waterloo. 
Tbe  illustrations  of  this  moral  law 
is  [are]  the  great  lesson  to  be  learn- 
ed from  the  eventful  scenes  of  this 
mighty  drama." 

.t  may  be  difficult  to  prohibit  the 
countrymen  of  Smith  and  Stewart 
frc  m  philosophizing.    It  may  be  still 
mere   difficult  to  prohibit  a  vivid 
im  igination  from  taking  its  flight  to 
that  eminence   from   which  all  the 
litile  features  which  constitute  lo- 
ca  ity  disappear,    and  the  face   of 
things  is  seen  in  the  broad  and  per- 
manent characters  which  constitute 
na:ure.     But  twenty-five  years  form 
too  brief  a  time  for  the  process  by 
which  alone  the  great  principles  of 
conduct,  human  or  divine,  are  to  be 
evjlved.     The  moral  of  the  tale  is 
easily  obtained,  and  that  is  nearly 
all  which  is  yet  within  our  power. 
M  •  Alison  has  done  his  country  an 
admirable   service   in  marking  the 
steps  by  which  public  pretence  swells 
in  o  public  cupidity ;  in  tearing  the 
roje  of  affected  patriotism  from  the 
fo:.'m    of  furious   spoil;   in    keenly 
translating  for  our  use  the  language 
of  the  hypocrite  into  the  open  avowal 
of  the  traitor ;  in  leading  us  over  the 
broken  and  benighted  track  of  pub- 
lic crimes  and  sorrow  during  the  last 
twenty-five  years ;  and  in  flashing 
upon  every  spot  of  doubt  and  dan- 
ger the  light  of  a  lamp,  kindled  from 
th-3  purest  sources  of  political  and 
m  >ral  wisdom.    But  the  time  has 
nc  t  yet  come  when  he  or  any  other 
man  can  elicit  from  those  heady  and 
complex  transactions  the  principles 
of  their  existence.    Years,  perhaps 
centuries,  may  elapse,  before  man 
w  11  be  permitted  to  seize  upon  the 
impulses  of  our  time  of  trouble,  and 
fix  them  in  the  great  historical  mu- 
seum as  a  portion  of  the  applicable 
ki  towledge  of  mankind ;  a  view  of  the 
a<  tual  configuration  of  the  ways  of 
P  evidence ;  a  reduction  of  the  vola- 
ti  e  and  viewless  gases,  vapours  of 
death,  and  feeders  of  national  ia- 
flj  .mmability,  into  the  tangible  bases, 
tl  at  may  be  investigated  with  the 
c?  Imness  of  science,  or  turned  to  the 
b<  neficial  purposes  of  society.     The 
hi  storian  must  not  think  his  labour 
trrown  away,  if  he  is  still  shut  out 
from  this  knowledge.  It  is  his  office 
to  follow  facts,  and  give  us  the  warn- 
in  y  of  national  evils,  as  the  noble 
excitement  to  noble  effort,  by  shew- 


ing  the  capacities  that  lie  hid  in  the 
righteous  cause,  for  the  restoration 
and  fame  of  nations.  The  lesson  is  his 
and  ours,  the  philosophy  belongs  to 
generations  yet  unborn.  Even  from 
them  it  may  be  withheld.  Who,  for 
instance,  to  this  hour,  knows  the  phi- 
losophy of  the  Crusades?  Writers  of 
the  first  distinction  still  differ  totally  in 
their  estimate  of  the  principles,  the 
ultimate  uses  of  those  extraordinary 
convulsions  of  society,  which  yet 
acted  on  the  largest  scale  through 
Europe  and  Asia,  not  for  twenty-five 
years,  but  for  nearly  three  hundred, 
— not  with  a  solitary  nation,  impelled 
by  a  single  fury  of  change,  but  on 
all  nations,  impelled  by  all  the  suc- 
cessive motives  that  can  vivify  hu- 
man nature  into  the  fullest  deve- 
lopement  of  its  venom  or  its  virtues. 
We  have  the  lesson ;  we  can  feel  the 
guilt  and  the  injury  of  unjust  war, 
the  folly  of  wasting  the  national 
strength  in  hostilities  without  object 
and  without  end,  and  the  natural  re- 
sult of  superstition  in  turning  so- 
ciety into  a  race  of  sullen  enthu- 
siasts or  savage  sons  of  blood.  But 
the  providential  principle  to  be  il- 
lustrated by  the  Crusades  is  still 
unknown.  What  man  can  decide,  to 
this  hour,  whether  they  were  for 
good  or  for  evil  ?  Still  less  can  we 
expect  to  trace  the  design  of  Provi- 
dence in  events  which  are  still  cover- 
ing the  world  with  their  clouds, 
which  differ  from  all  others  only  in 
their  deeper  perplexity,  in  which  the 
presence  of  the  Deity  is  to  be  known 
only  in  the  heavier  darkness  and  the 
more  solemn  thunders. 

If  the  present  theory  should  be 
authentic,  none  could  rejoice  more 
in  the  proof  than  ourselves.  But 
"  the  law  of  nature,  by  which  the 
expulsion  of  a  destructive  passion 
from  society  is  determined  by  the 
efforts  which  it  makes  for  its  own 
gratification,"  is  yet  to  us  a  totally 
undiscovered  law.  In  the  instance 
of  Jacobinism,  the  discovery  would 
be  of  the  highest  consolation  to  so- 
ciety. But,  after  all  the  horrors  of 
democracy  in  France,  and  all  the 
warnings  of  its  hazards  to  England, 
we  cannot  find  that  this  destructive 
passion  has  expelled  itself,  by  either 
its  punishment  or  its  triumph.  It 
unhappily  lives  still,  probably  with 
as  much  eager  aspiration  for  over- 
throw under  the  wretched  govern- 


b  emoe'k 


The  French  Revolution. 


,8881 


ment  of  Louis  Philip  as  under  the 
lax  government  of  Louis  Seize. 
Among  ourselves,  hostile  as  the  infi- 
nite majority  of  the  manlier,  more 
intelligent,  and  more  virtuous  por- 
tion of  the  Empire  are  to  its  prin- 
ciples, and  long  as  it  had  been  crush- 
ed  to  the  ground  by  the  vigour  of  a 
constitutional  legislature,  it  has  not 
lost  a  particle  of  its  venom  by  the 
purple  purification  of  the  French 
scaffold.  We  have  resisted,  and  by 
the  blessing  of  God  will  resist  it 
still ;  and  when  the  time  shall  come 
when  authority  will  place  itself  on 
the  side  of  law,  grasp  the  ruffian 
orators  of  Jacobin  clubs,  movement 
leaders,  agitators,  and  political  uni- 
onists, and  that  whole  brood  of  mon- 
strous and  mischievous  shapes  which 
rabble  ambition  generates  of  the 
elirne  of  rabble  power;  when  we 
shall  see  the  whole  race  of  the  mis- 
sionaries of  the  lamp-iron  sent  to  the 
dungeon,  or  to  return-less  exile, 
then  shall  we  believe  that  the  time 
of  national  redemption  draweth  nigh  ; 
but  not  till  then.  That  the  French 
democracy  tore  its  own  offspring  to 
pieces  is  true,  and  that  democracy 
will  always  rend  them  is  true.  But 
it  is  fearfully  prolific ;  no  exhaustion 
has  yet  struck  it  with  barrenness. 
It  has  even  gathered  force  within 
memory.  Once  confined  to  France, 
it  made  the  land  an  abomination. 
But  since  the  close  of  the  French 
Revolution  it  has  spread ;  it  is  now 
become  the  native  product  of  every 
climate  from  the  pole  to  the  line; 
the  Jacobin  of  Russia  is  affiliated 
with  the  Jacobin  of  Mexico  ;  the 
crush  of  the  serpent  in  France  has 
debased  its  form,  but  not  extinguish- 
ed its  malignity;  it  now  winds  its 
way  through  every  province  of  the 
earth,  and  propagates  its  species,  its 
venom,  and  its  enmity,  wherever 
it  can  find  an  unguarded  foot  to 
sting. 

A  part  of  the  Preface  is  given  to  a 
detail  of  the  authors  on  whom  the 
subsequent  narrative  is  to  be  found- 
ed; and  Mr  Alison  seems  to  have 
consulted  every  leading  name.  But 
in  that  portion  which  is  to  come,  we 
must  hope  that  he  will  give  our 
greatest  naval  hero,  our  immortal 
Nelson,  some  more  appropriate  lau- 
rel than  it  is  possible  to  extract  from 
the  mere  abridgment  to  which  alone 
he  refers.  When  he  tells  us,  that 


"  Mr  Southey's  Life  of  Nelson  con- 
tains all  that  Enyland  could  desire  to 
have  recorded  of  her  naval  hero,"  he 
tells  us  what  we  certainly  are  not 
inclined  to  conceive.  We  and  all  men 
who  honour  the  most  singular  com- 
bination of  martial  sagacity,  martial 
fervour,  and  martial  intrepidity,  in 
the  whole  history  of  a  service  fer- 
tile in  the  highest  qualities  of  the 
warrior,  will  not  feel  content  with 
the  single  volume  into  which  a  non- 
professional  writer,  of  whatever  dex- 
terity, may  have  compressed  the 
career  of  the  "  man  of  the  hundred 
battles."  To  do  justice  to  Nelson,  he 
must  refer  to  a  higher  source,  than  a 
midshipman's  manual.  Mr  Alison 
must  equally  reconsider  his  estimate 
of  Colonel  Napier's  work.  His  own 
sound  sense  will  shew  him  that  Co- 
lonel Napier's  unhesitating  reliance 
on  his  own  sagacity,  and  palpable 
contempt  of  the  judgment  of  every 
one  else,  render  him  the  most  peril- 
ous guide  through  transactions,  of 
which  neither  that  writer  nor  any 
other  has  yet  had  the  key;  and  that, 
animated  as  he  frequently  is,  and 
correct  as  he  may  occasionally  be, 
he  writes  more  with  the  pen  of  a 
smart  adjutant  than  of  a  military 
historian.  We  confess,  that  his 
"  Tenth  Legion"  dedication  to  the 
Peninsular  hero  was  quite  enough 
to  settle  our  impression  of  the 
writer.  It  would  have  been  worthy 
of  the  cleverest  cadet  in  Woolwich 
or  High  Wycombe. 

Mr  Alison  justly  observes  of  the 
foreign  writers  in  general,  that,  "  of 
whatever  party,  nation,  or  shade  of 
opinion,  they  seem  all  at  bottom  im- 
bued with  a  profound  hatred  of  this 
country;"  and  in  consequence,  they 
generally  ascribe  to  the  British  Ca- 
binet a  dark  and  Machiavelian  po- 
licy, in  matters  where  it  is  well 
known  to  every  person  in  England, 
arid  will  be  obvious  to  posterity,  they 
were  regulated  by  very  different  mo- 
tives, and  often  proceeded  from  in- 
experience of  warlike  measures, 
without  any  fixed  principle  at  all. 
This  he  conceives  is  to  be  accounted 
for  on  the  principle  that  we  con- 
stantly beat  them.  Without  doubt 
this  will  go  far  to  account  for  the 
enmity.  It  will  also  in  some  de- 
gree account,  too,  for  the  insinua- 
tion of  perpetual  artifice,  the  gold  of 
Pitt,  and  the  similar  outcries  of  the 


1830.] 

wrung  pride  of  the  foreigner  which 
so  long  amused  the  nation.  For  this 
continental  vanity,  never  allowing 
tha:  it  can  be  beaten  in  the  fair  field, 
tak  ^s  a  desperate  refuge  in  chicane. 
If  un  army  are  routed  like  a  flock 
of  <heep,  it  is  the  work  of  traitors  in 
the  ranks;  if  a  general  is  outma- 
noeuvred, he  has  been  bribed;  if  a 
Cabinet  is  out-argued,  it  is  seduced 
by  noney,  or  betrayed  by  the  false- 
hood of  its  members.  In  that  curious 
distortion  of  the  faculties  of  right 
and  wrong,  which  seems  so  habitual 
to  the  foreign  understanding,  it  em- 
braces the  voluntary  disgrace  in  pre- 
fertnce  to  the  casual  misfortune; 
would  rather  stigmatize  itself  with 
the  deepest  imputation  of  shame, 
than  acknowledge  that  it  had  suffer- 
ed 1  he  common  vicissitudes  of  many 
a  biave  and  iriany  a  good  man  ;  and 
world  rather  abandon  its  last  claim 
to  honour,  than  suffer  the  slightest 
pressure  on  its  vanity.  But  the  per- 
petual affectation  of  deep  discovery 
in  the  workings  of  the  British  Go- 
vernment is  chiefly  connected  with 
the  dramatic  or  melodramatic  edu- 
cati*«i  of  the  people.  All  foreigners 
spend  a  vast  portion  of  their  time  in 
the  heatre.  They  are  reared  amidst 
"  treasons,  stratagems,  and  plots;" 
and  the  passion  for  detecting  five 
acts  in  every  transaction  of  human 
life,  infects  every  mind  from  the 
king  to  the  cobbler.  The  monarch 
acts  by  a  coup  de  theatre,  which  he 
calk  by  its  analogous  title  of  a  coup 
d'etct.  The  cobbler  has  his  "  senti- 
ment," his  "sublime  conceptions," 
his  coup  de  tonncre,  like  his  king.  To 
do  plain  things  in  a  plain  manner  is 
left  othe  dull  brains  of  Englishmen. 
The  foreigner  goes  on  through  life 
dramatizing  commonplaces,  detect- 
ing i  tratagems  in  his  daily  bread,  and 
babbling  heroics  until  heroics  are 
babbled  over  him  in  that  subter- 
rane  in  theatre,  Pere  le  Chaise.  There 
he  s  eeps,  adorned  with  paper  lau- 
rels, and  panegyrized  in  verses  that 
fit  every  hero  upon  earth,  to  be  visit- 
ed tn  the  first  of  the  month  by  a 
cortc  ge  of  white-robed  relatives, 
who  unlock  his  closet,  renew  the 
paper  of  his  garlands,  and  finish  the 
day  rind  their  sorrows  by  a  dance  in 
the  next  public  gardens. 

Mi  Alison  apologizes  for  introdu- 
cing, in  their  o\vn  words,  the  argu- 


The  French  Revolution. 


893 


measures,  particularly  in  the  French 
assemblies.  We  are  extremely  glad 
that  he  does  introduce  them.  All 
apology  was  unnecessary.  The  only 
objection  that  ever  could  have  been.' 
•made  to  the  speeches  in  the  Greek 
and  Roman  historians  was,  that  they 
were  not  the  speeches  of  the  indi- 
viduals. No  man  would  have  hesi- 
tated to  prefer  the  actual  words  of 
the  great  actors  in  the  ancient  revo- 
lutions, to  any  language  into  which 
the  historian  could  translate  them. 
But  in  the  present  instance  the 
words  are  not  historical,  but  monu- 
mental; we  have  not  merely  the  su- 
perscription, but  the  image.  All  that 
we  ever  could  have  desired  to  see  of 
the  man,  stands  before  us  as  he  lived. 
We  must  give  credit  to  Mr  Alison 
for  his  conception  of  "  the  prodi- 
gious ability  which  distinguished 
these  discussions;"  the  opinion  of  so 
competent  a  judge  ought  to  have 
weight,  but  we  must  acknowledge 
that  our  general  impression  of  the 
French  discussions,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  an  occasional  formal  harangue 
from  Maury,  or  a  burst  from  Mira- 
beau,  was  contemptuous  ;  and  that 
the  specimens  of  those  discussions 
at  the  present  day  leave  it  contemp- 
tuous still.  The  French  are  a  dex- 
terous, vivid,  and  ingenious  people. 
But  no  European  people  are  more 
deficient  in  sensibility,  imagination, 
or  force  of  thought.  In  wanting  these 
qualities,  they  seem  to  us  to  want 
the  essentials  of  all  eloquence. 

We  have  some  fine  reflections,  in 
the  opening  pages  of  the  volume,  on 
the  varieties  and  colourings  of  cha- 
racter brought  to  light  by  the  strong 
abrasion  and  violent  caustic  of  the 
Revolution.  "  The  character  of  all 
the  European  nations  was  eminently 
exemplified  during  those  disastrous 
years.  The  obstinate  hostility  of 
the  Spaniards,  the  enthusiastic  va- 
lour of  the  French,  the  persevering 
steadiness  of  the  Austrians,  the  de- 
voted courage  of  the  Russians,  the 
freeborn  bravery  of  the  English,  have 
been  successively  put  to  the  test. 
The  boasted  glories  of  Louis  XlVth 
sink  into  insignificance  compared 
with  the  triumphs  of  Napoleon  ;  and 
the  victories  of  Marlborough  produ- 
ced less  important  consequences 
than  those  of  Vittoria  and  Waterloo. 
Since  the  Western  world  was  array- 


ments  of  the  leading  advocates  of    ed  ngainst  the  Eastern  on  the  shores 


894 


of  Palestine,  no  such  assemblages  of 
armed  men  have  been  seen  as  those 
which  followed  the  standards  of  Na- 
poleon ;  and  the  hordes  which  Attila 
arrayed  on  the  plains  of  Chalons, 
were  less  formidable  than  those 
which  Alexander  led  from  the  de- 
serts of  Scythia. 

"  Nor  were  the  intellectual  exer- 
tions of  that  animating  period  less 
conspicuous  than  its  warlike  achieve- 
ments. In  this  bloodless  contest  the 
leaders  of  civilisation,  the  lords  of  the 
earth  and  the  sea,  outstripped  all 
other  states.  The  same  age  which 
witnessed  the  military  glories  of 
Wellington  and  Napoleon,  beheld  the 
completion  of  astronomical  investi- 
gation in  Laplace,  and  the  hidden 
recesses  of  the  heart  unfolded  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  Earth  told  the 
history  of  its  revolutions  through 
the  remains  buried  in  its  bosom,  and 
the  secrets  even  of  material  compo- 
sition yielded  to  the  powers  of  phi- 
losophical analysis.  Sculpture  re- 
vived from  its  ashes,  under  the  taste 
of  Canova,  and  the  genius  of  Tor- 
waldsen  again  charmed  the  world 
by  the  fascinations  of  design.  Archi- 
tecture displayed  its  splendour  in 
the  embellishments  of  the  French 
metropolis ;  and  the  rising  capital  of 
Russia  united  to  the  solidity  of 
Egyptian  materials  the  delicacy  of 
Grecian  taste.  Even  the  rugged 
ridges  of  the  Alps  yielded  to  the 
force  of  scientific  enterprise,  and  the 
barriers  of  nature  were  smoothed  by 
the  efforts  of  human  perseverance ; 
while  the  genius  of  Britain  added  a 
new  element  to  the  powers  of  art, 
and  made  fire  the  instrument  of  sub- 
duing the  waves."  (Introd.28.) 

In  this  introduction,  which  is  a 
very  clear  and  noble  discursus  on  the 
predisposing  causes  of  European 
society,  the  author  justly  ascribes 
those  great  organs  of  freedom,  the 
Parliaments,,  to  the  imitation  of  the 
Ecclesiastical  Councils  of  the  fourth 
and  following  centuries. 

"  On  the  first  settlement  of  the 
victorious  nations,  the  popular  as- 
semblies of  the  soldiers  were  an 
actual  convocation  of  the  military 
array  of  the  kingdom.  William  the 
Conqueror  summoned  his  whole  mi- 
litary followers  to  assemble  at  Win- 
chester, and  60,000  men  obeyed  the 
mandate,  the  poorest  of  which  held 
property  adequate  to  the  mainte- 


The  French  Revolution.  [June, 

nance  of  a  horseman  and  his  atten- 
dants. The  assemblies  of  the  Champs 


de  Mai  were  less  a  deputation  from 
the  followers  of  Clovis  than  an  ac- 
tual congregation  of  their  numbers 
in  one  vast  assembly.  But,  in  pro- 
cess of  time,  the  burden  of  travelling 
from  a  distance  was  severely  felt, 
and  the  prevalence  of  sedentary  ha- 
bits rendered  the  landed  proprietors 
unwilling  to  undertake  the  risk  or 
expense  of  personal  attendance  on 
the  assemblies  of  the  State.  Hence 
the  introduction  of  parliaments  or 
representative  assemblies,  the  great- 
est addition  to  the  cause  of  liberty 
which  modern  times  have  afforded; 
which  combine  the  energy  of  a  de- 
mocratic with  the  caution  of  an  aris- 
tocratic government ;  which  temper 
the  turbulence  and  allay  the  fervour 
of  cities  by  the  caution  and  tenacity 
of  country  life ;  and  which,  when  the 
balance  is  duly  preserved  in  the 
composition  of  the  assembly,  pro- 
vides, in  the  variety  of  its  interests 
and  habits,  a  permanent  check  upon 
the  violence  or  injustice  of  a  part  of 
its  members. 

"  It  is  doubtful,  however,  whether 
those  causes,  powerful  as  they  are, 
would  have  led  to  the  introduction 
of  that  great  and  hitherto  unknown 
change  in  government,  which  the 
representative  system  introduced, 
had  not  a  model  existed  for  imitation, 
in  which,  for  a  series  of  ages,  it  had 
been  fully  established.  The  COUN- 
CILS OF  THE  CHURCH  had,  so  early  as 
the  sixth  century,  introduced  over 
all  Christendom  the  most  perfect 
system  of  representation.  Delegates 
from  the  most  remote  dioceses  in 
Europe  and  Asia,  had  there  assem- 
bled to  deliberate  on  the  concerns 
of  the  faithful ;  and  every  Christian 
priest,  in  the  humblest  station,  had 
some  share  in  the  formation  of  those 
great  assemblies,  by  which  the  gene- 
ral affairs  of  the  Church  were  to  be 
regulated.  The  formation  of  Parlia- 
ments under  the  representative  sys- 
tem took  place  in  all  the  European 
States,  in  the  thirteenth  and  four- 
teenth centuries.  The  industry  of 
antiquarians  may  carry  the  Wittena- 
gemotes,  or  actual  assembly  of  the 
leading  men,  a  few  generations  fur- 
ther back ;  but  six  centuries  beforo, 
the  Councils  of  Nice  and  Antioch 
had  exhibited  perfect  models  of  a 
universal  system  of  representation, 


183*.] 


The  French  Revolution. 


895 


embracing  a  wider  sphere  than  the 
whole  extent  of  the  Roman  Empire. 
The  ~e  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  was 
this  example,  so  generally  known, 
and  of  such  powerful  authority, 
whioh  determined  the  imitation  of 
the  other  members  of  the  commu- 
nity, where  they  had  any  common 
concerns  which  required  delibera- 
tion ;  and  thus,  to  the  other  bless- 
ings which  civilisation  owes  to 
Chr  atianity,  are  to  be  added  those 
inestimable  advantages  which  have 
flowed  from  the  establishment  of 
the  epresentative  system." 

T  ie  fact  of  the  imitation  would 
liavo  been  more  distinct,  if  the  au- 
thor had  adverted  to  the  circumstance, 
that  the  clergy  themselves  were  the 
chief  counsellors  and  administrators 
of  all  the  European  States,  as  they 
wer«  ?  the  only  men  who  possessed  any 
literature  or  knowledge  of  foreign 
interests  or  countries.  The  Parlia- 
ments were  thus  not  an  imitation  by 
the  laity  of  what  they  had  seen 
dono  by  the  clergy,  but  an  applica- 
tion by  the  clergy,  of  their  own  in- 
vention ;  a  transfer  to  the  interests  of 
the  State  of  the  same  instrument 
whi<  h,  in  the  same  hands,  had 
wro  ight  for  the  interests  of  the 
Church.  He  might  also  have  given 
the  Councils  a  more  ancient  autho- 
rity. The  Council  of  Nice  was  held 
in  A.  a.  825,  the  Council  of  Anticch  in 
341. 

We  are  glad  to  find  that  he  has  the 
boldness  to  defy  unhesitatingly  the 
tern]  stations  of  metaphor  in  the  de- 
cline of  kingdoms.  With  him  the 
old  image  of  youth,  manhood,  and 
decaff  goes  for  nothing.  He  asserts 
that  it  exists  only  in  poetry,  and  he 
is  ri'ht.  No  analogy  drawn  from 
hum  in  life,  the  seasons,  or  the  bud- 
ding or  perishing  of  flowers,  is  ap- 
plicable to  the  changes  of  modern 
king  loms.  No  kingdom  of  Europe,* 
except  Poland,  has  been  lost  for 
thes<  thousand  years.  There  may 
have  been  accessions  of  provinces 
and  changes  of  dynasties,  but  there 
has  1  een  no  dissolution,  nothing  si- 
mila  to  the  fall,  absorption,  and 
evan  ?scence  of  the  mighty  frame  of 
the  loman  Empire.  He  goes  fur- 
ther, and  assigns  the  reasons  of  this 
stror  g  resistance  to  decay.  At  the 
head  of  those,  he  justly  places  reli- 
gion. 

"  ^  variety  of  causes  were  silent- 


ly operating,  which  communicated 
an  unknown  energy  to  the  social 
system,  and  infused  into  modern 
states,  even  in  periods  of  apparent 
decline,  a  share  of  the  undecaying 
youth  of  the  human  race.  The  first 
of  these  was  the  CHRISTIAN  RELI- 
GION. Slavery  had  been  the  ruin  of 
all  the  states  of  antiquity.  The  in- 
fluence of  wealth  corrupted  the 
higher  orders,  and  the  lower,  sepa- 
rated by  a  sullen  line  of  demarca- 
tion from  their  superiors,  furnished 
no  accession  of  strength  to  revive 
their  energies.  But  the  influence  of 
a  religion  which  proclaimed  the  uni- 
versal equality  of  mankind  in  the 
sight  of  Heaven,  and  addressed  its 
revelations  in  an  especial  manner  to 
the  poor,  destroyed  this  ruinous 
distinction.  Universally,  the  horrors 
of  slavery  gradually  yielded  to  the 
rising  influence  of  Christianity.  The 
religious  houses  were  the  first  which 
emancipated  their  vassals ;  their  ex- 
hortations were  unceasingly  directed 
to  extort  the  same  concession  from 
the  feudal  barons ;  and  on  their  do- 
mains the  first  fruits  of  industrious 
freedom  began  to  spring.  While  the 
vassals  of  the  military  proprietors 
were  sunk  in  slavery,  or  lost  in  the 
sloth  which  follows  so  degraded  a 
state,  industry  was  reviving  under 
the  shadows  of  the  monastic  walls, 
and  the  free  vassals  of  the  religious 
establishments  were  flourishing  in 
the  comparative  security  of  their  su- 
perstitious protection." 

To  this  extent  we  go  with  him. 
But  it  is  one  of  the  advantages  of 
reading  an  author  of  this  rank,  that  as 
his  mind  is  always  active,  he  com- 
pels his  readers  to  reason.  Mr  Ali- 
son conceives  that  great  good  was 
produced  by  the  enthusiasm  of  reli- 
gion, as  well  as  by  its  virtues.  "  The 
freedom  of  Greece,  the  discipline  of 
Macedonia,  produced  only  a  transi- 
ent impression  on  human  affairs  ; 
but  the  fanaticism  of  Mahomet  con- 
vulsed the  globe.  The  ardour  of 
chivalry  led  the  nobles  into  action, 
the  ambition  of  monarchs  brought 
the  feudal  retainers  into  the  field ; 
but  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Crusades 
awakened  the  dormant  strength  of 
the  Western  world.  With  the  growth 
of  religious  zeal,  therefore,  the  basis 
of  freedom  was  immensely  extend- 
ed ;  into  its  ranks  was  brought,  not 
the  transient  ebullition  of  popular 


890 


The  French  Revolution. 


excitement,  but  the  stern  valour  of 
fanaticism  ;  and  that  lasting'support, 
which  neither  the  ardour  of  the  city, 
nor  the  independence  of  the  desert, 
could  afford,  was  at  length  drawn 
from  the  fervour  of  the  cottage." 

We  doubt  the  theory.  After  ha- 
ving said  that  no  man  hitherto  has 
been  able  to  give  a  sufficient  opinion 
On  the  uses  of  the  Crusades,  we  are 
not  about  to  dogmatize  on  the  subject. 
But  our  impression  has  uniformly 
been,  that  the  Crusades  were  a  tre- 
mendous scourge  to  Europe,  in  their 
direct  action,  and  not  less  in  their 
immediate  consequences.  In  the 
first  instance,  they  involved  the  ex- 
penditure of  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  lives,  of  the  most  accomplished 
and  leading  orders  of  Europe ;  not 
merely  of  the  rude  feudal  barons, 
but  of  princes,  many  of  them  men 
much  superior  to  the  rudeness  of  the 
age  ;  of  leading  citizens,  and  of  mul- 
titudes of  the  vigorous  yeomanry 
who  then,  as  well  as  now,  were  the 
strength  of  the  land.  To  this  hide- 
ous waste  of  life  was  added  the  waste 
of  millions  of  money.  In  fact  more 
life  and  treasure  was  flung  away  in 
the  sands  of  Palestine  than  would 
have  turned  the  wildernesses  of  Eu- 
rope into  a  garden,  and  this  most  ex- 
hausting drain  continued  for  nearly 
three  centuries.  But  a  still  more  peri- 
lous result  was  the  sudden  power 
which  they  gave  to  the  Popedom, 
and  the  general  assumption  of  papal 
tyranny,  and  extreme  depth  of  reli- 
gious corruption,  which  checked  and 
clouded  the  advance  of  Europe  in 
the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries. 
From  the  Council  of  Clement  in  A.D. 
1095,  to  the  fatal  seventh  Crusade 
under  Louis  IX.  in  1270,  Rome  was 
paramount,  and  her  whole  power  was 
exerted  to  bind  the  heart  and  under- 
standing of  man  in  eternal  chains. 
The  loss  of  torrents  of  blood  and 
gold,  which  might  as  effectually  have 
been  discharged  into  the  ocean,  must 
require  some  extraordinary  and  ob- 
vious value  in  its  compensation ; 
but  we  cannot  discover  the  use  of 
the  slaughter  in  the  military  turbu- 
lence which  roused  its  victims  from 
their  cottages  only  to  be  slain,  nor 
the  good  of  the  enthusiasm  in  the 
long  reign  of  darkness  and  terror 


[June, 

inflicted  upon  Europe  by  religious 
fervours  felt  only  in  the  utter  degra- 
dation of  the  human  mind.  That 
Providence  can  wring  good  out  of 
evil  ,•  that  it  will  not  suffer  the  rash- 
ness of  man  totally  to  effect  his  own 
ruin;  that  the  bloodiest  wars  are  not 
altogether  without  their  use,  or  that 
the  most  domineering  shape  of  super- 
stition is  not  permitted  to  be  an  un- 
mixed evil;  that  the  earthquake  shakes 
down  the  sullen  incumbrances  of  the 
evil,  and  the  inundation  may  recruit 

the  exhausted  fertility  of  the  land, 

all  are  matters  of  experience ;  high 
interpositions  of  the  Divine  Benevo- 
lence. But  they  are  interpositions  ; 
the  work  of  restorative  wisdom  ex- 
torting good  out  of  the  crime,  and 
even  out  of  the  punishment.  The 
Crusades  incidentally  promoted  navi- 
gation, intercourse  with  the  East,  the 
freedom  of  the  baronial  vassals,  and 
the  opulence  of  Venice  and  Genoa. 
But  the  historian*  pronounces  them 
the  "  sources  of  the  most  fatal  cor- 
ruption, their  origin  a  savage  fana- 
ticism, and  their  effects  analogous  to 
the  cause."  And  probably  the  phi- 
losopher will  sanction  his  opinion. 

But  we  must  now  leave  discussion 
with  so  competent  an  authority,  and 
give  some  fragments  of  those  strange 
and  fearful  recollections  which  make 
French  democracy  still  a  wonder 
and  a  terror  to  the  world.  After  a 
long  and  eloquent  view  of  the  pri- 
mary causes  of  the  Revolution,  in 
which  he  attributes  to  an  inevitable 
chain  of  powerful  change,  much  of 
what  we  should  be  inclined  to  attri- 
bute to  the  gross  vices  of  all  ranks, 
arising  from  the  habitual  heartless- 
ness  of  the  people,  doubly  sensuali- 
zed by  a  corrupt,  indolent,  and  su- 
perstitious worship,  he  dashes  off 
with  a  bold  and  remarkably  graphic 
hand  the  chief  scenes  of  the  fall  of 
the  monarchy.  He  thus  gives  the 
picture  of  a  thwarted  faction,  making 
their  appeal  to  the  popular  passions 
for  the  recovery  of  their  power.  Of 
such  materials  is  patriotism  made. 
"The  Girondists,  chagrined  at  the 
loss  of  their  places  in  the  administra- 
tion, proceeded  to  the  most  ruinous 
excesses.  They  experienced  now  that 
cruel  necessity  to  which  all  who  seek 
to  rise  by  the  passions  of  the  people, 


*  See  Gihbnn,  Chap.  61. 


1833.] 


The  French  Revolution. 


697 


are  sooner  or  later  subjected,  that  of 
submitting  to  the  vices,  and  allying 
themselves  with  the  brutality  of  the 
mob.  They  openly  associated  with, 
and  flattered  men  of  the  most  revolt- 
in  5  habits  and  disgusting  vulgarity, 
and  commenced  that  system  of  revo- 
lutionary equality  which  was  so  soon 
to  banish  politeness,  humanity,  and 
every  gentler  virtue,  from  French 
society.  They  resolved  to  rouse  the 
people  by  inflammatory  petitions  and 
harangues,  and  hoped  to  intimidate 
th-i  Court  by  the  shew  of  popular 
resistance  ;  a  dangerous  expedient, 
and  which  in  the  end  proved  as  fatal 
to  themselves  as  to  the  power  against 
which  it  was  directed.  A  general  in- 
surrection, by  their  direction,  was  pre- 
pared in  the  Fauxbourgs ;  and  under 
pretence  of  celebrating  the  anniver- 
sary of  the  Tennis  Court  oath,  which 
wf.s  approaching,  a  body  of  ten  thou- 
sand men  was  organized  in  the 
qu  ar  ter  of  St  Antoine.  Thus,  while  the 
Royalists  were  urging  the  approach 
of  the  European  powers,  the  patriots 
were  rousing  the  insurrection  of  the 
people.  Both  produced  their  natu- 
ral effects,  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and 
the  despotism  of  Napoleon. 

**  The  agitators,  for  the  name  suits 
treason  in  every  land,  now  forced 
their  nominal  petition,  but  their  real 
mandate,  on  the  Legislature.  At  the 
head  of  the  mob  of  the  vilest  corners 
of  Paris,  a  city  abounding  in  vileness, 
the  agitators  brought  their  petition 
to  the  gates  of  the  Assembly.  Its 
•  language  was  the  insolence  of  mob 
supremacy.  *  The  people  are  ready. 
They  are  prepared  to  have  recourse 
to  any  measures  to  put  in  force  the 
second  article  of  the  Rights  of  Man, 
ra  istance  to  oppression.  Let  the 
small  minority  of  your  body  who  do 
nor,  participate  in  their  sentiments, 
deliver  the  earth  from  their  presence. 
DC  es  the  happiness  of  the  people 
depend  on  the  caprice  of  the  Sove- 
reign? Should  that  Sovereign  have 
any  other  law  than  the  will  of  the 
people  ?  The  people  are  determined, 
an<l  their  pleasure  outweighs  the 
wi-hes  of  crowned  heads.  They  are 
th»  oak  of  the  forest;  the  royal  sap- 
linj  must  bend  beneath  its  branches. 
W »  complain  of  the  inactivity  of  our 
armies;  we  call  on  you  to  investigate 
tin-  causes ;  if  it  arises  from  the  exe- 
cu  ive  power,  that  it  be  instantly 
annihilated.' 

VOL.  XXXIII.— NO,  CCIX. 


"  France  had  at  that  time  the  hap- 
piness of  possessing  a  Reformed 
Parliament;  a  glorious  depository 
of  the  condensed  virtues  of  the  na- 
tion ;  the  pure  detector  of  all  abuses, 
the  vigilant  extinguisher  of  the 
crimes  that  patriotism  pronounces 
to  be  indigenous  in  the  breast  of 
Kings,  and  the  faithful,  firm,  and  in- 
trepid champion  of  the  Constitu- 
tion. The  populace  demanded  that 
their  petition  should  be  received. 
If  some  of  the  members  ventured  to 
think  that  it  was  foolish,  indecent, 
and  a  direct  and  daring  breach  of 
the  legislative  privileges,  they  were 
threatened  with  the  mob,  and  the 
heroism  of  the  House  was  instantly 
silent.  The  petitioners  now  made 
another  demand;  that  they  should 
have  the  honours  of  a  reception. 
The  intrepid  assembly  dared  not 
refuse,  the  debate  was  stopped,  the 
doors  were  opened,  and  the  rabble 
marched  through  the  chamber. 

"  A  motley  assemblage,  now  swell- 
ed to  30,000,  men,  women,  and 
children,  in  the  most  squalid  attire, 
immediately  passed  through  the 
hall,  uttering  furious  cries,  and  dis- 
playing seditious  banners.  They 
were  headed  by  Santerre,  and  the 
Marquis  de  St  Huruques,  with  a 
drawn  sabre  in  his  hand.  Immense 
tablets  were  borne  aloft,  having  in- 
scribed on  them  the  Rights  of  Man ; 
others  carried  banners,  bearing  as 
inscriptions,  '  The  Constitution  or 
Death.'  *  Long  live  the  Sans  Cu- 
lottes !'  At  the  end  of  one  pike  was 
a  bleeding  heart,  with  the  inscrip- 
tion, *  The  heart  of  the  Aristocracy.1 
Multitudes  of  men  and  women, 
striking  alternately  pikes  and  olive 
branches  above  their  heads,  danced 
round  those  frightful  emblems,  sing- 
ing the  revolutionary  song  of  Ca 
Ira.  In  the  midst  of  those  furies 
dense  columns  of  insurgents  defiled, 
bearing  the  more  formidable  wea- 
pons of  fusils,  sabres,  and  daggers, 
raised  aloft  on  poles.  The  loud  ap- 
plause of  the  galleries,  the  cries  of 
the  mob,  the  deathlike  silence  of 
the  Assembly,  who  trembled  at  the 
sight  of  the  auxiliaries  whom  they 
had  invoked,  formed  a  scene  which 
exceeds  all  description  The  pas§age 
of  the  procession  lasted  three  hours !" 

After  this  display  of  the   advan- 
tages of  a  deliberative  mob,  the  same 
legislators  proceeded  to  display  their 
3  M 


898 


The  French  Revolution. 


[June, 


merits  to  the  King.  Mr  Alison  says, 
"  Never  did  he  appear  more  truly 
great  than  on  that  trying  occasion." 
Louis  XVI.  is  no  hero  of  ours ;  he 
seems  to  have  been  born  with  a  na- 
tural dulness,  which  neither  rank 
could  elevate  into  dignity,  nor  ne- 
cessity rouse  into  courage.  He  bore 
misfortune  as  he  would  have  borne 
success,  both  without  any  effort  of 
his  own.  His  characteristic  was 
apathy;  and  honest,  innocent,  and 
injured,  as  he  undoubtedly  was,  it 
was  this  apathy  alone  which  at  once 
disqualified  him  for  difficulty,  and 
saved  him  from  shame,  doomed  him 
to  fall,  but  covered  his  fall  with  the 
semblance  of  kingly  fortitude.  On 
this  day,  one  of  the  furious  ruffians 
who  were  so  soon  to  exult  at  the 
sight  of  his  blood,  ordered  him  to 
put  on  the  red  cap.  This  insult, 
which  a  \vise  Monarch  would  have 
felt  to  be  the  omen  of  his  undoing, 
and  a  brave  one  would  have  resent- 
ed as  worse  than  death,  the  patient, 
and  we  must  add,  the  pusillanimous, 
Louis  suffered  to  pass ;  he  put  the 
emblem  of  massacre  on  his  head, 
and  with  it  came  out  to  be  gazed  at 
by  the  rabble.  Mr  Alison  records 
the  anecdote  mentioned  by  Bour- 
rienne,  that  Napoleon,  who  had  wan- 
dered from  his  Caffe  towards  the 
Tuileries,  could  not  repress  his 
surprise,  and  his  contempt,  when  he 
saw  majesty  thus  degraded.  "  The 
wretches!"  said  the  young  artil- 
lery-man; "  they  should  have  cut 
down  the  first  five  hundred  with 
grape-shot,  and  the  rest  would  soon 
fly."  We  have  heard  it  said,  that 
he  added,  with  the  quick  insight  in- 
to consequences  which  belonged  to 
his  nature,  "  As  for  that  fellow 
with  the  red  cap,  it  is  all  over  with 
him"  This  is  the  truth.  It  may  be 
a  painful  view  of  an  unfortunate 
King,  who  would  have  made  a  very 
respectable  member  of  private  so- 
ciety. But  history  has  other  duties, 
even  to  kings,  than  those  of  pane- 
gyric ;  and  the  moral  of  their  deaths 
is  useless,  where  we  are  mistaken  in 
the  principles  of  their  lives. 

From  this  time,  the  Jacobins,  find- 
ing that  they  could  push  their  vic- 
tim off  the  throne,  and  had  already 
fully  degraded  him,  determined  that 
he  should  sit  as  King  no  longer. 
They  compelled  the  National  As- 
sembly to  declare  that  "  the  country 


was  in  danger,"  a  proclamation  gi- 
ving full  sweep  to  popular  license, 
for,  with  the  patriot  of  the  streets, 
his  "  country's  danger"  supersedes 
every  thing,  and  entitles  him  to  rob, 
revolt,  and  assassinate,  with  an  ap- 
proving conscience. 

The  theatrical  arts,  which  the 
French  love,  even  in  murder,  were 
now  practised  with  perpetual  acti- 
vity. Minute  guns  were  fired  to 
prevent  them  from  forgetting  that 
their  country  was  "  in  danger,"  or 
probably  on  its  bier ;  and  the  rabble 
were  kept  in  a  constant  state  of 
fierce  folly,  by  parades  of  half- 
naked  heroes,  the  fabrication  of 
Sikes,  the  distribution  of  sabres, 
esperate  falsehoods  in  the  shape  of 
government  news  from  the  armies, 
hideous  reports  of  conspiracies  in 
the  jails  against  national  liberty,  and 
speeches  in  the  Palais  Royal,  full 
of  every  abomination  that  could  be 
engendered  in  hearts  hot  with  enmi- 
ty against  God  or  man.  It  is  grati- 
fying to  all  feelings  of  justice  to  see 
with  what  summary  vengeance  the 
machinations  of  the  PATRIOT  lead- 
ers, the  Girondists,  were  visited  on 
themselves.  These  men  were  the 
Liberals  of  France,  chiefly  men  of 
education,  of  competence,  of  a  cer- 
tain rank  in  society,  professing  re- 
spect for  the  principles  of  the  mo- 
narchy, tempered  only  by  an  honest 
desire  to  see  it  cleared  of  those  spots 
which  impeded  its  shining  in  full 
beneficence  on  the  people.  Perish 
the  names  of  the  hypocrites ;  down 
in  the  dust  and  blood  of  their  dis- 
honoured graves  be  the  memory  of 
the  specious  villains,  who,  with  ho- 
nour on  their  lips,  had  treason  in 
their  hearts ;  who,  despising  the  po- 
pulace as  the  dust  under  their  feet, 
lavished  perpetual  panegyric  on 
their  ignorance,  cruelty,  and  vice; 
who,  thinking  only  of  their  own 
guilty  cravings  for  power,  were  ut- 
terly regardless  of  the  price,  the 
host  of  evils  which  they  let  loose  on 
their  country  to  pioneer  their  way  ; 
but  still  went  on  stimulating  folly 
into  rage,  inflaming  the  passions  of 
the  rabble  by  satanic  falsehoods  to 
satanic  wickedness ;  and  contem- 
plated with  a  cool  eye  the  long  vista 
of  burning  and  slaughter,  the  hideous 
array  of  voluntary  and  groundless 
atrocities  that  were  to  line  the  way 
for  their  procession  to  so  trivial  and 


1633.] 


The  French  Revolution. 


temporary  a  power  as  the  clerkships 
and  secretaryships  of  the  Ministry  of 
Fi-ance.  They  all  had  that  moment  of 
bi  tier  power,  and  in  the  next  moment 
were  flung  under  the  feet  of  the  popu- 
lace, and  trampled  out  of  the  world. 
It  is  now  the  custom  to  charge  the 
crimes  which  especially  blackened 
the    history  of   the   Revolution  in 
1793,  on  the  Allied  proclamations. 
But  Jacobinism  must  answer  for  its 
ov.'n  sins.  The  language  of  the  Duke 
of  Brunswick's  manifesto  was  the 
language  which  every  man  of  honour 
in  Europe  would  have  used  at  the 
time,  and  which  is  as  much  the  lan- 
guage of  honour  at  this  hour.     Let 
us  look  into  this  calumniated  docu- 
mi  nt.    It  declared  that  "  those  who 
ha<l  usurped  the  reins  of   govern- 
me  nt  in  France,  had  trampled  the  so- 
cial order,  and  overturned  the  legi- 
tin  ate  government;  had  committed 
ou  rages  on  the  King  and  Queen ; 
and   had,  in  an  arbitrary  manner, 
invaded  the   rights  of  the  German 
Princes  in  Alsace  and  Lorraine,  and 
de(  lared  war  unnecessarily  against 
the  King  of  Hungary  and  Bohemia." 
Ev-'ry  syllable  of  this  was  undenia- 
bly true.    It  declared,  that, "  in  con- 
sequence, the  Allied  Sovereigns  had 
tak  m  up  arms  to  stop  the  anarchy 
tha :  prevailed  in  France,  to  check 
the  dangers  which   threatened  the 
throne  and  the  altar,  to  give  liberty 
to  the  King,  and  restore  him  to  the 
legitimate  authority  of  which  he  had 
been  deprived,  but  without  any  in- 
tention   whatever  of  individual  ag- 
grandizement :    that     the    National 
Gu<  rds  would  be  held  responsible 
for  ;he  maintenance  of  order  until 
the  arrival  of  the  Allied  forces,  and 
that  those  who  dared  to  resist,  must 
exp  ;ct  all  t!ie  rigour  of  military  exe- 
cuti  >n."     And  what  other  language 
cou'd  be  used,  when  the  purpose 
was  to  suppress  a  furious  succession 
of  r.ibble  outrages;  to  restrain  a,  po- 
pulace already  guilty  of  the   most 
dre£  dful  violences,  and  in  a  state  of 
dire<  *t  rebellion  against  ail  that  bore 
the  name  of  Government  in  their 
coui  try.    What  must  have  been  the 
lang  lage  of  their  own  Monarch  at 
the  )  icad  of  an  army,  but  death  to 
thosi  who  persisted  in  rebellion? 
Or  vhat  is  the  universal  language  of 
a'uth  >rity  to  rebels  in  arms  ?    The 
Allies  were  the  troops  of  the  Go- 
vern nent,  in  all  true  meanings  of 


the  word ;  and  acting  not  against  the 
defenders  of  an  enemy's  territory, 
but  against  the  outlaws  of  a  terri- 
tory against  which  they  disclaimed 
all  views  of  conquest,  and  which 
they  came  to  protect  and  restore. 

"  Finally,  it  warned  the  National 
Assembly,    the     Municipality    and 
city  of  Paris,  that  if  they  did  not 
forthwith  liberate  the  King,  and  re- 
turn to  their  allegiance,  they  should 
be  held  personally  responsible,  and 
answer  with   their  heads  for  their 
disobedience  j  and  that  if  the  Palace 
were  forced,  or  the  slightest  insult 
oifered  to  the  Royal  Family,  an  ex- 
emplary and  memorable  punishment 
should  be  inflicted,  by  the  total  de- 
struction of  the  city  of  Paris."    The 
last  sentence  of  this  proclamation  is 
the  only  one  to  which  we  should 
object ;  because  no  man  should  use 
that  as  a  menace,  which  he  is  not  de- 
termined to  execute  as  a  fact;  and 
the  intention  of   the    Allies  could 
not  have  been  to  effect  a  destruction 
which  must  involve  so  heavy  a  na- 
tional calamity,  and  the  fortunes  of 
so  many  innocent  and  loyal  people. 
But  what  would  be  the  language  of 
an  officer  commanding  a  siege  to  the 
Governor    of   a  fortress  who  was 
about  to  hang  up  his   prisoners  ? 
And  what  strength  of  menace  would 
not  be  justified  by  the  knowledge 
that  an  Allied  King,  with  his  family, 
and  his  chief  nobility,  were  in  the 
hands  of  a  horde  of   savages,  cla- 
mouring   hour    by  hour  for  their 
blood  ?    Or  what  would  deservedly 
be  thought  of  the  sincerity  or  the 
feelings  of  those  who  came  expressly 
to  rescue  the  King  of  France  from 
his  cruel  captivity,  if  they  made  it  a 
matter  of  simple  remonstrance,  or 
delicate    suggestion ;    diplomatized 
on  revolt,  and  insinuated  the  error 
of  regicide  ? 

Of  the  truth  and  justice  of  this 
document  there  can  be  no  question* 
Its  policy  is  another  view ;  so  far  as 
policy  consists  in  attaining  an  object 
by  ail  means.  In  this  humiliating 
sense  of  the  word,  it  might  have 
been  more  politic  to  compliment  the 
Assembly  on  their  firmness,  the  Ja* 
cobins  on  their  virtue,  and  the  popu- 
lace on  their  temper.  The  Allied 
army  might  have  declared  itself  the 
rectifier  of  abuses,  the  restorer  of 
rights,  and  the  general  dispenser  of 
privileges  to  every  rank  of  society; 


900 


The  French  Revolution. 


[June, 


and  when  it  bad  once  planted  its 
foot  on  the  neck  of  France,  spoiled 
and  slaughtered  according  to  its  ori- 
ginal programme.  For  this  was  the 
policy  of  France  on  the  first  oppor- 
tunity, this  was  the  policy  of  Napo- 
leon, and  this  will  be  the  policy  of 
all  who  think  that  deception  is  the 
great  art  of  success,  and  negotiate  in 
the  baseness  of  the  human  heart. 

In  the  spirit  of  prophecy  after  the 
event,  this  proclamation  has  been 
assigned  as  the  cause  of  that  military 
outbreak  which  so  suddenly  swept 
away  all  invasion.  But  the  fact  is 
against  -the  theory.  The  first  im- 
pression was  fear  ;  the  populace,  the 
Jacobins,  and  the  Assembly,  were 
equally  terrified ;  they  foundthat  they 
had  advanced  to  the  edge  of  ruin, 
and  were  all  busy  in  looking  about 
for  the  way  to  recede.  If  the  Duke 
of  Brunswick  had  been  animated  by 
the  manly  feelings  of  his  proclama- 
tion, he  would  have  marched  to  the 
capital  without  firing  a  shot,  or  his 
only  volley  would  have  been  over 
the  grave  of  democracy.  But  his 
sword  was  feeble,  where  his  pen  was 
the  pen  of  truth  and  honour;  the 
policy  which  he  justly  disclaimed  in 
his  language  was  soon  suffered  to 
guide  his  councils;  he  began  to  traffic 
with  his  great  cause,  to  linger  for 
the  effect  of  his  menaces  until  they 
became  impotent,  and  shrink  from 
hurting  the  feelings  of  the  rabble 
until  they  were  turned  into  con- 
tempt. Thus  diplomatizing  when 
he  should  have  marched,  and  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  Prussian  Cabi- 
net, when  every  step  should  have 
been  pressing  to  the  Tuileries,  he 
intrigued  himself  across  the  bor- 
der, remained  there  only  long 
enough  to  shew  that  he  was  utterly 
incapable  of  command;  a  diplo- 
matist to  the  last,  negotiated  for  the 
escape  of  his  army ;  and  with  a  force 
which  still  might  have  walked  over 
all  the  levies  of  republicanism,  hid 
his  politic  head  in  Prussia,  and  left 
the  unhappy  monarch  to  the  grave. 

The  Liberals  triumphed,  but  they 
were  to  taste  of  speedy  vengeance. 
Their  desires  were  limited  to  the 
supremacy  of  the  French  House  of 
Commons.  To  accomplish  this,  the 
King  must  be  first  a  slave  or  a  corpse. 
But  patriotism  has  objects  too  illus- 
trious to  waste  its  eyes  on  the  cala- 
mities of  individuals.  The  Giron- 


dists avowed  their  intention  of  esta- 
blishing the  popular  branch  of  the 
legislature  in  full  dominion.  Their 
personal  object,  almost  equally 
avowed,  was  to  climb  by  that  legisla- 
ture into  place ;  but  a  new  antago- 
nist now  started  up  between  them 
and  ambition.  Federalism,  the  fu- 
rious championship  of  the  Sections, 
the  patriotism  of  the  hovels  of  Paris, 
sprung  forward  with  the  pike  and 
the  red  cap.  The  once  obscure 
names  of  Danton,  Robespierre,  and 
Marat,  the  triple- headed  monster 
that  kept  the  gates  of  the  Democratic 
Hell,  were  instantly  names  of  power. 
The  Vergniauds  and  Guidots,  the 
men  of  polished  periods  and  well- 
bred  treason,  the  Judases  who  be- 
trayed with  a  kiss,  were  flung  aside 
to  groan  over  their  own  treachery, 
and  perish  abhorred  of  mankind ; 
and  the  work  was  given  into  hands 
that  scorned  disguise  when  the  busi- 
ness was  blood,  followed  their  career 
through  all  its  gradations  of  torture, 
scoffing  and  blasphemy,  and  finally 
achieved  an  act  of  ostentatious  and 
triumphant  crime,  for  which  the 
double  devastation  of  the  country, 
and  the  gore  of  its  millions,  scattered 
over  every  soil  of  Europe,  may  not 
have  yet  atoned. 

"  At  length  at  midnight,  on  the 
9th  of  August,  a  cannon  was  fired, 
the  tocsin  sounded,  and  the  generate 
beat  in  every  quarter  of  Paris.  The 
survivors  of  the  bloody  catastrophe 
which  was  about  to  commence  have 
pourtrayed  in  the  strongest  colours 
the  horrors  of  that  dreadful  night, 
when  the  oldest  monarchy  in  Europe 
began  to  fall.  The  incessant  clang 
of  the  tocsin,  the  rolling  of  the 
drums,  the  rattling  of  artillery  and 
ammunition  waggons  along  the 
streets,  the  cries  of  the  insurgents, 
the  march  of  columns,  rang  in  their 
ears  long  after,  and  haunted  their 
minds  even  in  the  midst  of  festivity 
and  rejoicing.  The  club  of  the  Ja- 
cobins, that  of  the  Cordeliers,  and 
the  Section  of  Quinze  Vingt,  in  the 
Fauxbourg  St  Antoine,  were  the 
three  centres  of  the  insurrection. 
The  most  formidable  forces  were 
assembled  at  the  club  of  the  Cor- 
deliers. The  Marseillois  were  there, 
and  the  vigour  of  Danton  gave 
energy  to  all  their  proceedings.  '  It 
is  time,'  said  he,  '  to  appeal  to  the 
laws  and  legislators — the.  laws  have 


1838.] 


The  French  Revolution. 


901 


made  no  provision  for  such  offences 
— the  legislators  are  the  accomplices 
of  the  criminals.  Already  have  they 
acquitted  La  Fayette!  To  absolve 
tint  traitor,  is  to  deliver  us  to  him, 
to  the  enemies  of  France,  to  the  san- 
gcinary  vengeance  of  the  Allied 
Kings.  This  very  night  the  perfi- 
dious Louis  has  chosen  to  deliver 
to  carnage  and  conflagration  the  ca- 
pizal,  which  he  is  prepared  to  quit 
in  the  moment  of  its  ruin.  To  arms ! 
to  arms !  no  other  chance  of  escape 
is  left  to  us.'  The  insurgents,  and 
especially  the  Marseillois,  impatient- 
ly called  for  the  signal  to  march,  and 
tin}  cannon  of  all  the  Sections  began 
to  roll  towards  the  centre  of  the 
city."— Vol.  I.  p.  324. 

Against  this  furious  force  the  in- 
fatuated Court  had  made  but  slight 
and  hurried  preparation.  The  fatal 
po'icy  of  soothing  down  rebellion 
had  beguiled  the  weak  King  to  send 
away  the  greater  portion  of  the  Swiss, 
tin 5  only  troops  who  were  not  rotten 
to  the  core  with  republican  gold  and 
brandy.  These  were  times  when 
villainy  was  brought  to  the  surface 
by  every  roll  of  the  popular  wave. 
The  household  troops,  sworn  tenfold 
to  live  and  die  for  their  Sovereign, 
were  marked  by  pre-eminent  treach- 
ery. "  The  forces  on  the  royal  side," 
we;  are  told,  "  were  numerous,  but 
little  reliance  could  be  placed  on  a 
great  proportion  of  them.  And  the 
gendarmerie  a  cheval,  a  most  im- 
portant force  in  civil  conflicts,  soon 
ga/e  a  fatal  example  of  disaffection, 
by  deserting  in  a  body  to  the  enemy. 
This  important  corps  was  chiefly 
composed  of  the  former  French 
guards,  who  had  thus  the  infamy 
twice,  in  the  same  convulsions,  of 
betraying  at  once  their  Sovereign 
and  their  oaths." 

But  what  did  the  purified  legisla- 
ture do  on  this  occasion  ?  They  vin- 
dicated the  majesty  of  representa- 
tion by  the  most  immediate  subser- 
viency to  the  will  of  the  rabble. 
They  had  not  yet  arrived  at  the  de- 
termination to  overturn  the  throne; 
bu';  they  received  the  law  on  that 
subject  from  the  host  of  miscreants 
in  nhe  streets,  and  they  prepared  for 
the  overthrow  accordingly.  During 
the  tumult,  they  had  assembled,  as  if 
for  the  purpose  of  giving  an  eternal 
lesion  of  the  utter  incompetence  of 
a  house  which  has  built  its  strength 


upon  the  rabble,  and  mistaken  the 
mob  for  the  nation.  The  murderers 
in  the  streets  had  only  to  declare 
their  will.  The  National  Assembly 
sat  there,  with  their  liberal  presi- 
dent Vergniaud,  only  to  register  it. 
Trembling  for  their  lives,  and  not 
daring  to  make  the  slightest  attempt 
to  protect  even  themselves,  much 
less  to  retrieve  the  disorders  of  the 
time,  they  sat  from  hour  to  hour,  the 
puppets  of  representation. 

In  this  emergency,  where  all  was 
cowardice  that  was  not  frenzy,  and 
the  boasted  dignity  of  the  French 
Parliament  had  evaporated  into  the 
alternate  fright  and  fawning  of  a 
beaten  hound,  one  character  alone 
threw  a  ray  of  honour  across  the 
whole  terrible  history-piece  of  base- 
ness and  crime,  the  Queen.  This 
high-minded  woman,  worthy  of  the 
Imperial  blood,  strove  successively 
to  recall  the  fidelity  of  the  French 
troops,  and  create  the  sense  of  cou- 
rage in  her  feeble  husband.  In  their 
review  of  the  National  Guard  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Palace,  she  harangued, 
she  adjured  them  by  every  principle 
of  soldiership,  to  remain  firm  to  their 
duty  on  that  eventful  day. 

The  King  returned  pale  and  de- 
pressed. The  Queen  displayed  the 
ancient  spirit  of  her  race.  "  Every 
thing  which  you  hold  most  dear," 
said  she,  to  the  grenadiers  of  the 
Guard,  "  your  homes,  your  wives, 
your  children,  depend  on  our  exist- 
ence— to-day  our  cause  is  that  of  the 
people."  The  Queen  had  pressed 
the  King  to  put  on  a  shirt  of  mail, 
probably  with  the  intention  of  placing 
him  at  the  head  of  the  troops.  He 
refused,  and  answered  her  with  a 
speech  worthy  of  a  hero  of  the  stage. 
"  No,  in  the  day  of  battle  the  King 
should  be  clothed  like  the  meanest 
of  his  followers."  The  speech  was 
all — as  is  the  custom  of  the  country. 
He  sought  no  day  of  battle,  but  fled 
from  the  hazard,  and  lived  to  waste 
upon  the  scaffold  the  blood  which 
he  might  have  proudly  shed  for  the 
throne. 

The  tumults  thickened,  and  Roe- 
derer,  hurrying  back  to  the  unhap- 
py and  silent  council,  poorly  and 
traitorously  advised  an  escape  to 
the  safeguard  of  the  Assembly.  The 
Queen  nobly  spurned  at  the  idea  of 
stooping  to  the  protection  of  slaves 
and  traitors,  "  I  would  rather,"  ex- 


902 


The  French  Revolution. 


[June, 


claimed  she,  "  be  nailed  to  the  walls 
of  the  Palace  than  leave  it."  She 
now  made  a  last,  bitter  appeal  to 
the  King ;  putting  a  pistol  into  his 
hand,  she  said,  "  Come,  sir,  this 
is  the  moment  to  shew  yourself." 
The  King  sat  still  and  did  nothing. 
At  length,  on  Roederer's  suggestion, 
that  if  they  remained  there,  it  must 
be  to  be  massacred,  he  moved— 
"  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done  here." 

The  Assembly,  headed  by  this  man 
of  words,  Vergniaud,  received  the  un- 
done Monarch  with  a  highflown  pro- 
mise, to  "  die  in  his  defence."  But 
while  he  sat  under  their  ominous 
protection,  the  attack  on  the  Tuil- 
eries  had  begun.  Imagination  perhaps 
has  never  conceived  more  anxious 
moments  than  those  of  the  Royal  Fa- 
mily, while  the  roar  of  the  cannon 
and  musketry  told  them  that  their 
palace  was  ransacked,  their  friends 
perishing,  and  their  throne  extin- 
guished. If  there  could  be  an  in- 
crease to  this  misery,  it  must  have 
been  in  the  knowledge  that  the  fatal 
issue  of  the  struggle  was  chiefly 
owing  to  the  flight  of  the  King.  The 
Swiss,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  Pa- 
lace, had  fought  gallantly  and  suc- 
cessfully in  the  beginning  of  the 
struggle.  But  on  its  being  told  that 
the  King  had  left  the  Palace,  the 
outcry  rose,  "  For  what  are  we  fight- 
ing? The  King  has  deserted  us!" 
Some,  in  indignation,  threw  down 
their  arms;  others  in  a  belief  that 
orders  had  arrived  to  desist.  The 
troops, without  orders,  and  disgusted 
by  the  retreat  of  the  nobles  and  gen- 
tlemen, who  had  hitherto  continued 
firing  from  the  Palace  windows,  now 
retreated  within  the  gates.  They  were 
instantly  ruined. 

"  It  was  no  longer  a  battle,  but  a 
massacre.  The  enraged  multitude 
broke  into  the  Palace,  and  put  to 
death  every  one  found  in  it.  The 
fugitives,  pursued  into  the  gardens 
of  the  Tuileries  by  the  pikemen  of 
the  Fauxbourgs,  were  unmercifully 
put  to  death,  under  the  trees,  amid 
the  fountains,  and  at  the  foot  of  the 
statues. 

"  While  these  terrible  scenes  were 
going  forward,  the  Assembly  was  in 
the  most  violent  agitation.  At  the 
first  discharge  of  musketry,  the  King 
declared  that  he  had  forbid  the  troops 
to  fire,  and  signed  an  order  to  the 
Swiis  Guards  to  stop  the  combat; 


but  the  officer  who  bore  it  was  mas- 
sacred on  the  road.  As  the  firing 
grew  louder,  the  consternation  in- 
creased, and  many  deputies  rose  to 
escape ;  but  others  exclaimed,  *  No, 
this  is  our  post.'  The  people  in  the 
galleries  drowned  the  speakers  by 
their  cries,  and  soon  the  loud  shouts, 
*  Victoire,  victoire,  les  Suisses  sont 
vaincus,5  announced  that  the  fate  of 
the  monarchy  was  decided." 

One  of  the  sophisms  of  the  Re- 
publican day,  and  one  of  the  so- 
phisms of  our  own  time,  is,  that  the 
"  march  of  Revolution "  is  irresis- 
tible. That  something  little  short  of 
a  work  of  destiny  is  set  in  act  when- 
ever a  popular  impulse  is  given,  and 
that  in  such  cases  courage  has  no- 
thing to  do  but  to  make  its  escape, 
and  wisdom  nothing  to  do  but  to 
make  common  cause  with  folly. 
This  was  the  Ca  Ira  of  93.  We 
have  the  same  burden  of  the  song  at 
this  hour.  Every  partisan  of  the 
wildest  measures,  of  the  wildest  mis- 
chief, supports  them  on  the  ground 
that  the  cause  of  mischief  is  the 
course  of  fate.  But  one  of  the  va- 
lues of  Mr  Alison's  important  work 
is  the  distinctness  with  which  he 
marks  the  epochs  at  which  the  ruin 
might  have  been  totally  arrested, 
and  the  rights  of  the  nation  avenged, 
by  the  slightest  exertion  of  intelli- 
gence and  fortitude. 

"  The  10th  of  August  was  the  last 
occasion  in  which  the  means  of  sa- 
ving France  were  placed  in  the  hands 
of  the  King ;  and  there  can  be  little 
doubt,  that  had  he  possessed  a  firmer 
character,  he  might  have  accomplish- 
ed the  task.  The  great  bulk  of  the  na- 
tion was  disgusted  with  the  excesses 
of  the  Jacobins,  and  the  outrage  of 
the  20th  of  June  (the  day  of  the  red 
cap)  had  excited  a  universal  feel- 
ing of  horror.  If  he  had  acted  with 
vigour  on  that  trying  occasion,  re- 
pelled force  by  force,  and  seized  the 
first  moments  of  victory  to  proclaim 
as  enemies  the  Jacobins  and  Gi- 
rondists who  had  a  hundred  times 
violated  the  constitution  ;  if  he  had 
dissolved  the  Assembly,  closed  the 
clubs,  and  arrested  the  leaders  of 
the  revolt,  that  day  would  have  re- 
established the  royal  authority." 

Of  this  fact  there  can  be  no  doubt 
in  the  mind  of  any  man  capable  of 
understanding  the  lessons  of  history. 
The  King  of  France  had  not  merely 
this  opportunity,  but  a  dozen  oppor- 


1833.] 


The  French  Revolution. 


903 


tunities,  in  any  one  of  which  a  man 
of  common  sense  and  common  vigour 
would  have  blown  the  Revolution 
into  the  air. 

The  proof  of  this  was  given  in  the 
complete  overthrow  of  this  very  mul- 
titude a  few  years  after  by  Bona- 
parte; at  a  time  when  they  were 
flushed  with  victory,  in  the  habit  of 
disposing  of  the  commonwealth, and 
organized  into  almost  regular  bat- 
tulions.  The  Directory  committed 
their  cause  to  a  daring  little  man, 
who  disdained  to  tamper  with  street 
rebellion,  opened  a  few  guns  on 
them,  and  allaying  their  legislative 
propensities  with  grape-shot,  drove 
them  within  cellars  and  stalls,  never 
to  appear  again  until  they  came 
shouting  in  his  train,  and  licking  the 
d  ist  at  his  footstool.  Such  would 
have  been  the  true  way  to  treat  the 
Jacobinism  of  93.  Such  will  be  the 
true  way  to  treat  it  at  our  interval 
or  forty  years,  and  such  will  be  the 
true  way  as  long  as  rabble  rapine 
d;ires  to  perplex  the  order  of  the 
State.  Political  Unions,  Birming- 
ham mob-parliaments,  Repealers, 
debating  volunteers,  the  whole  Jac- 
querie and  jargon  of  plunder  and  re- 
gicide, the  paraders  of  tricoloured 
flags,  the  annual  parliament  and 
universal  suffrage  faction,  must  be 
doalt  with,  not  by  sufferance,  but  by 
law,  seized  on  their  first  motion,  put 
into  the  hands  of  justice,  and  con- 
si  pied,  under  the  verdict  of  twelve 
honest  men,  to  that  exile  from  which 
they  shall  never  return.  Authority 
lijis  been  too  supine  among  us.  We 
hj.ve  seen  the  King  hunted  with 
hissings  and  groans  through  the 
streets,  until  it  became  almost  a 
merit  with  the  first  half-mad,  half- 
drunken  ruffian  that  could  reach  his 
p(  rson,  to  attempt  his  murder.  We 
lit  ve  seen,  with  scarcely  less  indig- 
iii-tion,  Wellington,  the  military  light 
of  the  land,  the  first  living  name  of 
E'irope,  put  in  danger  of  his  life  in 
the  most  public  streets  of  London, 
01  the  anniversary  of  his  own  un- 
ri  ailed  victory.  Where  were  our 
M  agistrates  when  those  things  were 
d<ne?  And  what  were  our  Privy 
G  Hindis  and  great  official  protec- 
tors of  the  state  doing  when  the  ruf- 
fians who  perpetrated  these  gross 
acd  dangerous  outrages  on  majesty 
w-'jre  rambling  loose  about  the  me- 
tropolis, and  boasting  of  what  they 
had  done  ?  And  where  is  the  autho- 


rity that  still  suffers  designs  to  be 
avowed  to  which  that  boasting  was 
innocent?  If  our  public  men  have 
still  to  learn  the  ruin  that  follows 
submission  to  the  multitude,  let  them 
read  the  facts  of  the  history  before 
us,  if  they  would  draw  the  conclu- 
sions of  national  safety  and  per- 
sonal honour,  let  them  listen  to  the 
reasonings  of  its  intelligent  and 
manly  writer. 

The  Parisian  parliament,  made  by 
the  mob,  flattering  the  mob,  and,  of 
course,  the  mere  tool  of  the  mob, 
was  the  mere  echo  of  the  street  out- 
cry on  this  occasion.  Vergniaud  and 
the  House  had  sworn,  like  the  sena- 
tors of  one  of  their  own  melodrames, 
to  "  perish  for  their  King."  Their 
conduct  from  that  hour  was  a  mix- 
ture of  affectation  and  beggary,  the 
pomp  of  political  coxcombry,  and 
the  nakedness  of  the  most  corrupt 
and  crouching  pusillanimity.  While 
those  theatric  phrases  were  still  on 
their  lips,  their  masters  in  the  street 
commanded  them  to  proceed  with- 
out delay  to  the  final  overthrow  of 
the  Monarchy.  The  Municipality, the 
self-elected  sovereigns  of  Paris  and 
of  France,  ordered  the  National  As- 
sembly to  register  an  act  nullifying 
the  throne.  The  mandate  was  ac- 
cepted. "  Yielding  to  necessity," 
as  Mr  Alison  tells,  "  but  a  necessity 
which  they  had  made  for  themselves, 
and  which  could  have  been  a  yoke 
only  on  the  profligate  and  the  vile," 
the  Assembly,  on  the  motion  of 
Vergniaud!  passed  a  decree,  sus- 
pending the  King,  and  dismissing 
the  Ministers.  They  had  now  filled 
up  the  measure  of  their  faithless- 
ness ;  they  were  next  to  exhibit  the 
depths  of  their  pusillanimity.  The 
Municipality  unhesitatingly  demand- 
ed that  the  National  Assembly,  ha- 
ving done  all  the  mischief  of  which  it 
was  capable,  should  now  give  place 
to  a  more  rapid  minister  of  evil,  and 
declare  itself  extinct!  The  National 
Assembly  bowed  its  head,  received 
the  order  with  the  due  veneration, 
put  the  bow-string  round  its  neck, 
and  passed  a  decree  for  the  imme- 
diatecallingofaNational  Convention. 

The  following  observations  are  of 
incomparable  importance  in  our 
troubled  time.  "  It  is  the  middling 
ranks  who  organize  the  first  resis- 
tance to  Government,  because  it  is 
their  influence  only  which  can  with- 
stand the  shock  of  established  Power' 


904 


The  French  Revolution. 


[June, 


They  accordingly  are  at  the  head  of 
the  first  revolutionary  movement. 
But  the  passions  which  have  been 
awakened,  the  hopes  that  have  been 
excited,  the  disorder  which  has  been 
produced  in  their  struggle,  lay  the 
foundation  of  a  new  and  more  ter- 
rible convulsion  against  the  rule 
which  they  have  established.  Every 
species  of  authority  appears  odious 
to  men  who  have  tasted  of  the  li- 
cense and  excitation  of  a  revolution. 
The  new  government  speedily  be- 
comes as  unpopular  as  the  one 
which  has  been  overthrown;  the  am- 
bition of  the  lower  orders  aims  at 
establishing  themselves  in  the  situa- 
tion in  which  a  successful  effort  has 
placed  the  middling.  A  more  terrible 
struggle  awaits  them  than  that  which 
they  have  just  concluded  with  ar- 
bitrary power, — a  struggle  with  su- 
perior numbers,  stronger  passions, 
more  unbridled  ambition;  with  those 
whom  moneyed  fear  has  deprived  of 
employment,  revolutionary  innova- 
tion filled  with  hope,  inexorable 
necessity  impelled  to  exertion.  The 
natural  result  is  the  flinging  of  the 
middle  classes  into  the  grav  es  of  the 
higher ;  the  perpetual  contest  of  vil- 
lainy with  villainy ;  the  general 
bankruptcy  of  honour,  integrity,  and 
public  confidence;  the  extinction  of 
religion  in  fanaticism  or  atheism ;  and 
the  fall  of  freedom  under  the  gene- 
ral dissolution  of  society,  the  con- 
quest of  an  invader,  or  the  despotic 
power  of  usurpation." 

In  marking  the  progress  of 
crime,  the  first  and  chief  source  of 
all  the  guilt  and  errors  of  the  Revo- 
lution is  stated,  and  truly  stated,  to 
be  that  first  and  favourite  object  of 
popular  rapine,  the  Church. 

"  The  capital  error  of  the  people 
consisted  in  the  confiscation  of  the 
property  of  the  Church.  This  first 
flagrant  act  of  injustice  produced 
consequences  the  most  disastrous 
upon  both  the  progress  of  the  Re- 
volution and  the  direction  of  the 
public  mind.  By  arraying  the  cause 
of  freedom  against  that  of  religion, 
it  separated  the  two  mighty  powers 
which  move  mankind,  and  whose 
combined  strength,  in  former  ages, 
had  established  the  fabric  of  civil 
liberty  on  the  basis  of  private  vir- 


tues. By  exciting  the  fury  of  public 
resentment  against  the  Church,  it 
created  a  fatal  schism  between  pub- 
lic activity  and  private  virtue,  sapped 
the  foundations  of  domestic  happi- 
ness, by  introducing  infidelity  and 
doubt  into  private  life,  and  over- 
whelmed the  land  with  a  flood  of 
licentiousness,  by  removing  the 
counterpoise  created  by  religion  to 
the  force  of  the  passions.  Ages 
must  elapse,  and  possibly  a  new  Re- 
volution be  undergone,  before  the 
license  given  to  the  passions  can  be 
checked,  or  the  general  dissolution 
of  manners  be  prevented.*  These 
consequences  were  as  unnecessary  as 
they  are  deplorable.  There  was  no 
necessity  for  the  spoliation,  because, 
if  the  exigencies  of  the  Exchequer 
required  an  immediate  supply,  it 
should  have  been  raised  by  a  ge- 
neral contribution  of  all  classes  of 
the  State,  not  made  good  by  the  de- 
struction of  one.  There  was  no  mo- 
deration in  the  mode  in  which  it 
was  effected;  because,  even  sup- 
posing the  measure  unavoidable,  it 
should  have  been  carried  into  effect 
without  injuring  the  rights  of  the 
present  incumbents.  It  ill  became 
a  people  insurgent  against  the  op- 
pression of  their  government,  to 
commence  their  reign  by  an  act  of 
injustice  greater  than  any  of  which 
they  complained." 

The  great  moral  of  the  Revolu- 
tion is  the  tendency  of  public  crime 
to  deepen  perpetually.  Contrary  to 
the  physical  law,  the  gravitation  per- 
petually increases  as  we  approach 
the  centre  ;  every  plunge  is  of  more 
sullen  darkness,  and  more  inextri- 
cable return. 

"  From  the  commencement  of  the 
contest,  each  successive  class  that 
had  gained  the  ascendency  in  France, 
had  been  more  violent  and  more  ty- 
rannical than  that  which  preceded 
it.  The  convocation  of  the  States- 
General,  and  the  oath  in  the  Tennis 
Court,  were  the  struggles  of  the  na- 
tion against  the  privileged  classes ; 
the  14th  of  July,  and  the  capture  of 
the  Bastile,  the  insurrection  of  the 
middling  class  against  the  Govern- 
ment; the  10th  of  August,  the  re- 
volt of  the  populace  against  the  mid- 
dling class  and  the  constitutional 


*  Every  third  child  in  Paris  is  a  bastard!  and  o?ie-/talf  of  the  poor  die  in  hospitals  ! 
— DUPIN,  force  Commerciuk,  p,  99, 


1833.] 


The  French  Revolution. 


905 


throne.  The  leaders  of  the  National ' 
Assembly  were,  in  great  part,  actu- 
ated by  the  purest  motives,  and  their 
measures  chiefly  blameable  for  the 
precipitance  which  sprang  from  in- 
experienced philanthropy  ;"  (In  this 
we  think  otherwise.  The  National 
Ansemby  were  a  set  of  Atheists  and 
profligates,  whose  measures  would 
have  been  beyond  the  pale  of  for- 
giveness, but  for  the  crimson  atro- 
cities of  their  successors ;  and  whose 
memory  deserves  no  farther  men- 
tion than  such  as  belongs  to  a  mis- 
cellany of  coxcombs  andscoundrels;) 
"  the  measures  of  the  Convention, 
tinged  by  the  ferocity  of  popular 
ambition,  and  the  increasing  turbu- 
lence of  excited  talent;  the  rule 
of  the  Jacobins,  signalized  by  the 
energy  of  unshackled  guilt,  and 
stained  by  the  cruelty  of  emanci- 
pated slaves." 

Nothing  can  be  more  true  or  of 
higher  political  import  than  the  fol- 
lowing vigorous  reflections : — "  It  is 
a  total  mistake  to  suppose  that  the 
great  body  of  mankind  are  capable 
of  judging  correctly  on  public  af- 
fairs. No  man,  in  any  rank,  ever 
found  a  tenth  part  of  his  acquaint- 
ance fitted  for  such  a  task.  If  the 
opinions  of  most  men  on  the  great 
questions  which  divide  society  are 
examined,  they  will  be  found  to  rest 
on  the  most  flimsy  foundations;  early 
prejudices,  personal  animosity,  pri- 
vate interest,  constitute  the  secret 
springs  from  which  the  opinions 
flow  which  ultimately  regulate  their 
conduct.  Truth,  indeed,  is  in  the  end 
triumphant;  but  it  becomes  predo- 
minant only  on  the  decay  of  inte- 
rest, the  experience  of  suffering,  or 
the  extinction  of  passion.  These  con- 
siderations furnish  the  eternal  and 
unanswerable  objection  to  democra- 
tical  institutions.  Wherever  Go- 
vernments are  directly  exposed  to 
their  control,  they  are  governed,  du- 
ring periods  of  tranquillity,  by  the 
cabals  of  interest;  during  moments 
of  turbulence,  by  the  storms  of  pas- 
sion. America,  at  present,  exhibits 
an  example  of  the  former ;  France, 
during  the  reign  of  terror,  an  instance 
of  the  latter. 

"  Those  who  refer  to  the  original 
equality  and  common  rights  of  man- 
kind, would  do  well  to  shew  that 
men  are  equal  in  abilities  as  well  as 
in  birth;  that  society  could  exist 


with  the  multitude  really  judging 
for  themselves  on  public  affairs ;  that 
the  most  complicated  subject  of  hu- 
man study,  that  in  which  the  greatest 
range  of  information  is  involved,  and 
the  coolest  judgment  required,  can 
be  adequately  mastered  by  those 
who  are  disqualified  by  nature  from 
the  power  of  thought,  disabled  by 
labour  from  acquiring  knowledge,.,  and 
exposed  by  situation  to  the  seduc- 
tions of  interest ;  that  the  multitude, 
when  exercising  their  rights,  are 
not  following  despotic  leaders  of 
their  own  creation  ;  and  that  a  de- 
mocracy is  not,  in  Aristotle's  words, 
an  aristocracy  of  orators,  sometimes 
interrupted  by  the  despotism  of  a 
single  orator." 

All  this  is  unquestionable;  or,  let 
the  man  who  doubts  it,  listen  to  the 
harangues  that  take  place  daily  in 
London  at  Common-halls,  aggregate 
meetings,  and  Crown  and  Anchor 
dinners.  "  There  divine  nonsense 
reigns."  The  most  vulgar  absurdi- 
ties on  the  most  important  subjects 
would  be  the  definition  of  the  whole 
labour  of  popular  council.  Corn 
laws,  Imposts,  Treaties,  the  princi- 
ples of  Government,  the  composi- 
tions of  laws,  are  the  topics  handled 
by  the  shoemakers  and  men-milli- 
ners of  Cheapside ;  the  orator,  some 
Alderman,  wise  as  his  own  counter, 
or  some  attorney's  clerk,  delibera- 
tive as  his  own  desk.  The  problem 
that  might  bewilder  the  brains  of  a 
school  of  philosophers,  has  no  con- 
ceivable difficulty  for  the  sages  of  the 
stall ;  the  most  knotty  of  political 
problems  is  solved  by  a  shout;  the 
state  of  the  nation  is  settled  by  a 
shew  of  hands ;  and  Cabinets  are 
growing  wrinkled  over  questions  al- 
ready decided  in  the  sensorium  of 
every  apprentice  from  Whitechapel 
to  Westminster.  Heaven  defend  us 
from  such  legislation !  the  legis- 
lation of  incorrigible  ignorance, 
guided  by  blind  presumption,  and 
inflamed  by  furious  passions. 

But  it  is  still  to  be  remembered 
by  those  who  are  above  ignorance, 
presumption,  and  passion,  that  it  will 
be  their  lot  to  be  trampled  on  by  the 
whole  three,  if  they  either  succumb 
to  them,  pretend  to  despise  them,  or 
attempt  to  compromise  with  them. 
This  is  one  of  the  living  lessons  of  the 
French  Revolution.  This  is  one  of  the 
true  fruits  that  may  be  plucked  even 


906 


The  French  Revolution. 


[June, 


among  the  apples  of  Sodom.  This  is 
one  of  the  fortunate  discoveries  of 
the  great  conflagration;  if  it  have 
scorched  many  a  noble  tree  of  the 
political  forest,  it  has  burnt  up  the 
brushwood,  it  has  laid  open  to  us 
the  nests  where  the  vipers  engender, 
and  if  we  suffer  them  to  sting  our 
generation,  the  fault  is  our  own.  In 
meeting  the  Revolution,  we  must 
adopt  the  secret  of  its  strengh.  The 
motto  of  honest  and  wise  men  must 
be  "  De  1'audace,  de  1'audace,  encore 
de  1'audace."  In  the  hour  of  im- 
pending change,  and  we  may  read 
the  coming  of  that  hour  without 
looking  for  our  omens  to  the  sky, 
those  who  sleep  on  and  take  their 
rest,  are  only  preparing  themselves 
for  the  shame  that  attends  the  fugi- 
tive, or  the  useless  sorrow  of  fideli- 
ty too  late,  and  energy  awakened  in 
vain. 

But  those  efforts  are  only  for  the 
masculine  minds  that  have  been 
reared  in  masculine  virtue ;  to  pay 
homage  to  whom  it  is  due,  and  lay 
the  foundation  of  honouring  the 
King  in  fearing  God.  It  would  be  a 
fine  subject  for  a  man  of  Mr  Ali- 
son's ability  and  principle  to  con- 
trast the  course  or  the  French  Re- 
volution with  that  of  the  reign  of 
Charles  the  First,  the  reckless  fury 
of  the  loose  minds  of  France  with 
the  grave  determination  of  the  Eng- 
lish revolters,  the  hot  thirst  of  civil 
blood,  with  the  reluctant  expendi- 
ture of  life  even  after  the  successes 
of  the  field,  the  burning  vice,  the 
bitter  mockings,  the  remorseless 
massacres,  with  the  moderated  vio- 
lence and  the  calm  victory.  He 
would  find  the  true  cause  of  this  ex- 
traordinary distinction,  in  the  differ- 
ent rank  held  by  religion  in  the 
mind  of  the  two  nations.  Supersti- 
tion and  fanaticism  are  both  culpable 
guides.  But  while  fanaticism  only 
perverts  the  nobler  powers  of  the 
heart,  superstition  dissolves  them 
away  altogether.  Fanaticism  destroys 
selfishness,  the  antagonist  of  all  the 
virtues.  Superstition  stifles  every 
manly  pulse  and  generous  feeling 
in  selfishness.  France  drank  from 
the  alembic  of  the  passions  a  draught 
of  fire ;  England,  from  a  stream 
troubled  by  many  feet,  but  whose 
fount  was  in  heights  inaccessible  to 
the  impurities  of  man. 

The  flaunting  noblesse  of  France, 


and  her  ignorant  and  indolent  priest- 
hood, were  totally  insufficient  for  a 
struggle  which  demanded  the  energy 
and  resolution  of  religious  principle. 
They  had  built  on  the  sand,  and  their 
house  might  have  decayed  by  the 
common  action  of  nature ;  still  less 
could  it  resist  the  blackened  surges 
that  came  rolling  round  it  from  every 
quarter  of  the  horizon.  Both  classes 
were  destroyed  with  a  suddenness 
and  facility  that  must  excite  the  won- 
der of  all  but  those  who  know  the 
infinite  feebleness  of  wealth  and 
station  when  stript  of  personal  vir- 
tue. The  philosophers,  the  liberals, 
the  reformers,  the  whole  race  of 
Utopia,  followed  them  with  still  more 
contemptible  rapidity.  They  were 
crushed  like  flies,  in  the  first  grasp 
of  the  populace.  "  It  was  early  seen 
in  the  Revolution,"  says  Louvet, 
"  that  the  men  with  the  poniards 
would  sooner  or  later  carry  the  day 
against  the  men  with  the  principles  ; 
and  that  the  latter,  upon  the  first 
reverse,  must  prepare  for  exile  or 
death."  The  men  of  principles  here 
spoken  of,  were  the  theoretical  rob- 
bers, who  wanted  only  courage  to  be 
the  practical  robbers.  The  men  of  the 
poniard  were  their  pupils,  who  pos- 
sessed the  courage,  and  who,  to  the 
rejoicing  of  all  human  justice,  prac- 
tised the  first  lessons  of  the  knife 
upon  their  masters. 

The  three  leaders  of  Jacobinism, 
Danton,  Marat,  and  Robespierre,  are 
sketched  with  a  masterly  hand- 
three  frowning  effigies  of  gigantic 
iniquity.  We  have  nothing  yet  in 
our  revolutionary  gallery,  that  can 
stand  beside  their  strong  relief  and 
towering  villainy.  The  three  were 
of  different  divisions  of  the  tribe. 
Danton  was  the  street  ruffian,  par 
excellence,  strong-built,  bold,  and 
brawling;  he  loved  blood,  but  loved 
it  for  the  sake  of  its  riot.  Robes- 
pierre was  the  conspirator  of  the 
drawing-room,  affecting  dress,  and 
the  manners  of  society ;  he  loved 
blood  for  the  sake  of  its  power. 
Marat  was  the  cut-throat  of  the  night 
cellar,  ragged,  squalid,  and  hideous; 
he  loved  blood  for  the  sake  of  seeing 
it  flow.  Each  had  his  appropriate 
speech,  but  the  burden  of  them  all 
was  massacre.  "  The  10th  of  Au- 
gust," exclaimed  Danton,  "has  divi- 
ded the  country  into  two  parties, 
and  the  ruling  force  is  too  inconsi- 


1883.]  The  French 

derable  to  give  us  any  chance  of  suc- 
cess. My  advice  is,  that  to  disconcert 
tin  ir  measures,  and  arrest  the  ene- 
my ,  we  must  strike  terror  into  the 
royalists  ;— yes,  I  repeat  it,  we  must 
strike  terror."  This  terror  was, 
tin  owing  all  the  rich  or  respectable 
men  in  Paris  into  prison,  and  there 
murdering  them. 

Robespierre's  speech  was: — "  Bl  ood 
ha s  not  yet  flowed.  The  people  re- 
main without  vengeance.  No  sacri- 
fice has  yet  been  offered  to  the  manes 
of  those  who  died  on  the  10th  of  Au- 
gust. And  what  have  been  the  re- 
su  ts  of  that  immortal  day  ?  A  tyrant 
has,  been  suspended.  Why  has  he 
no>  been  dethroned  and  punished?" 

Marat,  too,  had  his  speech;  still 
mere  explicit.  "  There  is  no  safety," 
ex  claimed  the  demoniac,  "  but  in  de- 
stroying all  the  enemies  of  the  Revo- 
lution. There  will  be  no  security  to 
the $  State,  until  280,000  heads  have 
fallen." 

We  must  have  one  example  more 
from  the  history  of  popular  supre- 
im.cy,  in  the  hands  of  the  most  ex- 
quisitely polished  people  of  Europe. 
By  order  of  the  Parisian  Municipa- 
lity, or  Common  Council,  all  the 
baakers,  opulent  merchants,  leading 
barristers,  private  gentlemen,  £c., 
the  entire  professional  class  of  Paris, 
ha  I  been  suddenly  seized  and  flung 
into  the  prisons.  This  was  the  ty- 
ranny of  perfect  freedom,  but  it  was 
nou  unmixed  with  justice,  however 
unknown  to  the  tyranny.  All  this 
class  in  Paris  had  distinguished 
the  mselves  by  Republicanism.  They 
were  all  orators,  essayists,  table- 
talkers,  and  many  of  them  private 
suborners  of  the  rabble  excesses. 
While  they  were  priming  the  mine 
against  the  King  and  the  Nobles,  the 
chirgeblew  up,  and  they  were  asto- 
nished to  find  that  it  could  scorch 
th<5  engineers.  They  were  astonished 
to  find  that  the  proclamation  of  plun- 
der could  be  translated  against  them- 
selves; and  that  the  men  whom  they 
had  sent  to  dismantle  the  Tuileries, 
could  make  no  distinction  between 
th«!  gold  of  a  King  and  of  a  Banker. 
Tl  e  prisons  groaned  with  the  multi- 
tu  le  which  was  now  poured  into 
th  »m.  But  the  pressure  was  not  to 
co  itinue  long.  At  two  in  the  morn- 
ing of  the  2d  of  September,  1792, 
th«!  prisoners  heard  the  cannon  fire, 
th«;  tocsin  sound,  and  the  streets 


Revolution. 


907 


echoing  with  the  trampling  of  armed 
men,  singing  songs  of  blasphemy  and 
revolution.  At  three,  while  it  was, 
of  course,  still  totally  dark,  the  mas- 
sacre at  the  prison  of  the  Abbaye 
began  by  torchlight!  The  victims 
were  successively  turned  out  loose 
into  the  front  of  the  prison  and  hack- 
ed  to  pieces,  while  the  survivors, 
crowded  in  the  casements,  were  look- 
ing at  the  fate  reserved  for  them- 
selves. But  the  model  should  be 
given  in  all  its  details,  for  the  honour 
of  man,  woman,  and  France.  After  the 
massacre  had  continued  for  a  consi- 
derable time,  popular  impartiality 
claimed  its  rights. 

"  The  populace  in  the  Court  of 
the  Abbaye  complained  that  the 
foremost  only  got  a  stroke  at  the 
prisoners,  and  that  they  were  depri- 
ved of  the  pleasure  of  murdering  the 
aristocrats.  It  was,  in  consequence, 
agreed,  that  those  in  advance  should 
only  strike  with  the  backs  of  their 
sabres,  and  that  the  wretched  vic- 
tims should  be  made  to  run  the 
gauntlet  through  a  long  avenue  of 
murderers,  each  of  whom  should 
have  the  satisfaction  of  striking  them 
before  they  expired.  The  women 
in  the  adjoining  quarter  of  the  city 
made  a  formal  demand  to  the  com- 
mune for  lights  to  see  the  massacres  ! 
And  a  lamp  was,  in  consequence, 
placed  near  the  spot  where  the  vic- 
tims issued ;  amid  the  shouts  of  the 
spectators,  benches, under  the  charge 
of  sentinels,  were  next  arranged, 

*  pour  les  messieurSy    and  '  pour  let> 
dames?   to  witness  the   spectacle ! 
And  as  each  successive  prisoner  was 
turned  out  of  the  gate,  yells  of  joy 
rose  from  the  multitude ;  and  when 
he  fell,  they  danced  like  cannibals 
round  his  remains  !      Billaud    Va- 
rennes  soon  after  arrived,  wearing 
his  magisterial  scarf;  mounted  on  a 
pile  of  dead,  he  harangued  the  people 
in  the  midst  of  this  infernal  scene  ! 

*  Citizens,  you   have  exterminated 
some  wretches.     You  have  saved 
your  country.    The  Municipality  is 
at  a  loss  how  to  discharge  its  debt 
of  gratitude  to  you.  I  am  authorized 
to   offer  each  of    you  twenty-four 
francs,  which  shall  be  instantly  paid. 
(Loud  applause.)    Respectable  citi- 
zens, continue  your  good  work,  and 
acquire  new  titles  to  the  homage  of 
your  country?  "   In  those  slaughters, 

thousand  persons  perished 


908 


The  French  Revolution. 


[June, 


in  the  prisons.  The  massacre  con- 
tinued with  daily  regularity  from  the 
2d  to  the  6th  of  September,  when, 
what  were  called  the  State  prisoners, 
the  "  suspected  of  being  suspicious" 
had  fallen,  the  patriots  recollected 
that  there  was  another  prison,  the 
Bicetre,  where  a  great  number  of 
the  ordinary  felons  of  Paris,  Mi- 
Alison  says,  "  several  thousands," 
were  immured.  In  other  times  the 
mob  would  have  had  a  fellow-feel- 
ing, and  let  out  their  kindred  knaves. 
But  this  was  the  day  of  patriotism. 
The  truth  was,  they  had  enjoyed 
themselves  so  much  in  the  previous 
slaughter,  that  they  could  no  more 
abstain  from  it  than  a  tiger  from  the 
blood  of  man.  The  brute  is  libelled 
by  the  comparison.  The  assassins 
rushed  to  the  Bicetre ;  its  walls  were 
strong;  it  had  once  been  a  fortress. 
Its  tenants  were  of  a  different  kind 
from  the  helpless  nobles  and  gentle- 
men of  the  city  prisons.  They  strug- 
gled fiercely,  the  mob  were  long  re- 
pelled, and  the  minor  felons  would 
have  carried  the  day,sbut  for  can- 
non which  the  assailants  now  brought 
up  to  batter  the  walls.  The  gates  were 
finally  forced,  and  all  within  them 
slaughtered.  Mr  Alison  does  not 
mention,  what  we  believe  to  have 
been  the  case,  that  the  Bicetre 
was  the  receptacle  of  many  of  the 
unfortunate  women  who  molest  the 
streets  of  Paris,  and  of  the  still  more 
pitiable  lunatics  and  idiots  who  so 
remarkably  abound  in  France.  Those 
wretched  beings  were  all  involved  in 
the  promiscuous  massacre.  Mr  Ali- 
son, justly  reprobating  the  authors 
of  those  dreadful  crimes,  seems  dis- 
posed to  throw  the  stigma  less  on 
France  than  upon  human  nature; 
and  quotes  the  burning  of  the  unfor- 
tunate Albigenses,  and  the  Athenian 
decree  for  the  extirpation  of  the 
Mytilenians.  But  the  justification 
is  scarcely  valid,  which  can  find  no 
ground  but  in  Heathenism,  or  in 
France  itself.  In  his  conception, 
"  cruelty  is  not  the  growth  of  any 
particular  country;  it  is  not  found 
in  France  in  a  greater  degree  than  it 
would  be  in  any  other  state  similarly 
situated.  It  is  the  unchaining  the 
passions  of  the  multitude,  which 
in  all  ages  produces  this  effect." 
Against  this  we  must  protest,  for 
the  honour  of  human  nature.  We 
are  perfectly  satisfied  that  a  popu-, 


lace  is  a  wild  beast,  but  that  a  French 
populace  is  a  much  worse  thing. 
We  look  in  vain  in  history  for  pa- 
rallels to  the  horrid  delight  with 
which  the  French  populace  have  in 
all  ages  revelled  in  civil  blood.  The 
massacres  of  other  lands  have  been 
directed  against  invaders,  strangers, 
or  declared  oppressors.  In  France, 
the  torrent  of  blood  has  been  poured 
from  the  breasts  of  men  living  in 
the  common  bonds  of  society,  sons 
of  the  same  soil  with  their  murderers. 
The  St  Bartholomew,  the  Armagnac 
slaughters,  the  September  massacres, 
were  all  perpetrated  by  the  hands  of 
the  populace  of  France;  and  we 
firmly  believe  that  they  would  have 
been  perpetrated  by  nd  other  popu- 
lace within  or  without  the  bounds 
of  the  civilized  world.  The  Parisians 
excuse  themselves  by  saying  that 
the  September  days  were  the  work 
of  a  band  of  hired  assassins.  Of  the 
hiring  there  can  be  no  doubt.  But 
by  whom  were  they  hired  ?  and  by 
whom  were  they  permitted  to  earn 
their  horrid  hire  ?  The  tide  of  blood 
continued  to  flow  unchecked  for  four 
days,  in  a  city  of  600,000  inhabitants, 
and  with  a  National  Guard  of  50,000 
men! 

The  Liberals  were  still  the  ruin  of 
the  Monarchy.  The  Jacobins  were 
the  open  enemies,  they  might  have 
been  crushed.  The  Girondists  were 
the  men  of  sentiment,  who  talked 
heroics  and  acted  treason.  On  the 
trial  of  the  King,  they  boasted  of 
their  zeal  for  his  protection,  and  vo- 
ted him  guilty.  Forty-six  of  these 
polished  murderers  were  on  the  list 
for  his  death.  Louis  died,  on  the  21st 
of  January,  with  a  dignity  that  large- 
ly retrieved  his  physical  character, 
and  a  calmness  that  was  the  noblest 
answer  to  his  accusers.  The  Giron- 
dists, the  smiling  and  haranguing 
hypocrites  who  had  consigned  him 
to  his  grave,  within  six  months  were 
dragged  to  the  scaffold,  amid  the  roar 
of  the  multitude. 

Then  came  the  Reign  of  Terror  to 
decimate  the  populace,  then  the 
punishment  of  the  decimators.  The 
scene  is  brief,  but  triumphant.  "  The 
conspirators,  finding  themselves 
abandoned,  gave  themselves  up  to 
despair.  The  National  Guard  rushed 
up  the  stair,  and  entered  the  room 
where  Robespierre  and  the  leaders 
of  the  revolt  were  assembled,  Robes- 


18(13.} 


The  French  Revolution. 


909 


pierre  was  sitting  with  his  elbow  on 
his  knee,  aad  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand.  Meda  discharged  a  pistol, 
which  broke  his  jaw,  and  he  fell  un- 
der the  table.  St  Just  implored 
Lebas  to  put  an  end  to  his  life. 
*  Coward,  follow  my  example,'  said 
he,  and  blew  out  his  brains.  Cou- 
thon  was  seized  under  the  table, 
feebly  attempting  to  strike  with  a 
knife,  which  he  wanted  the  courage 
to  plunge  in  his  heart.  Coffinhal 
and  the  younger  Robespierre  threw 
themselves  from  the  windows,  and 
were  seized  in  the  inner  court  of  the 
building.  Henriothad  been  thrown 
do'vn  the  stair  by  Coffinhal,  but, 
though  bruised  and  mutilated,  he 
contrived  to  crawl  into  the  entrance 
of  a  sewer,  from  which  he  was  drag- 
ged out  by  the  troops  of  the  Con- 
vention. Robespierre  and  Couthon 
being  supposed  to  be  dead,  were 
dragged  by  the  heels  to  the  Quai 
Pelletier,  where  it  was  proposed  to 
throw  them  into  the  river.  But  it 
being  discovered,  when  day  return- 
ed, that  they  still  breathed,  they  were 
stretched  on  a  board,  and  carried  to 
the  Assembly. 

"  At  four  in  the  morning  on  the  29th 
of  July,  he  and  his  associates  were 
carried  to  the  guillotine.  All  Paris, 
of  course,  was  awake  to  enjoy  the 
spectacle.  Robespierre  was  a  horrid 
sight,  from  blood  and  mutilation. 
The  mob,  his  mob,  of  course  shouted 
aftrr  him,  as  they  had  done  after  all 
others.  He  shut  his  eyes,  but  could 
not  shut  his  ears  to  the  imprecations 
of  the  multitude.  A  woman  breaking 
from  the  crowd  exclaimed,  *  Mur- 
derers of  all  my  kindred,  your  agony 
fill^  me  with  joy;  descend  to  hell, 
covered  with  the  curses  of  every 
mo  her  in  France.'  Twenty  of  his 
comrades  were  executed  before  him. 
For  some  minutes  his  frightful 
figure  was  held  up  to  the  multitude  ; 
he  ,vas  then  placed  under  the  axe  ; 
the  last  sounds  which  reached  his  ear 
were  exulting  shouts,  which  were 
prolonged  for  some  time  after  his 
death." 

Thus  closed  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
or  the  consummation  of  the  sove- 
reignty of  the  mob.  A  list  of  the 
lives  sacrificed  to  this  domination  is 
give  n  from  Prudhomme.  It  states 
18,<  03  slain  by  the  Guillotine  alone; 
900,000  by  the  sword  in  La  Vendee; 
and  as  a  total,  1,02-2,351. 


We  must  now  lay  aside  these  vo- 
lumes. They  have  given  us  remark- 
able gratification.  The  affairs  of 
France  had  been  so  long  before  the 
world,  had  been  canvassed  in  so 
many  shapes,  and  alternately  praised 
and  censured  by  so  many  writers, 
that  we  might  have  despaired  of  see- 
ing them  brought  forward  with  any 
claim  to  novelty  or  interest.  These 
volumes  have  satisfied  us  that  our 
decision  was  premature.  They  nar- 
rate the  events  with  an  animation 
perfectly  consistent  with  simplicity; 
a  picturesque  power  which  makes 
their  slightest  details  interesting;  and 
an  honesty,  sagacity,  and  soundness, 
of  principle,  which  converts  the  nar- 
rative of  a  feverish  and  guilty  time 
into  a  solemn  and  pure  lesson  of 
political  wisdom.  We  shall  not  pro- 
nounce that  our  day  either  wears 
the  aspect  or  must  close  in  the 
storms  of  French  democracy.  But 
let  what  will  come,  Mr  Alison  has 
reared  a  noble  beacon.  Faithful  and 
forcible,  he  shews  us  the  evils  of 
weak  submission  in  the  government, 
and  of  arrogant  demand  in  the  people. 
Manly  and  well  informed,  he  marks 
step  by  step  the  progress  by  which 
the  lover  of  popularity  is  corrupted 
into  the  demagogue,  and  the  dema- 
gogue is  envenomed  into  the  traitor. 
Tolerant  and  philosophic,  he  deve- 
lopes  the  future  product  of  public 
evil  in  the  seed,  and  points  out  to 
complying  Cabinets  and  unsuspect- 
ing Kings,  the  hazard  of  stooping 
from  the  level  of  their  duty  to  the 
level  of  popular  caprice.  To  all,  he 
gives  the  mighty  moral  of  a  Revolu- 
tion popular  in  the  highest  degree, 
to  whose  divinity  every  man  of 
France,  and  nearly  of  Europe,  did 
homage,— Kings,  nobles,  and  people 
throwing  their  incense  on  its  altar, 
with  an  emulous  and  extravagant 
worship  ;  yet  from  whose  altar  shot 
out  flames  that  seized  upon  the 
whole  circle  of  the  worshippers. 
That  his  history  is  told  with  ease  and 
elegance,  is  its  humblest  praise.  To 
these,  as  well  as  to  integrity  and 
piety  of  principle,  the  author  has 
a  hereditary  claim.  Similifrondescit 
virga  meta.Uo. 

We  are  anxious  to  see  the  remain- 
ing volumes  of  this  striking  perform- 
ance,— the  stupendous  wars  of  Napo- 
leon, and  the  more  stupendous  tri- 
umphs of  England,-— the  conflict  of 


910                                    The  French  Revolution.  [June, 

light  and  darkness,  the  battle  of  the  thrown  into  the  scale  as  a  counter- 

Oruzd  and  Ahriman  of  later  times.—  poise  to  human  crime.    We  want  an 

We  hope  he  will  go  largely  into  de-  honest   historian.      Let   Mr   Alison 

tail  and  anecdote,  that  he  will  not  shew  that  he  disdains  to  soften  the 

think  it  incumbent  on  him  to  wash  stigma  of  vice,  as  much  as  he  would 

off  the  reprobation  that  honest  men  disdain  to  practise  it,  and  he  is  the 

have  decided  to  fix  on  the  leaders  of  true  writer  for  England.   The  Revo- 

the  French  armies  and  councils.  Let  lution  is  dead  and  gone ;  the  skeleton 

him  tell  the  truth,  and  tell  itinfullj  not  hangs  up  before  mankind.     No  art 

suffering  villainy  to  masquerade  it  can  again  give  it  the  semblance  of 

through  the  world,  nor  wasting  his  human  nature.     Under  his  hands  let 

skill  in  persuading  us,  by  his  eloquent  its  anatomy  be  unhesitatingly  deve- 

apologies,  that  the  scourges  of  the  loped,  and  let  the  abhorrence  of  the 

Earth  have  been  guilty  by  accident ;  fathers  be  converted  into  the  wisdom 

or  that  providential  necessity  can  be  of  posterity. 


THE  DEATH- SONG  OF  REGNER  LODBROG, 

King  of  Denmark,  the  rival  of  his  contemporary  Charlemagne,  as  well  in, 
warlike  renown  as  in  extent  of  conquest,*  who,  falling  at  last  into  the  hands 
of  Ella,  Prince  of  Northumberland,  was  by  him  cast  into  a  dungeon,  there 
to  be  devoured  by  serpents.  Said  to  have  been  sung  during  the  infliction 
of  that  cruel  sentence.^ 

i. 

WE  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah ! 
Few  years  had  we  to  form  us, 

When  we  sailed,  for  Thora's  sake,  to  slay 
The  Gothland  snake  enormous  : 

'Twas  from  the  same  I  took  the  name 
Which  ever  since  I've  carried ; 

For  rough  in  shaggy  arms  I  came, 
And  in  the  monster  buried 

My  bright  broadsword  that  day. 
ii. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  !    • 
We  were  youths  when,  in  Eysar  haven,  J 

We  feasted  the  ravening  beast  of  prey, 
The  yellow-footed  gled  and  raven  : 

The  broadsword  ground  the  helms  around, 
A  goodly  banquet  spreading, 

The  sea  ran  red  like  a  mighty  wound, 
The  crow  on  the  land  went  wading, 

In  blood  of  the  slain  that  day. 
in. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah ! 
We  were  barely  boys  of  twenty 

When  we  lifted  our  spears  before  Diminum  bay 
And  gained  us  praise  in  plenty  : 

Eight  barons  bold  we  left  stark  and  cold 
Our  guest  the  eagle  gorging ; 

To  a  flood  of  blood  the  warm  sweat  roll'd 


*  He  overran  England,  Scotland,  Ireland,  the  Western  and  Orkney  Isles,  the  Low 
Countries,  Norway,  Sweden,  Western  and  Southern  Russia,  Vandalia,  and  the  coun- 
tries round  the  Hellespont. 

f  "  Cujus  adeso  jocinore,  cum  cor  ipsum  funesti  carnificis  loco  coluber  insideret, 
omnem  operum  suorum  cursum  animosa  voce  recensuit."—  Saxo  Gram*  lib.  ix. 

|  The  Sound  "  by  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep,  Elsinore !" 


1 833.]  The  Death-  Song  of  Regner  Lodbrog.  9 1 1 

From  the  heads  of  heroes  charging 
Throughout  the  livelong  day. 

IV. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
We  then  had  wealth  of  fighting, 

When  all  to  Odin's  hall  away 
Helsinga's  sons  inviting : 

At  the  Iva  then  our  merry-men 
'Gan  set  the  sharp  sword  biting; 

The  sea  ran  red  from  the  bloody  fen, 
The  blade  ground  harsh,  alighting 

On  shivering  shields  that  day. 
v. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
No  man  then  thought  of  flying, 

Till  Sir  Herrand  in  the  foremost  fray 
Among  his  ships  lay  dying : 

None  braver  been  than  he,  I  ween, 
That  plough  the  lea  blue  flowing ; 

So  came  he  aye  to  the  combat  keen 
With  a  free  heart  and  a  glowing, 

The  chief  of  the  battle-day. 

VI. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah ! 
When  the  spears  'gan  fly  so  thickly, 

We  cast  the  shields  from  our  arms  away, 
And  plucked  the  sword  forth  quickly  : 

We  fought  the  skerries  sharp  among, 
Both  flints  and  foemen  hewing  j 

But  ere  fell  Rafno,  sovereign  strong, 
The  warm  sweat  burst,  bedewing 

The  temples  of  kings  that  day. 

VII. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  I 
The  raven  then  might  wassail 

Through  each  Indirian  *  isle  and  bay, 
And  the  wolf  with  the  dead  limbs  wrestle  : 

Who  stood  or  fell  no  man  might  tell, 
I  only  saw,  at  morning, 

'the  lances  flying  fast  and  fell, 
And  the  crossbow  steel-bolts  spurning 

The  ringing  strings  that  day. 

VIII. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
The  iron  groan  ascended 

Till  Eistein  dead  on  Lano  lay 
And  the  crimson  spoil  we  ended  j 

Then  turn'd  our  hands  to  win  their  lands, 
And  set  the  sword  to  harrow 

Through  bossy  shields  and  vizor  bands, 
Till  burst  the  spuming  marrow 

Through  cloven  cheeks  that  day. 

IX. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah ! 
We  sway'd  the  shield  'mid  roaring 

Of  arrowy  sleet  and  bloody  spray, 
And  salved  the  spear  on  Bhoring  :  f 

The  iron  flew  from  bended  yew, 


*  Supposed  to  be  the  Indiro  Islands,  near  Drontheim. 
f  Bornholm  in  the  Baltic. 


912  The  Death-Song  of  Regner  Lodbroy.  [June, 

Kiug  Voluir  fell  in  battle; 

No  braver  king,  the  strand  to  strew 
With  store  of  vulture  victual, 

Lay  there  himself  that  day. 
x. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah ! 
The  fight  burned  high  and  higher, 

When,  in  the  land  of  Flandriae, 
Down  fell  the  bold  King  Freyer. 

The  blue  steel  bit  through  "hauberks  split, 
And  red  the  harness  painted, 

The  virgin  long  lamented  it, 
But  the  dogs  were  well  contented 

With  the  slaughter  of  that  day. 

XI. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah ! 
We  then  our  cables  sund'red ; 

The  warriors  in  our  ships  that  lay, 
They  were  an  hundred  hundred ; 

Six  days  we  bore  the  sun  before, 
But  soon  met  matins  rougher, 

The  shaft-mass*  from  the  English  shore 
When  fell  King  Valdiofur 

Beneath  our  swords  that  day. 

XII. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
The  red  rain  fell ;  the  falcon 

Stooped  through  it  o'er  the  pallid  clay ; 
The  bowstring  cheered  the  hawk  on, 

The  longbow  rang  to  hauberk's  clang, 
The  horns  were  well  anointed 

With  suppling  sweat;  the  venom'd  fang 
In  blood  of  heroes  pointed 

Struck  far  and  fast  that  day. 

XIII. 

\Ve  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah ! 
Amid  the  reeling  revel 

To  see  our  wizard  bucklers  play, 
To  see  the  broadsword  level 

The  spur  and  plume,  while  o'er  the  boom 
The  battered  helms  kept  chiming — 

'Twas  like  the  joy  of  a  lusty  groom 
The  bed  of  beauty  climbing 

Upon  the  bridal  day. 

XIV. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
Their  dead  the  ground  did  cumber; 

Like  level  plain  their  helms'  array 
Upon  the  banks  of  Humber  : 

To  see  them  run  at  rising  sun, 
Our  merry-men  pursuing, 

I'd  liken  this  to  the  joy  of  one 
A  fair  young  widow  wooing 

With  kisses  all  the  day. 
xv. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah ! 
Then  great  was  Heathiof's  glory; 

The  conqueror  he  in  Orcaday, 
Though  Rogvald  led  the  foray— 


Regner,  a  Pagan,  sneers  at  the  Christian  mysteries. 


The  Death-Song  of  Regner  Lodbrog.  913 

Alas,  'mid  swell  of  spears  he  fell, 
All  heaven's  hawks  bewailing, 

For  they  knew  the  helmet- burster  well 
That  spread  the  feast  unfailing 

For  them  on  battle- day. 

XVI. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
The  exulting  champaign  madden'd 

With  joy  of  throttling  grapplers ;  they 
The  boar  and  eagle  gladden'd 

When  Ireland's  king  made  iron  ring; 
But  scarce  his  fast  from  slaughter 

Was  broke,  till  'rieath  the  raven's  wing 
He  lay  on  Wedra*  water, 

A  floating  corpse  that  day. 
xvn. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
The  cumber'd  plain  grew  ruddy 

When  the  sharp  sword  sank,  awellaway  ! 
Deep  in  my  Agner's  body : 

'Twas  Egill's  glaive  the  death-wound  gave  ; 
A  glancing  weapon  wander'd, 

And  Hamdi  hardly  'scaped  the  grave — 
Red  blazed  our  lightning-standard 

Through  thunderous  clouds  that  day. 

XVIII. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
Then  stood  the  sturdy  strivers 

Till  hacked  in  pieces  small,  a  prey 
For  the  wolves  and  ocean-reivers. 

Seven  days  and  more  along  the  shore 
I  saw  our  wet  bows  redden  ; 

'Twas  like  a  banquet,  where  they  pour 
The  wine-cup,  and  the  maiden 

Fills  up  afresh  all  day. 

XIX. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
I've  seen  dawn  gild  the  tresses 

Of  lover  in  his  lingering  stay 
'Mid  the  blushing  girl's  caresses — 

Ha,  ha !  the  morn  when  fell  King  Aurn 
Found  ua  at  other  pleasure, 

A  crimson  bath,  as  of  warm  wine  borne 
By  a  maid  in  a  silver  measure, 

Was  our  delight  till  day  ! 
xx. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
Three  Leinster  Kings  then  started, 

With  us  a  game  of  spears  to  play, 
But  gamesome  none  departed ; 

The  sea  dog's  maw,  the  goshawk's  claw, 
The  wolf's  delighted  grinnings, 

And  the  rank  crop  of  the  sodden  shaw, 
Were  the  counters  of  the  winnings 

Of  the  Irish  kings  that  day. 

XXI. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
The  shield  was  cleft  in  sunder, 


*  Waterford, 
rOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIX. 


914  The  Dealh-SongofRegner  Lodbrog.  [June, 

The  gilded  bordure  burst  away  — 
Long  long  the  bard  shall  ponder 

O'er  Mona's  isle,  and  sing  the  while 
How  the  three  Sea-kings  contended, 

How  the  waves  rolled  red  for  many  a  mile 
Where  the  javelin-storm  descended  — 

It  was  a  glorious  day  ! 

XXII. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
What  then,  there's  no  denying 

That  fence  and  foin  as  best  we  may, 
All  men  are  sure  of  dying  : 

'Tis  truth  they  tell  who  say  the  smell 
Of  craven  blood  allureth 

The  eagle  down  ;  and,  trust  me  well, 
Ungrateful  life  endureth 

The  coward,  every  day. 

XXIll. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  \ 
When  the  youths  are  matched  meetly, 

I  hold  it  a  comely  thing,  that  they 
Should  fight  in  pairs  discreetly, 

Nor  flinch  at  all  till  one  may  fall  ; 
Than  this  can  nought  be  clearer  ;  — 

Ah,  he  who  loves  a  blue  eye's  thrall, 
Should  love  the  death-lock  dearer, 

And  the  din  of  battle-day  1 

XXIV. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  I 


d  to  stray 
From  a  path  of  Fate's  assigning/ 

I  little  thought  that  I'd  be  brought 
To  Ella's  stall!  for  slaughter, 

When  covering  up  4  wounds,  I  sought 

* 


XXV. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
But  it  makes  me  fall  a-laughing 

To  think  of  the  thrones  and  the  garments  gay, 
Of  the  feasts  and  the  brown  ale  quaffing  ! 

The  foeman's  skull  is  foaming  full 
On  the  board  of  Father  Balder, 

I  go  not  hence  with  a  wailing  dull 
To  the  feast  of  King  and  Scalder 

la  Odin's  ball     . 


. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
How  our  sons  would  all  be  storming, 

Aslanga  !  how  they'd  roar,  I  say, 
Could  they  see  their  sire's  deforming  ! 

For  through  and  through  the  serpent  blue 
Must  gnaw  L  here  mon-g  stranger^ 

*  W"° 
For  all  my  wrongs  to-day. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
The  worm  within  me  crawleth  — 

Avenge  my  death,  my  sons,  I  pray, 
Lay  on  till  Ella  falleth— 


1853.]  The  Death-Song  of  Regner  Lodbrog. 

Your  faces  red  about  my  bed, 
Methinks  are  dimly  flitting — 

Ah,  when  you  hear  your  father's  dead, 
You'll  make  no  tame  down-sitting, 

My  own  brave  boys,  that  day  I 

XXVIII. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
Full  fifty  times  hath  flaunted 

My  banner  o'er  the  battle  bray ; 
For  from  my  youth  I've  vaunted 

That  woman's  son  hath  past  me  gone 
In  pitched  battle  never; 

But  the  JSsae  tell  me  to  have  done, 
And  I  shrink  not  to  deliver 

My  soul  to  them  to-day. 

XXIX. 

We  have  fought  with  our  swords,  hurrah  ! 
?Tis  time  to  make  an  ending; 

Methinks  I  hear  the  Dysse  say, 
From  Odin's  palace  bending, 

"  Well  met!  Well  met!  Thou'lt  soon  be  set 
Before  the  ale-cup  flowing." 

I've  run  my  race,  I've  paid  my  debt, 
I  feel  my  spirit  going ; 

Yet  ere  1  pass  away, 

E'en  on  my  dying  day, 
I'll  laugh  one  other  laughter  yet — 

Hurrah — hurrah — hurrah  ! 


915 


The  early  age  at  which  the  heroes 
of  rude  times  distinguished  them- 
selves, forms  one  of  the  strangest 
features  of  their  histories.  Skiold, 
at  fifteen,  figures  in  the  Danish  an- 
nals a  model  of  manly  excellence ; 
Cuchullin,  at  seventeen,  was  "  the 
marJal  candle"  of  all  Ireland;  the 
Cid  slew  Don  Gomez  at  ten ;  Sivard, 
the  3on  of  Regner,  takes  active  part 
in  bittle  at  seven  ;  and  Regner  him- 
self is  a  counsellor  of  state  at  twelve, 
and  a  victorious  monarch  at  thir- 
teen. His  first  expedition  is  not 
all u< led  to  in  this  song,  but  Saxo  has 
preserved  the  story,  which  it  will  be 
well  to  relate.  Fro,  the  Swedish 
monarch,  had  overcome  and  slain 
Reg  ler's  grandfather,  Sigvard,  in  his 
own  dominions  of  Norway,  and  now 
crov/ned  his  victory  by  an  act  of 
brut  il  barbarity  upon  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  his  rival's  household 
officers.  They  were  bound  to  the 
pillars  of  his  vestibule,  and  there 
exposed  to  public  violation.  Reg- 
ner, without  delay,  set  sail  to  avenge 
them.  On  his  arrival  in  Norway, 
whe  *e  the  savage  conqueror  still  re- 


mained, he  was  met  upon  the  shore 
by  a  crowd  of  matrons  and  young 
women,  many  of  whom  had  already 
endured  the  extremity  of  dishonour, 
while  even  those  who  had  escaped 
were  still  frantic  in  the  scarce  allay- 
ed despair  of  anticipation.  As  they 
hailed  their  avenger,  they  cried  with 
one  voice,  that,  having  suffered  de- 
basement, they  now  only  sought  for 
death,  and  prayed  to  be  received  as 
fellow  combatants  into  the  ranks  of 
his  warriors.  Whether  actuated  by 
the  barbarous  policy  of  bringing  as 
great  a  force  as  possible  into  the 
neld,  or  sympathizing  in  their  esti- 
mation of  the  worthlessness  of  life 
after  ignominy  such  as  they  had  en- 
dured, or  yielding,  as  is  not  unlikely, 
to  a  participation  of  danger  and  re- 
nown with  professed  amazons,*  from 
association  with  whom  in  battle  no- 
thing derogatory  to  the  name  of  a 
soldier  could  accrue,  Regnnr  heard 
their  proposal  favourably,  and,  mix- 
ing them  with  his  men,  advanced  to 
the  conflict.  Among  the  female  war- 
riors was  Lathgertha,  a  virgin  of  sur- 
passing beauty  and  courage,  who 

7 can,  am  ftftiti'jj  m*i*vg:      


Y«f(T  I  «8fTO?  Xai  ctfl&tt'  ^fll  ^ 

*  For  the  existence  of  female  warriors  among  the  ancient  Danes,  see  STEPHEN— 
Nota  uberiores  in  Lib.  IX.  Saxonis. 


.0. 


The  Death-Sony  of  Regner  Lodbrog. 


fought  among  the  foremost  with  a 
bravery  that  would  have  betokened 
the  presence  of  an  heroic  man,  had 
not  her  long  hair  and  feminine  attire 
proclaimed  her  to  have  been  of  the 
other  sex.  Regner  had  more  than 
once  observed  her  loose  tresses  float- 
ing before  him  in  the  thickest  of  the 
fight,  and  when  at  length  he  had 
achieved  the  victory,  and  found  lei- 
sure to  attend  to  any  thing  besides 
the  conduct  of  the  battle,  he  called 
his  attendants  around  him,  and  with 
many  enquiries  sought  to  know  who 
might  be  the  heroine  to  whom  the 
successful  issue  of  the  strife  had 
been  so  mainly  owing ;  for  he  de- 
clared that  she  had  that  day  done 
more  to  obtain  the  victory,  than  any 
other  warrior  on  the  field.  Ascer- 
taining that  she  was  of  honourable 
birth,  and  high  in  station  among  her 
own  barbarous  people,  the  enamour- 
ed boy  despatched  ambassadors  to 
claim  her  hand  in  marriage.  And 
now  we  must  record  a  lamentably 
ungracious  termination  to  Ibe  suit. 
Lathgertha  dismissed  the  embassy 
with  a  favourable  reply;  but,  se- 
cretly determining  to  sacrifice  her 
juvenile  lover  to  the  preservation  of 
her  maiden  liberty,  ordered  her  at- 
tendants to  chain  within  the  vesti- 
bule of  her  chamber  a  blood-hound 
and  a  bear,  each  the  fiercest  of  its 
kind,  and,  thus  protected,  awaited 
the  arrival  of  her  spouse.  He  coming 
by  sea  to  her  habitation  in  the  vale 
of  Golderal,  leaves  all  his  followers 
beside  the  ships,  and  approaches 
alone  to  the  porch,  where,  being  fu- 
riously assailed  by  the  beasts,  he 
bears  himself  so  bravely,  that  Lath- 
gertha is  at  last  fain  to  yield  herself 
at  discretion.  With  her  Regner  con- 
tinues for  three  years,  forgetful  alike 
of  friends  and  foes,  till  roused  from 
his  luxurious  indolence  by  tumult 
and  rebellion  at  home.  Leaving 
Lathgertha  with  two  daughters, 
whose  names  have  not  been  record- 
ed, and  one  son,  called  Fridlef,  all 
being  the  fruit  of  this  uncouth  amour, 
he  suddenly  arrives  in  Denmark,  and 
suppresses  the  insurrection.  And 
now  we  come  to  the  period  of  that 
adventure  from  which  he  derived 
hissirname,  and  with  which  the  first 
stanza  of  his  death-song  is  occupied. 
The  relation  of  Lathgertha's  trials 
has  somewhat  exhausted  our  historic 
gravity  ;  nnd  that  thnt  of  Thora's  may 


not  suff*  r  injustice  at  our  hande,  we 
will  give  it  in  the  words  of  Saxo. 

"  A  third  and  a  fourth  time  having 
conquered  the  Hallandi  and  Scam 
with  all  good  auspices,  his  inclina- 
tions being  changed  to  a  vehement 
desire  of  wedding  Thora,  the  daugh- 
ter of  King  Heroih,  he  caused  a  di- 
vorce between  himself  and  Lathger- 
tha; for  he  could  put  no  trust  in 
the  fidelity  of  her  whom  he  still  re- 
membered to  have  assailed  him  with 
most  furious  beasts  to  the  peril  of 
his  life.  Meanwhile  Heroth,  the 
(said)  King  of  the  Sueones,  circling 
the  woods  one  day  in  hunting,  gave 
certain  small  and  rare  serpents  that 
had  perchance  been  found  there  by 
his  men,  to  Thora,  his  daughter,  to 
feed  them,  and  to  have  them  in  her 
care.  She  dutifully  obeying  the  com- 
mands of  the  King,  made  bold  to 
touch  the  viperous  brood  with  her 
own  virgin  hands ;  nay,  made  it  also 
her  charge  that  the  entire  carcass  of 
a  bull  should  daily  feast  them  to  ful- 
ness; never  imagining  how,  by  her 
private  pains,  she  was  nourishing 
the  public  harm.  Which  serpents, 
when  now  at  length  full-grown,  they 
began  to  infest  the  country  all  round 
with  the  hot  plague  of  their  poison- 
ous breath ;  the  King  repenting  of 
his  foolish  painstaking,  made  procla- 
mation that  the  destroyer  of  the  pest 
should  have  his  daughter  to  wife.  By 
which  incitement,  as  well  to  the 
gaining  of  fame,  as  to  the  gratifica- 
tion of  dear  desires,  many  of  the 
youth  being  stirred  up,  in  vain  es- 
sayed the  deadly  ad  venture.  News 
of  which  coming  to  Regner  by  cer- 
tain passengers,  he  straight  betook 
himself  to  his  nurse,  and  of  her  ob- 
tained a  shirt  of  wool,  and  likewise 
hairy  trouse  for  the  thighs,  where- 
with to  stifle  the  biting  of  the  ser- 
pents in  their  assault;  for  as  he  saw 
need  of  raiment  that  would  be  for 
armour  by  its  ruggedness,  so  also  he 
chose  it  for  flexile  ease  upon  the 
limbs  in  action.  Now  then,  when  he 
had  arrived  by  sea  at  Luecia,  the. 
snow  at  that  time  falling,  he,  of  de- 
sign, casts  himself  headlong  into  the 
water,  and  thereafter  exposes  his 
dripping  garments  to  be  stiffened  by 
the  frost  for  the  sake  of  their  greater 
impenetrableness.  Girt  then  in 
which,  and  having  conjured  his 
friends  as  he  bade  them  farewell,  to 
take  his  Fridlof  in  their  carp,  ho  pro- 


The  Death- Sony 

ceeds  towards  the  palace,  all  alone. 
*   *    *    There  rolls  out  a  wondrous 
great    serpent    right    opposite — an- 
of.ier  of  equal  bulk,  gliding  in  the 
truck  of  the  first,  comes  after.  There 
th  m   they  begin  the   assault,  now 
beating  the  warrior  with  strokes  of 
th  >ir  brandished  tails,  now  stifling 
hi  n  with  continuous  showers  of  pes- 
tiferous  fume   and   slaver.     Mean- 
while the  domestics  of  the  palace, 
clinging  to  their  safer  hiding-places, 
as  well  as  the  trembling  females,  eye 
tli3  contest  from  a  distance.     The 
Kinghimself,  affrighted  with  an  equal 
terror,  had  fled  with  a  few  attend- 
ants to  a  narrow  stronghold.     But 
Regner,  indomitable  in  the  rigour  of 
hi  i  icy  armour, alone,  with  unwearied 
co astancy,  sustained  the  open-mouth- 
ed  rage  of  both,  vomiting  forth  in 
th-jir  pernicious  fury  floods  of  poi- 
son on  his  body;  for  he  repelled 
tii«;ir   fangs   with   his    shield,   their 
slaver  with  his  vesture.     At  length 
the   sword    being  struck  from   his 
hand,  he  boldly  laid  hold  of  them- 
se  ves  as  they  rushed  against  him,  and 
tlmre  plucking  forth  the  heart  of  each, 
gained  a  happy  issue  to  his  combat. 
Now  when  the  King,  more  curious- 
ly contemplating  the  aspect  of  his 
ile  ii  verer,  beheld  him  ho  vv  savage  and 
shiiggy  he  was  to   view,  and  noted 
likewise  his  nether  clothing,  of  what 
a  lugged  sort  it  was;  but  above  all, 
wl  en  he  marked  the  unshaven  hor- 
Vor  of  his  ,trouse,  he  then  in  sport 
be  stowed  upon   him   the  name   of 
Lcdbrog,  that  is  to  say,  Sir  Hairy- 
ho*e,  and  therewithal  sought  that  he 
we  uld  feast  with  him  and  all    his 
pe  3re.     Regner  replied,  that  first  he 
would  return  to  those  whom  he  had 
left  behind ;  whom  having  seen,  he 
returned,  only  doing  on,  for  the  ho- 
no  ir  of  his  host,  a  suit  of  smoother 
and  more  courtly  texture.     And  so 
at  >ast,  when  all  had  feasted  to  their 
coMtent,did  Regner  receive  the  prize 
assigned  to  his  victory.    By  her  he 
be;;at  Rathbarth  and  Duuat,  pledges 
of    exceeding    promise.     To   these 
were  added,  sons  of  nature,  Sivard, 
Biorn,   Agner,  and  Ivar."     How  to 
crc-dit   these   exploits   in   a  boy  of 
fift  ien  is  no  easy  matter,  and  that 
this  was  the  age  of  Regner  at  the 
time  of  his  marriage  with  Thora,  an 
anoierit  poem   quoted   by   Stephen 
attests.     In  it  he    thus   addresses 
Th  >ra  after  the  victory — 


of  Reyner  Lodbrog.  9 1 7 

"  All  for  love  of  thee,  fair  maid, 
Thousand  dangers  I've  essay'd; 
Though  my  youth  till  now  hath  seen 
Yellow  harvests  scarce  fifteen, 
Yet  I've  dared  the  serpent  meet^  *Off 
Lo,  the  monster  at  thy  feet !" 

We  may  say  with  Regner  himself, 
when  he  rose  to  give  his  opinion 
among  the  old  men,  "  Brevis  arcus 
subito  spiculum  jack" — a  short  bow 
shoots  a  fast  arrow,  and  reconcile 
ourselves  to  the  apparent  longbow 
practice  of  the  chronicler  as  best  we 
can. 

The  Northern  genius  exhibits  itself 
in  its  strongest  contrast  to  that  of 
the  South,  in  such  a  tale  as  this  of 
Reguer    and    the    Serpents.      The 
Sea-king  dripping  in  his  embossed  ici- 
cles, and  the  hero  shining  in  celes- 
tial arms,  "  quse  fecerat  Iguipotens," 
are  certainly  creations  of  very  oppo- 
site geniuses ;  but  even  these  do  not 
exhibit  such  an  essential  difference 
as  that  which  strikes  us  in  the  ro- 
mances of  each  regarding  its  own 
monsters.     In  such   fabulous  crea- 
tions, there  is  generally  a  generic 
likeness;  but  the  original  is  ever  dis- 
torted to  some  shape  of  wonder y  by 
the  analyzing  and   recompounding 
imagination  of  the  one,  raised  and 
exaggerated  to  some  excess  of  terror , 
by  the  prodigal  vigour  of  the  other 
in  that  faculty,  whatever  it  may  be, 
which,  by  transferring  the  excess  of 
its  own  energy  into  every  idea  that 
can  receive  it,  does,  by  that  endow- 
ment alone,  so  aggravate  the  attri- 
butes of  its  own  class,  that  the  sub- 
ject requires  no  further  aid  to  rise 
before  us  moreterrible,  because  more 
real,  than  any  chimera  of  the  South. 
To  depict  a  wild  man  of  the  woods, 
the   Greek  imagines    a    satyr,   the 
shaggy  thighs  of  the  monster  repre- 
senting that  ruggedness  of  life  which 
his  more  humane  nature  had  never 
felt,  and  therefore  could  not  more 
virtually  impart  than  by  a  symbol  ; 
the  Scandinavian,  without  altering  a 
lineament,  sends  him  for  seven  years 
to  the  pine   forests   of  Drontheira, 
with  green  leaves  for  his  food,  and 
bears  for  his  bedfellows,  and  brings 
him  out  a  rampant  savage,  fit  to  drive 
Pan  and  all  his  monsters  from  Arca- 
dia to  the  Pole.    Just  so  in  the  com- 
position of  the  classic  Dragon.    The 
eagle  must  be  plundered  of  his  wings, 
the  lion  of  his  paws,  and  the  sea- 
horse (itself  a  com  pound)  of  his  body, 


The  Death- Sony  of  liegner  Lodbrog. 


918 

before  the  Southern's  tame  idea  of  a 
reptile  can  be  augmented  in  horror 
sufficient  to  make  it  worthy  the  club 
of  Hercules,  or  the  lance  of  St  George. 
But  the  Northern,  leaving  his  Graf- 
vitner  coiled  round  the  stems  of  the 
water-lily  in  the  lake,  or  asleep  be- 
neath the  grey-stone  on  the  moor, 
conducts  his  hero,  without  further 
preparation,  to  an  encounter  as  ab- 
stractly terrible  as  any,  (for  his  own 
inspiring  vigour  overflows  all  he 
touches,  and  in  the  terrible  is  all-suf- 
ficient,) while  the  verisimilitude  thus 
retained  renders  it  in  its  semblance 
of  reality  far  more  vivid.  The  Dra- 
gon of  Sir  Guy  is  a  proper  monster 
of  the  classic  school — 

"  He  is  black  as  any  cole, 
Rugged  as  a  rough  fole ; 
Hys  body  from  the  navyll  upwarde, 
No  roan  may  it  pierce,  it  is  so  harde  ; 
Hys  neck  is  great  as  any  summere,* 
He  riiineth  as  swifte  as  any  distrere.f 
Pawes  he  hath  as  a  lyoun  ; 
Allthatheteucheth  he  sleathdeaddowne; 
Great  winges  he  hath  to  flight." 

Yet  the  gentlest  beast  of  the  field, 
when  put  under  the  lash  of  north- 
ern genius,  comes  bellowing  forth,  a 
prodigy,  beside  which  the  incon- 
gruous phantasm  fades  into  the 
dream  or  a  sign-painter,  while  a  vi- 
sion of  terrible  reality  still  haunts 
the  memory  of  all  who  ever  heard  of 
the  Dun  Cow  of  Warwick. 

So  Hercules  in  his  cradle  strang- 
ling the  snakes,  is  more  naturally, 
and  therefore  more  nobly  heroic, 
than  Hercules  in  Lerna.  No  power 
of  burlesque  could  make  the  infant 
ridiculous;  no  stateliness  of  epic 
poetry  can  exalt  even  the  son  of  Jove, 
engaged  in  a  fantastic  exploit,  above 
the  reach  of  such  a  shaft  as  this  : 

"  Old  stories  say  that  Hercules 
A  dragon  slew  at  Lerna, 

With  seven  heads  and  fourteen  eyes, 
rflOT*r°  6ee  an(*  well  discern-a." 

Yet  Regner,  although  he  escapes 
the  ridicule  of  such  an  antagonist  as 
levels  for  a  time  the  Strangler  of  the 
Nemean  Lion,  with  Moore  of  Moor- 
hall,  has  "still  some  disadvantages. 
The  iced  sheepskins  are  doubtless 
of  a  quality  for  defence  inferior  to 
the  spiked  armour  of  the  attorney, 
and  in  nowise  comparable  with  the 


[June. 


forest-king's  hide  for  dignity.  Ne- 
vertheless, there  is  a  certain  illus- 
trious horror  about  the  shivering  ici- 
cles, which  will  at  least  rescue  their 
subtemen  from  a  classification  with 
the  small-clothes  of  Brian  O'Lynn,  a 
hero  not  less  curious  in  that  import- 
ant part  of  dress,  whose  labours  have 
given  to  Irish  literature  the  follow- 
ing commemoration: 
"  Brian  O'Lynn  had  no  breeches  to  wear, 
So  be  got  him  a  sheep's  hide  to  muke  him 

a  pair; 
With  the  woolly  side  out,  and  the  skinny 

side  in, 
'  They're  pleasant  and  cool,'  says  Brian 

O'Lynn."  9 

If  the  shade  of  Regner  be  indignant 
at  having  been  consorted  with  such 
vile  company,  let  him  wreak  his  ven- 
geance on  the  Dragon  of  Wantley, 
who  seduced  us. 

To  return  to  our  subject.  It  is 
remarkable  how  distinctly  the  line 
of  demarcation  between  the  rival 
species  may  be  traced  in  the  bal- 
lad poetry  of  these  islands.  Th« 
Georgian  monster  flies  triumphant 
as  far  as  Northumberland  ;  tho, 
"  laidly  worm"  of  the  Norseman 
usurps  all  beyond  the  border,  and 
even  the  sacred  island  is  not  altoge- 
ther free  from  the  trail  of  the  Scan- 
dinavian reptile.  A  poem  is  pre- 
served in  Macdougall's  tract  on  the 
Irish  Fisheries  (a  strange  location 
for  it),  between  which,  and  some  of 
the  legends  of  Saxo,  the  resemblance 
is  exceedingly  strong;  so  strong,  in- 
deed, that  it  seems  to  have  been 
either  the  copy  or  the  original.  The 
period  of  the  presence  of  northern 
freebooters  in  Ireland  has  been  car- 
ried back  by  good  authority  to  the 
very  earliest  ages  of  Christianity ;  but 
there  exists  a  remarkable  similarity 
between  many  monuments  of  both 
nations,  which  claim  a  still  higher 
antiquity,  and  the  arts  displayed  in 
which  do  not  seem  likely  to  have  been 
communicated  from  either  to  the 
other,  during  times  so  turbulent. 
The  prejudices  of  national  pride  have 
rendered  the  most  speculative  ap- 
peal to  Irish  high  antiquities  at  least 
unpromising;  but  the  consciousness 
that  those  who  were  bitterest  in  their 
sarcasms  spoke  when  they  were 
themselves  steeped  to  the  lips  in  im- 


—  —  ;  — 


f    Chirger  at  a  tournui.icnt. 


The  Death-Sony  of  lltgner  Lodbroy. 


919 


posture,  may  perhaps  incline  us  to 
a  fairer  view  of  traditions,  which,  al- 
though confessedly  "  fabulosse,"  are 
st  .11  no  more  so  than  those  of  the  nation 
w  3  most  honour  among  the  ancients. 
Tue  wanderings  and  return  of  the 
Tuathi  de  Danans  are  not  perhaps 
th  a  gratuitous  lie  of  a  Seanachy.  It 
m  ist  be  confessed  that  our  hero  will 
be  at  a  loss  for  evidence  of  any  great 
species  of  serpent  in  the  Scandina- 
vian regions  with  which  to  encoun- 
ter. Were  we  desirous  of  grave  au- 
thorities to  establish  the  existence 
of  the  Dragon,  we  should  be  at  no 
lot  s  for  weighty  and  numerous  names. 
Ripe  scholars,  who  reject  whole  li- 
br  iries  of  northern  chronicles,  adore 
Herodotus,  yet  Herodotus  tells  them 
eu  ^h  stories  of  winged  serpents  fly  ing 
fi(  m  Arabia  to  Egypt,  and  there  wa- 
ging war  against  the  Ibises,  till  val- 
lej  s  were  white  with  the  skeletons  of 
the,  slain,  as  would  class  him  with 
Pierre  Bolon  and  Sir  John  Mande- 
ville,  were  not  the  same  fable  scru- 
pulously set  down  in  Aristotle  and 
Su  abo,  while  Mela,  Isidore,  and  St 
Augustine,  echo  the  classic  hoax. 
Dificult  as  it  would  be  to  produce 
suiih  testimony  for  a  boa  constrictor 
on  the  plains  of  Gothland,  we  prefer 
tlui  belief  in  Regner's  having  com- 
bated something  of  the  sort  (be  it  an 
adder  or  a  conger  eel),  to  the  sug- 
gestion which  would  reconcile  the 
fable  to  the  fact  by  pjacing  Thora 
un  ler  the  guardianship  of  some  one 
of  the  name  of  Snake.  These  arbi- 
trary allegories  are  a  composition 
between  reason  and  credulity,  which 
del  rauds  both,  and  recompenses  nei- 
ther. 

nfter  his  marriage  with  Thora, 
Reiner  led  a  roving  life  of  piracy 
and  conquest;  overrunning  a  nation, 
and  placing  a  son  on  the  throne  of  its 
coi  quered  king,  then  coming  home 
to  find  his  subjects  in  rebellion ; 
quelling  the  insurgents,  driving  their 
lea  ler,  his  rival,  Harold,  to  seek 
shelter  from  the  emperors;  and  again 
set  ing  sail  to  subjugate  a  new  pro- 
vince, and  raise  another  son  to  its 
vie  ?regal  dignity.  In  this  way  he 
invided,  and  for  the  time  subdued, 
the  nations  enumerated  in  the  intro- 
du<  tory  note.  The  most  frequent 
not  ees  of  his  exploits,  in  the  concise 
chi  3nicles  of  Denmark,  record  him 
as  '  Regner  Lodbrog,  who  had  nine 
Bon  s  (some  make  them  twelve,  some 


seven,)  kings  of  as  many  conquered 
countries;  who  stabled  his  horses  in 
the  hall  of  Charlemagne,  and  died 
by  the  devouring  of  serpents  in  Ire- 
land." But  here  we  are  on  debate- 
able  ground.  Saxo  asserts  that  Regner 
encountered  and  defeated  an  empe- 
ror Charles,  and  this  in  words  which 
will  apply  to  no  other  than  Charle- 
magne. The  learned  Stephen  vin- 
dicates the  interpretation,  nay,  goes 
so  far  as  to  attribute  the  death  of  the 
emperor  to  grief  and  indignation 
on  that  very  account ;  but  Krantz, 
Meursuis,  Pontanus,  and  a  host  of 
others,  with  many  and  seemingly 
stronger  proofs,  assert  the  contrary. 
It  is  amusing  to  read  Krantz's  ex- 
postulation with  the  old  chronicler. 
He  lays  down  the  ground  of  dispute 
with  all  becoming  gravity,  and  then, 
"  You  know  very  well,  Saxo,"  he 
says  to  the  man  who  had  died  three 
centuries  before,  "  you  must  be  very 
well  aware,  Saxo,  that  this  (sub  re- 
verentia  sit  dictum)  is  a  bounce;" 
and  so  he  proceeds  to  rate  him  face 
to  face  for  his  inconsistencies.  Oa 
the  whole,  there  seems  to  be  a  con- 
fusion of  names  in  the  original  au- 
thorities too  complicated  to  promise 
any  satisfactory  result  in  the  enquiry. 
Then,  again,  Saxo  records  various 
expeditions  of  his  hero  to  the  "  parts 
about  the  Hellespont,"  and  the  Hel- 
lespontic  regions  seem  at  such  a  dis- 
tance, that  many  learned  Thebans 
will  have  it  that  he  means  the  coun- 
tries round  the  eastern  Baltic,  al- 
leging, against  the  natural  interpre- 
tation, the  difficulties  of  long  navi- 
gation, seas  infested  by  hostile  ar- 
maments, and  the  force  of  a  powerful 
nation  to  be  encountered  after  these 
had  been  overcome;  but  the  navi- 
gators of  the  Sound,  the  German 
Ocean,  and  the  British  seas,  need 
hardly  have  shrunk  from  the  dangers 
of  the  summer  Mediterranean.  The 
sailor  who  had  circled  the  Malstrom 
was  surely  competent  to  pass  Cha- 
rybdis.  AH  the  fabulous  perils  of  the 
Archipelago,  even  including  its  for- 
gotten terrors,  the  wandering  Delos, 
and  the  opening  and  shutting  Sym- 
plegades,  could  not  have  formed  a 
more  frightful  array  of  danger  than, 
their  own  fiords  and  voes  were  rife 
with  in  the  North.  Then  that  a  na- 
tion of  pirates  should  shrink  from 
the  naval  force  of  Greeks  and  Sara- 
cens, men  who  cared  nothing  for  the 


D20 


The  Death- Song  of  Regntr  Lodbrog. 


[June, 


dominion  of  the  sea,  and  tempted  its 
dangers  only  when  they  had  need  to 
transport  their  warriors  from  one 
scene  of  military  conflict  to  another, 
would  surely  seem  more  strange  than 
that  they  should  despise  such  oppo- 
sition, and  proceed  whither  they 
pleased  in  its  defiance.  And  for  the 
power  of  the  Greek  empire  to  be 
dreaded  in  such  an  incursion,  when 
we  reflect  that,  scarce  fifty  years 
after,  a  hostile  fleet  of  two  hundred 
vessels,  launched  from  the  wild 
Borysthenes,  and  manned  by  savage 
Russians,  cast  anchor  before  Con- 
stantinople, and  shook  the  throne  of 
the  East,  why  should  we  deny  an 
equal  degree  of  enterprise  and  vigour 
in  their  own  time  to  men  who  looked 
upon  the  fathers  of  these  invaders 
as  wretched  and  most  despicable 
barbarians — a  "  pannosa  gens,"  a 
"  plebs  nudissima  ?"  The  presence 
of  Scandinavian  rovers  in  the  Medi- 
terranean is  generally  acknowledged 
by*eouthern  writers  of  the  ninth  cen- 
tury; and  Gibbon,  when  he  speaks 
of  "  the  calamities  of  a  piratical  war, 
which,  after  an  interval  of  six  hun- 
dred years, again  infested  theEuxine, 
but  esqaped  the  notice  both  of  the 
prince  and  the  historian,"  seems  to 
allude  to  some  authority,  either  mis- 
laid or  not  deemed  worthy  of  being 
referred  to,  which  might  possibly, 
by  throwing  a  light  upon  the  dark 
period  immediately  preceding  the 
Russian  invasion,  discover  Regner 
in  hig.five  years'  expedition  through 
the  regions  of  the  Hellespont.  It  is 
worthy  of  remark,  that  Saxo,  as  if 
anticipating  incredulity,  expressly 
mentions  the  "  Mare  Mediterraneum" 
as  the  route  pursued.  On  his  return 
from  this  Eastern  expedition,  (whe- 
ther it  may  have  been  to  the  snores  of 
the  Black  Sea  or  the  Lake  Ladoga,) 
he  finds  Harold,  his  old  rival,  rein- 
stated in  authority,  and  backed  by 
the  alliance  of  Lewis  the  Pious,  by 
whom  he  had  been  converted  to 
Christianity,  baptized,  and  induced 
to  build  a  church  for  Christian  wor- 
ship at  Sleswick.  The  indignant 
Pagan,  falling  on  his  now  doubly- 
detested  rival,  drove  him  once  more 
from  "his  dominions,  overthrew  the 
monuments  of  his  apostasy,  and 
restored  the  savage  mysteries  of 
Odin  ;  .then  sailing  to  chastise  Ella, 
a  Northumbrian  prince,  who  wreaked 
the  rcv.engc  he  cherished  against 


Regner  on  the  vanquished  Irish  for 
not  haying  more  vigorously  opposed 
him,  fell  himself  into  the  hands  of 
that  chieftain,  and,  by  the  miserable 
end  we  have  related,  closed  a  life  of 
unavailingalthoughsplendidferocity. 
Regner  had  not  long  enjoyed  the  so- 
ciety of  Thora :  she  was  carried  off 
soon  after  their  marriage  by  sudden 
sickness ;  and  of  Latbgertha,  the  last 
thing  we  hear  is,  that  in  Regner's 
first  exploit  with  Harold,  she,  still 
overflowing  with  the  deep  draught 
of  her  former  affection,  ("^pristini 
amoris  pertinaciori  haustu  exuber- 
ans,")  came  to  his  assistance  with  a 
fleet  of  one  hundred  and  twenty 
ships,  from  which  she  led  her  forces 
in  person  to  the  field,  and  mainly 
contributed  by  her  courage  to  the 
restoration  of  his  broken  battle.  It 
is  an  ungrateful  office  to  continue 
the  narrative,  for  the  impetuous  pas- 
sions of  the  Amazon,  kindled  by  the 
sight  of  her  former  husband,  impel- 
led her,  on  her  return  from  fight- 
ing by  his  side,  to  murder  the  chief- 
tain whom  she  had  married  on  her 
first  desertion.  Notwithstanding, 
Regner  never  resumed  the  con- 
nexion. Lathgertha  and  Thora  had 
been  won  by  the  sword,  and  the 
uncouth  romance  of  their  bridals 
has  secured  to  both  a  place  in  the 
rude  sympathies,  and  scarcely  less 
rugged  writings,  of  the  older  chroni- 
clers ;  but  of  Aslanga,  whom  Regner 
apostrophizes  towards  the  end  of  his 
death-song,  nothing  further  than  the 
occurrence  of  her  name  in  that  pas- 
sage was  known,  till  Stephen,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  1 7ih  century,  collect- 
ing materials  for  his  "  Notse  Uberi- 
ores,"  discovered  a  history  of  our 
hero  preserved  among  the  Iceland- 
ers ("fugientis  Antiquitatis  Destina? 
ac  veluti  Statoies  Joves,"  as  he  hap- 
pily terms  them),  in  which  the  gen- 
tler interest  of  her  story  has  warmed 
the  writer  into  something  approach- 
ing to  even  pastoral  tenderness. 
Regner,  says  the  Skald,  having 
drawn  up  his  ship  on  the  beach  near 
Spangerheide  in  Norway,  beheld  a 
beautiful  girl  walking  on  the  strand. 
He  called  to  her  to  come  to  him, 
where  he  sat  on  his  galley  side,  and 
she,  after  stipulating  for  honourable 
treatment,  consented ;  but  while  ga- 
zing in  admiration  on  the  great  ves- 
sel, and  all  the  novel  pomp  of  spoils 
and  splendid  armour,  she  was  eud- 


18:33.] 

denly  addressed  by  the  licentious 
hero  with  an  ardour  far  too  imperious 
for  the  safety  either  of  his  pledged 
word  or  of  her  own  honour.  There 
is  severe  dignity,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  touching  humility,  in  her  re- 
ply— 

"  Denmark's  father,  surely  thou 
Dreamest  not  of  maidens  now. 
Royal  liegner,  mighty  king, 
Rather  be  ic  thine  to  bring 
Aid  to  helpless  innocence. 
Send  me,  Site,  oh  send  me  hence, 
As  thou  sworest,  safe  and  free ; 
All  enough  'twill  be  for  me, 
Lowly  to  have  looked  on  thee." 

Startled  from  his  unworthy  pur- 
pi  se  by  this  unexpected  repulse,  yet 
st:ll  more  anxious  of  obtaining  a 
prize  so  unexpectedly  enhanced,  he 
has  recourse  to  the  temptation  of  a 
rich  present. 

"  Wilt  thou  take  this  mantle  fair 
Silver-tissued  everywhere? 
Lovely  as  thy  limbs  may  he, 
This  shall  grace  them  worthily  ; 
lfbr  'tis  one  my  Thora  wore 
Qn  her  fawn- like  form  before. 
TJitTd  wrought  the  border  so, 
Thora,  with  her  hands  of  snow, 
TJiora,  whom  of  all  the  rest, 
TiJl  she  died,  I  loved  the  best." 

to  which  the  Maiden— 

'  King  of  men,  I  may  not  dare 
Touch  the  robe  so  passing  fair, 
Which  Fawn  Thora  wove  and  wore; 
Robe  like  this  beseems  me  more, 
Clad  in  which,  I  drive  my  flocks 
Round  the  shore  among  the  rocks ; 
Leave  me  to  mine  humble  lot, 
Raise  thy  sail,  and  tempt  me  not." 

U  must  be  confessed  that  the  more 
se  ;mly  robe  to  which  she  alludes  was 
a  >kin,  and  that  her  flock  was  one  of 
gcats.  Nevertheless  Craka (for  such 
sha  tells  him  is  her  name)  would  not 
ha  ve  disgraced  a  small  vale  of  Arca- 
di.i  in  the  winter  season  j  and  in  ac- 
ccrdance  with  this  promising  begin- 
ni  )g,  she  in  the  end  turns  out  to  be 
a  King's  daughter  in  disguise,  upon 
w  lich,  as  Queen  of  Denmark,  she 
clYims  the  affections  won  by  the 
gcat-herd  of  Spangarheide. 

The  conduct  of  Ivar,  Shard,  and 
Bsorn,  on  receiving  news  of  their  fa- 
lli  ir's  death,  has  been  especially  re- 
ccrded.  Itar  was  presiding  at  the 
celebration  of  some  solemn  game. 
H •»  neither  changed  countenance, nor 


The  Dealh-Sony  of  Rcyncr  Lodbrog. 


m 

broke  up  the  sports ;  but  commanded 
the  astonished  people  to  remain,  and 
forced  the  frightened  actors  to  pro- 
ceed in  their  performance,  fearing 
lest,  by  the  betrayal  of  any  emotion, 
he  should  compromise  the  dignity  of 
such  a  grief.  Sivard  heard  the  news 
as  he  stood,  his  short  spear  in  his 
hand,  prepared  for  hunting.  To  dis- 
tract, arid  so  weaken  the  anguish  that 
seized  him,  he  struck  the  javelin  in- 
to his  foot,  and  merging  the  mental 
agony  which  alone  would  have  been 
insupportable,  in  a  coexistent  bodily 
pain,  which  it  had  been  his  whole 
life's  study  to  endure,  he  also  was 
able  to  control  his  grief,  and  assert 
the  fortitude  of  mind  that  such  a 
crisis  called  for.  The  news  reached 
Ironside  (the  surname  of  Biorn)  asr 
he  was  playing  at  dice.  To  subdue 
his  emotion,  he  grasped  the  die  so 
hard,  that  blood  burst  from  his  fin- 
gers' ends-—"  ubi  nimirum  fortunse 
jactum  ipsa  quam  versebat  alea  le- 
viorem  esse  didicit."  Of  the  three, 
Ivar  is  adjudged  to  have  behaved 
with  the  most  exemplary  fortitude, 
for  Ella,  when  he  was  made  acquaint- 
ed with  the  conduct  of  each,  decla- 
red that  he  dreaded  him  who  had 
"played  out  his  play,"  more  than 
either  of  the  others;  and  the  event 
shewed  that  he  had  foreboded  truly  ; 
for  Ivar  (the  Hinguar  of  Asserius) 
never  ceased  to  prosecute  his  scheme 
of  vengeance  till  it  was  accomplish- 
ed. It  is  hard  to  say  whether  the 
death  of  Regner  or  that  of  Ella  was 
the  most  horrible.  The  avenging  bro- 
thers amply  fulfilled  the  prediction 
of  their  dying  father.  They  seized 
their  enemy  at  York,  and  in  the 
words  of  Saxo  '•  comprehensi  ip- 
sius  dorsum  plaga  Aquilonem  figu-' 
rante  afficitur."  Cutting  the  eagle 
was  a  dreadful  species  of  execution, 
practised  by  the  northern  nations. 
They  thrust  a  sword  in  at  the  back 
of  the  neck,  thence  carrying  it  round 
either  shoulder-blade  and  down  the 
back-bone,  detaching  every  thing  as 
they  went  along ;  they  pulled  away 
the  ribless  spine  with  the  scapular 
hanging  at  each  side  like  the  wings 
of  a  bird,  from  which  resemblance 
the  butchery  took  its  name,  and 
finished  by  dragging  out  the  entrails 
through  the  wound.  For  this  semi- 
pious  expedition,  the  daughters  of 
Regner  wove  a  standard  called  the 
lleafan.  which,  in  addition  to  the 


922 

interest  of  its  consecration,  possessed 
the  importance  of  a  talisman,  for  the 
raven  woven  on  its  field  would  seem 
to  move  and  flap  its  wings  before  a 
victory  ;  but,  a  defeat  impending,  it 
hung  reversed  and  motionless.  Thus 
commenced  one  of  the  most  devas- 
tating incursions  which  Europe  ever 
suffered  from  the  Normans  :  for  the 
brothers,  after  ravaging  England  for 
ten  years,  till  foiled  and  defeated  by 
Alfred,  at  length  turned  their  vessels 
towards  the  Rhine,  and  thence  divi- 
ding their  forces,  carried  fire  and 
sword  through  France  and  Germany, 
till  cities,  and  churches,  and  cultiva- 
ted lands,  lay  desolated  from  the 
Loire  to  the  Elbe.  It  is  asserted  by 
many  that  Regner  had  already  sack- 
ed Paris,  and  turned  the  church  of 
St  Germain  to  the  same  uses  as  had 
before  defiled  the  banqueting  hall 
of  the  great  Charles.  The  poem  of 
Abbo  "  De  Obsessa  a  Nortmannis 
Lutetia  Parisiorum,"  details  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  French  capital,  and  the 
operations  of  the  siege,  but  the  names 
of  the  hostile  leaders  are  altered  so 
as  to  be  very  rarely  recognisable. 
The  circumstances  of  Regner'sdeath, 
on  which  the  interest  of  our  transla- 
tion so  essentially  depends,  are  given 
with  little  variation  from  Saxo's  ac- 
count by  all  the  Danish  historical 
authorities;  but  the  English  version, 
it  must  be  confessed,  is  provokingly 
dissimilar.  Regner  (they  call  him 
Lothbric)  sailing  round  the  rocks  of 
the  Danish  coast,  catching  sea-fowl, 
and  unattended,  was  himself  caught 
in  a  tempest,  and  after  three  days 
and  nights'  tossing  on  the  German 
ocean,  cast  on  the  shore  of  England. 
Here,  they  say,  he  became  the  falcon- 
er of  King  Saint  Edmund;  but  ha- 
ving excited  the  jealousy  of  a  fellow 
servant  by  his  superior  skill  in  feed- 
ing and  cleaning  the  royal  birds,  was 
by  him  secretly  slain.  His  death 
being  discovered  through  the  sagacity 
of  his  dog,  the  only  companion  of  his 
shipwreck,  the  murderer  was  con- 
demned to  be  placed  in  the  same 
boat  which  had  brought  his  victim 
to  shore,  and,  without  oar  or  sail,  to 
be  cast  adrift  upon  the  sea.  Won- 
derful to  relate,  the  band  of  Provi- 
dence guitled  him  upon  the  very 
track  of  Regner,  and  after  a  similar 
space  cast  him  on  Jutland.  Here  he 
told  the  sons  of  Regner  that  their 
father  had  been  made  away  with  at 


The  Death- Song  of  Regner  Lodbrog. 


[June, 


the  instigation  of  Edmund  himself, 
and  thus  excited  them  to  that  inva- 
sion of  which  we  have  spoken.  This 
is  a  sorry  substitute  for  the  high  ro- 
mance of  his  death  as  we  have  it 
here — a  sorry  end  this  for  the  Em- 
peror of  northern  Europe  and  Sove- 
reign of  the  universal  Sea,  to  become 
at  last  a  menial  of  the  Lord  of  East 
Anglia,  a  Lambert  Sirnnel  by  antici- 
pation. It  cannot  be.  We  need  not 
dwell  on  inconsistencies  in  the  face 
of  an  impossibility.  Casting  a  pri- 
soner into  a  dungeon  to  be  devoured 
by  serpents,  is  an  event  not  unfre- 
quent  in  the  northern  annals.  Perhaps 
the  most  romantic  instance  that  can 
be  cited,  is  that  of  Harald  the  brother 
of  St  Olave,  who  being  seized  by  the 
Byzantine  emperor,  was  condemned 
to  this  species  of  execution.  The 
Dane,  never  deserted  by  his  wonted 
courage,  immediately  on  entering  the 
cavern,  beneath  which  was  a  river, 
the  haunt  of  his  terrible  antagonist, 
began  to  prepare  himself  for  the 
struggle.  Looking  out  for  some  of- 
fensive weapon,  for  he  had  been 
thrust  in  almost  naked  and  unarmed, 
he  beheld  nothing  around  him  but 
the  skeletons  of  former  victims.  No- 
thing daunted,  he  gathered  the  dead 
men's  bones  together,  and  binding 
them  into  a  billet  with  the  remnant 
of  his  dress,  poised  the  rude  club 
he  had  thus  formed,  and  waited  the 
approach  of  the  reptile.  The  serpent 
was  vanquished,  for  Harald,  after 
stunning  it  with  blows  from  his  club, 
leaped  fearlessly  upon  its  back,  and 
completed  the  victory  with  his  knife, 
"  Cultellum  tonsorium  quern  secum 
forte  tectum  attulerat  umbilico  qui 
solus  feno  patebat  immersit."  There 
is  something  of  the  classic  dragon 
about  this  monster :  Hai  aid  leaps  up- 
on its  back  "  veloci  saltu,"  as  he 
would  spring  on  a  horse.  One  Runic 
chronicle  of  decided  antiquity  will 
have  it,  that  Regner  was  cast  into  a 
lake  full  of  serpents;  but  all  concur  in 
the  instrumentality  of  the  reptile  one 
way  or  the  other ;  and,  strange  as  it 
may  appear  to  the  sons  of  Saint  Pa- 
trick, all  agree  in  placing  the  scene 
of  the  execution  somewhere  in  Ire- 
land. We  have  already  seen  that  the 
serpent  is  not  unknown  in  Irish  tra- 
dition ;  we  know  that  in  Druid  wor- 
ship it  makes  a  conspicuous  figure  ; 
Regner  himself  (or  whoever  he  may 
have  been  who  wrote  the  song  trans- 


1853.] 


The  Death- Song  of  llegncr  Lodbrog. 


la  ted)  refers  the  event  to  the  Scot- 
tish coast  (Skotlands  fiordur),  and 
Scotia  is  a  name  exclusively  given  to 
Ireland  by  all  the  continental  writers 
o*  the  ninth  century;  so  that,  not- 
w  ithstanding  the  testimony  of  Dona- 
tus,  that  in  the  sacred  isle 

"  STul!a  venenanocent,  nee  serpens  serpit 
in  herba," 

we  must  suppose  the  cunning  Nor- 
thumbrian to  have  borne  his  captive 
to  some  spot  hitherto  uncbarrned  by 
the  discourses  of  the  Saiut.  We  can- 
not conclude  better  than  with  these 


lines  of  Donatus,  not  so  much  for 
their  perplexing  evidence  of  Ireland's 
freedom  from  noxious  animals  at  that 
time,  (a  subject  which  we  willingly 
leave  to  some  northern  Aldrovaridus,) 
as  for  their  gratifying  description  of 
the  country  before  those  harassing 
invasions,  of  which  Regner  was 
among  the  great  precursors,  and 
which  only  gave  place  after  the  battle 
of  Clontarf,  to  another  series  of 
troubles,  differing  but  in  longer  con- 
tinuance, and  in  less  prospect  of  any 
happy  issue. 


Upon  the  confines  of  the  West, 
There  lies  a  land,  of  lands  the  best. 
In  ancient  books  'tis  Scotia  writ, 
And  Scotia  likewise  name  we  it. 
An  island  rich  in  all  good  store, 
In  gems,  and  robes,  and  golden  ore; 
An  isle  in  soil,  and  sun,  and  wind, 
Most  healthful  to  the  human  kind. 
With  honey  all  the  land  abounds, 
With  fairest  lawns  and  pasture  grounds, 
With  weeds  of  peace  and  peaceful  arts, 
With  arms  of  war  and  manly  hearts. 
A  happy  isle  !  the  rugged  bear 
Ne'er  roarn'd  in  savage  horror  there  ; 
Ne'er  sought  that  far  and  green  recess 
The  tawny  whelping  lioness  ; 
Nor  poison  there  was  ever  found, 
Nor  serpent  on  the  grassy  ground, 
Nor  bull-frog  by  the  meadow  side, 
To  croak  uncouth  at  eventide ; 
And,  worthy  of  this  blessed  spot, 
Here  dwell  the  nations  of  the  SCOT, 
A  race  of  men  renowned  high, 
For  honour,  arms,  and  courtesy. 

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[Juu«, 


MjoirfJioa  9rfo  no  anoHiJsog  srfi 
SUCH  a  set  of  fellows  as  the  — th 
Dragoons,  I  never  met  with  in  the 
whole  course  of  my  life.  Talk  of 
friendliness  and  hospitality  !  they 
would  beat  old  Solomon,  who  had  a 
table  that  stretched  from  one  end  of 
Palestine  to  the  other.  Their  invita- 
tions are  not  given  for  certain  dinners 
on  certain  days,  but  for  weeks  and 
months.  "  There  now,  there's  a 
good  fellow,  you'll  dine  with  us  till 
Christmas ;  we've  got  a  new  mess- 
man,  and  the  claret  is  fresh  from 
Dublin."  I  accepted  the  invitation, 
and  intend  paying  it  off  by  instal- 
ments of  a  week  at  a  time; — no  con- 
stitution could  stand  their  hospitality 
for  a  longer  period  without  a  little 
repose.  I  am  now  resting  on  my 
oars,  and  getting  quit  of  a  slight  un- 
steadiness of  the  hand  in  the  morn- 
ings, which  made  the  eating  of  an 
egg  as  difficult  an  achievement  as 
any  of  the  labours  of  Hercules.  In 
about  a  month  I  shall  be  equal  to 
another  visit,  but  in  the  meantime  I 
will  just  take  a  little  memorandum 
of  what  occurred  while  I  remained 
with  them,  by  way  of  keeping  their 
memory  green  in  my  soul.  The  first 
day  nothing  remarkable  occurred 
during  dinner.  The  colonel  was  in 
the  chair,  and  a  jollier-looking  presi- 
dent it  has  never  been  my  luck  to 
meet  with.  Large,  soldierly,  and 
somewhat  bloated,  he  formed  a  fa- 
mous combination  of  the  Bacchus 
subduing  lions  and  conquering  India, 
and  the  same  Bacchus  leering  into  a 
flagon  and  bestriding  a  cask.  I  am 
bound  to  confess,  that  the  latter  part 
of  this  resemblance  is  suggested  to 
me  by  the  sign  post  of  this  very  de- 
cent hostel  in  which  I  write,  where 
a  prodigious  man,  without  any  parti- 
cular superfluity  of  costume,  is  re- 
presented sitting  on  a  puncheon  of 
vast  size,  with  a  face  so  red,  so  round, 
BO  redoUnt  of  mirth,  and  with  such 
a  glance  of  irresistible  whim  in  his 
eye — I'll  bet  a  hundred  to  one  the 
painter  of  that  sign  has  had  the  ho- 
nour of  an  interview  with  the  gallant 
Colonel  O  Looney.  There  never  \vas 
a  man  more  popular  in  a  regiment. 
On  parade  or  at  mess  he  was  equally 


at  home.  Not  one  of  those  mere  boon 
companions  who  swallow  potations 
pottle-deep,  and  are  fit  for  nothing 
else,  but  a  man  armed  at  all  points, 
one  who  "  the  division  of  a  battle- 
knows,"  as  well  as  the  flavour  of  a 
vintage.  He  seemed  somewhere 
about  fifty  years  of  age,  with  a  con- 
siderable affectation  of  the  youth 
about  him.  Thebaldnessof  hiscrown 
was  scrupulously  concealed  by 
combing  the  long  straggling  side 
locks  over  it ;  and  his  allusions  were 
extremely  frequent  to  those  infernal 
helmets  which  turned  a  man's  hair 
grey  in  the  very  prime  of  boyhood. 
He  bad  never  left  the  regiment,  but 
gradually  climbed  his  way  up  from 
a  humble  cornetcy  to  his  present 
lofty  rank,  without  however  losing 
the  gaiety  which  had  made  him  so 
much  liked  and  courted  in  the  first 
years  of  his  noviciate.  Such  was  the 
colonel  when  I  saw  him  ten  days  ago 
presiding  at  mess.  His  tones  were 
delicious  to  listen  to.  The  music  of 
five  hundred  Irishmen  distilled  into 
one  glorious  brogue,  would  give  but 
a  faint  idea  of  his  fine  rich  Tipperary, 
— and  all  so  softened  by  the  inimita- 
ble good-nature  of  his  expression  !  — 
Upon  my  honour,  a  story,  without  his 
voice  to  tell  it  with,  loses  almost  all 
its  value.  When  the  bottles  began 
their  round,  the  usual  hubbub  com- 
menced; but  after  one  or  two  rou- 
tine bumpers,  my  attention  was  at- 
tracted by  a  conversation  at  the  foot 
of  the  table. 

"  Faith  an'  yese  quite  right,"  said 
the  Colonel  in  answer  to  some  obser- 
vation, "  in  what  ye  say  about  mar- 
riage. There's  a  stark-staring  scar- 
city of  the  commodity.  Here  have 
we  been  stationed  now  in  this  city 
of  York  for  six  weeks,  and  divil  a 
young  fellow  of  us  all  has  picked  up 
au  heiress  yet.  Now,  mind  me,  when 
I  was  here  about  thirty  years  ago,  it 
was  a  very  different  story.  We  had 
something  or  other  to  laugh  at  every 
day  in  the  way  of  the  ladies, — either 
a  start  off  to  Gretna  Green,  or  a  duel, 
or  a  horse-whipping.  But  now,  by 
the  sowl  of  me,  there's  no  sort  of 
amusement  to  be  had  at  all." 


J  *33.]  Nights  at  Mess. 

"Pray,  Colonel,  are  there  any 
heiresses  in  this  neighbourhood  at 
present  ?"  drawled  forth  a  young 
cornet. 

"  Faith,  surely,"  replied  the  Colo- 
nel, "  ye  ought  to  be  on  the  lookout 
for  that  yerself.  I've  enough  to  do 
to  pick  up  information  on  my  own 
account." 

"  I  merely  wanted  to  benefit  a  little 
by  your  experience,"  rejoined  the 
other. 

"  Exparience  ?  is  it  that  ye're 
wanting?  Well,  I'll  just  tell  you  a 
bit  of  a  sacret.  That  same  expari- 
ence is  the  very  divil  in  a  man's  way 
when  he  thinks  of  doing  the  civil 
tiling  to  a  young  lady  that  has  the 
misfortune  to  be  rich.  Youtig  fel- 
lows like  you  are  trusted  by  guard- 
inns  and  mothers,  and  cattle  of  that 
8 art,  and  even  by  the  damsel  herself, 
because  they  see  no  danger  in  a 
youth  with  so  little  exparience.  I 
found  it  so  myself  when  I  joined  the 
regiment  first.  Never  was  known 
such  a  set  of  fine  frank  open-hearted 
creturs  as  I  found  all  the  young  dar- 
1  ings  at  every  party  I  went  to.  No 
shyness,  no  fears,  no  hurrying  away 
at  my  approach  in  case  I  should  ask 
them  to  dance  with  me ;  but  now 
tiiat  I  have  had  about  thirty  years  of 
this  same  practice  in  the  art  of  court- 
ship, there's  no  such  thing  as  getting 
near  the  sweet  creturs  even  to  whis- 
per a  word.  Every  mother's  son — 
daughter  I  mane — of  them,  gets  away 
88  soon  as  possible  from  such  a  dan- 
gerous divil  as  a  young  fellow  with 
so  many  years  exparience.  Mothers 
sod  aunts  throw  themselves  into  the 
gap  to  cover  their  retreat,  and  lug 
me  off  to  the  card-table  that  they 
May  keep  their  eyes  on  me  all  the 
right.  Ach,  when  we  were  stationed 
1  ere  in  the  glorious  eighteen  hun- 
<  red,  mothers  and  aunts  never  trou- 
Med  their  heads  about  such  a  sweet 
little  inexparieaced  lambkin  as  I 
was." 

"  But  you  were  talking  of  heiress- 
i  s,  Colonel,"  said  the  cornet,  hiding 
{  laugh  at  the  jolly  commander's  at- 
1  ributing  the  change  which  he  per- 
reived  in  the  reception  he  met  with 
1  rom  the  ladies  to  any  thing  rather 
i  han  its  right  cause,  "  you  were  talk- 
>ng  of  heiresses,  were  there  many  of 
-hem  in  this  neighbourhood  at  that 


"  OcJi,  plinty ;  they  either  were  or 


925- 

pretended  to  be;  so  the  honour  of 
carrying  them  off  was  all  the  same, 
ye  know.  Whenever  an  officer  got 
three  days'  leave  of  absence,  he  was 
sure  to  bring  back  a  wife  with  him  ; 
the  postilions  on  the  north  road  grew 
as  rich  as  nabobs,  and  their  horses  as 
thin  as  lathes  :  all  that  a  girl  had  to 
do  was  to  say  she  was  an  heiress ; 
nobody  ever  asked  her  what  it  was 
of;  whether  an  estate  or  a  lawsuit — 
off  she  was  to  the  ould  blacksmith 
before  the  week  was  out,  and  married 
as  fast  and  sure  as  her  mother.  Then 
came  the  cream  of  the  joke,  for  there 
was  always  some  insolent  brother,  or 
cousin,  or  discarded  sweetheart,  to 
shoot  immediately  on  your  return,  so 
that  the  fun  lasted  very  often  as  long 
as  the  honey-moon." 

"And  how  many  of  the  officers 
were  lucky  enough  to  get  married  ?" 

"  Och,  every  one  of  them,  I  tell  ye, 
except  myself  and  Jack  O'Farrel). 
Did  I  ever  tell  ye  how  nearly  owld 
Jack  and  I  were  buckled  ?" 

"No,  Colonel,"  cried  a  great  many 
voices,  "  let  us  hear." 

"  Gintly,  my  lads,  gintly.  I'll  tell 
ye  first  of  my  friend  Jack.  I'll  take 
a  little  time  to  think  of  it  before  I  tell 
ye  my  own  adventure."  Here  the 
Colonel  sighed,  and  said  something 
about  agonized  feelings  and  breaking 
hearts,  which  contrasted  so  ridicu- 
loujsly  with  his  hilarious  countenance 
and  Herculean  figure,  that  we  could 
not  avoid  bursting  into  a  very  hearty 
laugh.  The  Colonel,  after  appearing 
a  little  discomposed,  for  I  believe  he 
considers  himself  no  contemptible 
performer  in  the  art  of  pathetic  story- 
telling, joined  in  our  laugh,  tossed  off 
a  bumper  and  began. 

«  Well, — Jack  O'Farrell  was  the 
most  gallant-looking  fellow  I  ever 
saw — great  red  whiskers,  shoulders 
like  the  side  of  a  house,  bright  fiery 
eyes,  and  a  gash  from  a  shillelah 
across  his  brow,  that  made  him  look 
a  handsome  copy  of  the  divil,  as  a 
soldier  should.  He  was  a  Gal  way 
man,  the  best-tempered  fellow  that 
ever  was  seen  in  the  world,  and  had 
been  out  five  times  before  he  was 
twenty.  One  of  them  was  with  his 
uncle,  fighting  Dick  Callaghan  of 
Oonamorlich,  (he  was  shot  after- 
wards by  Sir  Niel  Flanagan  in  the 
Thirteen  Acres;)  so,  said  Jack — '  I 
only  took  him  in  the  shoulder,  for 
it's  unchristian  to  kill  one's  rein- 


9-26  Nights  at  Mess. 

tions.'  Jack  came  across,  and  join- 
ed us  in  this  very  town.  In  a  mo. 
ment  he  won  every  heart  at  the 
mess-table;  he  drank  four  bottles  of 
claret,  thirteen  glasses  of  brandy  and 
water,  and  smoked  two-and-twenty 
cigars  ;  and  then  saw  the  chaplain 
safe  to  his  lodgings,  as  if  he  had 
been  his  brother ;  it  did  us  all  good 
to  see  such  a  steady  fellow.  Well, 
just  at  this  time,  we  were  in  the 
heart  of  running  away  with  the  wo- 
men, fighting  the  men,  and  playing 
the  divil  entirely ;  and  Jack  resol- 
ved to  be  equal  with  the  best  of  us. 
There  was  to  be  a  ball,  a  public  ball 
of  some  sort  or  other  at  the  County 
Hall,  and  I  saw  my  friend  Jack  par- 
ticularly busy  in  making  his  prepa- 
rations. He  packed  up  his  carpet 
bag,  dressing-case,  and  a  brace  of 
horse-pistols,  and  having  got  a  week's 
leave  of  absence  the  day  before  the 
dance.  *  And  what's  all  this  you're 
doing,  Jack  ?'  said  I.  Now,  my  lads, 
I've  been  so  long  away  from  owld 
Ireland,  and  rattled  so  much  about 
the  world,  that  I've  lost  the  Irish  in- 
tirely,  or  I  would  try  to  give  you  an 
imitation  of  Jack's  brogue,  but  that's 
impossible  for  a  tongue  that  has  the 
trick  of  the  English." 

The  Colonel  luckily  did  not  re- 
mark how  some  of  us  were  amused 
with  this  apology,  for  not  being  able 
to  speak  like  an  Irishman,  and  went 
on — 

"  '  An*  what's  all  this  you're  doing, 
Jack  ?'  said  I. 

"'Doin'?  an*  what  should  I  be 
doin' !'  says  he, '  but  puttin'  up  my 
weddiu*  garments  ?' 

"  '  Your  wedding  ?'  says  I ;  '  are 
you  going  to  be  married,  Jack  ?' 

"  *  Faith,  an'  1  hope  so,'  says  he  ; 
*  or  what  would  be  the  use  o'  this 
wonder  o.'  the  world  ?'  holding  up  a 
beautiful  coloured  silk  nightcap  be- 
tween his  finger  and  thumb. 

"  *  And  who  is  the  lady,  you  sowl?' 
"  *  How  the  divil  should  I  know  ?' 
said  Jack.  *  I  haven't  seen  her,  nor 
asked  her  yet ;  but  I  suppose  there'll 
be  plenty  at  this  ball.  I'm  goin'  to 
have  a  post-chaise  at  the  door,  an'  I'll 
bet  ye  I'll  she  w  ye  Mrs  Cornet  OFar- 
rell  before  ye're  a  week  ovvlder.' 

"  *  Done,'  and  «  done  !'  we  said ; 
and  it  was  a  wager. 

"  Jack  and  I  went  into  the  ball- 
room together. 

"  '  I  wonder  if  Mrs  John  O'Farrell 
4 


[June, 

is    here,'    said  Jack,   as  he  looked 
round  among  the  ladies. 

"  *  Faith,'  said  I,  Mt's  not  for  me 
to  answer  ye ;  ye  had  better  ask 
them ;  but  I  truly  hope  Mrs  Cornet 
O'Looney  is  not  in  this  collection, 
for  such  a  set  of  scare-crows  I 
never' — 

— "  '  Ooch,  ullaloo,  man, hold  your 
tongue;  it's  not  for  the  beauty  of 
them  one  cares,  but  just  the  fame  of 
the  thing,  to  have  carried  off  an  heir- 
ess; and  an  heiress  Mrs  O'Farrell 
must  be,  that's  a  sure  case:  for  ye 
see,  barrin'  my  pay  and  a  small 
thrifle  I  owe  my  creditors  besides, 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  support  the 
young  O'Farrells,  let  alone  the  wife 
and  the  maid.' 

"  Just  at  this  time  a  rich  owld  su- 
gar merchant,  with  a  whole  posse  of 
daughters,  and  other  ladies,  came 
bustling  into  the  room. 

"  'There  now,  Jack,'  said  I,  'now's 
your  time.  Here  comes  owld  Fusby 
the  sugar  merchant  from  London, 
and  half  a  dozen  heiresses  pinned  to 
his  apron.  Off  with  ye,  man.  Ye 
can't  go  wrong:  take  the  very  first 
that  will  have  ye.  I  tell  ye,  he's  rich 
enough  to  cover  the  Bog  of  Allan, 
with  melted  gold.' 

" '  Then  he's  just  the  sort  of  fellow 
I  want — so,  wi'  ye'r  lave,  I'll  go  and 
do  the  needful  to  the  tall  young  wo- 
man in  blue.  If  he  gives  her  only  a 
thousand  a  foot,  she'll  be  a  very  com- 
fortable companion  in  a  post  chaise.' 

"  Jack  was  introduced  in  all  due 
form,  and  in  a  minute  was  capering 
away  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  as  if 
he  were  stamping  hay ;  and  thinking 
all  the  time  of  the  chariot  at  the 
door  and  Gretna  Green.  His  partner 
seemed  very  much  pleased  with  his 
attentions.  She  simpered  and  curt- 
sied to  all  Jack's  pretty  speeches, 
and  I  began  to  be  rather  alarmed 
about  the  bet.  She  was  very  tall, 
very  muscular-looking  and  strong, 
and  seemed  a  good  dozen  of  years 
older  than  the  enraptured  Jack.  If 
she  had  been  twenty  years  older 
than  his  mother  it  would  have  been 
all  the  same^  provided  she  had  been 
an  heiress,  for  at  that  time,  as  I  tell 
ye,  we  were  the  only  two  bachelors 
left  who  had  not  picked  up  a  wife 
with  prodigious  reputations  for 
money,  and  Jack  was  determined  to 
leave  me  behind  in  the  race.  After 
he  had  danced  with  her  four  or  five 


1833.]  Nights  at  Mess. 

diierent  sets,  he  came  up  to  me  in 
ra  Dtures.  *  Isn't  she  a  dear  sweet 
sowl  ?  said  Jack,  *  and  such  a 
ni  jwld  for  grenadiers !  She's  a 
Scotchwoman  too,  and  that's  next 
d<  or  to  an  Irishman  anyhow.' 

"  e  If  she's  a  Scotchwoman,'  said  I, 
*  you  must  be  sure  of  your  ground 
— they  haven't  so  many  heiresses 
among  the  hills  as  in  the  fat  fields  of 
England.  What's  her  name  T 

'•"*  There  now,'  said  he,  slapping  his 
lq:,  'ain't  I  a  pretty  fellow?  I've 
danced  with  her  half  the  night,  and 
ni'  er  asked  her  what  her  name  is. 
I'll  go  and  ask  her  this  moment.' 
Ai  d  accordingly  he  marched  up  to 
her  once  more,  and  carried  her  off 
in  triumph  as  his  partner. 

''  'Pray,  Madam,  may  I  make  so 
bowld,'  he  began,  '  as  to  ask  you 
what  yer  name  may  be — for  owld 
Mr  Fusby  spakes  so  much  wi'  the 
root  of  his  tongue  that  I  can't  under- 
stand a  word  he  would  mintion.' 

"  '  My  name,'  replied  the  lady, '  is 
Miss  Sibil  la  M'Scrae  of  Glen  Buckie 
and  Ben  Scart.' 

"  *  And  a  very  pretty  name  too, 
upon  my  honour,'  said  Jack;  '  what 
size  may  Glen  Buckie  be? — you'll 
excuse  me.' 

"  '  Oo,  in  our  family  we  never  can 
tell  to  a  mile  or  twa  what  the  size 
of  ony  o'  the  estates  may  be — but  I 
believe  it's  about  seventy-five  thou- 
sar  d  acres  of  land,  besides  the  four 
lakes  and  the  river.' 

'  '  Seventy-five — thousand  did  ye 
say  ?*  exclaimed  Jack,  quite  over- 
come by  his  good  fortune;  'and  I 
hope  yer  family's  well,  ma'am.  How 
did  ye  lave  all  yer  brothers  and  sis- 
ters ?' 

"  *  I  haena  got  ony  brothers,  and 
my  sisters  are  pretty  weel,  I  thank 
yon.1 

'  '  An'  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  that. 
Do  ye  happen  to  know  what  my 
nane  is  ?  I  am  John  O'Farrel 
Esquire,  of  Ballynamora,  in  the 
cot  nty  of  Gal  way,  of  a  very  ancient 
fan  ily — and  what  do  ye  think  of  the 
nar  «e,  ma'am  ?' 

"  '  Oo,  it  just  seems  a  very  pretty 
nane.' 

'l '  Do  ye  raelly  think  so  ?  An'  how 
wo  ild  ye  like  to  have  it  yourself?' 

"  '  I  think  it  would  just  do  as  well 
as  cny  other.' 

"    Och  then,  my  dear  Miss  M'Scrae, 


9-27 

you're  justthesortof  cratur  I  wanted 
—  I've  a  post-chaise  at  the  door.' 

"  '  Indeed  ?' 

"  '  Yes,  indeed,  my  charmer,  and  a 

ir  of  pistols  in  it  too.' 


par 

"  *  Indeed  ?'  again  replied  the  lad}-, 
looking  very  conscious  all  the  time. 

"  '  Aye  !  and  a  sweetheart  in  this 
ball-room  that  will  go  off  with  me  to 
Gretna  Green  this  moment.' 

"  '  Dear  me  —  and  wha  is  the  happy 
leddy  ?' 

"  '  An'  who  the  divil  should  it  be, 
but  just  yer  own  self,  Miss  Sibil  la 
M'Scrae  ?' 

"  '  Me,  sir  !'  said  the  lady,  endea- 
vouring to  blush  ;  '  are  you  serious  ? 
Ye  should  na  trifle  wi'  a  young  lass's 
feelings.' 

"  «  The  divil  take  all  thrifles  of  the 
sort  —  I'm  sarious,  my  darling,  and 
I'll  prove  it  —  will  ye  go  off  with  me 
this  instant?' 

"  '  Had  we  no  better  wait  till  we've 
had  the  supper,  sir  ?  Ye  know  we've 
paid  for't  in  the  ticket.' 

"  '  Faith,  an'  there's  some  sinse  in. 
that;  and  will  you  be  riddy  the  mo- 
ment after  ?' 

"  The  lady  blushed,  and  looked  her 
consent,  and  Jack  was  in  raptures  all 
the  time  of  supper,  meditating  on  the 
four  lakes  and  the  river,  and  the 
seventy-five  thousand  acres  of  land. 
Supper  at  last  was  ended,  and  a  new 
dance  formed.  Jack,  who  had  by  no 
means  neglected  either  the  cham- 
paign or  his  partner,  whispered  into 
her  ear,  '  Are  ye  all  riddy  now,  my 
sweet  Sibilla?  the  horses  must  be 
tired  waiting.' 

"  '  Weel,  since  ye  insist  upon't,  I'm 
all  ready  enough—  only  my  shawl  is 
in  the  leddy's  robing  room.' 

"  '  Is  it,  faith  ?'  said  Jack  ;  *  then  I'll 
go  for  it  this  moment.'  He  was 
back  with  the  speed  of  lightning, 
threw  ashawl  over  her  shoulders,  and 
without  attracting  any  observation, 
handed  her  down  stairs  into  the  post- 
chaise,  jumped  in  after  her,  and  rat- 
tled off  as  fast  as  the  horses  could 
gallop. 

"  Soon  after  this  the  old  sugar  mer- 
chant and  all  his  train  prepared  to 
take  their  departure.  I  waited  to 
hand  them  to  their  carriage,  but  the 
little  fat  old  woman,  his  wife,  came 
rushing  into  the  room,  kicking  up 
such  a  terrible  dust  —  '  Och  !'  cried 
she—*  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear!  Somebody 


928  Nights  at  Mess. 

has  taken  off  my  shawl — real  Ingy — 
worth  eighty  guineas  every  shilling 
— there's  a  thief  in  the  room  ! — only 
think ! ' 

"  Every  thing  was  thrown  into  the 
greatest  confusion;  some  of  the 
ladies  fainted,  and  ye  niver  saw  such 
an  uproar  in  yer  lives.  At  last,  it 
was  discovered,  when  every  lady  had 
taken  her  own  shawl,  that  the  only 
one  unclaimed  was  that  which  had 
been  worn  by  Miss  Sibilla  M'Scrae. 
That  lady  herself  was  nowhere  to  be 
found  ;  search  was  made  for  her 
everywhere  in  vain.  The  little  old 
woman  stormed  as  if  she  was  prac- 
tising for  bedlam, 

"•  This  comes,'  she  cried,  '  of  ha- 
ving beggarly  Scotch  governesses 
that  wear  cotton  shawls.  I've  sus- 
pected she  would  come  to  no  good 
ever  since  she  has  been  so  intimate 
with  the  potticary's  boy.' 

*'  '  Potticary's  boy  !'  thought  T, 
*  faith,  this  is  beyond  a  joke  entirely 
— 1  must  be  after  Jack ;'  so  I  slipt 
away  from  the  confusion,  got  into  a 
post-chaise  and  four,  and  set  oft'  in 
pursuit  of  O'Farrel,  hoping  to  over- 
take him  in  time  to  save  him  from 
marrying  an  heiress  without  a  penny, 
who  wore  nothing  but  cotton  shawls. 
In  the  meantime,  information  had 
been  given  that  the  lady  was  seen 
stepping  into  a  post-chaise,  accom- 
panied by  a  tall  man  in  a  cloak,  with 
very  red  whiskers — «  Oh,  pursue 
them!  pursue  them!'  cried  Mrs 
Fusby — *  the  wretch  has  stolen  my 
Ingy  shawl,  and  gone  off  with  the 
potticary's  boy — I  know  him  by  the 
description— his  hair  is  as  red  and 
coarse  as  unrefined  at  twopence  a- 
pound.'  Nothing  would  satisfy  her 
rage  but  instantly  giving  chase.  A 
magistrate  was  disturbed  from  his 
slumbers,  an  information  of  the  rob- 
bery laid  before  him,  and  in  a  very 
short  time  a  couple  of  constables 
were  scouring  down  the  road  with 
a  warrant  to  apprehend  the  suspected 
delinquents. 

"  Here  were  we  all  tearing  along — 
Jack  and  his  lady — myself — and  the 
two  thief-takers, — never  was  there 
such  a  race  in  the  memory  of  man. 
I  found  I  was  gaining  on  the  lovers 
every  stage,  and  when  I  got  to  a 
village  on  this  side  of  Durham,  I 
found  I  had  overshot  my  mark,  and 
actually  got  before  them.  I  dis- 
covered them  wore  two  roads  to  the 


[Juno, 


place,  and  that  as  it  was  the  only 
point  for  miles  and  miles  where  they 
could  change  horses,  they  must  come 
to  it  by  the  longer  road,  which  it 
seemed  they  must  have  taken.  Being 
quite  satisfied  with  this,  I  ordered 
myself  a  comfortable  breakfast,  and 
patiently  waited  their  arrival.  I  had 
laid  an  embargo  on  all  the  horses,  so 
I  was  certain  they  could  not  get  on 
without  my  knowledge.  Just  as  1 
was  sitting  down  to  my  stewed  fowl 
and  beef- steaks,  I  saw  their  carriage 
rattle  up  to  the  inn ;  and  in  a  few 
minutes  after,  another  chariot — pos- 
tilions hot — horses  all  of  a  tremble 
— drove  up  furiously  to  the  door. 
'Who  the  devil  can  this  be?'  thought 
I,  for  ye  see  I  knew  nothing  at  all 
about  the  thief- takers — *  Will  this  be 
another  couple,  I  wonder  ?'  But  when 
I  saw  twocoarse,  strong,  blackguard- 
looking  fellows  get  out,  I  could  not 
tell  what  to  make  of  the  whole  busi- 
ness. Out  of  the  first  carriage  came 
Jack  in  his  plain  clothes — for  I  for- 
got to  tell  ye  he  did  not  go  to  the 
ball  in  his  uniform — looking  very 
tired  and  sleepy — and  handed  out 
his  huge  raw-boned  partner,  whose 
beauty  was  by  no  means  increased 
by  her  night's  frolic.  I  did  not  ex- 
actly know  how  to  proceed  ;  so  I  sat 
down  to  my  breakfast,  and  enjoying 
the  thoughts  of  surprising  Jack ;  and 
consulting  with  myself  how  to  break 
the  matter  to  him  in  the  pleasantest 
manner.  But  my  cogitations  were 
broken  off  by  hearing  Jack,  who  was 
in  the  next  room  to  me,  only  divided 
by  a  thin  partition,  saying,  *  Well, 
gentlemen — the  divil  take  howld  of 
yer  sowls— what  do  ye  want  with 
me?' 

"«  Only  a  little  private  talk  with 
you,  sir — that's  all,'  said  one  of  the 
men  in  return. 

"  c  Niver  mind  yer  private  talks — 
say  your  say,  and  be  quick  about  it, 
or  by  the  piper  that' 

" '  Come,  come,  no  nonsense,  mas- 
ter,' said  the  man ;  *  you  know  well 
enough  what  we  be  come  about,  I 
daresay— did  ye  ever  hear  of  one  Mr 
Fusby,  sir  ?' 

"  *  Oho  !'  said  Jack, '  so  ye're  come 
about  that,  are  ye  ?  An'  ye'll  stop  us 
from  goin'  on  to  the  ind  of  our  jour- 
ney ?' 

"  *  Yes — back  you  must  go  with  us 
to  York — them  there  is  very  serious 
charges' 


al  3Fcs$, 


02  'J 


"  <  Ocli,  d— n  the  charges— I'll  pay 
all  yer  charges — ye  may  stop  here 
and  ate  and  drink  like  a  couple  of 
corporals—but  this  very  day  1'Jl  tind 
my  way  into  Scotland.' 

*« « We'll  see  about  that,'  replied  the 
man,  sulkily.  *  We  thought  you 
might  have  been  trusted  without 
the  irons,  but  the  gentleman  seems 
aixious  for  the  fetters.  Out  with 
them,  Tom'— to  his  companion. 

"  '  Fetters!'  said  Jack;  '  to  be 
sure  1  am  anxious  for  the  fetters ; 
and  the  owld  Blacksmith  will  fix 
them  as  tight  as  a  Bishop.' 

"  '  Bishop's  a  rare  good  'un,  no 
doubt,  sir,'  said  the  man ;  *  but  we 
can  do  that  as  well.' 

"'Do  that?  Do  what,  ye  spal- 
poens  ?' 

"  '  Why,  splice  you,  and  this  here 
lady  together,  sir ;  she's  an  accom- 
plice after  the  act.' 

"  '  After  what  act,  ye  brute  baste  ? 
We're  not  married  yet.' 

"  *  No,  nor  won't  be  this  bout. 
C  >ine,  out  with  the  darbies,  Tom; 
w-3  hain't  time  to  be  palavering  here 
al  day.' 

"  '  Hark  ye,  gintlemen,'  said  Jack, 
growing  more  and  more  enraged  and 
astonished,  *  this  window  is  pretty 
hi  *b,  thank  God,  and  will  break  a 
gi  itleman's  neck  very  prettily  ;»  so  I 
advise  ye  to  be  off,  and  out  of  hear- 
ing, before  I  can  crack  this  egg,  or, 
by  the  poker,  your  wives  may  buy 
th  J,ir  mourning.5 

"'  Come,  come,'  replied  the  man, 
no  ways  daunted,  *  we  must  have 
no  more  of  your  blarney  ;  we  are  up 
to  all  such  tricks.  You  are  suspect- 
ed of  stealing  Mrs  Fusby's  proper- 
ty/ 

4 '  Is  it  you  they  mane,  my  dear  ?' 
sa  d  Jack  to  the  lady.  '  Ye  may  go 
back,  my  men,  as  fast  as  ye  plase, 
and  tell  the  little  fat  owld  woman, 
thi'  sugar-seller's  wife,  with  my  com- 
pliments, that  Miss  Sibilla  M'Scrae, 
of  Glen  Buckie  and  Ben  Scart,  is 
not  her  property  at  all ;  and  is  very 
much  obliged  to  her  for  her  care, 
but  will  keep  what  she  has  got.' 

"  '  Will  keep  what  she  stole  off 
with?'" 

"  *  Just  so,'  said  Jack,  nodding  his 
heid. 

ic  *  And  do  you  confess,'  continued 
th<  man,  *  that  she  has  got  the  arti- 
cle with  her  ?' 

"  *  Ye  may  say  so,  when  ye  write 

VOL.  XXXIII.  NO.  CCIX. 


home  to  ycr  friends  ;  and  a  very 
pretty  article  too,  don't  ye  think  so, 
my  dear?'  said  Jack,  drawing  him- 
self up,  and  looking  as  pleased  as 
Punch. 

"  *  And  you  won't  give  it  up  ?'  said 
the  man. 

"  *  By  no  manes.' 

"  *  Then  we  must  force  you.' 

"  *  Och,  must  ye  ?'  said  Jack  ;  *  and 
I'm  particularly  obliged  to  ye  for  yer 
kindness.' 

"  I  now  heard  a  scuffle;  and  two 
heavy  falls,  rapidly  succeeding  each 
other,  made  me  recognise  Jack's  one, 
two.  In  a  moment  1  rushed  into  the 
room,  nearly  killed  with  laughter  at 
all  the  conversation,  and  there  I 
found  Jack,  his  nostrils  widened 
with  passion,  and  his  whiskers  red- 
der than  usual,  standing  over  the 
two  unfortunate  strangers,  who  were 
groaning  most  piteously  on  the  floor. 
The  moment  he  -saw  me,  he  burst 
into  one  of  his  wildest  shouts  of  joy. 
—  *  Och,  only  look  here,  O'Looney, 
my  darlint;  these  two  gintlemen 
with  the  bloody  faces  are  friends  of 
Mr  Fusby,  and  are  sent  off  to  stop 
our  journey  to  Gretna  Green.' 

"  '  And  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it, 
Jack,'  said  I. 

"'  I  call  you  to  witness,  sir,'  said 
one  of  the  men,  getting  up,  and  put- 
ting  a  handkerchief  to  his  eye  ;  *  we 
are  deforced  in  the  execution  of  our 
duty.  I  order  you  to  assist  us  in  the 
King's  name.' 

"  '  Faith  will  I,  willingly,'  said  I. 

"  Jack  upon  this  was  almost  cho- 
ked with  passion.  He  stood  and  scowl- 
ed at  us  all,  and  then  folding  his 
arms  across  his  chest,  asked,  as  quiet- 
ly as  he  could  —  *  An'  tell  me  now, 
gintlemen,  what  it  is  ye  really 
want  ?' 

"  '  We  want  possession  of  your 
body.  This  here  is  our  authority,' 
said  the  constable. 

"  '  My  body  ?—  Ye  hell-dog,  are  ye 
a  set  of  doctors?  and  do  ye  think 
I'm  a  corpse  ?' 

"  *  No,'  said  the  man,  '  we  don't 
take  you  for  no  such  thing.  It's 
likely  you  know  more  of  doctors  and 
corpses  nor  we  do.  Ain't  you  a 
pottercarrier's  boy  ?' 

"  *  Pottercan  ier  !  D'ye  mane  an 
apothecary  ?  and  do  ye  take  me  for 
his  boy?  me,  me>  John  O'Farrell, 
Esquire,  that  is  so  soon  to  be  pro- 
prietor of  seventy-five  thousand 
3o 


930  Nights 

acres  of  land,  besides  Lord  knows 
how  many  lakes  and  rivers  ?  Ocb, 
ye  infernal  scoundrels,  I'll  physic 
ye.' 

"  Saying  this,  he  advanced  to  mur- 
der the  two  men,  but  I  stopt  him, 
and  said,  '  Listen  to  me,  Jack ;  you 
shall  not  go  to  Gretna  Green  this 
time.  She's  nothing  but  a  gover- 
ness, that  taches  little  girls  to  spell, 
and  ate  bread  and  butter  without 
dirtying  their  fingers.' 

" '  Who  do  ye  mane,  O'Looney  ?— 
Miss  Sibilla  M'Scrae  of  Glen  Buc- 
kie  and  Ben  Scart  ?' 

"  <  Yes,  faith  do  I,'  said  I,  «  and  no 
other.  Ask  her.' 

"  Jack  turned  round  to  the  lady, 
and  said, '  Pray,  madam,  do  ye  tache 
little  girls  to  ate  bread  and  butter 
and  spell  without  dirtying  their  fin- 
gers ?  Are  ye  not  one  of  the  heiresses 
of  all  the  fine  land  and  water  you 
towld  me  off?'  The  lady,  though 
I  suppose  she  felt  her  position  a  lit- 
tle uncomfortable,  was  not  very 
easily  frightened,  and  brazened  it  as 
bold  as  a  statue. 

"  '  To  be  sure,'  she  said,  *  I'm  go- 
verness to  the  wee  children  at  Mr 
Fusby's,  and  learn  them  hoo  to  speak 
English.  Ye  never  askit  me  that. 
But  I'm  heiress,  for  a'  that,  to  Glen 
Buckie  and  Ben  Scarf.' 

"  '  And  what  may  the  riot-roll  be, 
madam  ?'  said  Jack,  looking  rather 
more  peaceable. 

"  *  Oo,  'deed,  the  rent-roll's  just 
nothing,  for  it's  a'  hill  grund,  excep' 
the  moss.' 

"  Jack  made  a  low  bow,  took  her 
by  the  hand,  and  led  her  to  the  po- 
licemen. '  Gintlemen/  he  said,  '  let 
me  present  you  with  the  lady  that 
has  caused  all  this  uproar,  and  Mrs 
Fusby  is  quite  welcome  to  her  pro- 
perty again.' 

"  *  That  won't  do,  sir,'  said  the 
man,  who  now  began  to  recover  his 
confidence.  *  Here  we  are  sent  out 
after  this  lady  and  you,  on  suspicion 
of  your  having  stolen  a  piece  of 
goods.' 

"  '  And  a  pretty  piece  of  goods  she 
is,'  said  Jack,  '  to  talk  to  me  of  her 
seventy-five  thousand  acres  of  laud  ! 
Take  her,  I  say.' 

"  '  Yes,  we"'ll  take  her  into  eus- 


at  Mess.  [June, 

tody,  and  you  too,  in  spite  of  your 
fine  talking.  She's  thought  to  have 
stolen  Mrs  Fusby's  shawl  last  night  in 
the  ball  room ;  and  by  the  descrip- 
tion, that's  it  lying  on  the  sofa.' 

"  *  Whew !'  said  Jack,  who  now 
discovered  the  mistake.  '  Och,  I  see 
it  all  now — this  bates  Bannagher  en- 
tirely. Why,  ye  villains,  I  took  the 
shawl.' 

"  *  I  call  you  to  witness,  sir,  he 
confesses  the  robbery/  said  the  man, 
addressing  himself  to  me. 

"  '  Keep  the  tongue  in  your  head, 
ye  rapscallion !'  continued  Jack. 
*  How  the  divil  should  I  know  whose 
shawl  it  was  ?  I  took  the  first  that 
came.  I  tell  ye,  that  on  the  word  of 
a  gintleman  and  an  officer' 

"  *  O,  sir,'  said  the  man,  *  we  are 
all  officers  here — police-officer,  or 
medical  officer,  it's  all  the  same,  I 
reckon/ 

"  I  now  saw  the  whole  business, 
and  was  like  to  die  with  laughing  at 
the  man  continuing  to  believe  Jack 
the  apothecary's  apprentice.  How- 
ever, I  undertook  to  be  answerable 
for  Jack's  appearance,  and  he  and  I 
returned  in  one  chaise  to  York.  The 
matter  was  easily  explained  to  Mrs 
*  Fusby,  and  even  Miss  Sibilla  was  for- 
given. I'm  not  quite  sure  what  be- 
came of  her  afterwards;  but  I  sup- 
pose she  eloped  with  somebody  else, 
for  the  example  of  our  regiment 
made  a  flyaway  match  indispensable 
among  all  ranks  of  the  people.  I  won 
my  wager  off  Jack,  who  told  me,  that 
all  the  way  down  he  had  been  think- 
ing, that  if  he  made  all  possihle  al- 
lowances for  the  number  of  her 
sisters  —  saying  even  she  had  se- 
venty-four of  them — he,  would  still 
step  into  possession  of  a  snug  little 
farm  of  a  thousand  acres,  besides  his 
share  of  the  four  lakes  and  the  river. 
Now,  wasn't  that  a  narrow  escape 
from  the  blacksmith  ?" 

"  Yes — and  now,  Colonel,"  said 
we  all  in  a  breath,  "  tell  us  your  own 
adventure?" 

Colonel  O'Looney  sighed,  and 
shook  his  head.  "  No,  no,  my  lads, 
no  more  stories  to-night — I'll  keep 
mine  for  some  other  occasion.  In 
the  meantime,  pass  round  the  bottles, 
and  keep  them  constantly  moving." 


1833.] 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


931 


THE  FALL  OF  TURKEY.* 


THE  long  duration  and  sudden  fall 
of  the  Turkish  Empire  is  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  and  apparently 
nexplicable  phenomena  in  European 
listory.  The  decay  of  the  Ottoman 
jower  had  been  constantly  the  theme 
)f  historians ;  their  approaching 
'lownfall,  the  unceasing  subject  of 
irophecy  for  a  century;  but  yet  the 
ancient  fabric  still  held  out,  and 
evinced  on  occasions  a  degree  of 
vigour  which  confounded  all  the 
nachinations  of  its  enemies.  For 
eighty  years,  the  subversion  of  the 
empire  of  Constantinople  had  been 
the  unceasing  object  of  Moscovite 
ambition :  the  genius  of  Catherine 
had  been  incessantly  directed  to  that 
p-eat  object ;  a  Russian  prince  christ- 
ened after  the  last  of  the  Paleeologi 
expressly  to  receive  his  throne,  but 
yet  the  black  eagle  made  little  pro- 
gress towards  the  Danube;  the  Mus- 
£  ulman  forces  arrayed  on  its  banks 
were  still  most  formidable,  and  a 
host  arrayed  under  the  "banners  of 
the  Osmanleys,  seemingly  capable 
of  making  head  against  the  world. 
For  four  years,  from  1808  to  1812, 
the  Russians  waged  a  desperate  war 
with  the  Turks ;  they  brought  fre- 
( uently  150,000,  sometimes  200,000 
nen  into  the  field;  but  at  its  close 
tiiey  had  made  no  sensible  progress 
i  i  the  reduction  of  the  bulwarks  of 
Islamism :  two  hundred  thousand 
I  lussulmaris  had  frequently  assem- 
l  led  round  the  banners  of  the  Pro- 
jhet;  the  Danube  had  been  stained 
\  rith  blood,  but  the  hostile  armies 
still  contended  in  doubtful  and  des- 
perate strife  on  its  shores;  and  on 
t  ic  glacis  of  Schumlathe  Muscovites 
had  sustained  a  bloodier  defeat  than 
t  icy  ever  received  from  the  genius 
o  f  Napoleon.  In  the  triumph  of  the 
T  urks  at  that  prodigious  victory,  the 
^  izier  wrote  exultingly  to  the  Grand 
Seignior,  that  such  was  the  multitude 
of  the  Infidel  heads  which  he  had 
t;  .ken,  that  they  would  make  a  bridge 


for  the  souls  of  the  Faithful  from 
earth  to  heaven. 

But  though  then  so  formidable,  the 
Ottoman  power  has  within  these 
twenty  years  rapidly  and  irrecover- 
ably declined.  The  great  barrier  of 
Turkey  was  reached  in  the  first  cam- 
paign of  the  next  war,  the  Balkan 
yielded  to  Russian  genius  in  the  se- 
cond, and  Adrianople,  the  ancient 
capital  of  the  Osmanleys,  became 
celebrated  for  the  treaty  which  seal- 
ed for  ever  the  degradation  of  their 
race.  On  all  sides  the  provinces  of 
the  Empire  have  revolted :  Greece, 
through  a  long  and  bloody  contest, 
has  at  length  worked  out  its  deliver- 
ance from  all  but  its  own  passions ; 
the  ancient  war-cry  of  Byzantium, 
Victory  to  the  Cross,  has  been  again 
heard  on  the  Egean  Sea;f  and  the  Pa- 
cha of  Egypt,  taking  advantage  of  the 
weakness  consequent  on  so  many 
reverses,  has  boldly  thrown  off  the 
yoke,  and  advancing  from  Acre  in 
the  path  of  Napoleon,  shewn  to  the 
astonished  world  the  justice  of  that 

treat  man's  remark,  that  his  defeat 
y  Sir  Sidney  Smith  under  its  walls 
made  him  miss  his  destiny.  The 
victory  of  Koniah  prostrated  the 
Asiatic  power  of  Turkey;  the  stan- 
dards of  Mehemet  Ali  are  rapidly 
approaching  the  Seraglio;  and  the 
discomfited  Sultan  is  driven  to  take 
refuge  under  the  suspicious  shelter 
of  the  Russian  legions.  Already  the 
advanced  guard  of  Nicholas  has 
passed  the  Bosphorus ;  the  Moscovite 
standards  are  floating  at  Scutari;  and, 
to  the  astonishment  alike  of  Europe 
and  Asia,  the  keys  of  the  Dardanelles, 
the  throne  of  Constantine,  are  laid  at 
the  feet  of  the  Czar. 

The  unlooked  for  rapidity  of  these 
events,  is  not  more  astonishing  than 
tne  weakness  which  the  Mussulmans 
have  evinced  in  their  last  struggle. 
The  Russians,  in  the  late  campaign, 
never  assembled  40,000  men  in  the 
field.  In  the  battle  of  the  1 1  th  June, 


*  Travels  in  Turkey,  by  F.  Slade,  Esq.     London,  1832. 

f  When  the  brave  Canaris  passed  under  the  bows  of  the  Turkish  admiral's  ship,  to 
w  .rich  he  had  grappled  the  fatal  fireship,  at  Scio,  the  crew  in  his  boat  exclaimed  "  Victory 
U  the  Cross!"  theold  war-cry  of  Byzantium,-^*GoRJDON's  Greek  Revolution,  i,  274. 


93J 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


[June, 


which  decided  the  fate  of  the  war, 
Diebitsch  had  only  £36,000  soldiers 
under  arms  ;  yet  this  small  force 
routed  the  Turkish  army,  and  laid 
open  the  far- famed  passes  of  the 
Balkan  to  the  daring  genius  of  its 
leader.  Christendom  looked  in  vain 
for  the  mighty  host  which,  at  the 
sight  of  the  holy  banner,  was  wont  to 
assemble  round  the  standard  of  the 
Prophet;  the  ancient  courage  of  the 
Osmanleys  seemed  to  have  perished 
with  their  waning  fortunes;  hardly 
could  the  Russian  outposts  keep  pace 
with  them  in  the  rapidity  of  their 
flight ;  and  a  force,  reduced  by  sick- 
ness to  twenty  thousand  men,  dicta- 
ted peace  to  the  Ottomans  within 
twenty  hours'  march  of  Constanti- 
nople. More  lately,  the  once  dreaded 
throne  of  Turkey  has  become  a  jest 
to  its  ancient  provinces ;  the  Pasha 
of  Egypt,  once  the  most  inconsider- 
able of  its  vassals,  has  compelled  the 
Sublime  Porte,  the  ancient  terror  of 
Christendom,  to  seek  for  safety  in 
the  protection  of  Infidel  battalions ; 
and  the  throne  of  Constantine,  inca- 
pable of  self-defence,  is  ultimately 
destined  to  become  the  prize  for 
which  Moscovite  ambition  and  Ara- 
bian audacity  are  to  contend  on  the 
glittering  shores  of  Scutari. 

But  if  the  weakness  of  the  Otto- 
mans is  surprising,  the  supineness  of 
the  European  powers  is  not  less  ama- 
zing at  this  interesting  crisis.  The 
power  of  Russia  has  long  been  a 
subject  of  alarm  to  France,  and  ha- 
ving twice  seen  the  Cossacks  at  the 
Tuileries,  it  is  not  surprising  that 
they  should  feel  somewhat  nervous 
ateveryaddition  to  its  strength.  Eng- 
land, jealous  of  its  maritime  superi- 
ority, and  apprehensive — whether 
reasonably  or  not  is  immaterial — of 
danger  to  her  Indian  possessions,froni 
the  growth  of  Russian  power  in  Asia, 
has  long,1  made  it  a  fixed  principle  of 
her  policy  to  coerce  the  ambitious 
designs  of  the  Cabinet  of  St  Peters- 
burg, and  twice  she  has  saved  Turkey 
from  their  grasp.  When  the  Rus- 
sians and  Austrians,  in  1786,  project- 
ed an  alliance  for  its  partition,  and 
Catherine  and  Joseph  had  actually 
•met  on  the  Wolga  to  arrange  its  de- 
tails, Mr  Pitt  interposed,  and  by  the 
influence  of  England  prevented  the 
design  :  and  when  Diebitsch  was  in 
full  march  for  Constantinople,  and 
the  insurrection  of  the  Janissaries 


only  waited  for  the  sight  of  the  Cos- 
sacks to  break  out,  and  overturn  the 
throne  of  Mahmoud,  the  strong  arm 
of  Wellington  interfered,  put  a  curb 
in  the  mouth  of  Russia,  and  postpo- 
ned for  a  season  the  fall  of  the  Turk- 
ish power.  Now,  however,  every 
thing  is  changed  ; — France  and  Eng- 
land,, occupied  with  domestic  dissen- 
sions, are  utterly  paralysed ;  they  can 
no  longer  make  a  shew  of  resistance 
to  Moscovite  ambition  ;  exclusively 
occupied  in  preparing  the  downfall 
of  her  ancient  allies,  the  Dutch  and 
the  Portuguese,  England  has  not  a 
thought  to  bestow  on  the  occupation 
of  the  Dardanelles,  and  the  keys  of 
the  Levant  are,  without  either  obser- 
vation or  regret,  passing  to  the  hands 
of  Russia. 

These  events  are  so  extraordinary, 
that  they  almost  make  the  boldest 
speculator  hold  his  breath.  Great  as 
is  the  change  in  external  events 
which  we  daily  witness,  the  altera- 
tion in  internal  feeling  is  still  greater. 
Changes  which  would  have  convul- 
sed England  from  end  to  end,  dan- 
gers which  would  have  thrown  Eu- 
ropean diplomacy  into  agonies  a  few 
years  ago,  are  now  regarded  with 
indifference.  The  progress  of  Russia 
through  Asia,  the  capture  of  Erivan 
and  Erzeroum,  the  occupation  of  the 
Dardanelles,  are  now  as  little  regard- 
ed as  if  we  had  no  interest  in  such 
changes ;  as  if  we  had  no  empire  in 
the  East  threatened  by  so  ambitious 
a  neighbour ;  no  independence  at 
stake  in  the  growth  of  the  Colossus 
of  northern  Europe. 

The  reason  is  apparent,  and  it  af- 
fords the  first  great  and  practical 
proof  which  England  has  yet  recei- 
ved of  the  fatal  blow,  which  the  re- 
cent changes  have  struck,  not  only  at 
her  internal  prosperity,  but  her  ex- 
ternal independence.  England  is  now 
powerless ;  and,  what  is  worse,  the 
European  powers  know  it.  Her  Go- 
vernment is  so  incessantly  and  ex- 
clusively occupied  in  maintaining 
its  ground  against  the  internal  ene- 
mies whom  the  Reform  Bill  has 
raised  up  into  appalling  strength;  the 
necessity  of  sacrificing  something  to 
the  insatiable  passions  of  the  Revo- 
lutionists is  so  apparent,  that  every 
other  object  is  disregarded:  the  allies 
by  whose  aid  they  overthrew  the 
constitution,  have  turned  so  fiercely 
upon  them,  that  they  are  forced  to 


1838.] 

strain  every  nerve  to  resist  these  do- 
mestic enemies.  Who  can  think  of 
the  occupation  of  Scutari,  when  the 
malt  tax  is  threatened  with  repeal  ? 
Who  care  for  the  thunders  of  Nicho- 
las, when  the  threats  of  O'Connellare 
ringing  in  their  ears?  The  English 
Government,  once  so  stable  and 
steadfast  in  its  resolutions,  when 
rested  on  the  firm  rock  of  the  Aris- 
iocracy,hasbecome  unstable  as  water 
since  it  was  thrown  for  its  support 
upon  the  Democracy  :  its  designs  are 
as  changeable,  its  policy  as  fluctua- 
1  ing,  as  the  volatile  and  inconsiderate 
mass  from  which  it  sprung;  and 
hence  its  menaces  are  disregarded, 
its  ancient  relations  broken,  its  old 
ullies  disgusted,  and  the  weight  of  its 
influence  being  no  longer  felt,  pro- 
jects the  most  threatening  to  its  in- 
dependence are  without  hesitation 
undertaken  by  other  States. 

Nor  is  the  supineness  and  apathy 
c-f  the  nation  less  important  or  alarm- 
ing. It  exists  to  such  an  extent  as 
clearly  to  demonstrate,  that  not  only 
fire  the  days  of  its  glory  numbered, 
l-ut  the  termination  even  of  its  inde- 
pendence may  be  foreseen  at  no  dis- 
tint  period.  Enterprises  the  most 
lostile  to  its  interests,  conquests  the 
most  fatal  to  its  glory,  are  undertaken 
ly  its  rivals  not  only  without  the  dis- 
approbation, but  with  the  cordial 
support,  of  the  majority  of  the  nation, 
Portugal,  for  a  century  the  ally  of 
England,  for  whose  defence  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  Englishmen  had  died 
in  our  own  times,  has  been  abandon- 
ed without  a  murmur  to  the  revolu- 
tionary spoliation  and  propagandist 
arts  of  France.  Holland,  the*bulwark 
of  England,  for  whose  protection  the 
great  war  with  France  was  underta- 
ken, has  been  assailed  by  British 
fleets,  and  threatened  by  British 
power;  and  the  shores  of  the  Scheldt, 
which  beheld  the  victorious  legions 
of  Wellington  land  to  curb  the  power 
of  Napoleon,  have  witnessed  the 
union  of  the  Tricolor  and  British 
flags,  to  beat  down  the  independence 
or  the  Dutch  provinces.  Constanti- 
nople, long  regarded  as  the  outpost 
of  India  against  the  Russians,  is 
abandoned  without  regret  ;  and, 
aindst  the  strife  of  internal  faction, 
tie  fixing  of  the  Moscovite  standards 
on  the  shores  of  the  Bosphorus,  the 
transference  of  the  finest  harbour  in 
tie  world  to  a  growing  maritime 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


933 

power,  and  of  the  entrepot  of  Europe 
and  Asia  to  an  already  formidable 
commercial  state,  is  hardly  the  sub- 
ject of  observation. 

The  reason  cannot  be  concealed, 
and  is  too  clearly  illustrative  of  the 
desperate  tendency  of  the  recent 
changes  upon  all  the  classes  of  the 
Empire.  With  the  Revolutionists 
the  passion  for  change  has  supplant- 
ed every  other  feeling,  and  the  spirit 
of  innovation  has  extinguished  that 
of  patriotism.  They  no  longer  league 
in  thought,  or  word,  or  wish,  exclu- 
sively with  their  own  countrymen  ; 
they  no  longer  regard  the  interests 
and  glory  of  England,  as  the  chief 
objects  of  their  solicitude ;  what  they 
look  to  is  the  revolutionary  party  in 
other  States ;  what  they  sympathize 
with,  the  progress  of  the  Tricolor  in 
overturning  other  dynasties.  The 
loss  of  British  dominion,  the  loss  of 
British  colonies,  the  downfall  of  Bri- 
tish power,  the  decay  of  British  glory, 
the  loss  of  British  independence,  is 
to  them  a  matter  of  no  sort  of  regret, 
provided  the  tricolor  is  triumphant, 
and  the  cause  of  revolution  is  making 
progress  in  the  world.  Well  and 
truly  did  Mr  Burke  say,  that  the 
spirit  of  patriotism  and  Jacobinism 
could  not  coexist  in  the  same  State ; 
and  that  the  greatest  national  disas- 
ters are  lightly  passed  over,  provided 
they  bring  with  them  the  advance  of 
domestic  ambition. 

The  Conservatives,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  so  utterly  desperate  in  re- 
gard to  the  future  prospects  of  the 
Empire,  from  the  vacillation  and  vio- 
lence of  the  Democratic  party  who 
are  installed  in  sovereignty,  that  ex- 
ternal events,  even  of  the  most  threat- 
ening character,  are  regarded  by 
them  but  as  dust  in  the  balance, when 
compared  with  the  domestic  calami- 
ties which  are  staring  us  in  the  face. 
What  although  the  ingratitude  and 
tergiversation  of  England  to  Holland 
have  deprived  us  of  all  respect 
among  foreign  States  ?  That  evil, 
great  as  it  is,  is  nothing  to  the  do- 
mestic embarrassments  which  over- 
whelm the  country  from  the  unruly 
spirit  which  the  Whigs  fostered  with 
such  sedulous  care  during  the  Re- 
form contest.  What  although  the 
empire  of  the  Mediterranean,  and 
ultimately  our  Indian  possessions, 
are  menaced  by  the  ceaseless  growth 
of  Russia ;  the  measures  which  Go- 


934 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


[June 


vernment  have  in  contemplation  for 
the  management  of  that  vast  domi- 
nion, will  sever  it  from  the  British 
Empire  before  any  danger  is  felt  from 
external  foes ;  and  long  ere  the  Mos- 
covite  eagles  are  seen  on  the  banks 
of  the  Indus,  the  insane  measures  of 
the  Ten  Pounders  will  have  banished 
the  British  standards  from  the  plains 
of  Hindostan. 

Every  thing,  in  short,  announces 
that  the  external  weight  and  foreign 
importance  of  Great  Britain  are  irre- 
coverably lost ;  and  that  the  passing 
of  the  Reform  Bill  has  truly  been  the 
death-warrant  of  the  British  Empire. 
The  Russians  are  at  Constantinople ! 
the  menaces,  the  entreaties  of  Eng- 
land, are  alike  disregarded ;  and  the 
ruler  of  the  seas  has  submitted  in 
two  years  to  descend  to  the  rank  of 
a  second-rate  power.  That  which  a 
hundred  defeats  could  have  hardly 
effected  to  old  England,  is  the  very 
first  result  of  the  innovating  system 
upon  which  new  England  has  enter- 
ed. The  Russians  are  at  Constanti- 
nople !  How  would  the  shade  of 
Chatham,  or  Pitt,  or  Fox  thrill  at  the 
announcement !  But  it  makes  no 
sort  of  impression  on  the  English 
people :  as  little  as  the  robbery  of 
the  Portuguese  fleet  by  the  French, 
or  the  surrender  of  the  citadel  of 
Antwerp  to  the  son-in-law  of  Louis- 
Philippe.  In  this  country  we  have 
arrived,  in  an  inconceivably  short 
space  of  time,  at  that  weakness,  dis- 
union, and  indifference  to  all  but 
revolutionary  objects,  which  is  at 
once  the  forerunner  and  the  cause 
of  national  ruin. 

But  leaving  these  mournful  topics, 
it  is  more  instructive  to  turn  to  the 
causes  which  have  precipitated,  in  so 
short  a  space  of  time,  the  fall  of  the 
Turkish  Empire.  Few  more  curious 
or  extraordinary  phenomena  are  to 
be  met  with  in  the  page  of  history. 
It  will  be  found  that  the  Ottomans 
have  fallen  a  victim  to  the  same  pas- 
sion for  innovation  and  reform  which 
have  proved  so  ruinous  both  in  this 
and  a  neighbouring  country ;  and 
that,  while  the  bulwarks  of  Turkey 
were  thrown  down  by  the  rude  hand 
of  Mahmoud,  the  States  of  Western 
Europe  were  disabled,  by  the  same 
frantic  course,  from  rendering  him 
any  effectual  aid.  How  well  in  every 
age  has  the  spirit  of  Jacobinism  and 
revolutionary  passion  aided  the 


march,  and  hastened  the  growth  of 
Russia! 

The  fact  of  the  long  duration  of 
Turkey,  in  ihe  midst  of  the  monar- 
chies of  Europe,  and  the  stubborn 
resistance  which  she  opposed  for  a 
series  of  ages  to  the  attacks  of  the 
two  greatest  of  its  military  powers, 
is  of  itself  sufficient  to  demonstrate 
that  the  accounts  on  which  we  had 
been  accustomed  to  rely  of  the  con- 
dition of  the  Ottoman  Empire  were 
partial  or  exaggerated.  No  fact  is 
so  universally  demonstrated  by  his- 
tory as  the  rapid  and  irrecoverable 
decline  of  barbarous  powers,  when 
the  career  of  conquest  is  once  ter- 
minated. Where  is  now  the  Empire 
of  the  Caliphs  or  the  Moors  ?  What 
has  survived  of  the  conquests,  one 
hundred  years  ago,  of  Nadir  Shah  ? 
How  long  did  the  Empire  of  Aureng- 
zebe,  the  throne  of  the  Great  Mogul, 
resist  the  attacks  of  England,  even 
at  the  distance  of  ten  thousand  miles 
from  the  parent  state  ?  How  then 
did  it  happen  that  Turkey  so  long 
resisted  the  spoiler  ?  What  conser- 
vative principle  has  enabled  the  Os- 
manleys  so  long  to  avoid  the  degra- 
dation which  so  rapidly  overtakes  all 
barbarous  and  despotic  empires;  and 
what  has  communicated  to  their  vast 
empire  a  portion  of  the  undecaying 
vigour  which  has  hitherto  been  con- 
sidered as  the  grand  characteristic 
of  European  civilisation  ?  The  an- 
swer to  these  questions  will  both  un- 
fold the  real  causes  of  the  long  en- 
durance, and  at  length  the  sudden 
fall,  of  the  Turkish  Empire. 

Though  the  Osmanleys  were  an 
Asiatic  power,  and  ruled  entirely  on 
the  principles  of  Asiatic  despotism, 
yet  their  conquests  were  effected  in 
Europe,  or  in  those  parts  of  Asia  in 
which,  from  the  influence  of  the 
Crusades,  or  of  the  Roman  institu- 
tions which  survived  their  invasion, 
a  certain  degree  of  European  civili- 
sation remained.  It  is  difficult  utter- 
ly to  exterminate  the  institutions  of 
a  country  where  they  have  been  long 
established ;  those  of  the  Christian 
provinces  of  the  Roman  Empire  have 
in  part  survived  all  the  dreadful  tem- 
pests which  for  the  last  six  centuries 
have  passed  over  their  surface.  It  is 
these  remnants  of  civilisation,  it  is 
the  institutions  which  still  linger 
among  the  vanquished  people,  which 
have  BO  long  preserved  the  Turkish 


1833.]  The  Fall 

provinces  from  decay ;  and  it  is  these 
ancient  bulwarks,  which  the  innova- 
ting passions  of  Mahmoud  have  now 
destroyed. 

1.  The  first  circumstance  which 
upheld,  amidst  its  numerous  defects, 
the  Ottoman  Empire,  was  the  rights 
conceded  on  the  first  conquest  of  the 
country  by  Mahomet  to  the  dere  beys 
or  ancient  nobles  of  Asia  Minor,  and 
which  the  succeeding  Sultans  have 
been  careful  to  maintain  inviolate. 
These  dere  beys  all  capitulated  with 
the  conqueror,  and  obtained  the  im- 
portant privileges  of  retaining  their 
lands  in  perpetuity  for  their  descend- 
ants, and  of  paying  a  fixed  tribute  in 
money  and  men  to  the  Sultan.  In 
other  words,  they  were  a  hereditary 
noblesse  ;  and  as  they  constituted  the 
great  strength  of  the  empire  in  its 
Asiatic  provinces,  they  have  preser- 
ved their  privilege  through  all  suc- 
ceeding reigns.  The  following  is  the 
description  given  of  them  by  the  in- 
telligent traveller  whose  work  is  pre- 
fixed to  this  article  : — 

"  The  dere  beys,"  says  Mr  Slade,  "  literally 
lords  of  the  valleys,  an  expression  peculiarly 
idapted  to  the  country,  which  presents  a 
series  of  oval  valleys,  surrounded  by  ramparts 
>f  hills,  were  the  original  possessors  of  those 
>arts  of  Asia  Minor,  which  submitted,  under 
eudal  conditions,  to  the  Ottomans.  Between 
;he  conquest  of  Brussa  and  the  conquest  of 
Constantinople,  a  lapse  of  more  than  a  cen- 
~  ury,  chequered  by  the  episode  of  Tamerlane, 
heir  faith  was  precarious  ;  but  after  the  lat- 
er event,  Mahomet  II.  bound  their  submis- 
;ion,  and  finally  settled  the  terms  of  their  ex- 
stence.  He  confirmed  them  in  their  lands, 
:  ubject,  however,  to  tribute,  and  to  quotas 
if  troops  in  war  ;  and  he  absolved  the  head 
*  >f  each  family  for  ever  from  personal  ser- 
"ice.  The  last  clause  was  the  most  impor- 
1  ant,  as  thereby  the  Sultan  had  no  power 
i  ver  their  lives,  nor  consequently,  could  be 
1  heir  heirs,  that  despotic  power  being  lawful 
(  ver  those  only  in  the  actual  service  of  the 
}  'orte.  The  families  of  the  dere  beys,  there- 
1  >re,  became  neither  impoverished  nor  cx- 
t  inct.  It  would  be  dealing  in  truisms  to 
t  numerate  the  advantages  enjoyed  by  the 
( istricts  of  these  noblemen  over  the  rest  of 
1  lie  empire  ;  they  Averc  oases  in  the  desert  : 
1  lieir  owners  had  more  than  a  life  interest  in 
1  lie  soil,  they  were  born  and  lived  among  the 
]  eople,  and,  being  hereditarily  rich,  had  no 
c  ccasion  to  create  a  private  fortune,  each 
}car,  after  the  tribute  due  was  levied. 
"Whereas,  in  a  pashalick,  the  people  are 
s  rained  every  year  to  double  or  treble  the 
9  uount  of  the  impost,  since  the  pasha,  who 
j  ays  for  his  situation,  must  also  be  enrich* 


of  Turkey.  935 

ed.  The  devotion  of  the  dependents  of  the 
dere  beys  was  great :  at  a  whistle,  the  Car'- 
osinan-Oglous,  the  Tchapan-Oglous,  the 
Ellczar-Oglous,  (theprincipal  Asiatic  families 
that  survive, )  could  raise,  each,  from  ten  thou- 
sand to  twenty  thousand  horsemen,  and  equip 
them.  Hence  the  facility  with  which  the  .Sul- 
tans, up  to  the  present  century,  drew  such  large 
bodies  of  cavalry  into  the  iield.  The  dere 
b?ys  have  always  furnished,  and  maintained, 
the  greatest  part ;  and  there  is  not  one  in- 
stance, since  the  conquest  of  Constantinople, 
of  one  of  these  great  families  raising  the  stand- 
ard of  revolt.  The  pashas  invariably  have. 
The  reasons,  respectively,  are  obvious.  The 
dere  bey  was  sure  of  keeping  his  possessions 
by  right ;  the  pasha  of  losing  his  by  custom, 
unless  he  had  money  to  bribe  the  Porte,  or 
force  to  intimidate  it. 

These  provincial  nobles,  whose  rights  had 
been  respected  during  four  centuries,  by  a 
series  of  twenty-four  sovereigns,  had  two 
crimes  in  the  eyes  of  Mahmoud  II.  :  they 
held  their  property  from  their  ancestors,  and 
they  had  riches.  To  alter  the  tenure  of  the 
former,  the  destination  of  the  latter,  was  his 
object.  The  dere  beys — unlike  the  seraglio 
dependents,  brought  up  to  distrust  their  own 
shadows — had  no  causes  for  suspicion,  and 
therefore  became  easy  dupes  of  the  grossest 
treachery.  The  unbending  spirits  were  re- 
moved to  another  world,  the  flexible  were 
despoiled  of  their  wealth.  Some  few  await 
their  turn,  or,  their  eyes  opened,  prepare  to 
resist  oppression.  Car'osman  Oglou,  for 
example,  was  summoned  to  Constantinople, 
where  expensive  employments,  forced  on  him 
during  several  years,  reduced  his  ready  cash  ; 
while  a  follower  of  the  seraglio  resided  at  his 
city  of  Magnesia,  to  collect  his  revenues. 
His  peasants,  in  consequence,  ceased  to  cul- 
tivate their  lands,  from  whence  they  no 
longer  hoped  to  reap  profit ;  and  his  once 
flourishing  possessions  soon  became  as  deso- 
late as  any  which  had  always  been  under  the 
gripe  of  pashas." 

This  passage  throws  the  strongest 
light  on  the  former  condition  of  the 
Turkish  Empire.  They  possessed 
an  hereditary  noblesse  in  their  Asiatic 
provinces ;  a  body  of  men  whose  in- 
terests were  permanent ;  who  enjoy- 
ed their  rights  by  succession,  and, 
therefore,  were  permanently  inte- 
rested in  preserving  their  possessions 
from  spoliation.  It  was  their  feudal 
tenantry  who  nocked  in  such  multi- 
tudes to  the  standard  of  Mahomet 
when  any  great  crisis  occurred,  and 
formed  those  vast  armies  who  so  of- 
ten astonished  the  European  powers, 
and  struck  terror  into  the  boldest 
hearts  in  Christendom.  These  here- 
ditary nobles,  however,  the  bones  of 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


936 

the  empire,  whose  estates  were  ex- 
empt from  the  tyranny  of  the  Pashas, 
have  been  destroyed  by  Mahmoud. 
Hence  the  disaffection  of  the  Asiatic 
provinces,  and  the  readiness  with 
which  they  opened  their  arms  to  the 
liberating  standards  of  Mehemet  Ali. 
It  is  the  nature  of  innovation,  whe- 
ther enforced  by  the  despotism  of  a 
sultan  or  a  democracy,  to  destroy  in 
its  fervour  the  institutions  on  which 
public  freedom  is  founded. 

2.  The  next  circumstance  which 
contributed  to  mitigate  the  severity 
of  Ottoman  oppression  was  the  pri- 
vileges of  the  provincial  cities,  chiefly 
in  Europe,  which  consisted  in  being 
governed  by  magistrates  elected  by 
the  people  themselves  from  among 
their  chief  citizens.  .This  privilege, 
a  relic  of  the  rights  of  the  Munici- 
pia  over  the  whole  Roman  Empire, 
was  established  in  all  the  great 
towns;  and  its  importance  in  mo- 
derating the  otherwise  intolerable 
weight  of  Ottoman  oppression  was 
incalculable.  The  Pashas  or  tempo- 
rary rulers  appointed  by  the  Sultan 
had  no  authority,  or  only  a  partial 
one  in  these  free  cities,  and  hence 
they  formed  nearly  as  complete  an 
asylum  for  industry  in  Europe  as  the 
estates  of  the  dere  beys  did  in  Asia. 
This  important  right,  however,  could 
not  escape  the  reforming  passion  of 
Mahmoud;  and  it  was  accordingly 
overturned. 

"  In  conjunction  with  subverting  the  dere 
beys,  Mahmoud  attacked  the  privileges  of 
the  great  provincial  cities,  (principally  in 
Europe,)  which  consisted  in  the  election  of 
ayans  (magistrates)  by  the  people,  from 
among  the  notables.  Some  cities  were 
solely  governed  by  them,  and  in  those  ruled 
by  pashas,  they  had,  in  most  cases,  sufficient 
influence  to  restrain  somewhat  the  full  career 
of  despotism.  They  were  the  protectors  of 
rayas,  as  well  as  of  Mussulmans,  and,  for 
their  own  sakes,  resisted  exorbitant  imposts. 
The  change  in  the  cities  where  their  autho- 
rity has  been  abolished  (Adrianople,  e.  g. )  is 
deplorable ;  trade  has  since  languished,  and 
population  has  diminished.  They  were  in- 
stituted by  Solyman  (the  lawgiver),  and  the 
protection  which  they  have  invariably  af- 
forded the  Christian  subjects  of  the  Porte, 
entitles  them  to  a  Christian's  good  word. 
Their  crime,  that  of  the  dere  beys,  was  be- 
ing possessed  of  authority  not  emanating 
from  the  Sultan. 

"  Had  Mahmoud  II.  intrusted  the  govern- 
ment of  the  provinces  to  the  dere  beys,  and 
strengthened  the  authority  of  the  ayans,  \\% 


[June, 


would  have  truly  reformed  his  empiie,  by 
restoring  it  to  its  brightest  state,  have  gained 
the  love  of  his  subjects,  and  the  applauses  of 
humanity.  By  the  contrary  proceeding, 
subverting  two  bulwarks  (though  dilapida- 
ted) of  national  prosperity — a  provincial  no- 
bility and  magistracy — he  has  shewn  "him- 
self a  selfish  tvrant." 
- 

3.  In  addition  to  an  hereditary 
nobility  in  the  dere  beys,  and  the 
privileges  of  corporations  in  the 
right  of  electing  their  ayans,  the 
Mussulmans  possessed  a  powerful 
hierarchy  in  the  ulema  ;  a  most  im- 
portant body  in  the  Ottoman  domi- 
nions, and  whose  privileges  have 
gone  far  to  limit  the  extent  of  its 
despotic  government.  This  import- 
ant institution  has  been  little  under- 
stood hitherto  in  Europe  ;  but  they 
have  contributed  in  a  most  import- 
ant manner  to  mitigate  the  severity 
of  the  Sultan  in  those  classes  who 
enjoyed  no  special  protection. 

"  In  each  of  the  Turkish  cities,"  says  Mr 
Slade,  "  reside  a  muphti  and  a  mollah.  A 
knowledge  of  Arabic,  so  as  to  be  able  to  read 
the  Koran  in  the  original,  is  considered  suf- 
ficient for  the  former,  but  the  latter  must 
have  run  a  legal  career  in  one  of  the  med- 
ressehs,  (universities  of  Constantinople.) 
After  thirty  years  probation  in  a  medresseh, 
the  student  becomes  of  the  class  of  muderis, 
(doctors  at  law,)  from  which  are  chosen  the 
mollahs,  comprehended  under  the  name  of 
ulema.  Students  who  accept  the  inferior 
judicial  appointments  can  never  become  of 
the  ulema. 

"  The  ulema  is  divided  into  three  classes, 
according  to  a  scale  of  the  cities  of  the  em- 
pire. The  first  class  consists  of  the  c.azi- 
askers,  (chief  judges  of  Europe  and  Asia;) 
the  Stamboul  eftendisi,  (mayor  of  Constan- 
tinople;) the  mollahs  qualified  to  act  at 
Mecca,  at  Medina,  at  Jerusalem,  at  Bagdat, 
at  Salonica,  at  Aleppo,  at  Damascus,  at 
Brussa,  at  Cairo,  at  Smyrna,  at  Cogni,  at 
Galata,  at  Scutari.  The  second  class  con- 
sists of  the  mollahs  qualified  to  act  at  the 
twelve  cities  of  next  importance.  The 
third  class  at  ten  inferior  titles.  The  ad- 
ministration of  minor  towns  is  intrusted  to 
cadis,  who  are  nominated  by  the  cazi-askers 
in  their  respective  jurisdictions,  a  patronage 
which  produces  great  wealth  to  these  two 
officers.  ii98aO3 

"  In  consequence  of  these  powers  the 
mollah  of  a  city  may  prove  as  great  a  pest 
as  a  needy  pasha  ;  but  as  the  mollahs  are 
hereditarily  wealthy,  they  are  generally  mo- 
derate in  their  perquisitions,  and  often  prc- 
tect  the  people  against  the  extortions  of  the 
pashas,  The  carlis,  however,  pf  the  minor 


1333.] 


s,  who  have  not  the  advantage  of  being 
privately  rich,  seldom  fail  to  join  with  the 
a>a  to  skin  the  'serpent  that  crawls  in  the 
dust.' 

"  The  mollahs,  dating  from  the  reign  of 
Solyman — zenith  of  Ottoman  prosperity — 
v  ere  not  slow  in  discovering  the  value  of 
their  situations,  or  in  taking  advantage  of 
them;  and  as  their  sanctity  protected  them 
from  spoliation,  they  were  enabled  to  leave 
tl  eir  riches  to  their  children,  who  were 
brought  up  to  the  same  career,  and  were,  by 
pi  ivilege,  allowed  to  finish  their  studies  at 
tie  medresseh  in  eight  years  less  time  than 
tl  e  prescribed  number  of  years,  the  private 
ti  ition  which  they  were  supposed  to  receive 
from  their  fathers  making  up  for  the  defi- 
ci"ncy.  Thus,  besides  the  influence  of  birth 
ai  d  wealth,  they  had  a  direct  facility  in  at- 
ta  ning  the  degree  of  muderi,  which  their 
fellow- citizens  and  rivals  had  not,  and  who 
were  obliged  in  consequence  to  accept  infe- 
ri(  r  judicial  appointments.  In  process  of 
time  the  whole  monopoly  of  the  ulema  cen- 
tred in  a  certain  number  of  families,  and 
their  constant  residence  at  the  capital,  to 
which  they  return  at  the  expiration  of  their 
term  of  office,  has  maintained  their  power 
to  the  present  day.  Nevertheless,  it  is  true 
th;  t  if  a  student  of  a  medresseh,  not  of  the 
pri  vileged  order,  possess  extraordinary  merit, 
the  ulema  has  generally  the  tact  to  admit 
him  of  the  body  :  woe  to  the  cities  to  which 
he  goes  as  mollah,  since  he  has  to  create  a 
private  fortune  for  his  family.  Thus  arose 
that  body — the  peerage  of  Turkey — known 
by  the  name  of  ulema,  a  body  uniting  the 
high  attributes  of  law  and  religion  ;  distinct 
from  the  clergy,  yet  enjoying  all  the  advan- 
tages connected  with  a  church  paramount ; 
frei  from  its  shackles,  yet  retaining  the  per- 
fect odour  of  sanctity.  Its  combination  has 
giv  >n  it  a  greater  hold  in  the  state  than  the 
der ;  beys,  who,  though  possessed  individu- 
ally of  more  power,  founded  too  on  original 
charters,  sunk  from  a  want  of  union." 

The  great  effect  of  the  ulema  has 
arisen  from  this,  that  its  lands  are 
saf<j  from  confiscation  or  arbitrary 
taxation.  To  power  of  every  sort, 
excepting  that  of  a  triumphant  de- 
mocracy, there  must  be  some  limits  ; 
and  great  as  the  authority  of  the  Sul- 
tan is,  he  is  too  dependent  on  the 
religious  feelings  of  his  subjects  to 
be  able  to  overturn  the  church.  The 
COB  sequence  is  that  the  vacouf  or 
church  lands  have  been  always  free 
botli  from  arbitrary  taxation  and  con- 
fiscation ;  and  hence  they  have  form- 
ed ,i  species  of  mortmain  or  entailed 
lands  in  the  Ottoman  dominions,  en- 
joying rn-ivileges  to  which  the  other 
parts  of  the  empire,  excepting  the 


The  Fall  of  Turkey.  937 

;9  oepilw  t9iiqcrre  pnl 
estates  ot  the  dere  beys,  are  entire 
strangers.  Great  part  of  the  lands  of 
Turkey,  in  many  places  amounting 
to  one-third  of  the  whole,  were  held 
by  this  religious  tenure ;  and  the 
device  was  frequently  adopted  of 
leaving  property  to  the  ulema  in 
trust  for  particular  families,  whereby 
the  benefits  of  secure  hereditary 
descent  were  obtained.  The  practi- 
cal advantages  of  this  ecclesiastical 


property  are  thus  enumerated  by  Mr 
Slade. 

"  The  vacouf  (mosque  lands)  have  been 
among  the  best  cultivated  in  Turkey,  by  be- 
ing free  from  arbitrary  taxation.  The  mek- 
tebs  (public  schools)  in  all  the  great  cities, 
where  the  rudiments  of  the  Turkish  lan- 
guage and  the  Koran  are  taught,  and  where 
poor  scholars  receive  food  gratis,  are  sup- 
ported by  the  ulema.  The  medressehs, 
imarets,  (hospitals,)  fountains,  &c.  are  all 
maintained  by  the  ulema ;  add  to  these  the 
magnificence  of  the  mosques,  their  number, 
the  royal  sepultures,  and  it  will  be  seen  that 
Turkey  owes  much  to  the  existence  of  this 
body,  which  has  been  enabled,  by  its  power 
and  its  union,  to  resist  royal  cupidity. 
Without  it,  where  would  be  -the  establish- 
ments above  mentioned  ?  Religious  property 
has  been  an  object  of  attack  in  every  country. 
At  one  period,  by  the  sovereign,  to  increase 
his  power ;  at  another,  by  the  people,  to 
build  fortunes  on  its  downfall.  Mahomet 
IV.  after  the  disastrous  retreat  of  his  grand 
vizir,  Cara  Mustapha,  from  before  Vienna, 
1683,  seized  on  the  riches  of  the  principal 
mosques,  which  arbitrary  act  led  to  his  de-- 
position. The  ulema  would  have  shewn  a 
noble  patriotism  in  giving  its  wealth  for  the 
service  of  the  state,  but  it  was  right  in  re- 
senting the  extortion,  which  would  have 
served  as  a  precedent  for  succeeding  sultans. 
In  fine,  rapid  as  has  been  the  decline  of  the 
Ottoman  empire  since  victory  ceased  to  at- 
tend its  arms,  I  venture  to  assert,  that  it 
would  have  been  tenfold  more  rapid  but  for 
the  privileged  orders — the  dere  beys  and  the 
ulema.  Without  their  powerful  weight  and 
influence — effect  of  hereditary  wealth  and 
sanctity — the  Janissaries  would  long  since 
have  cut  Turkey  in  slices,  and  have  ruled  it 
as  the  Mamelukes  ruled  Egypt. 

"  Suppose,  now,  the  influence  of  the  ule- 
ma to  be  overturned,  what  would  be  the 
consequence  ?  The  mollaships,  like  the 
pashalicks,  would  then  be  sold  to  the  high- 
est bidders,  or  given  to  the  needy  followers 
of  the  seraglio.  These  must  borrow  money 
of  the  bankers  for  their  outfit,  which  must 
be  repaid,  and  their  own  purses  lined,  by 
their  trilents  at  extortion." 

It  is  one  of  the  most  singular  proofs 
of  the  tendency  of  innovation  to 


938 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


[June, 


blind  its  votaries  to  the  effects  of  the 
measures  it  advocates,  that  the  ulema 
has  long  been  singled  out  for  destruc- 
tion by  the  reforming  Sultan,  and  the 
change  is  warmly  supported  by  many 
of  the  inconsiderate  Franks  who 
dwell  in  the  East.  Such  is  the  aver- 
sion of  men  of  every  faith  to  the  vest- 
ing of  property  or  influence  in  the 
church,  that  they  would  willingly  see 
this  one  of  the  last  barriers  which 
exist  against  arbitrary  power  done 
away.  The  power  of  the  Sultan,  great 
as  it  is,  has  not  yet  ventured  on  this 

freat  innovation;  but  it  is  well 
nown  that  he  meditates  it,  and  it  is 
the  knowledge  of  this  circumstance 
which  is  one  great  cause  of  the  ex- 
treme unpopularity  which  has  ren- 
dered his  government  unable  to  ob- 
tain any  considerable  resources  from 
his  immense  dominions. 

4.  In  every  part  of  the  empire,  the 
superior  felicity  and  well-being  of 
the  peasantry  in  the  mountains  is 
conspicuous,  and  has  long  attracted 
the  attention  of  travellers.  Clarke 
observed  it  in  the  mountains  of 
Greece,  Mariti  and  others  in  Syria 
and  Asia  Minor,  and  Mr  SJade  and 
Mr  Walsh  in  the  Balkan,  and  the  hilly 
country  of  Bulgaria.  "  No  peasantry 
in  the  world,"  says  the  former,  "  are 
so  well  off  as  that  of  Bulgaria.  The 
lowest  of  them  has  abundance  of 
every  thing — meat,  poultry,  eggs, 
milk,  rice,  cheese,  wine,  bread,  good 
clothing,  a  warm  dwelling,  and  a 
horse  to  ride.  It  is  true  he  has  no 
newspaper  to  kindle  his  passions,  nor 
a  knife  and  fork  to  eat  with,  nor  a 
bedstead  to  lie  on ;  but  these  are  the 
customs  of  the  country,  and  a  pacha 
is  equally  unhappy.  Where,  then,  is 
the  tyranny  under  which  the  Chris- 
tian subjects  of  the  Porte  are  gene- 
rally supposed  to  groan  ?  Not  among 
the  Bulgarians  certainly.  I  wish  that 
in  every  country  a  traveller  could 
pass  from  one  end  to  the  other,  and 
find  a  good  supper  and  a  warm  fire 
in  every  cottage,  as  he  can  in  this 
part  of  European  Turkey."*  This 
description  applies  generally  to  al- 
most all  the  mountainous  provinces 
of  the  Ottoman  Empire,  and  in  an 
especial  manner  to  the  peasants  of 
Parnassus  and  Olympia,  as  described 
by  Clarke.  As  a  contrast  to  this  de- 


lightful state  of  society,  we  may 
quote  the  same  traveller's  account  of 
the  plains  of  Romelia.  "  Romelia,  if 
cultivated,  would  become  the  gra- 
nary of  the  East,  whereas  Constan- 
tinople depends  on  Odessa  for  daily 
bread.  The  burial-grounds,  choked 
with  weeds  and  underwood,  con- 
stantly occurring  in  every  traveller's 
route,  far  remote  from  habitations, 
are  eloquent  testimonials  of  conti- 
nued depopulation.  The  living  too  are 
far  apart ;  a  town  every  fifty  miles, 
and  a  village  every  ten  miles,  is  close, 
and  horsemen  meeting  on  the  high- 
way regard  each  other  as  objects  of 
curiosity.  The  cause  of  this  depo- 
pulation is  to  be  found  in  the  per- 
nicious government  of  the  Otto- 
mans." f  The  cause  of  this  remark- 
able difference  lies  in  the  fact,  that 
the  Ottoman  oppression  has  never 
yet  fully  extended  into  the  moun- 
tainous parts  of  its  dominions  ;  and, 
consequently,  they  remained  like  per- 
manent veins  of  prosperity,  inter- 
secting the  country  in  every  direc- 
tion, amidst  the  desolation  which 
generally  prevailed  in  the  pashalicks 
of  the  plain. 

5.  The  Janissaries  were  another 
institution  which  upheld  the  Turk- 
ish Empire.  They  formed  a  regular 
standing  army,  who,  although  at 
times  extremely  formidable  to  the 
Sultan, and  exercising  their  influence 
with  all  the  haughtiness  of  Praeto- 
rian guards,  were  yet  of  essential 
service  in  repelling  the  invasion  of 
the  Christian  Powers.  The  strength 
of  the  Ottoman  armies  consisted  in 
the  Janissaries,  and  the  delhis  and 
spahis  ;  the  former  being  the  regular 
force,  the  latter  the  contingents  of 
the  dere  beys.  Every  battle-field, 
from  Constantinople  to  Vienna,  can 
tell  of  the  valour  of  the  Janissaries, 
long  and  justly  regarded  as  the  bul- 
wark of  the  empire;  and  the  Russian 
battalions,  with  all  their  firmness, 
were  frequently  broken,  even  in  the 
last  war,  by  the  desperate  charge  of 
the  delhis.  Now,  however,  both  are 
destroyed;  the  vigorous  severity  of 
the  Sultan  has  annihilated  the  dread- 
ed battalions  of  the  former — the  ruin 
of  the  dere  beys  has  closed  the  sup- 
ply of  the  latter.  In  these  violent 
and  impolitic  reforms  is  to  be  found 


*   Slade,  ii.  97, 


f  Ibid,  15, 


1833.] 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


the  immediate  cause  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Turkish  Empire. 

Of  the  revolt  which  led  to  the  de- 
struction of  this  great  body,  and  the 
policy  which  led  to  it,  the  following 
st  '-ikingaccount  is  given  by  Mr  Slade : 

"  Every  campaign  during  the  Greek  war 
a  body  was  embarked  on  board  the  fleet,  and 
hu  ded  in.  small  parties,  purposely  unsup- 
ported, on  the  theatre  of  war  :  none  return- 
ed so  that  only  a  few  thousand  remained  at 
Constantinople,  when,  May  30,  1826,  the 
Sultan  issued  a  hatti  scheriff  concerning  the 
foirnation  of  '  a  new  victorious  army.' 
Tils  was  a  flash  of  lightning  in  the  eyes  of 
the  Janissaries.  They  saw  why  their  com - 
pa  lions  did  not  return  from  Greece;  they 
saw  that  the  old,  hitherto  abortive,  policy, 
dormant  since  eighteen  years,  was  revived  • 
the  y  saw  that  their  existence  was  threaten- 
ed ;  and  they  resolved  to  resist,  confiding  in 
the  prestige  of  their  name.  June  15.  fol- 
loving,  they  reversed  their  soup-kettles, 
(signal  of  revolt,)  demanded  the  heads  of 
tlu  ministers,  and  the  revocation  of  the  said 
firuian.  But  Mahmoud  was  prepared  for 
the  in.  Husseyin,  the  aga  of  the  Janissaries, 
wa<  in  his  interests,  and  with  him  the  ya- 
rn a  ks,  (garrisons  of  the  castles  of  the  Bos- 
phi  >rus,)  the  Galiondgis,  and  the  Topchis. 
Co  lecting,  therefore,  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, his  forces  in  the  Atmeidan,  the  sand- 
jac  c  scheriff  was  displayed,  and  the  ulema 
sec  )nded  him  by  calling  on  the  people  to 
support  their  sovereign  against  the  rebels. 
Stiil,  noways  daunted,  the  Janissaries  ad- 
vat  ced,  and  summoned  their  aga,  of  whom 
they  had  no  suspicion,  to  repeat  their  de- 
ma  ids  to  the  Sultan,  threatening,  in  case  of 
noi  compliance,  to  force  the  seraglio  gates. 
Hu  sseyin,  who  had  acted  his  part  admirably, 
am  with  consummate  duplicity,  brought 
the  n  to  the  desired  point — open  rebellion — 
flat  ering  them  with  success,  now  threw 
aside  the  mask.  He  stigmatized  them  as 
infi  lels,  and  called  on  them  in  the  name  of 
the  prophet,  to  submit  to  the  Sultan's  cle- 
mency. At  this  defection  of  their  trusted  fa- 
vou  rite  chief,  their  smothered  rage  burst  out ; 
the  •  rushed  to  his  house,  razed  it  in  a  mo- 
mei  t,  did  the  same  by  the  houses  of  the  other 
mil  Isters,  applied  torches,  and  in  half  an  hour 
Coi  stantinople  streamed  with  blood  beneath 
the  glare  of  flames.  Mahmoud  hesitated, 
and  was  about  to  conciliate;  but  Husseyin 
repi  Ised  the  idea  with  firmness,  knowing 
tha  to  effect  conciliation,  his  head  must  be 
the  first  offering.  '  Now  or  never,'  he  re- 
plic  1  to  the  Sultan,  '  is  the  time  !  Think 
not  that  a  few  heads  will  appease  this  sedi- 
tion, which  has  been  too  carefully  fomented 
by  3  ae, — the  wrongs  of  the  Janissaries  too 
clos  'ly  dwelt  on,  thy  character  too  blackly 
stai;  ed,  thy  treachery  too  minutely  dissect- 


939 

ed, — to  be  easily  laid.  Remember  that  this 
is  the  second  time  that  thy  arm  has  been 
raised  against  them,  and  they  will  not  trust 
thee  again.  Remember,  too,  that  thou  hast 
now  a  son,  that  son  not  in  thy  power,  whom 
they  will  elevate  on  thy  downfall.  Now  is 
the  time  !  This  evening's  sun  must  set  for 
the  last  time  on  them  or  us.  Retire  from 
the  city,  that  thy  sacred  person  may  be  safe, 
and  leave  the  rest  to  me.'  Mahmoud  con- 
sented, and  went  to  Dolma  Bachtche,  (a 
palace  one  mile  up  the  Bosphorus,)  to  await 
the  result.  Husseyin,  then  free  to  act  with- 
out fear  of  interruption,  headed  his  yamaks, 
and  vigorously  attacked  the  rebels,  who, 
cowardly  as  they  were  insolent,  offered  a 
feeble  resistance,  when  they  found  them- 
selves unsupported  by  the  mob,  retreated 
from  street  to  street,  and  finally  took  refuge 
in  the  Atmeidan.  Here  their  cai'eer  ended. 
A  masked  battery  on  the  hill  beyond  opened 
on  them,  troops  enclosed  them  in,  and  fire 
was  applied  to  the  wooden  buildings.  Des- 
peration then  gave  them  the  courage  that 
might  have  saved  them  at  first,  and  they 
strove  with  madness  to  force  a  passage  from 
the  burning  pile  ;  part  were  consumed,  part 
cut  down  ;  a  few  only  got  out,  among  them 
five  colonels,  who  threw  themselves  at  the 
aga's  feet,  and  implored  grace.  They  spoke 
their  last." 

Five  thousand  fell  under  this  grand 
blow;  twenty-five  thousand  perish- 
ed throughout  the  whole  empire. 
The  next  day  a  hatti  scheriff  was  read 
in  the  mosques,  declaring  the  Janis- 
saries infamous,  the  order  abolished, 
and  the  name  an  anathema. 

This  great  stroke  made  aprodigious 
sensation  in  Europe,  and  even  the 
best  informed  were  deceived  as  to 
its  effects  on  the  future  prospects  of 
the  Ottoman  Empire.  By  many  it 
was  compared  to  the  destruction  of 
the  Strelitzes  by  Peter  the  Great, 
and  the  resurrection  of  Turkey  an- 
ticipated from  the  great  reform  of 
Mahmoud,  as  Moscovy  arose  from  the 
vigorous  measures  of  the  Czar.  But 
the  cases  and  the  men  were  totally 
different.  Peter,  though  a  despot, 
was  practically  acquainted  with  his 
country.  He  had  voluntarily  de- 
scended to  the  humblest  rank,  to 
make  himself  master  of  the  arts  of 
life.  When  he  had  destroyed  the 
Praetorian  guards  of  Moscow,  he 
built  up  the  new  military  force  of 
the  empire,  in  strict  accordance  with 
its  national  and  religious  feelings, 
and  the  victory  of  Pultowa  was  the 
consequence.  But  what  did  Sultan 
Mahmoud?  Having  destroyed  the 


940 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


[June, 


old  military  force  of  Turkey,  he  sub- 
jected the  new  levies  which  were  to 
replace  it  to  such  absurd  regulations, 
and  so  thoroughly  violated  the  poli- 
tical and  religious  feelings  of  the 
country,  that  none  of  the  Osmanleys 
who  could  possibly  avoid  it  would 
enter  his  ranks,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  fill  them  up  with  mere  boys,  who 
had  not  yet  acquired  any  determi- 
nate feelings^ — a  wretched  substitute 
for  the  old  military  force  of  the  em- 
pire, and  which  proved  totally  un- 
equal to  the  task  of  facing  the  vete- 
ran troops  of  Russia.  The  impolicy 
of  his  conduct  in  destroying  and  re- 
building, is  more  clearly  evinced  by 
nothing  than  the  contrast  it  affords 
to  the  conduct  of  Sultan  Amurath,  in 
originally  forming  these  guards. 

"  Strikingly,"  says  Mr  Slade,  "  does  the 
conduct  of  Malimoud,  in  forming  the  new 
levies,  contrast  with  that  of  Amurath  in  the 
formation  of  the  Janissaries;  the  measures 
being  parallel,  inasmuch  as  each  was  a 
mighty  innovation,  no  less  than  the  esta- 
blishment of  an  entire  new  military  force,  on 
the  institutions  of  the  country.  But  Amu- 
rath had  a  master  mind.  Instead  of  keeping 
his  new  army  distinct  from  the  nation,  he 
incorporated  it  with  it,  made  it  conform  in 
all  respects  to  national  usages  ;  and  the  suc- 
cess was  soon  apparent  by  its  spreading  into 
a  vast  national  guard,  of  which,  in  later 
times,  some  thousands  usurped  the  perma- 
nence of  enrolment,  in  which  the  remainder, 
through  indolence,  acquiesced.  Having  de- 
stroyed these  self-constituted  battalions,  Mah- 
moud  should  have  made  the  others  avail- 
able, instead  of  outlawing  them,  as  it  were  ; 
and,  by  respecting  their  traditionary  whims 
and  social  rights,  he  would  easily  have  given 
his  subjects  a  taste  for  European  discipline. 
They  never  objected  to  it  in  principle,  but 
their  untutored  minds  could  not  understand 
why,  in  order  to  use  the  musket  and  bayonet, 
and  manoeuvre  together,  it  was  necessary  to 
leave  off  wearing  beards  and  turbans." 

"But  Mahmoud,  in  his  hatred,  wished 
to  condemn  them  to  oblivion,  to  eradicate 
every  token  of  their  pre-existence,  not  know- 
ing that  trampling  on  a  grovelling  party  is 
the  surest  way  of  giving  it  fresh  spirit  ;  and 
trampling  on  the  principles  of  the  party  in 
question,  was  trampling  on  the  principles  of 
the  whole  nation.  In  his  ideas,  the  Oriental 
usages  in  eating,  dressing,  &c.  were  connect- 
ed with  the  Janissaries,  had  been  invented 
by  them,  and  therefore  he  proscribed  them, 
prescribing  new  modes.  He  changed  the 
costume  of  his  court  from  Asiatic  to  Euro- 
pean ;  he  ordered  his  soldiers  to  shave  their 
beards,  iecQiumendj»g  lu»  courtiers,  to  follow 


the  same  example,  and  he  forbad  the  turban, 
— that  valued,  darling,  beautiful  head-dress, 
at  once  national  and  religious.  His  folly 
therein  cannot  be  sufficiently  reprobated  : 
had  he  reflected  that  Janissarism  was  only  a 
branch  grafted  on  a  wide-spreading  tree,  that 
it  sprung  from  the  Turkish  nation,  not  the 
Turkish  nation  from  it,  he  would  have  seen 
how  impossible  was  the  more  than  Hercu- 
lean task  he  assumed,  of  suddenly  transform- 
ing national  manners  consecrated  by  cen- 
turies,— a  task  from  which  his  prophet 
would  have  shrunk.  The  disgust  excited 
by  these  sumptuary  laws  may  be  conceived. 
Good  Mussulmans  declared  them  unholy  and 
scandalous,  and  the  Asiatics,  to  a  man,  re- 
fused obedience  ;  but  as  Mahmoud's  horizon 
was  confined  to  his  court,  he  did  not  know 
but  what  his  edicts  were  received  with  ve- 
neration." 

"  If  Mahmoud  had  stopped  at  these  follies 
in  the  exercise  of  his  newly-acquired  despo- 
tic power,  it  would  have  been  well.  His 
next  step  was  to  increase  the  duty  on  all 
provisions  in  Constantinople,  and  in  the 
great  provincial  cities,  to  the  great  discon- 
tent of  the  lower  classes,  which  was  ex- 
pressed by  firing  the  city  to  such  an  extent 
that  in  the  first  three  months  six  thousand 
houses  were  consumed.  The  end  of  Octo- 
ber, 1826,  was  also  marked  by  a  general 
opposition  to  the  new  imposts  ;  but  repeated 
executions  at  length  brought  the  people  to 
their  senses,  and  made  them  regret  the  loss 
of  the  Janissaries,  who  had  been  their  pro- 
tectors as  well  as  tormentors,  inasmuch  as 
they  had  never  allowed  the  price  of  provi- 
sions to  be  raised.  These  disturbances  ex- 
asperated the  Sultan.  He  did  not  attribute 
them  to  the  right  cause,  distress,  but  to  a 
perverse  spirit  of  Janissarism,  a  suspicion  of 
harbouring  which  was  death  to  any  one. 
He  farther  extended  his  financial  operations 
by  raising  the  miri  (land-tax)  all  over  the 
empire,  and,  in  ensuing  years,  by  granting 
monopolies  on  all  articles  of  commerce  to 
the  highest  bidder.  In  consequence,  lands, 
which  had  produced  abundance,  in  1830  lay 
waste.  Articles  of  export,  as  opium,  silk, 
&c.  gave  the  growers  a  handsome  revenue 
when  they  could  sell  them  to  the  Frank 
merchants,  but  at  the  low  prices  fixed  by 
the  monopolists  they  lose,  and  the  cultivation 
languishes.  Sultan  Mahmoud  kills  the  goose 
for  the  eggs.  In  a  word,  he  adopted  in  full 
the  policy  of  Mehemet  Ali,  which  supposed 
the  essence  of  civilisation  and  of  political 
science  to  be  contained  in  the  word  taxa- 
tion ;  and  having  driven  his  chariot  over 
the  necks  of  the  dere  beys,  and  of  the  Ja- 
nissaries, he  resolved  to  tie  his  subjects  to 
its  wheels,  and  to  keep  them  in  dire  slavery. 
Hence  a  mute  struggle  began  throughout 
the  empire  between  the  Sultan  and  the 
Turks,  the  former  trying  to  reduce  the 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


latter  to  the  condition  of  the  Egyptian  fel- 
lahs, the  latter  unwilling  to  imitate  the  fel- 
lahs in  patient,  submission.  The  Sultan 
flat  ters  himself  ( 1 830)  that  he  is  succeeding, 
l>c(  ause  the  taxes  he  imposed,  and  the  mono- 
polies he  has  granted,  produce  him  more 
revenue  than  he  had  formerly.  The  peo- 
ple, although  hitherto  they  have  been  able 
to  mswer  the  additional  demands  by  open- 
ing their  hoards,  evince  a  sullen  determina- 
tion not  to  continue  doing  so,  by  seceding 
gradually  from  their  occupations,  and  barely 
existing.  The  result  must  be,  if  the  Sultan 
cannot  compel  them  to  work,  as  the  Egyp- 
tiar.s,  under  the  lashes  of  task- masters, 
eitl  er  a  complete  stagnation  of  agriculture 
and  trade,  ever  at  a  low  ebb  in  Turkey,  or 
a  general  rebellion,  produced  by  misery." 

The  result  of  these  precipitate  and 
monstrous  innovations  strikingly  ap- 
peared in  the  next  war  with  Russia. 
The  Janissaries  and  dere  beys  were 
destroyed  —  the  Mussulmans  every- 
where disgusted ;  the  turban,  the  na- 
tional dress — tlfe  scymitar,  the  na- 
tional weapon,  were  laid  aside  in  the 
army ;  and  instead  of  the  fierce  and 
valiant  Janissaries  wielding  that 
dreaded  weapon,  there  was  to  be 
found  only  in  the  army  boys  of  six- 
teen, wearing  caps  in  the  European 
sty  e,  and  looked  upon  as  little 
better  than  heretics  by  all  true  be- 
lievers. 

"  Instead  of  the  Janissaries,"  says  Mr 
Slade,  "the  Sultan  reviewed  for  our  amuse- 
ment, on  the  plains  of  Ramis  Tchiftlik,  his 
regular  troops,  which  were  quartered  in  and 
aboi  t  Constantinople,  amounting  to  about 
four  thousand  five  hundred  foot,  and  six 
hundred  horse ;  though,  beyond  being  dress- 
ed and  armed  uniformly,  scarcely  meriting 
the  name  of  soldiers.  What  a  sight  for 
Count  Orloff,  then  ambassador  extraordi- 
nary, filling  the  streets  of  Pera  with  his 
Coss  icks  and  Circassians !  The  Count, 
who  a  the  Sultan  often  amused  with  a  simi- 
lar exhibition  of  his  weakness,  used  to  say, 
in  reference  to  the  movements  of  these  suc- 
cessors of  the  Janissaries,  that  the  cavalry 
were  employed  in  holding  on,  the  infantry 
knew  a  little,  and  the  artillery  galloped  about 
as  tit  ')ugh  belonging  to  no  party.  Yet  over 
such  troops  do  the  Russians  boast  of  having 
gaint  i  victories  !  In  ao  one  thing  did  Sul- 
tan Mahmoud  make  a  greater  mistake,  than 
in  dunging  the  mode  of  mounting  the  Turk- 
ish c  ivalry,  which  before  had  perfect  seats, 
with  perfect  command  over  their  horses,  and 
only  required  a  little  order  to  transform  the 
best  irregular  horse  in  the  world  into  the 
best  icgular  horse.  But  Mahmoud,  in  all 
jys  changes,  took  the  mask  for  the  man,  the 


941 


rind  for  the  fruit.  European  cavalry  rode 
flat  saddles  with  long  stirrups ;  therefore  he 
thought  it  necessary  that  his  cavalry  should 
do  the  same.  European  infantry  wore  tight 
jackets  and  close  caps ;  therefore  the  same. 
Were  this  blind  adoption  of  forms  only  use- 
less, or  productive  only  of  physical  incon- 
venience, patience ;  but  it  proved  a  moral 
evil,  creating  unbounded  disgust.  The  pri- 
vation of  the  turban  particularly  affected  the 
soldiers ;  first,  on  account  of  the  feeling  of 
insecurity  about  the  head  with  a  fez  on; 
secondly,  as  being  opposed  to  the  love  of 
dress  which  a  military  life,  more  than  any 
other,  engenders." 

"  Mahmoud,"  says  the  same  author,  "will 
learn  that  jn  having  attacked  the  customs  of 
his  nation, — customs  descended  to  it  from 
Abraham,  and  respected  by  Mohammed, — 
he  has  directly  undermined  the  divine  right 
of  his  family,  that  right  being  only  so  con- 
sidered by  custom, — by  its  harmonizing  with 
all  other  cherished  usages.  He  will  learn, 
that  in  having  wantonly  trampled  on  the 
unwritten  laws  of  the  land,  those  tradition- 
ary rights  which  were  as  universal  house- 
hold gods,  he  has  put  arms  in  the  hands  of 
the  disaffected,  which  no  rebel  has  hitherto 
had.  Neither  AH  Pasha  nor  Passwan 
Oglou  could  have  appealed  to  the  fanaticism 
of  the  Turks  to  oppose  the  Sultan.  Mehe- 
met  Ali  can  and  will.  Ten  years  ago,  the 
idea  even  of  another  than  the  house  of  Oth- 
man  reigning  over  Turkey  would  have  been 
heresy  :  the  question  is  now  openly  broach- 
ed, simply  because  the  house  of  Othman  is 
separating  itself  from  the  nation  which 
raised  and  supported  it.  Reason  may  change 
the  established  habits  of  an  old  people  ;  des- 
potism rarely  can." 

How  completely  has  the  event, 
both  in  the  Russian  and  Egyptian 
wars,  demonstrated  the  truth  of  these 
principles  !  In  the  contest  in  Asia 
Minor,  Paskewitch  hardly  encoun- 
tered any  opposition.  Rage  at  the 
destruction  of  the  Janissaries  among 
their  numerous  adherents — indigna- 
tion among  the  old  population,  in 
consequence  of  the  ruin  of  the  dere 
beys,  and  the  suppression  of  the 
rights  of  the  cities— lukewarmness 
in  the  church,  from  the  anticipated 
innovations  in  its  constitution — ge- 
neral dissatisfaction  among  all  classes 
of  Mahometans,  in  consequence  of 
the  change  in  the  national  dress  and 
customs,  had  so  completely  weak- 
ened the  feeling  of  patriotism,  and 
the  Sultan's  authority,  that  the  ele- 
ments of  resistance  did  not  exist. 
The  battles  were  mere  parades — the 
sieges  little  more  than  the  summon- 
ing of  fortresses  to  surrender.  I« 


942 

Europe,  the  ruinous  eftects  of  the 
innovations  were  also  painfully  ap- 
parent. Though  the  Russians  had  to 
cross  in  a  dry  and  parched  season 
the  pathless  and  waterless  plains  of 
Bulgaria;  and  though,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  unhealthiness  of  the 
climate,  and  the  wretched  arrange- 
ments of  their  commissariat,  they 
lost  200,000  men  by  sickness  and  fa- 
mine in  the  first  campaign,  yet  the 
Ottomans,  though  fighting  in  their 
own  country,  and  for  their  hearths, 
were  unable  to  gain  any  decisive  ad- 
vantage ;  and  in  the  next  campaign, 
when  they  were  conducted  with 
more  skill,  and  the  possession  of 
Varna  gave  them  the  advantage  of  a 
seaport  for  their  supplies,  the  weak- 
ness of  the  Turks  was  at  once  appa- 
rent. In  the  battle  of  the  1 1th  June, 
the  loss  of  the  Turks  did  not  ex- 
ceed 4000  men,  the  forces  on  neither 
side  amounted  to  40,000  men,  and 
yet  this  defeat  proved  fatal  to  the 
empire.  Of  this  battle,  our  author 
gives  the  following  characteristic 
and  graphic  account : 

"  In  this  position,  on  the  west  side  of  the 
Koulevscha  hills,  Diebitsch  found  himself  at 
daylight,  June  llth,  with  thirty-six  thou- 
sand men  and  one  hundred  pieces  of  cannon. 
He  disposed  them  so  as  to  deceive  the  ene- 
my. He  posted  a  division  in  the  valley,  its 
right  leaning  on  the  cliff,  its  left  supported 
by  redoubts  ;  the  remainder  of  his  troops  he 
dreAV  up  behind  the  hills,  so  as  to  be  unseen 
from  the  ravine ;  and  thea,  with  a  well- 
grounded  hope  that  not  a  Turk  would  escape 
him,  waited  the  grand  vizir,  who  was  ad- 
vancing up  the  defile  totally  unconscious 
that  Diebitsch  was  in  any  other  place  than 
before  Silistria.  He  had  broke  up  from 
Pravodi  the  day  before,  on  the  receipt  of 
his  despatch  from  Schumla,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  Russian  garrison,  which  had 
been  reinforced  by  a  regiment  of  hussars  ; 
but  the  general  commanding  it,  instead  of 
obeying  Diebitsch's  orders,  and  quietly 
tracking  him  until  the  battle  should  have 
commenced,  harassed  his  rear.  To  halt 
and  drive  him  back  to  Pravodi  caused  the 
vizir  a  delay  of  four  hours,  without  which 
he  would  have  emerged  from  the  defile  the 
same  evening,  and  have  gained  Schumla 


before  Diebitsch  got  into  position. 

"  In  the  course  of  the  night  the  vizir 
was  informed  that  the  enemy  had  taken  post 
between  him  and  Schumla,  and  threatened 
his  retreat.  He  might  still  have  avoided  the 
issue  of  a  battle,  by  making  his  way  trans- 
versely across  the  defiles  to  the  Kamptchik, 
sacrificing  his  baggage  and  cannon  j  but  dem- 


The  Full  of  Turkey.  [June, 

ing  that  he  had  only  Roth  to  deal  with,  he, 
as  in  that  case  was  his  duty,  prepared  to 
force  a  passage  ;  and  the  few  troops  that  he 
saw  drawn  up  in  the  valley  on  gaining  the 
little  wood  fringing  it,  in  the  morning,  con- 
firmed his  opinion.  He  counted  on  success  ; 
yet,  to  make  more  sure,  halted  to  let  his  ar- 
tillery take  up  a  flanking  position  on  the 
north  side  of  the  valley.  The  circuitous 
and  bad  route,  however,  delaying  this  ma- 
noeuvre, he  could  not  restrain  the  impatience 
of  the  delhis.  Towards  noon,  '  Allah, 
Allah  her,'  they  made  a  splendid  charge ; 
they  repeated  it,  broke  two  squares,  and 
amused  themselves  nearly  two  hours  in 
carving  the  Russian  infantry,  their  own  in- 
fantry, the  while,  admiring  them  from  the 
skirts  of  the  wood.  Diebitsch,  expecting 
every  moment  that  the  vizir  would  advance 
to  complete  the  success  of  his  cavalry — 
thereby  sealing  his  own  destruction — order- 
ed Count  Pahlen,  whose  division  was  in  the 
valley,  and  who  demanded  reinforcements, 
to  maintain  his  ground  to  the  last  man. 
The  Count  obeyed,  though  suffering  cruelly; 
but  the  vizir,  fortunately,  instead  of  second- 
ing his  adversary's  intentions,  quietly  re- 
mained on  the  eminence,  enjoying  the  gal- 
lantry of  his  delhis,  and  waiting  till  his  ar- 
tillery should  be  able  to  open,  when  he 
might  descend  and  claim  the  victory  with 
ease.  Another  ten  minutes  would  have 
sufficed  to  envelope  him ;  but  Diebitsch, 
ignorant  of  the  cause  of  his  backwardness, 
supposing  that  he  intended  amusing  him 
till  night,  whereby  to  effect  a  retreat,  and 
unwilling  to  lose  more  men,  suddenly 
displayed  his  whole  force,  and  opened 
a  tremendous  fire  on  the  astonished  Turks. 
In  an  instant  the  rout  was  general,  horse 
and  foot  ;  the  latter  threw  away  their 
arms,  and  many  of  the  nizam  dge-ditt  were 
seen  clinging  to  the  tails  of  the  delhis' 
horses  as  they  clambered  over  the  hills.  So 
complete  and  instantaneous  was  the  flight, 
that  scarcely  a  prisoner  was  made.  Red- 
schid  strove  to  check  the  panic  by  personal 
valour,  but  in  vain.  He  was  compelled  to 
draw  his  sabre  in  self-defence  :  he  fled  to 
the  Kamptchik,  accompanied  by  a  score  of 
personal  retainers,  crossed  the  mountains, 
and  on  the  fourth  day  re-entered  Schumla. 
This  eventful  battle,  fought  by  the  cavalry 
on  one  side,  and  a  few  thousand  infantry  on 
the  other,  decided  the  fate  of  Turkey ; — im- 
mense in  its  consequences  compared  with  the 
trifling  loss  sustained,  amounting,  on  the 
side  of  the  Russians,  to  throe  thousand 
killed  and  wounded  ;  on  that  of  the  Turks, 
killed,  wounded,  and  prisoners,  to  about 
four  thousand.  Its  effect,  however,  was 
the  same  as  though  the  whole  Turkish 
army  had  been  slain." 

We  have  given  at  large  the  stri- 


1838.] 


The  Fall 


king  account  of  this  battle,  because 
it  exhibits  in  the  clearest  point  of 
view  the  extraordinary  weakness  to 
which  a  power  was  suddenly  redu- 
ce! which  once  kept  all  Christendom 
in  awe.  Thirty-six  thousand  men 
ancl  a  hundred  pieces  of  cannon  de- 
cided the  fate  of  Turkey;  and  an 
army  of  Ottomans  forty  thousand 
strong,  after  sustaining  a  loss  of  four 
thousand  men,  was  literally  annihila- 
ted. The  thing  almost  exceeds  belief. 
Tc  such  a  state  of  weakness  had  the 
reforms  of  Sultan  Mahmoud  so  soon 
reduced  the  Ottoman  power.  Such 
WES  the  prostration,  through  innova- 
tion, of  an  empire,  which,  only  twenty 
years  before,  had  waged  a  bloody 
an<l  doubtful  war  with  Russia,  and 
maintained  for  four  campaigns  one 
hu  idred  and  fifty  thousand  men  on 
the  Danube. 

(i.  Among  the  immediate  and  most 
powerful  causes  of  the  rapid  fall  of 
the  Ottoman  Empire  unquestionably 
mtst  be  reckoned  the  Greek  Revo- 
lut  on,  and  the  extraordinary  part 
which  Great  Britain  took  in  destroy- 
ing the  Turkish  navy  at  Navarino. 

Oa  this  subject  we  wish  to  speak 
with  caution.  We  have  the  most 
he?  rtfelt  wish  for  the  triumph  of  the 
Cross  over  the  Crescent,  and  the  libe- 
rat  on  of  the  cradle  of  civilisation 
fro  n  Asiatic  bondage.  But  with 
every  desire  for  the  real  welfare  of 
the  Greeks,  we  must  be  permitted  to 
doi;bt  whether  the  Revolution  was 
the  way  to  effect  it,  or  the  cause 
of  lumanity  has  not  been  retarded 
by  the  premature  effort  for  its  inde- 
pendence. 

Since  the  wars  of  the  French  Re- 
volition  began,  the  condition  and  re- 
sources of  the  Greeks  have  impro- 
ved in  as  rapid  a  progression  as  those 
of  tie  Turks  have  declined.  Various 
causes  have  contributed  to  this. 

(l  The  islanders,"  says  Mr  Slade,  "  it 
may  be  said,  have  always  been  independent, 
and  in  possession  of  the  coasting  trade  of 
the  empire.  The  wars  attendant  on  the 
Frei  ch  Revolution  gave  them  the  carrying- 
trad  of  the  Mediterranean  ;  on  the  Euxine 
alon  they  had  above  two  hundred  sail  under 
the  lussian  flag.  Their  vessels  even  navi- 
gate t  as  far  as  England.  Mercantile  houses 
wen  established  in  the  principal  ports  of 
the  i  ontincnt  of  Europe  ;  the  only  duty  on 
theii  commerce  was  five  per  cent,  ad  valo- 
rem, to  the  Sultan's  custom-houses.  The 
greai  demand  of  the  English  merchants  for 


of  Turkey.  943 

Turkish  silk,  when  Italian  silk,  to  which  it 
is  superior,  was  difficult  to  procure,  en- 
riched the  Greeks  of  the  interior,  who  en- 
grossed the  entire  culture.  The  continental 
system  obliged  us  to  turn  to  Turkey  for  corn, 
large  quantities  of  which  were  exported  from 
Macedonia,  from  Smyrna,  and  from  Tarsus, 
to  the  equal  profit  of  the  Grecian  and  Turk- 
ish agriculturists.  The  same  system  also 
rendered  it  incumbent  on  Germany  to  culti- 
vate commercial  relations  with  Turkey,  to 
the  great  advantage  of  the  Greeks,  who  were 
to  be  seen,  in  consequence,  numerously 
frequenting  the  fairs  at  Leipsic.  Colleges 
were  established  over  Greece  and  the  islands, 
by  leave  obtained  from  Selim  III.  ;  princi- 
pally at  Smyrna,  Scio,  Salouica,  Yanina, 
and  Hydra,  and  the  wealthy  sent  their  chil- 
dren to  civilized  Europe  for  education,  with- 
out opposition  from  the  Porte,  which  did 
not  foresee  the  mischief  that  it  would  there- 
by gather. 

"  In  short,  the  position  of  the  Greeks, 
in  1810,  was  such  as  would  have  been  con- 
sidered visionary  twenty  years  previous,  and 
would,  if  then  offered  to  them,  have  been 
hailed  as  the  completion  of  their  desires. 
But  the  general  rule,  applicable  to  nations  as 
well  as  to  individuals,  that  au  object,  how- 
ever ardently  aspired  after,  when  attained,  is 
chiefly  valued  as  a  stepping-stone  to  higher 
objects,  naturally 'affected  them  :  the  pos- 
session of  unexpected  prosperity  and  know- 
ledge opened  to  them  further  prospects,  gave 
them  hopes  of  realizing  golden  dreams,  of 
revenging  treasured  wrongs — shewed  them, 
in  a  word,  the  vista  of  independence." 

These  causes  fostered  the  Greek 
Insurrection,  which  was  secretly  or- 
nized  for  years  before  it  broke  out 
in  1821,  and  was  then  spread  uni- 
versally and  rendered  unquenchable 
by  the  barbarous  murder  of  the 
Greek  patriarch,  and  a  large  propor- 
tion of  the  clergy  at  Constantinople, 
on  Easter  Day  of  that  year.  The 
result  has  been,  that  Greece,  after 
seven  years  of  the  ordeal  of  fire  and 
sword,  has  obtained  its  independ- 
ence ;  and  by  the  destruction  of  her 
navy  at  Navarino,  Turkey  has  lost 
the  means  of  making  any  effectual 
resistance  on  the  Black  Sea  to  Russia. 
Whether  Greece  has  been  benefit- 
ed by  the  change,  time  alone  can 
shew.  But  it  is  certain  that  such 
have  been  the  distractions,  jealou- 
sies, and  robberies  of  the  Greeks 
upon  each  other  since  that  time,  that 
numbers  of  them  have  regretted  that 
the  dominion  of  their  country  has 
passed  from  the  infidels. 

But  whatever  may  be  thought  on 


941 

this  subject,  nothing  can  be  more  ob- 
vious than  that  the  Greek  Revolu- 
tion was   utterly  fatal  to  the  naval 
power  of  Turkey  ;  because  it  depri- 
ved them  at  once  of  the  class  from 
which  alone  sailors  could  be  obtain- 
ed.     The  whole  commerce  of  the 
Ottomans  was  carried    on    by  the 
Greeks,  and  their  sailors  constituted 
the  entire  seamen  of  their  fleet.    No- 
thing, accordingly,  can  be  more  la- 
mentable than  the  condition  of  the 
Turkish  fleet  since  that  time.  The  ca- 
tastrophe of  Navarino  deprived  them 
of  their  best  ships  and  bravest  sail- 
ors; the  Greek  revolt  drained  off 
the  whole  population  who  were  wont 
toman  their  fleets.  Mr Slade  informs 
us  that  when  lie  navigated  on  board 
the  Capitan  Pasha's  ship  with  the 
Turkish  fleet  in  1829,  the  crews  were 
composed  almost  entirely  of  lands- 
men, who  were    forced    on   board 
without  the  slightest  knowledge  of 
nautical  affairs;  and  that  such  was 
their  timidity  from  inexperience  of 
that  element,  that  a  few  English  fri- 
gates would   have  sent  the  whole 
squadron,  containing  six  ships  of  the 
line,  to  the  bottom.     The  Russian 
fleet  also  evinced  a  degree  of  igno- 
rance and  timidity  in  the  Euxine, 
which  could  hardly  have  been  ex- 
pected, from  their  natural  hardihood 
and  resolution.     Yet,  the  Moscovite 
fleet,  upon  the  whole,  rode  triumph- 
ant; by  their  capture  of  Anapa,  they 
struck    at  the  great   market    from 
whence  Constantinople  is  supplied, 
while,  by  the  storming  of  Sizepolis, 
they  gave  a  point  cTuppui  to  Diebitsch 
on  the    coast   within    the    Balkan, 
without  which  he  could  never  have 
ventured  to  cross   that    formidable 
range.      This   ruin  of  the  Turkish 
marine  by  the  Greek  Revolution  and 
the  battle  of  Navarino,  was  therefore 
the  immediate  cause  of  the  disastrous 
issue  of  the  second  Russian    cam- 
paign ;  and  the  scale  might  have  been 
turned,  and  it  made  to  terminate  in 
equal  disasters  to  the  invaders,  if  five 
English  ships  of  the  line  had  been 
added  to  the  Turkish  force;  an  ad- 
dition,   Mr    Sladc  tells   us,    which 
would  have  enabled  the  Turks  to 
burn  the  Russian  arsenals  and  fleet 
atSwartopol,and  postponed  for  half 
a  century  the  fall  of  the  Ottoman 
Empire. 

Nothing,  therefore,  can  be  more 
instructive  than  the  rapid  fall  of  the 


The  Full  of  Turkey. 


[June, 


Turkish  power ;  nor   more  curious 
than  the  coincidence    between  the 
despotic  acts  of  the  reforming  East- 
ern  Sultan  and  of    the    innovating 
European  democracies.     The  mea- 
sures of  both  have  been  the  same ; 
both  have  been  actuated  by  the  same 
principles,  and  both  yielded  to  the 
same  ungovernable  ambition.     The 
Sultan  commenced  his  reforms  by 
destroying  the   old    territorial   no- 
blesse, ruining  the  privileges  of  cor- 
porations, and  subverting  the  old  mi- 
litary force  of  the  kingdom  ;  and  he 
is  known  to  meditate  the  destruc- 
tion  of  the  Mahometan  hierarchy, 
and  the  confiscation  of  the  property 
of  the  church  to  the  service  of  the 
public  treasury.     The   Constituent 
Assembly,  before  they  had  sat  six 
months,  had  annihilated  the  feudal 
nobility,  extinguished  the  privileges 
of  corporations,  uprooted  the  military 
force  of  the  monarchy,  and  confis- 
cated the   whole   property   of  the 
church.     The  work  of  destruction 
went  on  far  more  smoothly  and  ra- 
pidly in  the  hands  of  the  great  des- 
potic democracy,  than  of  the  Eastern 
Sultan ;  by  the  whole  forces  of  the 
State  drawing  in  one  direction,  the 
old  machine  was  pulled  to  pieces 
with  a  rapidity  to  which  there  is 
nothing  comparable   in  the  annals 
even  of  Oriental   potentates.     The 
rude  hand  even  of  Sultan  Mahmoud 
took  a  lifetime  to  accomplish  that 
which  the  French  democracy  effect- 
ed in  a  few  months ;  and  even  his 
ruthless  power  paused  at  devasta- 
tions,  which     they    unhesitatingly 
adopted  amidst  the  applause  of  the 
nation.      Despotism,   absolute   des- 
potism, was  the  ruling  passion  of 
both ;    the   Sultan    proclaimed  the 
principle   that    all    authority  flows 
from    the    Throne,  and  that  every 
influence  must  be  destroyed  which 
does  not  emanate  from  that  source ; 
"  The  Rights  of  Man"  publicly  an- 
nounced   the    sovereignty    of    the 
people,  and  made  every  appointment, 
civil  and  military,  flow  from  their 
assemblies.     So  true  it  is  that  des- 
potism is  actuated  by  the  same  jea- 
lousies, and  leads  to  the  same  mea- 
sures on  the  part  of  the  sovereign  as 
the  multitude;   and  so  just  is  the 
observation  of  Aristotle.  "  The  cha- 
racter of  democracy  and  despotism 
is  the  same.   Both  exercise  a  despo- 
tic authority  over  the  better  class  of 


1833.] 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


citizens  ;  decrees  are  in  the  first, 
what  ordinances  and  arrests  are  in 
the  last.  Though  placed  in  different 
ages  or  countries,  the  court  favourite 
and  democrat  are  in  reality  the  same 
characters,  or  at  least  they  always 
bear  a  close  analogy  to  each  other ; 
they  have  the  principal  authority  in 
their  respective  forms  of  govern- 
ment; favourites  with  the  absolute 
monarch,  demagogues  with  the  so- 
vereign multitude."* 

The  immediate  effect  of  the  great 
despotic  acts  in  the  two  countries, 
however,  was  widely  different.  The 
innovations  of  Sultan  Mahmoud  be- 
itig  directed  against  the  wishes  of 
the  majority  of  the  nation,  prostrated 
the  strength  of  the  Ottomans,  and 
brought  the  Russian  battalions  in 
fearful  strength  over  the  Balkan. 
The  innovations  of  the  Constituent 
Assembly  being  done  in  obedience 
to  the  dictates  of  the  people,  pro- 
duced for  a  time  a  portentous  union 
of  revolutionary  passions,  and  car- 
led  the  Republican  standards  in 
:riumph  to  every  capital  of  Europe, 
it  is  one  thing  to  force  reform  upon 
.in  unwilling  people;  it  is  another 
and  a  very  different  thing  to  yield  to 
'heir  wishes  in  imposing  it  upon  a 
reluctant  minority  in  the  state. 

But  the  ultimate  effect  of  violent 
innovations,whetherproceedingfrom 
the  despotism  of  the  Sultan  or  the 
multitude,  is  the  same.  In  both  cases 
they  totally  destroy  the  frame  of  so- 
ciety, and  prevent  the  possibility  of 
freedom  being  permanently  erected, 
by  destroying  the  classes  whose  in- 
termixture is  essential  to  its  exist- 
<  nee.  The  consequences  of  destroy- 
iug  the  dere  beys,  the  ayans,  the  Ja- 
i  issaries,  and  ulema  in  Turkey,  will, 
iti  the  end,  be  the  same  as  ruining 
the  church,  the  nobility,  the  corpo- 
rations, and  landed  proprietors  in 
1  Vance.  The  tendency  of  both  is 
identical,  to  destroy  all  authority  but 
tiat  emanating  from  a  single  power 
i  i  the  state,  and  of  course  to  render 
tiat  power  despotic.  It  is  immate- 
rial whether  that  single  power  is  the 
primary  assemblies  of  the  people,  or 
tie  Divan  of  the  Sultan ;  whether  the 
influence  to  be  destroyed  is  that  of 
t  ic  church  or  the  ulema,  the  dere 
leys  or  the  nobility.  In  either  case 


945 

there  is  no  counterpoise  to  its  autho- 
rity, and  of  course  no  limit  to  its 
oppression.  As  it  is  impossible,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  that  power 
should  long  be  exercised  by  great 
bodies,  as  they  necessarily  and  ra- 
pidly fall  under  despots  of  their  own 
creation,  so  it  is  evident  that  the  path 
is  cleared,  not  only  for  despotism,  but 
absolute  despotism,  as  completely  by 
the  innovating  democracy  as  the 
resistless  Sultan.  There  never  was 
such  a  pioneer  for  tyranny  as  the 
Constituent  Assembly. 

It  is  melancholy  to  reflect  on  the 
deplorable  state  of  weakness  to 
which  England  has  been  reduced 
since  revolutionary  passions  seized 
upon  her  people.  Three  years  ago, 
the  British  name  was  universally  re- 
spected; the  Portuguese  pojnted 
with  gratitude  to  the  well-fought 
fields,  where  English  blood  was  pour- 
ed forth  like  water  in  behalf  of  their 
independence;  the  Dutch  turned 
with  exultation  to  the  Lion  of  Water- 
loo, the  proud  and  unequalled  monu- 
ment of  English  fidelity;  the  Poles 
acknowledged  with  gratitude,  that, 
amidst  all  their  sorrows,  England 
alone  had  stood  their  friend,  and  ex- 
erted its  influence  at  the  Congress 
of  Vienna  to  procure  for  them  consti- 
tutional freedom;  even  the  Turks, 
though  mourning  the  catastrophe  of 
Navarino,  acknowledged  that  British 
diplomacy  had  at  length  interfered, 
and  turned  aside  from  Constantino- 
ple the  sword  of  Russia,  after  the 
barrier  of  the  Balkan  had  been  broke 
through.  Now,  how  woful  is  the 
change!  The  Portuguese  recount, 
with  undisguised  indignation,  the 
spoliation  of  their  navy  by  the  Tri- 
color fleet,  then  in  close  alliance  with 
England ;  and  the  fostering,  by  Bri- 
tish blood  and  treasure,  of  a  cruel 
and  insidious  civil  war  in  their  bosom, 
in  aid  of  the  principle  of  revolution- 
ary propagandism  :  the  Dutch,  with 
indignant  rage,  tell  the  tale  of  the  de- 
sertion by  England  of  the  allies  and 
principles  for  which  she  had  fought 
for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  and 
the  shameful  union  of  the  Leopard 
and  the  Eagle,  to  crush  the  inde- 
pendence and  partition  the  terri- 
tories of  Holland  :  the  Polish  exiles 
in  foreign  lands  dwell  on  the  heart- 


*   Arist.  de  Pol.  iv.  c. 


VOL.  XXXIII.    NO.  CCIX, 


3  r 


if  IB  The  Pall  of  Turkey.  [June, 

rending  story  of  their  wrongs,  and     Ministers  in  the  last  agony  of  Tur- 
led   on  by 


narrate  how  they  were  e  on 
deceitful  promises  from  France  and 
England  to  resist,  till  the  period  of 
capitulation  had  goneby:  the  Eastern 
nations  deplore  the  occupation  of 
Constantinople  by  the  Russians,  and 
hold  up  their  hands  in  astonishment 
at  the  infatuation  which  has  led  the 
mistress  of  the  seas  to  permit  the 
keys  of  the  Dardanelles  to  be  placed 
i  tithe  grasp  of  Moscovite  ambition.  It 
is  in  vain  to  conceal  the  fact,  that  by 
a  mere  change  of  Ministry,  by  simply 
letting  loose  revolutionary  passions, 
England  has  descended  to  the  rank 
of  a  third-rate  power.  She  has  sunk 
at  once,  without  any  external  disas- 
ters, from  the  triumphs  of  Trafalgar 
and  Waterloo,  to  the  disgrace  and 
the  humiliation  of  Charles  II.  It  is 
hard  to  say  whether  she  is  most  de- 
spised or  insulted  by  her  ancient 
allies  or  enemies ;  whether  contempt 
and  hatred  are  strongest  among  those 
she  aided  or  resisted  in  the  late  strug- 
gle. Russia  defies  her  in  the  East, 
and,  secure  in  the  revolutionary  pas- 
sions by  which  her  people  are  dis- 
tracted, pursues  with  now  undis- 
guised anxiety  her  long-cherished 
and  stubbornly-resisted  schemes  of 
ambition  in  the  Dardanelles ;  France 
drags  her  a  willing  captive  at  her 
chariot- wheels, and  compels  the  arms 
which  once  struck  down  Napoleon 
to  aid  her  in  all  the  mean  revolution- 
ary aggressions  she  is  pursuing  on 
the  surrounding  states  ;  Portugal  and 
Holland,  smarting  under  the  wounds 
received  from  their  oldest  ally,  wait 
for  the  moment  of  British  weakness 
to  wreak  vengeance  for  the  wrongs 
inflicted  under  the  infatuated  gui- 
dance of  the  Whig  democracy.  Louis 
XIV.,  humbled  by  the  defeats  of 
Blenheim  and  Ramillies,  yet  spurned 
with  indignation  at  the  proposal  that 
he  should  join  his  arms  to  those  of 
his  enemies,  to  dispossess  his  ally, 
the  King  of  Spain  ;  but  England,  in 
the  hour  of  her  greatest  triumph, has 
submitted  to  a  greater  degradation. 
She  has  deserted  and  insulted  the 
nation  which  stood  by  her  side  in 
the  field  of  Vittoria ;  she  has  joined 
in  alliance  against  the  power  which 
bled  with  her  at  Waterloo,  and  de- 
serted in  its  last  extremity  the  ally 
whose  standards  waved  triumphant 
with  her  on  the  sands  of  Egypt. 
The  supineness  and  weakness  of 


key,  has  been  such  as  would  have 
exceeded  belief,  if  woful  experience 
had  not  taught  us  to  be  surprised  at 
nothing  which  they  can  do.  France 
acted  with  becoming  foresight  and 
spirit;  they  had  an  Admiral,  with 
four  ships  of  the  line,  to  watch  Rus- 
sia in  the  Dardanelles,  when  the 
crisis  approached.  What  had  Eng- 
land ?  One  ship  of  the  line  on  the 
way  from  Malta,  and  a  few  frigates 
in  the  Archipelago,  were  all  that  the 
mistress  of  the  waves  could  afford, 
to  support  the  honour  and  interests 
of  England,  in  an  emergency  more 
pressing  than  any  which  has  occurred 
since  the  battle  of  Trafalgar.  Was 
the  crisis  not  foreseen  ?  Every  man 
in  the  country  of  any  intelligence 
foresaw  it,  from  the  moment  that 
Ibrahim  besieged  Acre.  Can  Eng- 
land only  fit  out  one  ship  of  the  line 
to  save  the  Dardanelles  from  Rus- 
sia ?  Is  this  the  foresight  of  the  Whigs, 
or  the  effect  of  the  Dock- yard  re- 
ductions ?  Or  has  the  Reform  Act 
utterly  annihilated  our  strength,  and 
sunk  our  name  ? 

It  is  evident  that  in  the  pitiful 
shifts  to  which  Government  is  now 
reduced,  foreign  events,  even  of  the 
greatest  magnitude,  have  no  sort  of 
weight  in  its  deliberations.  Resting 
on  tlie  quicksands  of  popular  favour; 
intent  only  on  winning  the  applause 
or  resisting  the  indignation  of  the 
rabble  ;  dreading  the  strokes  of  their 
old  allies  among  the  Political  Unions; 
awakened,  when  too  late,  to  a  sense 
of  the  dreadful  danger  arising  from 
the  infatuated  course  they  have  pur- 
sued ;  hesitating  between  losing  the 
support  of  the  Revolutionists  and 
pursuing  the  anarchical  projects 
which  they  avow;  unable  to  com- 
mand the  strength  of  the  nation  for 
any  foreign  policy;  having  sown  the 
seeds  of  interminable  dissension  be- 
tween the  different  classes  of  socie'ty, 
and  spread  far  and  wide  the  modern 
passion  for  innovation  in  lieu  of  the 
ancient  patriotism  of  England;  they 
have  sunk  it  at  once,  and  apparently 
for  ever  in  the  gulf  of  degradation. 
By  the  passions  they  have  excited 
in  the  Empire,  its  strength  is  utterly 
destroyed,  and  well  do  foreign  na- 
tions perceive  its  weakness.  They 
know  that  Ireland  is  on  the  verge 
of  rebellion;  that  the  West  Indies, 
with  the  torch  and  the  tomahawk  at 


1833.] 


The  Fall 


their  throats,  are  waiting  only  for  the 
first  national  reverse  to  throw  off 
their  allegiance;  that  the  splendid 
Empire  of  India  is  shaking  under  the 
democratic  rule  to  which  it  is  about 
to  be  subjected  on  the  expiry  of  the 
Charter;  that  the  dock- yards,  strip- 
ped of  their  stores  to  make  a  shew 
of  economy,  and  conceal  a  sinking 
revenue,  could  no  longer  fit  out  those 
mighty  fleets  which  so  recently  went 
forth  from  their  gates,  conquering 
and  to  conquer.  The  foreign  histo- 
rians of  the  French  revolutionary 
war  deplored  the  final  seal  it  had  put 
upon  the  maritime  superiority  of 
England,  and  declared  that  human 
sagacity  could  foresee  no  possible 
extrication  of  the  seas  from  her  re- 
sistless dominion  :  but  how  vain  are 
the  anticipations  of  human  wisdom  ! 
The  fickle  change  of  popular  opinion 
subverted  the  mighty  fabric ;  a  Whig 
Ministry  succeeded  to  the  helm,  and 
before  men  had  ceased  to  tremble  at 
the  thunder  of  Trafalgar,  England 
had  become  contemptible  on  the 
waves ! 

From  this  sad  scene  of  national 
degradation  and  decay,  from  the  me- 
lancholy spectacle  of  the  breaking 
up,  from  revolutionary  passion  and 
innovation,  of  the  greatest  and  most 
beneficent  Empire  that  ever  existed 
upon  earth,  we  turn  to  a  more  cheer- 
ing prospect,  and  joyfully  inhale 
from  the  prospects  of  the  species 
those  hopes  which  we  can  no  longer 
venture  to  cherish  for  our  own 
country. 

The  attention  of  all  classes  in  this 
country  has  been  so  completely  ab- 
sorbed of  late  years  by  the  progress 
of  domestic  changes,  and  the  march 
of  revolution,  that  little  notice  has 
been  bestowed  on  the  events  we  have 
been  considering;  yet  they  are  more 
important  to  the  future  fate  of  the 
species,  than  even  the  approaching 
dismemberment  of  the  British  Em- 
pire. We  are  about  to  witness  the 
overthrow  of  the  Mahometan  reli- 
gion ;  the  emancipation  of  the  cradle 
of  civilisation  from  Asiatic  bondage ; 
the  accomplishment  of  that  deliver- 
ance of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  for  which 
the  Crusaders  toiled  and  bled  in 
vain;  the  elevation  of  the  Cross  on 
the  Dome  of  St  Sophia,  and  the  walls 
of  Jerusalem.  DHBtai 

That  this  great  event  was  ap- 
proaching has  been  long  foreseen  by 


of  Turkey.  £47 

the  thoughtful  and  the  philanthropic. 
The  terrors  of  the  Crescent  have 
long  since  ceased :  it  received  its  first 
check  in  the  Gulf  of  Lepanto :  it 
waned  before  the  star  of  Sobiebki 
under  the  walls  of  Vienna,  and  set  in 
flames  in  the  Bay  of  Navarino.  The 
power  which  once  made  all  Chris- 
tendom tremble,  which  shook  the 
imperial  throne,  and  penetrated  from 
the  sands  of  Arabia  to  the  banks  of 
the  Loire,  is  now  in  the  agonies  of 
dissolution:  and  that  great  deliver- 
ance for  which  the  banded  chivalry 
of  Europe  fought  for  centuries,  and 
to  attain  which  millions  of  Christian 
bones  whitened  the  fields  of  Asia,  is 
now  about  to  be  effected  through  the 
vacillation  and  indifference  of  their 
descendants.  That  which  the  cour- 
age of  Richard  Co3ur  de  Lion,  and 
the  enthusiasm  of  Godfrey  of  Bouil- 
lon, could  not  achieve ;  which  resist- 
ed the  arms  of  the  Templars  and  the 
Hospitallers,  and  rolled  back  from 
Asia  the  tide  of  European  invasion, 
is  now  in  the  act  of  being  accom- 
plished. A  more  memorable  instance 
was  never  afforded  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  passions  and  vices  of  men 
are  made  to  work  out  the  intentions 
of  an  overruling  Providence,  and  of 
the  vanity  of  all  human  attempts  to 
prevent  that  ceaseless  spread  of  re- 
ligion which  has  been  decreed  by 
the  Almighty. 

That  Russia  is  the  power  by  whom 
this  great  change  was  to  be  effect- 
ed, by  whose  arm  the  tribes  of 
Asia  were  to  be  reduced  to  subjec- 
tion, and  the  triumph  of  civilisation 
over  barbaric  sway  effected,  has  long 
been  apparent.  The  gradual  but  un- 
ceasing pressure  of  the  hardy  races 
of  mankind  upon  the  effeminate,  of 
the  energy  of  Northern  poverty  on 
the  corruption  of  Southern  opulence, 
rendered  it  evident  that  this  change 
must  ultimately  be  effected.  The 
final  triumph  of  the  Cross  over  the 
Crescent  was  secure  from  the  mo- 
ment that  the  Turcoman  descended  to 
the  plains  of  Asia  Minor,  and  the 
sway  of  the  Czar  was  established  in 
the  deserts  of  Scythia.  As  certainly 
as  water  will  ever  descend  from  the 
mountains  to  the  plain,  so  surely 
will  the  stream  of  permanent  con- 
quest, in  every  age,  flow  from  the 
northern  to  the  southern  races  of 
mankind. 

But  although  the  continued 


948 

tion  of  these  causes  was  evident, 
and  the  ultimate  ascendent  of  the 
religion  of  Christ,  and  the  institutions 
of  civilisation,  over  the  tenets  of  Ma- 
homet, and  the  customs  of  barbar- 
ism, certain ;  yet  many  different  cau- 
ses, till  within  these  few  years,  con- 
tributed to  check  their  effects,  and 
to  postpone,  apparently,  for  an  inde- 
finite period,  the  final  liberation  of 
the  Eastern  world.  But  the  weak- 
ness, insanity,  and  vacillation  of 
England  and  France,  while  they  will 
prove  fatal  to  them,  seem  destined 
to  subject  the  East  to  the  sway  of 
Russia,  and  renew,  in  the  plains  of 
Asia,  those  institutions  of  which  Eu- 
rope has  become  unworthy.  The 
cause  of  religion,  the  spread  of  the 
Christian  faith,  has  received  an  im- 
pulse from  the  vices  and  follies,which 
she  never  received  from  the  sword,  of 
Western  Europe.  The  infidelity  and 
irreligion  of  the  French  philosophers 
have  done  that  for  the  downfall  of  Is- 
lamism  which  all  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  Crusaders  could  not  accomplish. 
Their  first  effect  was  to  light  up  a 
deadly  war  in  Europe,  and  array  the 
civilized  powers  of  the  world  in  mor- 
tal strife  against  each  other ;  but  this 
was  neither  their  only  nor  their  final 
effect.  In  this  contest,  the  arms  of 
civilisation  acquired  an  unparalleled 
ascendency  over  those  of  barbarism  ; 
and  at  its  close,  the  power  of  Russia 
was  magnified  fourfold.  Turkey  and 
Persia  were  unable  to  withstand  the 
Empire  from  which  the  arms  of  Na- 
poleon rolled  back.  The  overthrow 
of  Mahometanism,  the  liberation 
of  the  finest  provinces  of  Europe 
from  Turkish  sway,  flowed  at  last, 
directly  and  evidently,  from  the  rise 
of  the  spirit  which  at  first  closed  all 
the  churches  of  France,  and  erected 
the  altar  of  Reason  in  the  choir  of 


The  Fall  of  Turkey. 


[June, 


Notre  Dame.  We  are  now  witness- 
ing the  conclusion  of  the  drama. — 
When  England  descended  from  her 
high  station,  and  gave  way  to  revo- 
lutionary passions;  when  irreligion 
tainted  her  people,  and  respect  for 
the  institutions  of  their  fathers  no 
longer  influenced  her  government, 
she,  too,  was  abandoned  to  the  con- 
sequences of  her  vices;  and  from  her 
apostasy,  fresh  support  derived  to 
the  cause  of  Christianity.  French 
irreligion  had  quadrupled  the  mili- 
tary strength  of  Russia :  but  the 
English  navy  still  existed  to  uphold 
the  tottering  edifice  of  Turkish 
power.  English  irreligion  and  infi- 
delity overturned  her  constitution, 
and  the  barrier  was  swept  away. 

The  British  navy,  paralysed  by  de- 
mocracy and  divisions  in  the  British 
islands,  can  no  longer  resist  Mosco- 
vite  ambition,  and  the  prostration  of 
Turkey  is  in  consequence  complete. 
The  effects  will  be  fatal  to  England ; 
but  they  may  raise  up  in  distant  lands 
other  empires,  which  may  one  day 
rival  even  the  glories  of  the  Bri- 
tish name.  The  Cross  may  cease  to 
be  venerated  at  Paris,  but  it  will  be 
elevated  at  St  Sophia :  it  may  be  ridi- 
culed in  London,  but  it  will  resume 
its  sway  at  Antioch.  Considerations 
of  this  kind  are  fitted,  if  any  can,  to 
console  us  for  the  degradation  and 
calamities  of  our  own  country :  they 
shew,  that  if  one  nation  becomes 
corrupted,  Providence  can  derive, 
even  from  its  vices  and  ingratitude, 
the  means  of  raising  up  other  states 
to  the  glory  of  which  it  has  become 
unworthy  :  and  that  from  the  decay 
of  civilisation  in  its  present  seats,  the 
eye  of  Hope  may  anticipate  its  fu- 
ture resurrection  in  the  cradle  from 
whence  it  originally  spread  its  bless- 
ings throughout  the  world. 


ted*  fo 


1833.] 


T/te  Sketcher. 


No.  II. 


949 
HOI* 


THE  SKETCHER. 


No.  II. 


I  CONCLUDED 

panegyric  on  Gaspar  Poussin,  that 
first  of  landscape-painters,  and  ex- 
plained the  principle  of  composition, 
by  the  practical  exercise  of  which  he 
acquired  such  power  over  the  space 
of  his  canvass.  Hence  his  pencil  was 
delightfully  free,  for  its  wildest  play 
was  directed  by  an  intuitive  know- 
ledge, or  made  perfect,  harmonious, 
and  congruous  in  all  its  parts,  by  the 
application  of  his  simple  rule.  Nor 
is  this  principle  applicable  to  land- 
scape only — it  is  the  principle  of  the 
art,  and  will  be  found  more  or  less 
in  every  work  of  known  excellence. 

I  have  examined  many  pictures 
and  parts  of  pictures,  and  have  ascer- 
tained that  much  of  their  beauty, 
quoad  composition,  depends  upon 
the  accidental  or  purposed  use  of 
this  principle. 

Once  I  recollect  tormenting  my- 
self with  a  difficulty  in  the  compo- 
sition of  a  picture  I  was  painting,  and 
could  not  satisfy  my  eye.  By  a  dash 
of  the  brush  I  hit  it  at  last,  but  at 
that  time  knew  not  why;  since  my 
discovery  I  have  examined  the  work, 
and  find  it  was  true  to  the  rule. 

Now,  it  is  well  to  know  the  rule 
beforehand ;  and  I  am  very  confi- 
dent that  any  painter  or  sketcher 
who  will  take  the  trouble  to  examine 
nature  and  pictures,  and  bear  in 
mind  what  I  have  stated  in  my  last 
paper,  will  see  the  why  and  where- 
fore of  beauties  that  he  before  im- 
perfectly felt,  will  be  enabled  to  ad- 
mire them  the  more,  and  with  some 
certainty  of  success  correct  the  lines 
of  his  compositions. 

Perhaps  I  should  not  have  known 
Gaspar  Poussin  so  well,  had  I  not 
many  years  ago,  while  I  was  yet 
young  in  art,  studied  the  prints  from 
his  works  published  by  Pond  and 
others.  I  never  can  forget  the  im- 
pression these  made  upon  me ;  I  had 
never  before  seen  any  thing  at  all  to 
satisfy  me;  but  here,  and  yet  they 
were  not  his  best  compositions,  was 
the  poetry  of  landscape.  Here  was 
shade  and  shelter,  seclusion  and  ac- 
cessibility, combined ;  the  earth  was 
rescued  as  it  were  from  the  defor- 
mity of  "  the  curse"  inflicted  upon 


it,  and  from  the  viler  tyranny  of  your 
capability  Browns.  Some  ot  the  ori- 
ginal pictures  subsequently  fell  into 
my  possession,  and  1  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  comparing  them  continu- 
ally with  the  prints.  I  happened  like- 
wise to  have  a  set  of  these  prints,  the 
only  perfect  set  I  have  ever  seen, 
with  a  printed  catalogue,  and  con- 
taining about  six  more  subjects  than 
are  now  met  with  in  the  common 
book  of  these  plates  in  their  retouch- 
ed state.  The  work  contains  a  few 
from  Claude,  one  from  Salvator 
Rosa,  one  from  Rembrandt,  one 
from  Giacomo  Cortesi  detto  il  Bor- 
gognone,  one  from  Filippo  Lauri, — 
the  rest  are,  professedly,  from  Gas- 
par  Poussin ;  I  say  professedly,  be- 
cause my  long  acquaintance  with  the 
works  of  that  master,  has  led  me  to 
be  somewhat  nice  and  discrimina- 
ting, and  to  reject  some  out  of  the 
number;  of  which  are, — one  with 
cattle  in  the  water,  published  by 
Pond,  in  1744,  as  in  the  possession 
of  the  Honourable  Horace  Walpole  ; 
one  published  1741,  by  Knapton,  in 
the  collection  of  the  Right  Honour- 
able Lord  James  Cavendish, — re- 
cumbent figures  with  a  dog  and 
goats  in  the  foreground — in  the  se- 
cond distance  a  town  and  bridge, 
(which  latter  I  do  not  at  this  mo- 
ment recollect  ever  to  have  seen  in 
a  picture  by  Gaspar  Poussin ;)  one 
in  the  collection  of  the  Right  Hon. 
the  Earl  of  Suffolk,  1741,  by  Knap- 
ton,  a  composition  of  distracted 
parts,  with  a  preposterous  rock,  and 
figures  shooting;  one  published  by 
Pond,  1743,  in  the  collection  of  Ro- 
bert Price,  Esq.,  in  which  is  a  river 
and  figures  bathing,  two  strange  fi- 
gures near  two  tall  trees;  this  I  take 
to  be  by  N.  Poussin. 

As  this  work,  in  its  incomplete 
state,  and  with  the  plates  retouched, 
is  still  very  commonly  met  with,  and 
may  be  very  cheaply  purchased,  it 
may  be  as  well  to  refer  the  reader  to 
an  examination  of  some  of  the  plates; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  be  tho- 
roughly convinced  of  the  truth  of 
my  observations  on  the  principle  of 
art  contained  in  them. 

Let  us   then  take   the  first  that 


fee 


The  Sketcher. 
avfid  I  dbrdw  motf  .atelq  <• 
comes  to  hand.  The  book  is  before 
me.  Here  is  a  noble  scene.  The 
plate  5s  published  by  Pend,  October 
25,  1742,  in  the  collection  of  Her 
Grace  the  Duchess  of  Kent  —  Viva- 
res  sculp.  This  is,  in  truth,  a  most 
poetical  piece.  In  its  general  forms 
it  is  of  the  simplest  kind.  It  is  rather 
a  close  scene,  a  home  among  the 
mountains.  Nearly  in  the  centre 
rises  a  rocky  summit  —  the  lines  so 
rise  and  fall  to  the  foreground  as  to 
make  this  mountain  the  view.  The 
parts  of  which  it  is  made  flow  into 
each  other  so  playfully,  and  appa- 
rently with  intricacy,  that  there  is 
the  greatest  variety  in  them,  yet  all 
with  perfect  congruity. 

All  the  parts  are  again  kept  to- 
gether by  the  unity  of  the  view  or 
subject,  constituting  them  merely  as 
parts  contained  under  the  great 
simple  leading  lines  A  little  way 
down  the  mountain  is  an  old  town, 
rising  out  of,  or  rather  growing  out 
of  the  rock  ;  below  it  and  around  it 
on  every  side  is  a  thick  wood,  (the 
trees,  as  usual  with  him,  of  no  great 
growth,)  that  leads  down  to  a  ravine, 
the  depth  of  which  is  hid  by  the  fore- 
ground, a  broken  bank,  which  de- 
scends in  a  line,  corresponding,  in  a 
contrary  direction,  to  the  general 
rising  lines  of  the  hill.  From  hidden 
sources,  water  is  pouring  over  the 
broken  ground,  to  form  a  mountain 
torrent  below,  and  by  various  pas- 
sages finds  its  way  into  the  ravine. 
The  lines  of  the  rock  and  wood,  lead 
your  eye  directly  into  this  deep  ra- 
vine, into  which  some  figures  are 
looking  and  pointing,  as  if  something 
unseen  but  by  themselves  attracted 
their  attention.  Thus  curiosity  is 
raised,  and  a  desire  to  look  into  the 
depth,  and  an  interest  created  by  the 
incident.  There  is  a  path  leading 
within,  but  is  lost,  and  at  the  edge 
where  it  is  lost  are  the  figures  men- 
tioned. There  are  other  paths  about 
the  picture,  which,  though  broken 
from  the  eye,  connect  themselves 
with  this,  and  communicate  to  the 
town  and  every  part  of  the  scene, 
for  there  is  no  part  utterly  inacces- 
sible. There  are,  in  all,  five  figures, 
two  on  the  edge  of  the  path  in  its 
descent,  looking  into  the  ravine,  one 
more  in  the  foreground  pointing  to 
them;  on  a  path  above  are  two 
more  ascending  in  friendly  converse. 
How  well  the  accessibility  of  the 
ivhole  is  kept  up  by  these  two  fi- 


No.  II.  [J,,ne, 

•  ™,  t  »     , 

gures  !  Three  are  turned  towards  the 

ravine,  but  the  two  more  distant  are 
quietly  winding  round  to  the  sum- 
mit, thus  connecting  the  height  with 
the  depth ;  and  the  figures  are  so 
placed,  that  the  eye  cannot  but  con- 
nect them  with  each  other;  that  is, 
tho  two  above  and  the  one  nearer 
the  foreground  are  directors  or 
pointers  to  the  two  immediately 
above  the  ravine.  Here  is  scope 
enough  for  sweet  sequestered  retire- 
ment— no  lack  of  green  boughs,  cool 
shade,  and  sheltering  rock— all  is 
silvan  quiet,  and  repose, — all  the  free 
boon  and  gift  of  beneficent  nature  to 
love  and  friendship.  The  mountain 
freedom  of  the  scene  is  delightful ; 
you  would  not  question  the  fresh- 
ness, and  purity,  and  sweet  life  of  the 
air,  that,  as  an  unseen  spirit,  animates 
with  gentle  breath  and  motion  the 
whole  scene,  and  influences  the 
hearts  of  all  that  are  under  its  pro- 
tection. 

But  let  me  speak  of  the  art  of  com- 
position by  which  so  much  is  effect- 
ed, for  that  is  the  main  thing  to 
which  I  would  direct  the  reader's 
attention.  As  in  the  other  picture 
remarked  upon  in  my  last  paper,  so 
here,  the  highest  point  is  in  trees 
rising  immediately  from  the  bank  of 
the  foreground ;  and  as  in  that  in- 
stance, as  is  the  distance  from  the 
height  of  the  picture  to  the  top  of 
the  tree,  so  is  that  of  the  lower  part 
of  the  bank  from  the  bottom,  the 
space  below  being  filled  up  with 
mere  herbage,  and  large  leaves  in 
shade.  The  next  highest  point  is  the 
opposite  side  of  the  picture,  which 
is  similarly  broken  in  its  height  and 
depth,  by  the  sky  above  and  bushes 
below.  But  though  these  are  the 
highest  points,  they  are  not  the  prin- 
cipal ;  their  height  is  only  to  give 
greater  depth  to  the  ravine.  Be- 
tween them  rises,  as  the  principal 
object,  the  rocky  summit,  which, 
with  all  its  subordinate  parts,  includ- 
ing the  ravine,forms  the  picture.  The 
eye,  then,  is  directed  by  the  sub- 
tending character  of  the  Hues,  imme- 
diately from  this  height  to  a  point 
under  it,  where  are  the  pointing  fi- 
gures, formed  by  the  figures,  and 
some  light  upon  the  adjacent  bank, 
and  corresponding,  in  its  distance 
from  the  bottom,  to  the  space  above, 
occupied  by  the  sky.  There  are 
more  distant  hills,  on  the  one  side, 
rising  above  the  fall  of  the  line  of  the 


1833.] 


The  Skttcker.    No.  II. 


951 


mountain,  on  the  other  side,  some- 
what more  towards  the  corner  of  the 
picture,  and  falling  into  that  general 
mass ;  and  this  is  so  managed,  for  the 
purpose  of  raising  a  tree  that  breaks 
the  woody  range  between  the  two 
points.  The  clouds  incline  to  the 
mountain  mass,  and  immediately 
above  an  elevated  tower  is  the  lower 
space  of  the  clouds,  as  was  the  notch 
in  the  clouds  of  the  picture  described 
in  my  last.  To  enclose  the  town,  and, 
as  it  were,  give  it  a  unity  in  itself, 
there  is  a  rise  and  fall  in  the  wood, 
so  that  the  highest  part  of  the  build- 
ings is  immediately  above  the  lowest 
point  of  that  circular  ran^e.  The 
grouping  of  the  masses  of  foliage  in 
the  wood  is  precisely  on  the  same 
principle.  The  beautifully  broken 
bank  forming  the  foreground  runs 
do  wn  remarkably  to  the  figures  under 
the  high  point  of  the  mountain  ;  and 
from  thence,atasimilar angle, the  line 
is  carried  up  on  the  other  side  of  the 
picture,  so  as  to  make  that  poi  nt,  where 
are  the  two  figures  looking  into  the 
ravine,  important,  by  which  the  eye 
may  measure  the  height  of  the  whole. 
The  light  trees,  on  a  grassy  bank 
rising  out  of  the  foreground,  bending 
over  the  ravine,  and  corresponding, 
as  it  were,  with  the  foliage  on  the  op- 
posite bank,  act  on  the  same  prin- 
ciple, enclose  the  ravine,  and  direct 
the  eye  into  the  deep  shaded  woody 
hollow. 

Having  discussed  the  art  of  com- 
position of  this  great  master,  as  ex- 
emplified in  two  of  his  pictures,  let 
me  now  pay  a  tribute  of  praise  to 
those  faithful  engravers  who  admir- 
ably performed  their  task,  and  en- 
abled us  to  examine  so  well  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  painter  which  them- 
selves so  felt.  Their  works  should 
be,  like  school-books,  in  every  one's 
hand  who  would  learn  at  once  both 
the  rudiments  and  excellences  of 
the  art.  It  is  true  their  style  of  en- 
graving has,  in  a  great  measure,  been 
superseded,  not  surpassed;  for  all 
can  admire  high  finish,  few  execu- 
tion 

>H  sift  to 


This  plate,  from  which  I  have  made 
my  remarks,  and  which  is  still  be- 
fore me,  is  by  Vivares.  Examine 
the  texture  of  every  part;  it  is  not 
mere  light  and  shade,  it  is  rocky  and 
leafy,  or  mixed  just  as  and  where  it 
should  be.  How  free  the  foliage, 
how  characteristic  of  the  master ! 
and  how  admirable  is  the  general 
keeping  where  exactness  of  tint  and 
light  and  shade  is  not  intended,  and, 
previous  to  modern  inventions,  was 
scarcely  practicable  ;  yet  with  what 
ease  the  imagination  incorporates 
with  what  is  given,  all  that  is  omit- 
ted! My  acquaintance  with  the  works 
of  Gaspar,  instead  of  making  me  less 
relish  the  labours  of  these  engravers, 
renders  me  more  sensible  of  their 
great  merit.  I  see  Gaspar  the  bet- 
ter through  them,  and  them  through 
Gaspar.  And  is  not  this  praise? 
There  is  no  vain  toil  and  labour  after 
effect,  and  no  visible  sacrifice,  no  at- 
tempt to  astonish,  for  that  the  origi- 
nal painter  in  his  copy  of  the  modes- 
ty of  nature  avoided ;  and  his  en- 
gravers seem  to  have  known  this. 
All  is  even,  flowing,  easy,  apparently 
unambitious,  but  worked  evidently 
with  an  intense  feeling  of  the  mind 
and  intention  of  the  master.  There 
is  no  mechanical  stiffness,  no  dex- 
terous display  of  handling,  no  flou- 
rishes of  the  graver.*  Vivares  was, 
I  believe,  self-taught;  that  is,  at  least, 
he  was  not  bred  to  the  art.  Nor  was 
his  employer  Pond  an  artist,  or  in 
'«  the  Trade."  He  was,  I  think,  an 
attorney,  and  Vivares  a  tailor.  It 
was  on  carrying  home  some  clothes 
to  an  engraver  that  he  was  struck 
with  a  copperplate;  whenever  he 
repeated  these  visits  of  business,  he 
requested  a  sight  of  the  plates  in 
progress ;  and  conceived  at  length 
the  idea  that  he  could  do  the  same  ; 
he  tried  and  succeeded.  His  etch- 
ings, and  indeed  these  plates  are 
mostly  etched,  having  but  little  of 
the  mark  of  the  graver  in  them,  are 
exquisite,  light,  free,  and  wonder- 
fully expressive  of  the  character  of 
every  object.  Though  a  tailor,  etch- 


*  It  is  curious  that  few  among  the  great  painters  were  the  sons  of  painters,  and 
originally  intended  for  the  profession,  but  appear  led  to  it  by  an  all-powerful  genius 
or  taste,  a  peculiar  gift.  Raphael  is  almost  the  only  one  that  was  the  son  of  a  pain- 
ter. Andrea  del  Sarto  was  a  tailor's  son  ;  Tintoret  the  son  of  a  dyer  ;  Michael  An- 
gelo  de  Caravaggio,  of  a  mason  ;  Correggio  (il  divirio),  of  a  ploughman  ;  Guido,  of  a 
musician;  Dornenichino,  of  a  shoemaker;  Albano.  of  a  mercer,  -  f?bil'»3fce  dioni 

eiom     eril    lo 


dm  io  oaH  s/ii 


sdJ 


te  ^nteh     -ft  o-«J  <jg«>rij  yd  qu 


952 


The  Sketcher.     No.  II. 


ing  was  his  best  needle-work.  His 
second  nature  acquired  by  the  needle 
was  better  than  his  first.  The  arts 
are  infinitely  indebted  to  the  engra- 
vers of  the  plates  in  this  work  pub- 
lished by  Pond  and  others.  They 
all  had  excellent  feeling, — Vivares, 
Wood,  Chatelain,  and  Mason.  And 
yet  they  all  differ  from  each  other  in 
their  manner  and  handling ;  Chate- 
lain is  perhaps  the  broadest,  Vivares 
the  most  exact  in  the  detail  and  in- 
dividual character  of  objects.  But 
they  all  seem  to  have  worked  to- 
gether in  happy  fellowship,  and  to 
have  improved  by  attending  to,  and 
occasionally  adopting,  the  peculiar 
merits  of  each  other.  How  strange 
that  men  living  in  the  heat  and  tur- 
moil, and  sooty  atmosphere,  of  some 
obscure  parts  of  the  crowded  and 
reeking  metropolis,  who,  perhaps, 
scarcely  saw  nature  in  her  green, 
variegated,  and  refreshing  beauty, 
should  at  once,  as  it  were  quodam 
intuifu,  have  such  feeling  for  roman- 
tic landscape,  throwing  off  from  them 
the  infectious  low  vulgarity  that  so 
thickly  surrounded  them  !  It  is  more 
wonderful  than  the  lover's  love  at 
first  sight,  for  it  is  falling  in  love  at 
the  portrait  merely.  But  so  it  was. 
Well,  then,  were  these  men  justly 
appreciated?  No.  Are  they  justly 
appreciated  now  ?  No.  I  have  con- 
versed with  some  well-known  and 
admired  artists  both  in  painting  and 
engraving,  who  were  ignorant  of 
their  works.  It  is  strange  that  mere 
mechanical  labour  should  be  more 
admired  than  expressive  execution, 
wherein  the  mind  works  with  and 
directs  the  hand.  Ignorance  ever 
likes  the  display,  the  flourish, — would 
prefer  the  caperings  of  a  human  ba- 
boon, to  the  sweet  and  gentle  move- 
ment of  the  Graces. 

First  came  Woollet,  with  his  sur- 
prising dexterity  in  the  use  of  the 
graver.  He  introduced,  it  is  true, 
more  tone,  but  then  texture  was  lost. 
For  loose,  free,  flexible  foliage,  you 
had  tinfoil,  hard-cut  leafage,  mould- 
ed, metallic.  However,  his  style 
pleased,  and  the  public  taste  has 
never  yet  gone  back  to  the  admira- 
tion of  his  betters.  And  even  among 
professed  connoisseurs,  is  it  not 
strange  that  eyes  that  can  enjoy  the 
beautiful  etchings  of  K.  du  Jardin, 
Berghem,  Rembrandt,  Waterloo,  and 
many  others,  should  not  fully  enjoy 


[June, 

the  free  expressive  handling  of  such 
men  as  Vivares,  Chatelain,  Wood,  and 
Mason?  But  certain  it  is,  the  pro- 
gress has  been  onward  in  a  wrong 
direction,  in  imitation  rather  of  Wool- 
let.  Tone,  not  character  and  texture 
of  objects,  has  been  mostly  attended 
to.  And  it  must  be  confessed,  Low- 
ry's  improvements,  inventions  of  ru- 
lers, and  diamond  points,  &c.,  have 
given  modern  artists  a  wonderful 
facility,  and  astonishing  things  they 
are  now  thereby  enabled  to  do  in 
all  that  concerns  tone.  But  still  it 
is  too  much  tone — too  exclusively 
tone;  and  I  question,  in  looking  at 
our  present  day's  engravings,  if,  after 
the  first  surprise,  we  are  not  disap- 
pointed that  so  little  is  left  to  the 
imagination.  We  want  to  fill  up  a 
little  in  tone  and  colour ;  we  want  to 
think  of  the  pictures;  for  engraving 
does  not  profess  to  be  in  itself  a  per- 
fect work,  but  to  give  you  some  idea 
of  another.  Where  too  much  is  done, 
that  other  work  to  which  it  should 
refer,  is  abstracted  from  the  contem- 
plation of  the  mind's  eye.  We  want 
to  think  of  the  original  pictures,  and 
the  engravings,  by  doing  too  much, 
will  not  let  us.  Nay,  they  too  often 
set  us  wrong,  and  sacrifice  colour, 
(I  speak  not  in  the  engraver's  tech- 
nical meaning  of  the  word  as  of  tone,) 
and  we  have  often  masses  of  soot  for 
green  shade,  and,  what  is  worse,  for 
air. 

I  will  not  deny  that  the  art  of  en- 
graving has  wonderfully  advanced, 
but  the  art  of  etching  has  retrogra- 
ded. We  have  poor  scholars  in  the 
latter,  —  excellent  masters  in  the 
former  art.  And,  it  must  be  owned, 
that  the  improvements  in  engraving 
are  admirably  calculated  to  represent 
the  works  of  modern  artists,  whose 
aim  is  more  to  surprise  than  perma- 
nently to  please;  they  would  take 
you  by  storm,  not  attract  you  by 
gentle  persuasion.  They  must  vie 
with  each  other,  like  tumblers  at 
a  fair,  to  perform  astonishing  feats, 
do  wonderful  things,  unattempted 
things,  "  cose  non  dette  mai  in  pro- 
sa  ne  in  rima."  Trickery  and  gam- 
bol have  succeeded  to  former  nobler 
simplicity;  display  and  show  is  every 
thing,  and  yet  there  is  oftentimes 
poverty  enough — a  gorgeous  poverty 
— a  staring,  flaunting,  vulgar,  bedi- 
zened meanness — with  which,  to  the 
common  eye,  unobtrusive  excellence 


1833.] 


The  Shetcher.     No.  II. 


953 


would  bear  no  comparison,  and,  in- 
deed, would  suffer  materially  from 
any  juxtaposition,  like  modesty  in 
evil  company. 

But  these  improvements  in  the 
mrchinery  of  the  engraver,  are  ad- 
mirably calculated  to  do  justice  to 
presuming  efforts,  sometimes  the  aim 
of  men  of  real  and  great  genius,  and 
be  ter  it  were  they  were  always  of 
those  of  none.  Would  I  wish  these 
improvements  had  never  been  in- 
vented ?  By  no  means.  I  admire 
mi  ch  they  do,  not  all  they  do,  but 
that  arises  from  the  misuse  of  them. 
The  public  taste  has  run  mad  after 
effects,  wonders,  and  novelties,  and 
will  perform  or  look  to  little  else. 
And  this  is  particularly  vile  in  land- 
scape, in  which  we  want  true  pasto- 
ral in  the  painter,  and  the  character- 
istic execution  of  our  old  etchers. 

How  could  I  wish  the  improve- 
meutsnever  had  been  invented,  when 
I  see  how  accurately  they  represent 
the  effects  of  Turner,  his  skies,— 
his  town  views,  their  stir,  and  bustle, 
and  vapour;  all  which,  I  nevertheless 
think,  astonish  too  much,  and  I  con- 
fess I  seldom  look  at  them  twice. 
Bur,  this  may  be  a  defect  in  me,  and 
my  taste  may  exclusively  look  for 
landscape,  and  effects  are  not  land- 
scape. Nay,  it  must  be  a  fault  when 
effects  are  made  the  principal,  which 
should  only  be  the  adjunct  to  the 
subject,  as  the  manner  of  shewing  it 
off.  This  manner  may  be  too  obtru- 
sive for  the  subject;  it  strikes  me  as 
very  often  so,  especially  in  land- 
scapes that  pretend  to  the  superior 
merit  of  composition.  Still  I  delight 
in  the  power,  however  the  applica- 
tion of  it  may  offend.  We  do  not 
wai;t  every  thing  in  art  to  be  this  va- 
poury  softness,  contrasted  with  sud- 
den sharp  lights  and  spots  of  utter 
blackness,  or  either  of  these  in  op- 
posed masses.  Give  me,  however, 
the  real  landscape-painters,  and  their 
adn  irers  and  translators,  the  etchers 
as  c  f  old.  I  will  stand  stupified  a 
few  required  moments  at  works  of 
the  other  character,  and  then  content- 
edl}  retire  to  be  pleased  in  my  own 
way.  My  taste  is  as  yet  too  healthy, 
I  trust,  to  require  strong  and  sudden 
exci  tement.  My  eye  is  not  under  pa- 
ralysis requiring  the  galvanic  shock. 
Yet  I  would  not  depreciate  facilities, 
and  delight  in  the  prospect  of  their 
proper  direction,  and  in  the  means 


of  disseminating  taste  more  gene- 
rally; for  taste  wages  perpetual  war 
with  vulgarity,  and  vulgarity  is  a 
step  in  the  ladder  of  bad  morals.  The 
public  ought,  therefore,  to  be  con- 
gratulated on  the  acquisition  of  the 
cheap  one -shilling  numbers  of  the 
engravings  from  pictures  in  the  Na- 
tional Gallery.  I  rather  lament  a 
loss,  than  repine  at  the  acquirement 
of  a  new  power.  I  want  more  cha- 
racteristic engravers,  whose  uncon- 
taminated  fingers  have  not  yet  been 
irremediably  dipt  in  the  sooty  Ache- 
ron. In  both  painting  and  engraving, 
the  vigorous  masculine  energy  of  the 
old  artists  is  no  more.  There  is  an 
affectation  of  the  exquisite.  For  the 
simple  dignified  walk,  we  have  the 
pirouette  ;  and  put  on  manliness  by 
the  stamp  and  the  frown.  The  real 
poverty  of  limb  and  motion  is  at- 
tempted to  be  hid  under  the  fluster 
and  flicker  of  silk  and  satin:  all  which 
is  detestable.  Taste  is  first  indig- 
nant, and  though  the  price  of  admis- 
sion has  been  paid,  quits  the  tawdry 
theatre  and  its  trickeries,  and  walks 
away  in  disgust  to  some  refreshing, 
cool,  inoffensive,  unobtrusive  dell, 
(that  has  chanced  to  have  escaped 
the  beautifier,)  and  listening  to  the 
lecture  of  some  eloquent  brook,  culls 
"  sermons  from  stones,  and  good  from 
every  thing." 

The  theatrical  has  corrupted  even 
our  engravers.  The  finnikin  nicety, 
the  tinsel,  the  glare,  the  stare,  the 
start,  the  maudlin  affectation  of  feel- 
ing, are  all  transferred  to  another 
art.  Some  men  of  undoubted  genius 
have  led  the  way  to  this,  and  I  can- 
not but  think  against  their  better 
judgments.  They  have  been  too  am- 
bitious of  shewing  their  own  manual 
skill,  not  of  transferring  to  the  plate 
the  great  ideas  of  their  originals. 
They  become  vitiated  by  this  evil  de- 
sire, and  like  our  political  panders, 
had  rather  please  the  mass,  "  the 
people,"  by  shewing  them  the  falsi- 
ties which  alone  their  senseless 
heads  can  admire,  than  secure  to 
themselves  a  future  and  more  per- 
manent fame,  by  teaching  them  what 
they  ought  to  admire.  Now,  in  this 
respect,  I  cannot  but  think  Raphael 
Morghen  himself  to  have  been  a  de- 
linquent, e.  g.  the  magnificent  Trans- 
figuration. Are  we  not  offended 
with  the  soft  powder-puff  clouds, — 
the  minikin  theatrical  cottony  and 


954 


The  Sketcher.    No.  II. 


gauzy  texture  of  all  the  upper  part 
of  that  print?  The  divine  Raphael 
is  never  weak  and  flimsy.  Look  at 
his  cartoons,  and  think  of  the  absurd 
mode  in  which  other  translators  pre- 
sent them.  How  vigorous  in  execu- 
tion are  the  originals — how  broad — 
how  far  from  all  that  is  minute  and 
little!  The  mind,  under  the  great  idea 
to  be  impressed,  impatient  of  the  la- 
borious minute,  hurried  on  the  hand 
to  stamp  the  grand  character;  yet 
how  incongruous  to  their  greatness 
is  the  littleness  to  miniature  them  in 
every  part,  by  exquisite  finish  !  Yet 
such  attempts  are'  made,  as  if  the 
great  character  were  unfelt,  unseen. 
Cannot  we  be  content  to  see  the 
energy  of  St  Paul  preaching,  with- 
out counting  every  hair  on  his  head  ? 

But  I  am  stepping  out  of  my  pro- 
posed walk,  which  was  to  discuss 
landscape— however  my  remarks  il- 
lustrate what  I  would  assert  of  land- 
scape-engraving. Is  it  right  to  have 
the  same  finnikin  execution  for  all 
works?  The  light  Berghem,  the  free 
and  flowing  pencil  of  Gaepar,  the 
dash  and  savageness  of  Salvator  Rosa 
— are  they  all  to  be  of  the  same  hand- 
ling ?  Yet,  such  is  too  often  the  prac- 
tice. Tone  alone  is  studied.  Now, 
in  the  prints  published  by  Pond  and 
others,  in  the  work  I  have  noticed, 
there  is  but  little  tone,  just  enough 
to  preserve  harmony  throughout, 
that  nothing  shall  stare  and  offend  ; 
the  rest  is  left  to  the  imagination. 
Luckily,  perhaps,  the  art  had  not 
then  reached  the  fascinating,  tempt- 
ing power ;  therefore,  we  have  exe- 
cution, masterly,  free,  and  appropri- 
ate to  every  surface  and  object,  and 
to  the  general  character  of  the  pic- 
ture,  which  is  as  essential  as  to  the 
parts. 

In  a  former  number  of  Maga  I  was 
delighted  that  due  praise  had  been 
bestowed  on  the  very  original  genius 
of  a  native  artist,  the  Father  of  wood- 
engraving  in  England,  the  poetical, 
moral  Bewick, — the  English  JEsop 
of  wood-engravers.  There  is  always 
a  pleasure  in  recording  merit — more 
especially  if  it  has  been  overlooked ; 
and  besides  the  pleasure  of  rescuing 
such  men  as  Vivares,  and  his  co- 
workers,  from  oblivion,! am  sure  that 
in  directing  public  attention  to  their 
beautiful  etching — for  in  their  etch- 
ing lievS  their  great  excellence — I 
am  inviting  attention  to  that  which 


will  afford  great  delight,  and  give  a 
taste  and  relish  for  the  arts,  not  duly 
felt,  where  such  works  are  not  yet 
admired.  Indeed,  the  very  recom- 
mendation of  the  art  of  etching,  en- 
forced thereby,  is  well  worthy  the 
attention  of  sketchers,  candidates  for 
my  brotherhood,  who  will  learn  by 
the  observation  of  the  works  I  have 
praised,  and  by  the  practice  of  the 
same  art,  to  see  the  distinct  beauties 
of  all  the  forms  in  nature,  and  to 
ascertain  their  characteristic  execu- 
tion. Etching  is  perhaps  the  best 
practice  in  drawing,  is  a  sure  correc- 
tive of  the  slovenly  hand  ;  for  every 
thing  must  be  designed,  where  there 
can  be  no  happy  accident,  no  splash 
of  the  brush  to  hide  defects. 

As  to  a  sketcher,  it  is  most  material 
to  be  well  acquainted  with  the  prin- 
ciple of  composition.  I  shall  venture 
to  return  to  my  favourite  Gaspar  to 
exemplify  the  magic  power  of  lines, 
for  which,  as  well  as  for  many  other 
excellences — some  of  which  I  may 
occasionally  touch  upon  at  another 
time — he  cannot  be  too  much  stu- 
died. Once,  a  pedestrian  tourist  in 
Italy,  and  making  excursions  from  a 
convent,  near  Vico  Varo,  I  chanced 
to  follow  a  path  which  led  me  among 
the  mountains ;  on  a  sudden,  I  came 
upon  a  scene,  that  I  instantly  recog- 
nised to  be  the  subject  of  one  of 
Gaspar  Poussin's  pictures,  one  in  my 
own  possession.  I  had  copied  the 
picture;  every  passage  in  it  was 
therefore  familiar  to  me.  I  knew  it  / 
instantly,  by  a  large  building  on  a 
hill,  behind  which  was  probably  a 
small  town;  but  only  this  one  range 
of  building  was  visible  from  the 
point  where  I  stood.  In  this  build- 
ing, which  was  large,  there  was 
scarcely  any  alteration  ;  the  general 
run  of  the  lines  of  the  country  he 
had  preserved  :  his  additions  were 
however  important,  and  all  tending 
to  perfect  the  composition ; — the  prin- 
ciple was  manifest.  Let  me  describe 
shortly  the  picture  as  it  is.  It  is,  as 
most  of  his  pictures  are,  a  scene 
among  the  mountains.  On  a  hill 
which  breaks  into  the  sky  is  the 
building,  rather  large,  as  command- 
ing its  district;  it  is  situated  a  little 
to  the  left  of  the  centre.  The  ground 
falls  on  both  sides  of  it  more  gently 
towards  the  left  edge  of  the  picture, 
and  is  there  seen  through  the  open 
space  left  by  the  foliage  of  a  tree 


18;3;U 


The  Sketcher.    No.  1L 


that  rises  to  the  top  of  the  canvass ; 
but  the  fall  from  the  building  to  the 
cen  re  is  more  precipitous,  and  dips 
into  a  woody  dingle  or  pass,  whence 
the  ground  rises  again  on  the  other 
side  of  the  picture,  where  it  becomes 
more  broken,  and  is  much  covered 
with  small  wood,  the  rocks  rising 
from  it,  and  interspersed  among  the 
foliage,  and  somewhat  near  the  right 
extremity  of  the  canvass,  is  elevated 
into  a  rocky  summit,  of  a  bold  cha- 
racter, which  falls  again  towards  the 
edge  of  the  picture,  so  that  you  are 
not  to  imagine  any  higher  ground. 
There  are  then  two  summits,  the 
last  mentioned  the  highest,  and  that 
on  which  the  building  is  placed;  they 
face,  and  appear  to  hold  communica- 
tion with  each  other.  Between  them 
is  the  dell,  or  small  pass,  filled  up 
with  trees,  not  distinguishable  by 
their  stems,  but  by  their  masses  of 
foliage  ;  and  you  can  just  distinguish 
a  pnth  among  them.  This  connects 
the  two  parts.  In  the  centre,  above 
the  dip  connecting  the  two  hills,  is 
placed  a  more  distant  mountain,  oc- 
cupying just  so  much  space  as  would 
fill  up  the  interval,  if  the  lines  were 
to  be  continued ;  and  again,  under 
this  dip,  a  bank  gently  rises,  on  which 
is  a  small  sitting  figure,  and  by  him 
a  fow  scarcely  marked  sheep,  or 
goats ;  on  this  bank,  to  the  right,  are 
larger  trees,  as  nearer  the  foreground, 
that  throw  off  into  proper  distance 
the  wood  of  the  rocky  hill  behind 
them.  The  lines  of  these  trees  in- 
cline down  again  among  broken 
ground,  so  as  to  be  under  the  mass 
of  rock.  Below  this  ground  is  a 
road,  and  two  figures  near  the  right 
side,  and  walking  out  of  the  picture, 
one  rather  looking  back;  they  are 
conversing ;  they  are  graceful  figures. 
Connected  with  this  road,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  picture,  is  a  mass  of  mere 
herbage,  part  of  the  foreground,  from 
which  grows  the  great  tree  on  the 
other  side  of  the  picture. 

Now,  what  were  the  alterations 
made  by  Gaspar  ?  I  must  have  stood 
nearly  on  the  very  spot  where  he 
made  his  sketch ;  the  building  proved 
this  to  me.  He  had,  in  the  first 
place,  somewhat  altered  the  round 
and  smooth  character  of  the  hills  ;  he 
made  that  rocky  and  broken  which, 
when  I  saw  it,  was  a  smooth  green 
dow  n.  The  wood  was  his  own ;  I 
presume  there  never  had  been  any 


there,— certainly  none  grow  ing  among 
rocks,  for  rocks  there  were  none, 
and  they  are  not  easily  removed  ; 
and  the  bold  rocky  elevation  was  an 
entire  addition,  for  there  the  bill  in 
nature  was  smooth  and  rounded. 
The  distant  hill  likewise,  filling  up 
the  space  between  the  two  points, 
was  his  own.  Between  the  building 
and  the  rocky  elevation  was  a  gra- 
dual dip,  as  1  have  described  it ;  be- 
tween this,  above,  he  had  put  in  his 
masses  of  cloud.  The  whole  com- 
position is  extremely  simple,  and 
the  scene  very  beautiful,  as  if  quite 
upon  the  skirts  of  fairy-land ;  and 
the  figures  looked  as  if  they  had 
made  frequent  excursions  into  it, 
and  perhaps  were  then  bent  on  a  spe- 
cial embassy  to  the  "good  people." 
The  colouring  is  very  simple,  just 
what  it  ought  to  be  to  suit  such  a 
subject, — not  too  rich,  but  fresh,  and 
in  ever- changing  variety  and  inter- 
change of  dark  cool  greens,  and 
browns  of  the  rocky  soil,  blending 
with  the  yellower  tints  of  the  more 
open  unwooded  broken  ground. 
The  cast  of  the  colour  is  soft,  yet  re- 
freshing ;  but  looking  at  it  at  a  little 
distance,  you  would  say  it  had  no 
effect.  It  had  nothing  striking ;  it 
was  not  painted  for  an  exhibition 
room,  where  children  of  maturer 
growth  and  age  go  to  unlearn  their 
natural  taste,  and  be  amused  with 
glare,  as  the  minor  children  are 
amused  when  they  look  into  their 
cut  glass  plaything,  and  shake,  with 
new  wonder,  the  shifting  bits  of 
many-coloured  tin  and  sand.  The 
picture  has  little  of  what  is  called 
effect ;  if  it  had,  the  placid  charm  of 
the  whole  scene  would  have  been 
broken.  Peace  would  have  fled  from 
the  bold  intrusion.  The  shelter 
would  have  been  insecure.  Here  is 
a  retreat  with  unrestrained  ease;  you 
could  wander  all  over  it,  and  rest 
with  satisfaction  recumbent  in  any 
part;  you  are  not  confined  or  shut 
in,  for  you  see  distant  mountains 
which  all  belong  to  your  domain,  are 
all  in  the  title-deeds  of  the  faery  gift, 
and  you  have  range  enough.  That 
building,  to  which  a  path  will  lead 
you,  not  too  conspicuous,  but  a  home- 
path,  such  as  might  have  been  trod- 
den by  yourself  and  a  few  friends, 
(for  the  good  people,  if  they  visit 
you,  come  lightly,  and  wear  not  the 
downiest  herbage  with  their  delicate 


956 


The  Sketcher.    No.  II. 


feet,)  is,  you  well  know,  your  en- 
chanted castle,  where  all  things  may 
be  had  for  wishing  for  them ;  and 
there  your  own  sweet  Amanda,  love- 
ly with  her  flowing  glossy  locks,  is 
looking  from  the  balcony,  watching 
and  waiting  your  return  from  the 
working  world,  (where  you  have 
foolishly  gone  to  be  made  sensible 
of  the  difference,)  and  holding  in  her 
gentle  hand  a  most  delicious  sher- 
bet, the  pure  extract  of  nepenthe, 
that  grows  plentifully  in  all  the  re- 
gion. Nay,  do  not  count  the  'win- 
dows ;  on  the  other  side,  and  facing 
the  blue  mountain,  they  may  be 
many,  and  bright  as  Aladdin's,  yet 
pay  no  tax  for  their  number  or  di- 
mensions. You  know  there  must 
be  sweet  views,  all  of  a  character 
with  this,  over  the  brow  of  each  hill ; 
and,  perad  venture,  when  you  have 
drank  your  draught,  you  will  invite 
your  Amanda  to  wander  down  into 
the  dells  over  the  hill.  The  whole 
terrene  is  guarded  by  a  "  genius  lo- 
ci;" the  air  all  about  it  is  balmy  and 
enchanted. 

Most  of  Gaspar  Poussin's  pictures 
have  water  j  here  is  none.  But  you 
doubt  not  that  there  is  plenty  on  the 
other  side  of  the  height,  falling  over 
rocks  down  to  the  bottom,  and  there 
lying  for  a  while  in  placid  pools  with 
trees  reflected  in  them.  You  know 
it  must  be  so,  because  it  was  the  ter- 
ritory to  which  Gaspar  had  free  ac- 
cess, and  where  he  made  all  his 
sketches,  and  must  contain  within 
its  range  all  the  enchanting  beauties 
he  faithfully  transferred  to  the  can- 
vass. Now,  gentle  sketcher,  do  not 
be  offended,  but  I  doubt  if  you  would 
have  stood  two  seconds  at  the  spot, 
unless  you  be  gifted  with  such  crea- 
tive pencil  as  his,  that,  like  the  harle- 
quin wand,  can  transpose  and  con- 
vert at  pleasure.  There  was  little 
to  attract  but  the  building.  You  can 
imagine  Gaspar  with  his  creative  eye, 
half-shut  to  reject  from  his  vision  all 
that  was  disagreeable  in  this  scene 
from  nature,  and  with  his  mind's  eye 
on  the  alert,  doing  the  whole  thing 
in  a  few  seconds.  His  tree  in  the 
corner  he  was  sure  of;  he  had  hun- 
dreds of  studies  of  the  most  graceful 
at  home,  knew  every  turn  of  their 
growth  and  nature,  was  familiar  with 
all  earth's  best  foliage,  and  knew  the 
tales  the  balmy  airs  breathed  and 
whispered  among  them  ;  and  they 


[June, 

are  all  told  in  his  enchanting  land- 
scapes. Happy  are  you  if  you  can 
but  read  the  language  in  which  he 
has  put  them  down!  It  is  worth 
your  learning. 

Now,  gentle  sketcher,  when  you 
take  your  portfolio  among  the  moun- 
tains, into  the  woods  and  wilds,  you 
must  learn  so  to  half-shut  your  eyes, 
like  Gaspar,  that  you  may  have  the 
power  to  reject;  then  set  your  ima- 
gination free,  cut  the  strings  of  tight- 
laced  formality,  and  walk  elastic  as 
if  you  had  just  taken  a  salad  of  ne- 
penthe. 

What  did  Mr  Price  (late  Sir  Uve- 
dale  Price)  mean  by  his  assertion, 
that  the  buildings  of  Gaspar  Poussin 
are  not  picturesque,  but  that  the  cha- 
racter of  his  landscape  is  so  ?  Now, 
this  remark  of  his,  in  conjunction 
withafew  otherremarks  interspersed 
in  his  works,  leads  me  to  conclude 
that  I  do  not  understand  his  pictu- 
resque, or  that  he  contradicts  himself. 
Perhaps  the  term  is  of  no  definite 
meaning.  "  /*  it  not  a  little  remark- 
able" says  he,  "  that  of  the  two  most 
celebrated  of  mere  landscape-paint- 
ers, Gaspar  and  Claude,  the  one 
who  painted  wild,  broken,  picturesque 
nature,  should  hardly  have  any  of 
those  buildings  which  are  allowed  to 
be  picturesque,  and  that  the  other, 
whose  attention  to  all  that  is  soft,  en- 
gaging, and  beautiful  is  almost  pro- 
verbial, should  comparatively  have  but 
few  pictures  without  them?"  And  how 
does  he  account  for  it  ?  Why,  thus — 
that  it  was  Caspar's  love  for  the  pic- 
turesque in  natural  objects,  that  made 
him  select  the  unpicturesque  in  his 
buildings  as  a  contrast.  Not  a  bit  of 
it — his  buildings  are  as  much  broken 
by  their  projections  and  additions, 
and  various  parts,  as  his  rocks,  from 
which  they  appear  to  have  grown 
naturally,  to  have  been  thrown  up 
by  some  magic  command  when  the 
mass  of  the  earth  was  all  pulp,  and 
as  if  all  had  been  baked  together. 
Ruins  would  not,  as  I  stated  in  my 
last  paper,  have  suited  the  sentiment 
of  his  pictures. 

But  this  remark  of  Mr  Price's  is 
vexatious.  It  throws  me  out  in  my 
conjectures  upon  the  meaning  of  his 
picturesque.  What  then  are  Gas- 
par's,  what  the  common  Italian  build- 
ings ?  In  architectural  rules,  they  are 
of  too  humble  pretensions,  and  appa- 
rently too  much  without  design,  to 


1833.] 

be,  secundum  artem,  allowed  to  be 
beautiful,  as  objects  per  se.  What, 
then,  are  they  ?  "  Observe"  says  he, 
"  his  elegant,  but  unbroken  and  un- 
ornamented  buildings."  Then,besides 
the  sublime,  and  beautiful,  and  the 
picturesque,  there  is  the  elegant — 
or  is  the  elegant  a  kind  of  beauty,  or 
one  quality  of  it?  So  may  be  the  pic- 
turesque, and,  in  fact,  therefore  not 
something  distinct.  I  am,  I  confess, 
thrown  out.  If  he  would  call  the 
picturesque  whatever  is  not  beauti- 
ful nor  sublime,  yet  paintable,  (par- 
don the  horrid  word,)  well ;  but  it 
does  not  define,  amid  a  great  variety, 
any  particular  character.  Then,  again, 
the  something  that  painters  delight 
in  means  nothing,  for  they  delight  in 
multifarious  things.  We  are  sadly 
inventive  in  theories  for  lack  of  mere 
names.  There  are,  in  nature  and  in 
art,  besides  the  sublime  and  beauti- 
ful, ten  thousand  gradations  and 
shades  of  forms  and  sentiments,  that 
all,  in  the  imperfection  of  our  nomen- 
clature, want  names;  who  even  can 
name  the  tints  he  makes  upon  his 
palotte  out  of  three  colours  ?  If  pic- 
turesque belongs  to  all  these  excep- 
tions, they  must  surely  include  Gas- 
par's  buildings ;  if  not,  and  pictu- 
resque includes  in  that  one  term  the 
pigsties,  the  dunghills,  and  the  hu- 
ma  i  brutes  of  Ostade,  and  Claude's 
temples,  it  is  a  mere  ignis  fatuus 
that,  will  lead  the  sketcher  into  quag- 
mires. There  are  no  worse,  no  more 
unsatisfactory  disputes,  than  about 
words.  Let  the  sketchers  avoid 
them;  the  caution  may  not  be  amiss, 
for  I  have  observed  that  they  are  a 
discussing  disputatious  race ;  each  is 
a  gourmand  in  his  own  way,  and  is 
ever  open-mouthed  in  the  praise  of 
his  own  favourite  "  bits."  Price  on 
the  Picturesque  should  nevertheless 
be  read.  He  is  very  entertaining, 
deals  handsomely  in  keen  useful  sa- 
tire, and  sets  off  his  good  sense  by 
an  easy  unaffected  style.  But  I  can- 
not help  thinking  the  ingenious  old 
gentleman  has  taken  the  pains  to 
dra  w  up  poor  naked  truth  out  of  her 
well  to  throw  her  into  a  river.  I 
must  positively  see  Foxley,  the  fa- 
voured spot  where  he  brought  his 
theories  to  practice, 
des  ire  to  visit  it  in  company  with 
nor  imus,  that  these  matters  might  be 
bet  er  cleared  up,  and  that  I  might 
digest  instruction,  which  I  might  deal 


The  Sketcher.    No.  II. 


957 


out  again  to  the  rising  generation  of 
sketchers.    The  worthy  baronet  was 
once  so  kind  as  to  give  me  an  invita- 
tion, though  not  personally  known  to 
him ;  for,  in  a  correspondence  with 
him  on  his,  I  believe  yet  unpublish- 
ed, work  on  "  Accent  and  Quantity," 
I  contrived  to  hook  in  some  remarks 
on  Art.     I  laid  before  him  this  dis- 
covery of  mine  of  Caspar  Poussin's 
principle  of  composition,  with  the 
truth  of  which  he  was  satisfied.     I 
was  very  near  Foxley,  when  some 
unforeseen  circumstance  unexpect- 
edly called  me  away.     I  think  it  ne- 
cessary to  say  I  have  not  seen  this 
place,  because  I  suspect  there  must 
be  much  in  the  grounds  to  call  forth 
the  admiration  of  the  sketcher ;  and 
it  must  be  particularly  worth  while 
to  see  a  place  where  the  picturesque 
is  professedly  exemplified,  and  that, 
too,  according  to  the  models  of  the 
old   masters  in  painting.     I  regret 
much  never  having  seen  Foxley  with 
him ;  he  was  an  enthusiast,  a  shrewd 
sensible  writer,  and  must  have  talked 
as  he  wrote.    The  personification  of 
his  own  picturesque,  his  occasional 
pugnacity,  is  delightful,  for  it  shews 
his  whole  heart  and  soul  was  in  the 
matter.     But  I  hope  to  see  it  with 
Ignoramus.  I  may  then  before-hand, 
and  off-hand,  suggest,  that  without 
reference  to  roughness,  which  is  but 
an  accidental  quality  to  picturesque- 
ness,   is  the   appropriateness  of  all 
parts  of  a  picture  to  each  other  and 
to  the  whole;  if  the  objects  be  rough, 
that  they  shall  be  generally  so ;   if 
smooth,  generally  smooth;  occasion- 
ally admitting,  as  in   music,  slight 
discords.  With  this  view  every  thing 
is  paintable,  or  picturesque,  if  the 
painter  will  but  recollect  that  all 
shall    be    appropriate,  or  suitable, 
rough  to  rough,  smooth  to  smooth, 
gentle  to  gentle,  turbulent  to  turbu- 
lent— in  short,  congruity.     There  is 
congruity  in  Gaspar,  in  Claude,  in 
Salvator,  in  Berghem,  in  Cuyp,  in 
Wilson,  in  Gainsborough,  yet  there 
is  scarce  a  part  in  any  picture  of  any 
of  these  that  you  could  transfer  to 
the  picture  of  another ;  though  all  the 
objects  and  style  of  touching  them 
are  right  in  their  own  places,  and 
I  have  a  great     have  their  own  peculiar  beauty  from 
Ig-     this    appropriateness ;    transferred, 
they  would  be  incongruous  patches. 
Take  for  instance  a  picture  by  Ruys- 
dael,  and  one  of  Gaspar  Poussin ; 


ftofc 


The  Skttchcr.    Aro.  //. 


[June, 


transfer  to  the  Matter  the  angular  fo- 
liage of  the  former,  amid  the  easy, 
bending,  graceful  foliage  of  the  lat- 
ter, and  vice  versa ;  you  will  be 
vexed  at  the  incongruous  confusion. 
What  is  the  beauty  of  Gainsborough's 
donkeys  and  gipsies,  (they  were 
great  favourites  with  Mr  Price,)  but 
in  their  being  seen  just  where  you 
would  expect  to  find  them  ?  'The 
scene  has  no  aim  beyond  such  as- 
sociates, (and  it  is  not  a  very  high 
aim.)  But  send  your  Gaspar  to  Var- 
nishando  to  have  his  figures  cleaned 
out,  and  paint  in  with  your  own  hand 
— or,  if  you  please,  get  Landseer  to 
do  the  thing,  if  he  would  not  fear  the 
profanation  — these  gipsies  and  don- 
keys, you  would  very  shortly  yourself 
request  to  be  "  written  down  an  ass." 
In  all  the  various  subjects  wirhin  the 
reach  and  aim  of  art,  from  the  sub- 
lime to  the  low,  there  are  certain 
principles  of  composition  of  lines, 
and  of  light,  and  shade,  and  colour, 
all  under  modifications  according  to 
the  sentiment  to  be  expressed,  com- 
mon to  all,  and  it  is  this  common 
law  that  makes  them  all  the  property 
of  one  art.  Mr  Price  lets  loose  sleek 
coach-horses  into  a  rough  field,  and 
preferring  in  such  a  scene  the  rough 
donkeys,  concludes,  wrongly,  that 
the  horses,  though  much  the  finer 
animals,  are  not  picturesque.  They 
are  not  picturesque  there,  because 
they  are  not  appropriate  to  all  about 
them.  These  sleek,  highly  groomed, 
beautiful  animals,  are  out  of  their 
places;  the  background  for  them 
should  be  the  stall,  or  some  such 
other  as  may  belong  to  them;  with 
appropriate  backgrounds  they  would 
make  pictures.  And  are  not  Wou- 
verman's  sleek  animals,  and  ladies 
hawking,  as  picturesque  as  Gains- 
borough's gipsies  and  donkeys  V 
You  would  not  put  Watteau's  court- 
like  figures  amid  Gainsborough's 
scenes  y  Transfer  the  doukies  to 
the  bower,  and  the  coquettes  to 
the  thickets,  and  you  would  deserve 
to  wear  Bottom's  head  for  ever;  for, 
like  him,  you  would  have  "  dreamed 
a  dream  that  hath  no  bottom." 

The  fact  is,  mere  exact  imitation 
is  pleasing;  the  transferring  objects, 
subject  to  continual  change,  from 
their  places  in  nature  to  a  perpetuity 
on  canvass,  the  fixing  of  something 
transient,  is  sure  to  delight  the  eye 
MTU!  mind,  that  ever  regret  thai  all 


things  are  fleeting.  Whatever  i« 
faithfully  represented,  and  has  no 
accompanying  dissonant  objects,  will 
be  sure  to  be  picturesque,  if  pictu- 
resque be  what  is  paintable;  and 
thus  the  painter,  subjecting  all  to  the 
common  laws  of  the  art,  will  work 
upon  our  natural  love  of  imitation, 
and  excite  in  us  pleasure,  by  the  re- 
presentation of  objects  in  themselves 
ugly,  sometimes  even  disgustingly 
so.  But,  in  these  cases,  we  more  ad- 
mire the  art,  the  beauty  of  tone,  of 
colour,  and  light,  and  shade,  that 
give  a  sentiment  to  the  whole  pic- 
ture, sometimes  foreign  to,  or  not 
necessarily  arising  out  of,  the  objects 
represented ;  and  in  these  cases  the 
apparent  subject  is  subordinate  to 
one,  that  is  to  be  felt.  The  painter, 
working  wiih  light,  and  shade,  and 
colour,  has  the  power  to  heighten,  or  v 
to  obscure,  to  enrich,  or  to  subdue. 
And  under  this  power  many  emo- 
tions may  be  excited,  that  shall  have 
reference  to  the  objects  represented. 
Oftentimes  these  objects  are  not  the 
first  things  that  strike  the  mind; 
we  are  pleased,  independently  of 
them  ;  and,  when  we  see  them  there, 
transfer  to  them  the  pleasurable  sen- 
sations that  really  arise  without  them. 
When  the  sentiment  arises  from  tone 
and  colour,  a  very  high  subject,  and 
extreme  beauty  of  composition,  one 
in  its  own  nature  so  powerful  as  to 
force  and  fix  the  mind  to  it,  would 
detract  from  the  effect  intended  by 
the  painter.  This  is  exemplified  by  i 
Rembrandt ;  the  most  faithful  repre- 
sentation of  really  beautiful  objects 
would  dissolve,  by  their  commanding 
presence,  the  mystery  and  magic  that 
pervades  his  chiaroscuro.  By  the 
impression  effected  by  the  tone  and 
colour,  you  are  put  quite  out  of  the 
expectation  of  elegance  or  beauty ; 
you  would  as  soon  think  of  finding 
theVeuus  or  Antinous  in  an  Egyptian 
catacomb.  You  would  wonder  how 
the  laughter-loving  goddess  came 
there,  and  in  the  warmth  of  imagi- 
nation, if  of  a  chivalric  spirit,  might 
fancy  you  were  breaking  a  spear 
with  the  enchanter  who  placed  her 
there,  and  find  that  you  had  only 
poked  a  hole  through  the  panel  with 
your  umbrella.  The  superstition,  the 
mystery  of  Rembrandt,  is  the  great 
subject;  the  objects  must  be  under  itn 
influence1,  not  above  it;  they  must 
have  TH»  po\v<  r  of  their  own,  but  be- 


183.3.] 


The  Sketcher.     No.  It. 


come  awful  for  that  which  is  about 
them,  and  in  them,  for  they  breathe 
an  atmosphere  of  preternatural 
power.  There  is  a  magic  circle  that 
separates  the  spectator  from  all  that 
is  within  it ;  he  would  not,  nor  can  he, 
pass  it,  nor  can  he  avert  his  eye  from 
the  mystical  fascination.  This  great 
painter  took  care  that  there  should 
be  nothing  superior  to  this  effect  of 
tone  and  colour.  As  long  as  all  is 
congruous,  and  no  one  thing  is  pre- 
sei  t  to  destroy  the  delusion,  we 
mi:$ht  say  all  is  picturesque.  On 
that  view  of  the  term,  opposite  are 
equally  the  picturesque,  rough  or 
smooth,  for  it  depends  on  congiuity. 
Le  us  see  two  pictures  of  a  contrary 
character;  perhaps  we  may  term 
them  both  picturesque. 

Here  is  a  little  Ruysdael  of  the 
simplest  subject — a  scene  on  a  dead 
flat.  In  the  centre  stands  a  common 
colter's  house,  with  a  few  home  or- 
chard-like trees  about  it;  the  ground 
is  suitable  to  it,  uneven  and  undress- 
ed on  which  are  a  few  sheep  and  a 
figure  standing  by  them;  there  are 
0113  or  two  paths  leading  to  and 
about  the  house,  and  in  one  sloping 
down  to  the  foreground  is  a  figure, 
probably  the  inhabitant  of  that  house 
or  of  a  neighbouring  one,  (for,  by  the 
ga  >le-end  of  another,  you  see  that 
man  has  not  fixed  his  dwelling  on 
this  uninviting  spot  in  solitude.) 
There  is  a  neighbourhood  of  human 
society.  The  figure  is  bearing  a  bas- 
ket, and  is  accompanied  by  a  dog, 
th;it  appears  hastening  onwards  as 
to  a  well-known  home.  These  fi- 
gures are  beautifully  painted  by  Ad- 
rian Vandervelde.  The  sky  is  rather 
lo-vering,  and  evening  is  fast  coming 
on  ;  the  landscape  is  consequently 
of  a  low  tone.  The  sentiment  intend- 
ed is  domestic.  Evening  fall,  there- 
turning  rustic,  the  companion  dog, 
the  house  with  the  thin  smoke  rising 
from  it,  the  clustering  masses  of  the 
foliage,  as  if  all  within  them  were 
thinking  of  retiring,  the  leaves  of 
curling  into  repose^ and  the  birds  in 
their  nests,  convey  the  mind's  eye  to 
that  which  is  not  depicted  on  the 
pjtnel — the  blessed  home,  the  shel- 
ter within  which  are  kindling  warm 
all  the  dear  charities  of  life.  You  see 
th 3  good- wife,  notable,  busy;  and  the 
children  night-capped,  half  peeping 
from  their  beds — the  comfort  and 
the  joy  of  home;  and  even  the  very 


sheep,  you  may  observe,  have  their 
lambs  by  their  sides.  You  must  feel 
humane  and  thankful  to  Providence 
that  has  thrown  his  blessings  even 
on  the  dreary  moor,  and  has  en- 
closed these  within  the  charmed 
circle  of  endearment, — the  cotter's 
home.  The  homely  objects,  the  tone 
and  colour,  all  correspond  with  this 
one  sentiment ;  and  they>  all  the  ob- 
jects, become  picturesque. 

Now  here  is  another  picture,  by  a 
master  of  the  same  school,  even  born 
within  a  year  of  the  other.  In  this, 
too,  the  figures  are  put  in  by  the 
same  Adrian  Vandervelde.  How  very 
different  is  the  character,  and  how 
contrasted  the  objects  !  The  painter 
is  Vander  Heyden.  The  scene  is  a 
garden,  a  highly  dressed  garden, 
adorned  with  much  architectural  em- 
bellishment, fit  walk  for  queenly 
beauty  :  consequently  there  is  much 
dressed  formality  about  it ;  the  lines 
are  straight,  the  walks  smooth  and 
tempting  to  the  silken  foot.  Here 
are  parterres  and  balustrades  around 
the  garden,  interrupted  in  their 
length  only  by  steps  that  lead  down 
perhaps  to  another  similar  garden, 
in  which  fountains  may  be  playing. 
There  are  two  figures  in  scarlet,  and 
courtly  dresses,  leaning  over  the  ba- 
lustrades, whose  talk  may  be  of  Trou- 
badours, and  ladies'  love.  From  un- 
der a  beautiful  arch  is  walking  the 
Queen  of  the  Garden,  in  stately  dig- 
nity, appropriately  dressed,  with  a 
train  of  attendants.  Some  favourite 
dogs  are  sporting  in  the  sunshine 
that  streams  through  the  archway.  If 
there  be  any  thing  that  might  be  ob- 
jected to,  1  should  say  the  trees  are 
rather  too  much  the  trees  of  a  com- 
mon garden,  want  more  gracefulness 
of  form,  and  better  execution ;  but 
they  are  not  so  deficient  in  this 
respect  as  positively  to  offend,  but 
enough  so  to  shew  that  they  might 
have  been  in  more  perfect  congru- 
ity. In  this  picture  the  sentiment  is 
of  court  refinement,  of  dignified 
grace  and  delicacy,  of  dreams  of 
ladies'  love  and  romantic  adventure. 
It  is  a  scene  where  the  sun  acts  but 
the  part  of  Gold  Stick,  or  Grand 
Chamberlain,  and  throws  his  gilding 
beams  to  illuminate  the  smoothed 
carpet  of  verdure,  or  terrace  walk, 
ere  the  foot  of  the  royal  beauty 
reach  it,  and  partially  withdraws 
them  to  form  sweet  shade  for  her 


960 


The  Sketcher.    No.  II. 


[June, 


refreshment.  Are  not  all  the  parti- 
culars in  this,  as  in  the  other  piece, 
picturesque?  Or  if  you  could  ex- 
change the  stately  architecture  for 
the  cotter's  hut,  would  the  hut  be  a 
picturesque  object  still,  but  mispla- 
ced ? 

Both  these  pictures,  so  unlike  each 
other,  have,  however,  this  excellence 
in  common,  that  they  convey  some 
sentiment.  Too  often  pictures  are 
mere  imitation  without  any,  and 
then  they  afford  but  little  pleasure 
to  a  cultivated  taste.  Some  of  Gains- 
borough's pictures  have  this  de- 
fect. One  small  one  is  in  my  recol- 
lection, rescued  from  the  fault  by 
the  introduction  of  some  figures  re- 
clining on  a  sunny  bank,  near  a  vil- 
lage ;  and  you  know  the  repose  is 
gentle  and  sweet,  the  moment  you 
are  aware  of  the  presence  of  a  coun- 
try maiden  under  a  tree  in  the  shade, 
the  sun  partially  only  illuminating 
the  neck,  and  head  somewhat  bent 
downwards  in  sweet  modesty.  But 
the  mere  donkies  and  gipsies,  how- 
ever they  may  please  from  their  posi- 
tion, as  an  imitation,  and  by  the  truth 
of  the  accompanying  scenery,  are 
but  fit  companions  for  each  other, 
and  the  sooner  the  eye  leaves  them 
to  themselves  the  better. 

What  can  be  more  annoyingly  vul- 
gar than  Moreland's  pictures  of  this 
kind  ? — where  there  is  not  an  atom 
of  sentiment — where  all  that  is  not 
mud  and  dulness  is  disgusting  — 
where  the  execution  does  not  by  its 
truth  make  up  for  its  slovenliness, 
and  consequently  there  is  no  delu- 


sion— where  a  misplaced  flickering 
freedom  of  brush  scatters  about  the 
liquid  clay  indiscriminately  over 
trees  and  ground — where  the  colours 
are  all  crude  and  unmeaning — where 
the  figures  are  of  the  basest  low 
vulgarity,  the  man  a  wretch,  the 
woman  a  fool  and  a  slattern,  and  the 
brute  more  endeared  and  endearing 
than  the  human  pigs.  You  would 
swear  the  man  at  first  sight  had  been 
committed  as  a  thief  and  a  vagrant, 
and  whipped  :  he  is  a  low  villain, 
beats  his  wife,  and  kicks  his  chil- 
dren, and  you  have  pity  for  neither. 
Such  things  are  detestable.  But  they 
have  been  called  picturesque;  and 
pigs,  under  the  privilege  of  that 
word,  have  been  admitted  into  draw- 
ing-rooms and  boudoirs.  They  have 
been,  however,  at  length  turned  out, 
and  the  rooms  purified.  The  devils 
that  had  got  into  the  collectors  and 
connoisseurs,  have  at  length  entered 
into  the  swine,  and  hurried  them 
down  in  precipitous  flight;  and  it  is 
to  be  hoped  they  will  never  return; 
would  that  many  a  Dutch  boor  had 
followed  them  I  Your  pig  pictures 
are  eye- sores,  give  one  a  stye  in  the 
eye,  that  mars  the  vision,  and  ren- 
ders it  unfit  for  the  perception  of 
beauty — and  so  ends  my  criticism  on 
them.  Spring  is  coming1;  I  shall  then 
be  the  practical  sketcher,  and  let 
who  will  go  with  me  to  the  brooks 
and  hills; — but  perhaps  I  may  yet 
send  to  Maga  one  or  two  more  Pre- 
liminary Essays. 

AprilZ,  1833. 


V?  4& 


.**  I  & 

* 


1883.J  The  Parent  Oak.  0C1 

•iwMttitp-- 

THE  PARENT  OAK. 

THE  Oak  of  Old  England  for  ages  had  stood, 
The  Parent  and  Pride  of  the  far-spreading  wood, 
•  And  it  waved  in  its  glory  o'er  corn  field  and  glade, 
And  our  forefathers  happy  sat  under  the  shade. 

O  !  the  old  Parent  Oak  was  a  Monarch  to  see, 
The  hand  of  good  Alfred  it  planted  the  tree, 
And  the  best  and  the  bravest,  the  warrior  and  sage, 
Were  the  Priests  of  its  glory  in  youth  and  in  age. 

And  once,  when  the  storm  of  wild  anarchy  spread, 
And  the  blood  of  a  king  and  the  loyal  was  shed, . 
In  its  sheltering  branches  a  Monarch  it  bore, 
And  our  fathers  they  hallow'd  and  loved  it  the  wore. 

O  the  old  Parent  Oak  !  from  its  branches  it  flung 
Its  acorns  around,  whence  a  progeny  sprung, 
That  took  root  in  the  soil  Heaven  bless'd  with  its  dew, 
And  forests  of  freedom  in  vigour  upgrew. 

And  they  bore  on  the  ocean  full  bravely  their  might, 
And  their  stout  hearts  of  oak  braved  the  storm  and  the  fight, 
And  the  halls  of  Old  England's  dominion  uprear'd, 
Where  Liberty  spoke,  and  where  Law  was  revered. 

In  arches  of  triumph  the  branches  were  spread, 
Where  Religion  might  hallow  the  living  and  dead— 
And  the  blessing-taught  people  long  cherished  with  awe, 
The  structures  of  peace,  and  of  learning,  and  law. 

O  !  the  old  Parent  Oak,  as  the  forests  upgrew, 
Was  fresh  in  its  age,  and  rejoiced  in  the  view ; 
And  lifted  its  head,  in  its  power  and  its  pride, 
And  shook  the  wild  storms  from  its  branches  aside. 

O !  who  would  have  thought  that  a  change  would  come  o'er 
The  heart  of  a  people,  to  reverence  no  more 
The  Oak  of  Old  England, — to  deem  themselves  wise, 
When  all  that  their  fathers  most  lov'd  they  despise  ! 

Once  more  the  mad  tempest  of  anarchy  pour'd 
Its  wrath  o'er  the  earth,  as  in  thunders  it  roar'd ; 
And  the  demons  of  hell  were  let  loose  in  the  storm, 
And  howl'd  out  their  watchword  of  mischief,  "  Reform.'* 

The  hurricane  bellow'd,  the  lightnings  shot  round, 
And  far  forests  blazed,  or  lay  low  on  the  ground : 
And  the  storm  demons  yell'd  in  their  fury,  and  pass'd, 
But  the  Oak  of  Old  England  stood  firm  in  the  blast. 

Then  rebels  and  regicides  stood  round  the  tree, 
And  its  proud  top  unscathed  they  rejoiced  not  to  see, 
And  they  niggardly  envied  the  cost  and  the  care, 
To  preserve  it  uninjured— and  hoped  it  was  bare. 

VOL.  XXXIII. — NO.  CCIX,  3  Q 


963  The  Parent  Oah.  [June, 

And  they  swore  though  the  red  lightning's  bolt  spared  to  kill 
The  old  noble  limbs  that  were  flourishing  still — 
That  the  Tree  of  Old  England  no  longer  should  shoot, 
And  cried  in  their  madness,  •'  The  axe  to  the  root !" 

"  The  axe  to  the  root !"  in  their  fury  they  cried  ; 
And  who  should  have  guarded  the  precincts,  replied, 
"  The  axe  to  the  root !"  and  obey'd  the  command, 
And  struck  the  first  blow  with  his  parricide  hand. 

O  wide  was  the  wound,  for  Ingratitude's  stroke 
Aim'd  deep  to  the  heart,  at  the  true  heart  of  Oak  j 
And  the  trunk  and  the  branches  shrunk  back  with  a  moan, 
And  the  Monarch  of  England  then  shook  on  his  throne. 

Then  the  Rebels  their  voices  threw  up  to  the  sky, 
And  the  Grey-beard  Arch  Traitor  his  cordage  threw  high, 
And  the  limbs  of  the  Tree  that  were  proudest  he  bound, 
And  called  on  the  Unions  to  pull  to  the  ground. 

And  though  round  them  the  stout  cords  were  craftily  flung, 
And  the  traitors  pull'd  hard,  still  the  limbs  closer  clung 
To  the  old  Parent  truck,  still  they  clung  with  their  might, 
Though  bruised  by  the  force,  and  stript  bare  to  the  sight. 

Then  loud  was  the  blasphemy,  insult,  and  mirth, 

"  Cut  it  down  to  the  ground,  for  it  cumbers  the  earth  ! 

Cut  it  down,  though  all  England  should  shake  with  the  shock, 

And  the  blood  of  a  King  shall  soon  water  its  block !" 

Has  the  fury  of  demons  "  the  people"  possess'd  ? 
Are  there  none  may  the  hands  of  the  traitors  arrest  ? 
Yes — stout  hearts  and  brave,  shall  still  stand  round  the  tree, 
To  the  Baal  of  France  that  have  bow'd  not  the  knee. 

Though  the  axe  has  cut  deep  accurs'd  treachery  aim'd, 
And  the  trunk  of  the  Monarch  of  forests  be  maim'd, 
Its  proud  branches  injured,  and  yet  doom'd  to  fade, 
Let  us  trust  that  the  hand  of  the  spoiler  is  stayed , 

That  the  old  Oak  of  England  is  still  sound  at  heart, 
That  its  honours,  now  fading,  shall  never  depart; 
It  may  tempests  defy,  in  new  vigour  arise, 
And  burst  in  its  glory  once  more  to  the  skies ; 

That  the  eye  that  o'erruleth  the  thunders  may  shed 
The  sunshine  of  Peace  on  its  still  verdant  head, 
And  if  victims  must  fall — that  the  Traitor  lie  low, 
'Neath  the  trunk  of  the  tree  where  he  struck  the  first  blow. 


1 833.)  The  Life  of  a  Democrat. 

;  ; 

fo  srfT 
THE  LIFE  OF  A  DEMOCRAT— A  SKETCH  OF  HORNE  TQOKJE. 


963 


THE  man  who  told  the  Legislature 
that  History  was  but  an  old  alma- 
nack, laid  himself  deeply  under  the 
suspicion  of  speaking  in  the  spirit 
of  a  political  trader  who  had  traf- 
ficked in  every  market,  tried  every 
party,  gained  something  by  every 
change,  and  to  whom  the  only  chance 
3f  public  character  for  each  year  de- 
pended on  the  oblivion  of  the  year 
:hat  went  before.  But  there  are 
others  who  look  upon  History  with 
nore  honour,  perhaps,  because  with 
!  ess  fear,  who,  with  the  ancient  sage, 
vegard  it  as  the  light  of  nations,  the 
roblest  form  of  experience,  the  most 
vigorous,  pure,  and  wholesome 
teacher  of  those  principles,  without 
which  most  nations  are  made  to  be 
undone,  and  to  merit  being  undone. 
It  has  another  value,  in  its  power  of 
extracting  good  from  evil.  In  the 
hand  of  History,  public  vice  is  ca- 
pable of  administering  a  moral  as 
important  as  the  highest  virtue. 
The  anatomy  of  the  political  profli- 
gate is  of  the  first  utility  as  a  politi- 
cal warning;  the  scaffold  on  which 
the  hypocrite  and  the  traitor  decay, 
becomes  a  school  of  morals ;  and  by 
the  light  even  from  corruption,  the 
honest  and  the  pure  are  guided 
through  the  darkness  and  intricacies 
of  the  time. 

We  live  in  a  fortunate  period  for 
this  view  of  things.  If  patriotism 
cloes  not  abound,  there  is  at  least  no 
deficiency  of  pretence;  hypocrisy 
and  faction  flourish  with  a  luxuri- 
ance that  forbids  all  fear  of  our  want- 
ing subjects  for  the  most  contemp- 
tious  example.  No  period  since  the 
profligate  days  of  Charles  the  Se- 
cond was  more  fitted  to  supply  that 
impulse  which  urges  to  public  inte- 
grity by  displaying  the  extreme  of 
public  guilt;  that  Spartan  wisdom, 
which  teaches  us  to  abhor  excess, 
by  shewing  the  living  evidence  of 
its  disgrace  and  deformity. 

The  birth  of  Democracy  in  Eng- 
L.nd,  dates  as  far  back  as  the  middle 
oe  the  reign  of  George  the  Third. 
\  /ilkes  headed  the  first  insurrection 
of  the  evil  principle.  He  was  the 
true  model  of  a  democratic  leader: 
iii  fortune  a  bankrupt;  in  private  life 
eminently  licentious, — in  public,  ut- 


terly unprincipled.  He  had  but  one 
quality  for  party,  an  unbridled  de- 
termination to  go  as  far  as  he  could, 
even  to  the  verge  of  the  scaffold. 
He  insulted  the  King,  he  scoffed  at 
the  laws,  he  trampled  on  the  legis- 
lature. His  prize  was  the  most 
boundless  popularity.  His  partisans 
acknowledged  that  he  was  stained 
with  every  personal  vice,  but  he  was 
only  the  more  endeared  to  party. 
The  men  who  would  not  have  trust- 
ed him  on  his  oath,  or  confided  a 
shilling  to  his  keeping,  linked  them- 
selves to  his  chariot  wheels,  and 
huzzaed  him  into  power.  In  the 
midst  of  personal  degradation,  he 
stood  at  the  height  of  an  infamous 
popularity.  Atheist,  seducer,  libel- 
ler, and  outlaw,  Wilkes  was  the  idol 
of  the  rabble. 

The  man  of  whose  life  we  now 
give  a  sketch,  was  altogether  an  in- 
ferior personage,  of  more  obscure 
station,  means,  and  talents,  of  feeble 
public  impression,  of  more  tardy 
popular  effect,  but  inflamed  by  the 
same  passion  for  popularity,  and 
toiling  for  its  possession  with  the 
envenomed  perseverance  of  an  in- 
dustry not  to  be  baffled,  and  the  fu- 
rious violence  of  an  appetite  not  to 
be  gorged.  Wilkes  created  the  de- 
mocracy ;  but  it  is  from  the  time  of 
John  Home  Tooke  that  we  date  the 
peculiar  shape  and  spirit  of  demo- 
cracy in  our  day,  the  inveterate  ma- 
lignity, cruel  sneer,  and  atrocious 
scorn,  that  make  the  power  of  the 
populace  but  another  name  for  the 
ruin  of  all  above  it  in  intelligence, 
industry,  and  virtue  ;  all  change 
but  an  anticipation  of  overthrow  ; 
all  popular  privilege  but  the  direct 
step  to  sweeping  and  bloody  revolu- 
tion. 

John  Home  Tooke  wasborn  in  1 736, 
the  son  of  a  poulterer  in  Newport 
Market,  in  Westminster.  Humble  as 
was  this  origin,  it  did  not  prevent  his 
being  sent  to  Westminster  School, 
from  that  to  Eton,  at  neither  of  which 
he  obtained  any  distinction,  further 
than  that  of  being  contemporary 
at  the  latter  with  Lord  North,  and  a 
succession  of  men  afterwards  known 
in  public  life.  An  accident  at  this 
period  had  nearly  deprived  the 


9.04 

world  of  his  labours.  A  boy  with 
whom  he  was  at  play,  accidentally 
struck  the  point  of  u  knife  into  his 
eye,  and  deprived  it  of  sight.  The 
defect  was  not  visible  in  after  life, 


T/ui  Life  of  a  Democrat— 


[June, 


of  her  proudest  colleges,  while 
Dunning  and  Kenyon  were  the  pu- 
pils of  nameless  provincial  schools, 
and  were  never  at  college  j  yet  Dun- 
ning rosje  to  the  first  rank  as  counsel, 


but  the   sight  was  never  restored,    and  to  the  Peerage,  and  Kenyon  died 

Chief  Justice  of  the  King's  Bench. 
At  the  time  of  their  intimacy  with 
Home,  the  three  were  ludicrously 
poor.  They  dined  often,  during  the 
vacation,  at  a  little  eating-house  near 
Chancery  Lane,  where,  he  afterwards 
used  to  tell,  "  Dunning  and  myself 
were  generous,  for  we  gave  the  girl 
who  waited  on  us  a  penny  a-piece. 
But  Kenyon,  who  always  knew  the 
value  of  money,  sometimes  reward- 
ed her  with  a  halfpenny,  and  some- 
times with  a  promise." 

But  he  was  not  destined  to  make 
the  experiment  of  this  precarious, 
though  tempting  profession.  His 
father  was  unluckily  determined  to 
see  him  a  churchman.  In  1760  he 
took  priest's  orders,  and  soon  after 
was  inducted  into  the  living  of  New 
Brentford,  purchased  by  his  father. 
Its  value,  between  two  and  three 
hundred  pounds  a-year,  was  a  suffi- 
cient income  at  the  time,  and  this  in- 
come he  enjoyed  for  eleven  years. 
During  one  or  two  of  the  earlier 
years  of  this  period,  he  travelled  as 
tutor  with  a  son  of  Elwes,  the  well- 
known  miser.  His  conduct  in  his 
living  was  not  indecorous.  He  pro- 
bably had  no  great  liking  for  the 


At  this  period,  though  his  scholar- 
ship was  reluctant,  he  occasionally 
discovered  some  of  the  ready  shrewd- 
ness which  characterised  his  conver- 
sation in  manhood.  At  Eton,  the 
seat  of  aristocracy,  when  a  circle  of 
the  boys,  boasting  of  their  own  ori- 
gin, proceeded  to  question  Home  on 
his  parentage,  he  silenced  them  at 
once  by  saying  that  his  father  was 
"  an  eminent  Turkey  merchant;"  an 
answer  which,  in  the  existing  state 
of  the  Levant  trade,  implied  pecu- 
liar opulence.  At  a  village  school  in 
Kent,  he  had  played  truant  and  re- 
turned home,  to  the  great  displea- 
sure of  his  father.  On  being  angrily 
asked  the  cause  of  this  act  of  disobe- 
dience, he  said  that  "  his  master  was 
utterly  unfit  to  instruct  him,  for 
though  perhaps  he  might  know  what 
a  verb  or  a  noun  was,  he  understood 
nothing  about  a  preposition  or  con- 
junction ;  and  so  finding  him  an  ig- 
norant fellow,  he  had  thought  it  best 
to  leave  him." 

At  nineteen,  he  was  sent  to  St 
John's,  Cambridge ;  his  name  was 
among  the  Triposes  in  1758,  among 
others  with  Beadon,  afterwards 
Master  of  Jesus  College,  and  Bishop 


cumstances,  or  led  by  caprice,  be- 
came usher  in  a  school  kept  by  one 
Jennings  at  Blackheath.  But  this 
life  he  found  too  irksome,  and  at  the 
request  of  his  father,  who  seems  to 
have  been  an  honest  and  decent  man, 
lie  took  deacon's  orders,  and  served 
a  curacy  in  Kent,  where  he  got  the 
ague.  He  now  gave  up  the  curacy, 


of  Bath  and  Wells.     Soon  after  this    simple  duties  of  a  station  so  opposed 
period,  Home,  either  pressed  by  cir-    to   his   eager,  jealous,  and  restless 

temper;  but  the  world  was  quiet, 
public  affairs  seemed  beyond  his 
reach,  and  he  had  not  yet  acquired 
the  foolish  and  culpable  habit  of  vo- 
lunteering on  all  occasions  of  public 
disturbance.  It  has  been  a  subse- 
quent matter  of  wonder,  that  he  was 
during  this  period  avowedly  hostile 
to  the  system  and  pretensions  of 

and  began  to  think  of  another  pro-  Popery,  and  not  less  to  the  dissen- 
fession  more  suited  to  his  restless  ters.  But  the  true  solution  is,  that 
and  ambitious  mind.  He  entered  the  topics  were  then  profitless,  that 
his  name  at  the  Inner  Temple  in  the  laurels  of  popularity  were  to  be 
1756,  and  there  became  acquainted  gathered  in  other  fields,  and  that 
with  Dunning  and  Kenyon,  two  men  his  time  for  publicity  had  not  yet 
who  had  a  considerable  influence  on  arrived.  He  had  even  narrowly  es- 
his  future  career.  The  three  fellow-  caped  being  appointed  a  King's  chap- 
students  associated  much  together,  lain. 

The  beginning  of  the  reign  of 
George  the  Third  affords  an  admi- 
rable lesson  of  the  true  spirit  of  fac- 
tion. If  a  patriot  ever  sat  upon  the 


and  Home  might  be  presumed  to 
have  the  advantage  of  his  compa- 
nions, from  his  having  been  educa- 
ted at  the  two  principal  schools  of 
England,  and  being  a  graduate  of  one 


throne  of  England,  that  patriot  was 


1833.] 


A  Sketch  of  Home  Too/te. 


George  the  Third.  Handsome,  ho- 
nourable,  virtuous,  unwearied  in 
business,  zealous  for  his  .country, 
and  signalizing  his  first  steps  to  power 
by  boons  to  the  liberty  of  the  nation, 
he  seemed  made  for  popularity;  it 
might  appear  impossible  for  political 
virulence  to  have  assailed  the  King. 
No  public  distress  gave  it  an  excuse  ; 
the  kingdom  had  never  known  such 
a  continuance  of  prosperity.  No  in- 
fliction of  Heaven  had  subdued  her 
harvests,  no  luckless  war  had  embit- 
tered the  spirit  of  her  people.  Yet 
faction  burst  out  with  a  fury  which 
might  almost  prefigure  the  violence 
of  the  desperate  days  of  France.  In 
the  midst  of  perpetual  additions 
to  the  strength  of  the  Constitution, 
the  cry  was  suddenly  raised  that  the 
Constitution  was  on  the  point  of 
ruin.  With  opulence  pouring  on  the 
country,  from  every  quarter  of  the 
globe,  the  cry  was,  that  the  Empire 
was  on  the  brink  of  bankruptcy. 
What  was  the  source  of  all  this  fren- 
zy? Lord  Bute  was  Minister,  and 
VVilkes  was  his  enemy.  The  libeller 
began  his  war,  and  was  checked.  The 
check  was  sufficient  to  canonize 
him  with  the  ragged  patriotism  of 
the  suburbs.  The  roar  was  raised 
round  Lord  Bute,  and  from  Lord 
Bute  it  reached  the  throne. 

It  was  in  this  tempestuous  atmo- 
sphere that  Home  Tooke  first  plumed 
his  political  wing.  The  "  injuries" 
of  Wilkes,  and  the  "  tyranny"  of  Bute, 
were  his  theme.  His  first  contribution 
in  the  cause  was  a  song  on  the  release 
of  the  demagogue  from  his  well-de- 
served confinement  in  the  Tower.  His 
next  effort  was  a  pamphlet,  of  such 
overcharged  virulence,  that  for  a  long 
lime  he  could  not  find  a  publisher, 
oven  among  the  tools  of  faction,  da- 
ring enough  to  print  it.  It  at  length 
appeared,  but  under  a  condition,  that 
5t  it  were  prosecuted,  the  author 
should  come  forward.  The  author 
desired  little  more.  It  was  evident 
that  the  bastard  popularity  of  Wilkes 
made  him  unhappy,  roused  his  ri- 
valry, and  determined  him  to  try 
whether  by  adopting  his  audacity  he 
might  not  be  heir  to  his  fame.  This 
pamphlet  was  a  piece  of  vulgar  ri- 
baldry on  Lords  Bute  and  Mansfield : 
it  was  entitled  "  The  Petition  of  an 
Englishman ;  with  which  are  given  a 
i  opperplate  of  the  Croix  dc  S.  Pil- 
hry,  and  a  true  and  accurate  plan  of 
*ome  part  of  Kew  Gardens."  The 


965 

pamphlet  is  addressed  "  to  the  right 
honourable,  truly  noble,  and  truly 
Scottish,  Lords  Mortimer  and  Jef- 
feries."  Nothing  can  be  more  tri- 
fling and  contemptible  in  point  of  au- 
thorship than  this  performance,  but 
its  insolence  may  be  supposed  to 
have  made  up  for  its  meagre  medio- 
crity. The  two  Lords  are  supposed 
to  have  established  a  new  Order  in 
the  kingdom,  an  order  of  knighthood, 
of  the  pillory.  "  The  boon  I  beg  of 
you,"  says  the  scribbler,  "  is  to  be 
admitted  a  knight  companion  of 
this  honourable  order ;  and  that  you 
would  in  consequence  of  this  my  re- 
quest, speedily  issue  forth  a  particu- 
lar warrant  for  me  to  be  invested 
with  this  noble  Croix  de  pillory. 
Some  such  institution  as  the  above 
mentioned  has  long  been  wanting  in 
this  kingdom. 

"  And  since  by  you,  my  Lords,  the 
English  name  is  now  melted  down 
to  Britain,  and  liberty,  wrested  from 
our  hands,  is,  with  great  propriety, 
trusted  to  the  keeping  of  Scotch  jus- 
tices and  court  boroughs,  leave  us 
not  naked  of  every  honourable  dis- 
tinction ;  give  us  this  badge  in 
lieu  of  what  you  have  taken  from 
us,  that  we  may  aftbrd  a  striking 
proof  to  some  future  Montes- 
quieu, how  true  it  is,  that  the  spi- 
rit of  liberty  may  survive  the  consti- 
tution ;  and  that,  though  it  is  possible 
for  an  infamous  royal  favourite,  by 
corruption  of,  and  with  the  assist- 
ance of,  an  iniquitous  prerogative 
judge,  to  harass  and  drive  insulted 
liberty  from  our  arms ;  yet  still  she 
finds  a  refuge  from  which  she  never 
can  be  expelled — a  freeman's  heart." 

We  shall  close  this  verbiage  with 
his  character  of  Wilkes,  which  even 
the  notorious  habits  of  the  man  did 
not  prevent  him  from  publishing. 
"  It  is  not  sufficient  that  he  pay  an 
inviolable  regard  to  the  laws  j  that  he 
be  a  man  of  the  strictest  and  most 
unimpeached  honour  ;  that  he  be  en- 
dowed with  superior  abilities  and 
qualifications;  that  he  be  blessed  with 
a  benevolent,  generous,  noble,  free 
soul  j  that  he  be  inflexible,  incorrupt' 
ible,  and  brave  ;  that  he  prefers  in- 
finitely the  public  welfare  to  his  own 
interest,  peace,  and  safety ;  that  his 
life1  be  ever  in  his  hand,  ready  to  be 
paid  down  cheerfully  for  the  liberty 
of  his  country;  and  that  he  be  daunt- 
less and  unwearied  in  her  service- 
all  this  avails  him  nothing."  Yet 


966 

those  outrages  on  truth  and  public 
knowledge  went  down  with  faction 
as  fact,  and  Wilkes  was  a  martyr. 
One  brief  passage,  which  was  truth, 
must  be  given.  It  shews  what  sacri- 
fices will  be  made  to  the  insane  ava- 
rice of  popular  agitation.  "  Even  I, 
my  countrymen,  who  now  address 
myself  to  you, — I,  who  am  at  present 
blessed  with  peace,  with  happiness, 
and  independence,  a  fair  character 
and  an  easy  fortune,  am  at  this  mo- 
ment forfeiting  them  all." 

For  this  scandalous  performance, 
in  which  he  was  palpably  angling  for 
prosecution,  he  was  not  punished.  It 
may  have  been  thought  too  contempt- 
ible to  attract  the  resentment  of  Mi- 
nisters. And  the  accident  of  his  un- 
dertaking the  care  of  the  son  of  a  Mr 
Taylor  in  his  neighbourhood,  on  a 
tour  of  Italy,  for  a  time  withdrew 
him  from  his  pursuit  of  fine  and 
pillory.  But  the  first  step  which 
he  took  on  his  arrival  in  France, 
shewed  how  completely  he  was  al- 
ready disqualified  for  his  sacred  pro- 
fession. He  threw  off  his  black  coat, 
figured  in  the  most  gaudy  habili- 
ments of  that  gaudy  time  and  coun- 
try, and  was  a  coxcomb  even  in  the 
land  of  coxcombs.  The  list  of  his 
wardrobe,  which  he  consigned  to  the 
care  of  Wilkes  at  Paris,  on  his  return 
to  England  in  the  following  year,  is 
a  satisfactory  display  of  the  giddy  and 
indecorous  vanity  of  the  man.  "  DEAR 
SIR, — According  to  your  permission, 
I  leave  with  you 

1  Suit  of  scarlet  and  gold  cloth  ! 

J  Suit  of  white  and  silver  cloth ! 

1  Suit  of  blue  and  silver  camblet  I 

1  Suit  of  flowered  silk  ! 

1  Suit  of  black  silk. 

1  Black  velvet  surtout. 
If  you  have  any  fellow-feeling,  you 
cannot  but  be  kind  to  them,  since 
they  too,  as  well  as  yourself,  are  out- 
lawed in  England ;  and  on  the  same 
account,  their  superior  worth,  I 
am,  my  dear  sir,  your  very  affection- 
ate humble  servant,  JOHN  HORNE." 

He  had  sought  an  intercourse  with 
Wilkes,  immediately  on  his  arrival 
in  Paris ;  and  through  a  letter  from 
one  Cotes,  who  is  characteristically 
described  as  a  "  politician  and  wine- 
merchant,  who  had  recently  become 
a  bankrupt,  by  his  steadily  support- 
ing the  cause  of  patriotism," — "  pa- 
triotism" having  always  a  prodigious 
propensity  to  cheat  its  creditors, — he 


The  Life  of  a  Democrat-' 


[June, 


was  received  with  peculiar  favour- 
Wilkes  promised  to  correspond  with 
him,— an  honour  which  Home  ap- 
preciated so  highly,  that  he  commen- 
ced the  correspondence  by  this  ge- 
neral and  most  extraordinary  disbur- 
thening  of  his  soul. 

"  To  JOHN  WILKES,  Esq.  Paris. 

"  Montpeliery  Jan.  3,  1766. 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  well  recollect  our 
mutual  engagement  at  parting,  and 
most  willingly  proceed  to  fulfil  my 
part  of  the  engagement. 

"  You  are  now  entering  into  a  cor- 
respondence with  a  parson,  and  I  am 
greatly  apprehensive  lest  that  title 
should  disgust ;  but  give  me  leave  to 
assure  you,  I  am  not  ordained  a  hy- 
pocrite. It  is  true,  I  have  suffered 
the  infectious  hand  of  a  bishop  to  be 
waved  over  me,  whose  imposition, 
like  the  sop  given  to  Judas,  is  only  a 
signal  for  the  devil  to  enter  I 

"  I  allow  that,  usually  at  that  touch, 
fugiunt  pudor,  verumque,  fidesque ; 
in  quorum  subeunt  locum  fraudes, 
dolique,  insidiaaque,  &c.  &c. ;  but  I 
hope  I  have  escaped  the  contagion ; 
and  if  I  have  not,  if  you  should  at  any 
time  discover  the  black  spot  under 
the  tongue,  pray,  kindly  assist  me  to 
conquer  the  prejudices  of  education 
and  profession." 

With  these  sentiments,  it  cannot 
be  doubted  that  he  was  completely 
equipped  for  a  popular  career. 

But  the  denouement  of  this  profli- 
gate confidence  was  incomparably  in 
keeping.  Home,  in  the  pride  of 
knowledge,  had  shewn  in  a  para- 
graph of  the  letter,  that  he  was  ac- 
quainted with  Wilkes's  attempt  to  ob- 
tain the  Turkish  embassy,  and  also 
the  negotiation  with  the  Rockingham 
Ministry,  for  a  sum  to  be  paid  to  him 
by  its  members,  as  hushmoney,  or 
a  bribe  to  keep  him  out  of  the  coun- 
try. Those  intrigues  were  the  secrets 
of  Wilkes's  soul,  and  he  was  equally 
surprised  and  indignant  at  their  co- 
ming upon  him  in  the  shape  of  a  com- 
monplace correspondence  with  a 
rambling  parson.  In  his  wrath,  he 
disdained  to  continue  the  corre- 
spondence ;  but  in  his  craft,  which 
never  slept,  he  determined  that  the 
letter  should  be  forthcoming  against 
the  writer.  Home,  mortified  at  the 
neglect,  on  his  return  through  Paris, 
took  an  opportunity  of  enquiring 


1833.] 


A  Sketch  of  Home  Tooke. 


967 


"  why  liis  letter  had  been  left  unan- 
swered." Wilkes  made  some  jesting 
excuse.  Home,  now  first  conscious 
that  he  had  fallen  into  slippery  hands, 
demanded  his  letter.  Wilkes  had  his 
answer  ready :  "  He  had  never  re- 
ceived it."  The  treachery  was  pal- 
pable ;  but  the  glory  even  of  having 
been  tricked  by  the  "  Man  of  the 
People,"  was  too  important  to  the 
rising  patriot,  to  be  cast  away  for  any 
personal  insult,  and  the  parties  sepa- 
rated with  the  blandest  cordiality. 
Home  had  no  sooner  arrived  in  Lon- 
don, than  he  found  his  letter  every- 
where staring  him  in  the  face.  Wilkes 
had  shewn  it  to  every  body,  with  a 
direct  menace,  that  if  the  writer 
made  any  disturbance  on  the  sub- 
ject, it  should  appear  in  print,  and 
thus  minister  to  his  universal  fame. 
The  next  event  was  the  Brentford 
Election,  in  which  the  outlaw  offer- 
ed a  fresh  insult  to  the  laws  and  de- 
cencies of  his  country.  The  life  of 
Wilkes  still  remains  to  be  written. 
It  ought  to  be  the  tribute  of  some 
man  of  talent  and  principle  to  the 
wisdom  of  his  country.  No  work 
could  be  more  effective  as  a  moral 
lesson  to  the  men  who  persist  in 
believing  that  popular  opinion  has 
even  the  simplest  faculty  of  deci- 
ding between  vice  and  virtue,  that  the 
selfishness  of  party  shrinks  from  the 
utmost  baseness  in  its  favourites,  or 
ihat  the  mob  ever  look  for  any  other 
qualities  in  its  leaders  than  effron- 
;ery,  daring  defiance  of  every  feel- 
Ing  that  honest  men  revere,  and  the 
ruffian  hardihood  that  is  to  be  abash- 
ed by  no  sense  of  shame,  no  respect 
?or  law,  and  no  homage  for  religion. 
John  Wilkes  was  born  in  London, 
;he  son  of  a  distiller.  His  father  seems 
to  have  been  so  strongly  tinged  with 
politics,  that  he  dreaded  the  taint 
of  slavery,  which  it  was  the  fashion 
of  the  time  to  attribute  to  the  En- 
glish Universities.  Wilkes  was 
therefore  sent  to  accomplish  himself 
it  Leyden,  in  the  land  of  William 
ind  liberty;  and  his  father's  opulence 
enabled  him  subsequently  to  travel 
vith  some  distinction  on  the  conti- 
icnt,  where  he  was  on  terms  of  in- 
ercourse  with  several  of  the  En- 
glish nobility.  On  his  return  he 
named  a  woman  of  fortune,  settled 
it  Aylesbury,  became  an  active  advo- 
cate for  the  Militia  Bill,  then  a  high- 
1  y  unpopular  topic  j  and,  after  act- 


ing for  some  time  as  a  captain  in  the 
Buckinghamshire  militia,  was,  by 
Lord  Temple,  lord-lieutenant  of  the 
county,  appointed  to  the  command 
of  the  corps.  Wilkes  commenced 
his  political  career  in  17.54  as  candi- 
date for  Berwick,  where  he  failed. 
His  residence  at  Aylesbury,  how- 
ever, had  given  him  weight  there, 
and  for  this  borough  he  sat  in  two 
successive  Parliaments.  But  his 
restless  and  reckless  spirit  was  not 
to  be  satisfied  with  the  tardy  pro- 
gress of  Parliamentary  honours,  as 
he  soon  became  fully  convinced  that 
he  had  not  powers  for  the  Senate. 
He  sought  an  easier  channel  to  the 
abject  distinctions  that  he  loved,  and 
became  an  echo  of  the  popular 
outcry  against  the  Ministry.  Lord 
Chatham  had  just  been  forced  to  give 
way  before  the  favouritism  of  Lord 
Bute.  This  was  the  popular  ver- 
sion. Lord  Chatham  had  been  dri- 
ven from  power  by  his  own  imperi- 
ousness  ;  by  the  utter  difficulty  of 
finding  a  Cabinet  with  whom  he 
could  act,  for  he  would  be  despotic 
or  nothing  ;  and  by  the  awakened 
indignation  of  the  King,  who  must 
have  surrendered  to  him  all  but  the 
sceptre.  England  had  long  honour- 
ed him,  for  she  had  never  seen  a 
more  successful  Minister.  In  the 
early  years  of  his  government  his 
name  was  triumph,  but  all  his  great 
qualities  were  already  tarnished  by 
the  spirit  of  dictation.  Prompt,  saga- 
cious, and  bold,  no  man  was  ever 
more  distinctly  moulded  for  com- 
mand. But  his  pride  drew  an  im- 
passable line  between  him  and  all 
public  men.  He  could  condescend 
to  no  associate.  He  tolerated  no 
alliance.  All  authority  must  be  con- 
centrated in  his  person.  He  at 
length  urged  his  claims  to  a  height 
which  would  have  made  the  King  a 
citizen,  the  Cabinet  a  tool,  and  the 
government  a  dictatorship.  He  fell ; 
and  he  revenged  himself  by  assailing 
the  Cabinet  through  the  sides  of  the 
country,  and  labouring  to  make  the 
King  feel  the  loss  of  the  Minister  by 
his  power  of  stimulating  the  popu- 
lar hostility  to  the  throne,  and  sanc- 
tioning the  outrage  of  the  Colonies 
against  the  Empire, 
"it  is  painful  to  be  compelled  thus 
to  desecrate  the  tomb  where  the 
man  of  fame  and  genius  lies.  But 
it  should  be  more  painful  to  dis- 


The  Life  of  a  Democrat— 


968 

guise  the  truth.  The  more  brilliant 
the  name,  the  more  important  the 
example.  The  mighty  mind  of 
Chatham,  humiliated  and  rendered 
useless  for  a  great  portion  of  his 
public  career  by  a  single  fault,  sup- 
plies a  moral  to  all  the  future  weak- 
ness of  ambition.  If  a  combination 
of  qualities  unrivalled  in  English 
political  history,  the  highest  elo- 
quence, the  most  commanding  fore- 
sight, the  most  vigorous  and  daring 
activity  of  mind,  should  have  sunk 
into  the  clientship  of  a  factious  op- 
position, and  the  advocacy  of  an  il- 
legitimate revolt ;  if  Chatham  could 
stoop  from  wielding  the  destinies  of 
England  to  the  patronage  of  the 
mob;  how  sensitively  should  the  in- 
ferior race  of  statesmen  shrink  from 
the  crime,  if  they  would  escape  the 
condemnation ! 

Wilkes,  ineffective  in  Parliament, 
and  characterless  in  society,  made 
his  attack  from  behind  the  press. 
There  he  fought  under  cover.  The 
virulence  of  the  charge  was  uncheck- 
ed by  personal  fear,  and  its  extrava- 
gance suffered  no  drawback  from 
the  detected  habits  of  the  accuser. 
In  the  North  Briton,  established  in 
1762,  the  King  was  the  object  of  per- 
petual contempt ;  the  Ministry,  the 
Judges,  every  man  of  honour  and 
eminence  in  the  kingdom,  were  suc- 
cessively held  up  to  the  popular 
hatred.  Wilkes  at  length  became 
the  object  of  private  retribution,  and 
brought  two  duels  upon  himself  by 
his  intolerable  calumnies,  with  vari- 
ous personal  insults  by  the  injured ; 
but  his  popularity  received  an  ac- 
cession from  every  fresh  instance  of 
either  his  crime  or  his  punishment. 
He  had  been  hitherto  simply  the 
partisan  of  the  multitude,  he  was 
now  the  champion;  what  he  had 
done  was  heightened  by  what  he  had 
suffered ;  and  the  brand  of  public 
justice  was  now  the  only  instrument 
wanting  to  place  him  at  the  summit 
of  patriot  supremacy.  This  was  not 
long  wanting.  No  man  had  laboured 
with  a  more  evident  determination 
to  bring  down  the  wrath  of  the  laws 
on  his  own  head.  The  pursuit  was 
hourly  of  too  much  importance  to 
his  fame,  and  even  to  his  finances,  to 
be  now  remitted.  He  rapidly  suc- 
ceeded in  inviting  at  once  a  prose- 
cution by  the  Attorney-general,  a 
dismissal  from  his  regiment*  an  ex- 


[June, 


pulsion  from  one  Parliament,  and  an 
address  to  the  King  for  his  prosecu- 
tion, from  its  successor;  the  whole 
closing  with  outlawry  and  exile. 

But  the  attachment  of  the  multi- 
tude, proverbially  fickle  in  all  that 
belongs  to  the  true  servant  of  the 
country,  can  exhibit  the  most  me- 
morable constancy,  where  its  object 
is  stigmatized  by  every  offence 
that  degrades  the  human  character. 
Wilkes  was  found  persevering,  au- 
dacious, and  violent.  Such  qualities 
saved  him  from  being  forgotten  for 
a  moment.  On  the  dissolution  of 
Parliament,  he  was  summoned  from 
France,  where  he  had  taken  refuge 
from  the  laws,  to  be  proposed  as 
member  for  Middlesex.  Home  now 
found  himself,  at  last,  in  a  position 
to  snatch  at  least  a  fragment  of  that 
notoriety  which  had  so  long  and  so 
largely  been  monopolized  by  Wilkes. 
With  all  the  consciousness  that  he 
had  already  been  scorned  and  in- 
sulted, he  applied  himself  to  the 
service  of  the  insulter  with  the  most 
unbridled  zeal,  advanced  or  staked 
his  credit  for  the  expenses  of  the 
election,  submitted  to  the  more  se- 
rious sacrifice  of  involving  his  cloth 
in  electioneering  transactions,  and 
finally  had  the  triumph,  more  dis- 
graceful still,  of  bringing  at  least 
to  the  doors  of  Parliament,  as  mem- 
ber for  the  great  metropolitan 
county,  a  man  stigmatized  by  the 
grossest  imputations. 

But  Wilkes  enjoyed  an  unequivo- 
cal triumph  alike  in  his  success  and 
in  his  defeat.  He  lived  on  public 
disturbance.  In  reviewing  the  events 
of  those  days,  it  has  been  conceived, 
that  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  have 
despised  this  man,  and  suffered  him 
to  sink  into  oblivion,  than  to  have 
lifted  him  into  perpetual  notice  by 
public  infliction.  Yet  it  may  also  be 
conceived,  that  to  overlook  the  of- 
fender, is  to  join  with  him  in  his 
offence  ;  that  the  vigour  of  justice  is 
strongly  connected  with  the  vindica- 
tion of  the  laws ;  that  men  like 
Wilkes  live  in  an  element  of  public 
agitation ;  and  that  with  nature,  in- 
terest, and  necessity  for  his  stimu- 
lants, his  cultivation  of  the  arts  of 
public  evil  would  be  exhausted  but 
with  his  life. 

The  law  now  laid  its  grasp  upon 
him.  He  was  arrested  by  a  warrant 
from  Lord  Mansfield-  He  was  de.* 


1833.]  A  Sketch  of  Home  Tooke.  909 

clared  by  the  House  of  Commons  sive  elections  gave  a  prolific  pro- 
"  unduly  elected,"  and  a  new  writ  mise  of  bitterness,  legal,  political, 
was  issued,  February  3,  17G9.  u:"  — A  — '— ~—1  «.. a: ..:,.«*  *,.  ,^*,a.i;c.i, 
partisans  again  returned  him. 

city  for  life.     Home  availed  himself 
of  his  opportunity  with  the  vigour 
of  a  mind,  which  felt,  that  on  its  exer- 
by  this  obstinacy,  the  Government  at 
length  found  a  new  candidate,  Lut- 
trel, (Lord  Truham,)  who  undertook 
the  hazardous  task  of  resisting  the 
popular   frenzy.      Through   infinite 
personal  obloquy,  and  some  personal 
danger,  Luttrel  fought  his  way  to  the 


His    and  personal,  sufficient  to  establish 
The    the  least  industrious  trader  in  publi- 

election  was  again  immediately  de-    city  for  life. 

clared  void.   He  was  elected  a  third, 

and  even  a  fourth  time.     Irritated 

tion  at  this  crisis,  depended  all  its 
stock  of  future  fame.  A  riot  in  St 
George's  Fields,  which  required  the 
interference  of  the  military,  and  in 
which  blood  was  shed,  naturally  of- 


fered itself  as  a  matchless  topic  for 
the   ambition  of  this   indefatigable 
end"of  the  poll,  in  which,  however,    thirster  after  popular  honours.     On 


he  gained  but  296  votes,  while  his  the  trial  of  Gillam,  the  magistrate, 

antagonist  hadl  143.  He  was  thrown  who   had   given  the  order  to   fire, 

out  by  the  return  of  the  Sheriffs,  but  Home    laboured    with    more    than 

received  by  the   House;   who  re-  party    enthusiasm;    public   justice 

solved,  April  14,  "that the  election  of  was  too  tame  for  his  sense  of  \vrong, 


John  Wilkes  was  void,  and  that  the 
Honourable  Henry  Lawes  Luttrel 
ought  to  have  been  returned,  and 
now  was  duly  elected  a  knight  of  the 
shire  for  the  county  of  Middlesex." 
By  this  act  of  decision,  Wilkes  was 
excluded  at  last;  but  the  populace 


the  forms  of  law  were  too  tardy  for 
his  sense  of  duty.  He  haunted  mem- 
bers of  Parliament  for  a  pledge  to 
bring  the  subject  before  the  House; 
he  hunted  out  witnesses;  he  ran 
from  house  to  house  in  search  of 
every  document  that  could  touch 


ever.  That  the  House  of  Commons 
should  hesitate  to  receive,  on  the 
authority  of  the  mob  of  Middlesex, 


were  rendered  more  clamorous  than    upon  the  question ;  he  kept  the  press 

in  continual  play ;  he  even  exhibited 
himself  in  the  personal  service  of  a 
warrant  on  some  of  the  presumed 

an  outlaw,  a  man  whom  that  very  t offenders.  He  failed  in  all  points 
House  of  Commons  had  addressed  but  the  one  for  which  all  were  at- 
the  King  to  punish  as  an  offender  tempted,  notoriety.  He  was  now 
against  the  common  decencies  of  publicly  looked  on  as  a  kind  of  tra- 
life,  seemed,  to  the  legislators  of  the  veiling  counsel  to  every  man  who 
streets,  the  most  intolerable  tyranny,  thought  himself  capable  of  being 


But  if  the  House  could  not  be  assail- 
ed, vengeance  might  fall  upon  its 
instruments.  Luttrel  instantly  be 
came  an  object  of  the  most  reckless 
popular  fury.  He  was  assailed  in 


made  an  object  of  public  commise- 
ration, a  walking  depositary  of  grie- 
vances; an  advocate-general  for  all 
the  empty  querulousness,'  extrava- 
gant irritations,  and  unmeasured 


innumerable  libels,  attacked  by  ac-  antipathies  of  the  multitude.     The 

tual  force,  and  at  length  placed  in  Duke  of  Bedford  had  become  unpo- 

circumstauces   so  personally  peril-  pular  by  his  alliance  with  the  Graf- 

ous,  that  the  Government  appointed  ton  Ministry.     To  wound  him  was 

him.  to  the  staff  in  Ireland,  apparently  deemed  a  meritorious  object.  A  party 

for  the  single  purpose  of  withdraw-  was  raised  against  his  influence  in 

ing  him  from  the  ferocity  of  his  po-  the  corporation  of  Bedford.     This  at 


Htical  enemies.     This  fury  was  car 
ried  so  far,  that  Home's  interference 


least  was  no  national  quarrel;   no 
menace  of  the  overthrow  of  public 


to  rescue  him,  in  one  instance,  from  rights ;  no  overstretching  of  the  pri- 

what  seemed  inevitable  murder,  was  vileges  of  Parliament.      With   this 

long  after  regarded  as  a  species  of  dispute,  Home  could  have  no  more 

tergiversation,  an  insincerity  of  elec-  cause  of  personal  interference  than 

tion  principle,  a  treason  to   party,  with  the  politics  of  Abyssinia.     Yet 

which  it  cost  him  many  an  invete-  into  this  he  plunged  headlong,  talked, 

rate    speech    and    extravagant   ac-  wrote,  arid  bustled,  with  the  restless- 

tion  to  wipe  away.     But  the  new  ness  of  a  patriot  struggling  to  avert 

patriot  had  now    gained    his    first  the  last  hours  of  his  country ;  and 

point.     He  was  from   this  moment  finally,  by  his  labours,  reaped  the 

in  full  "occupation,     Five  succes-  preeminent  distinction  of  being  elect* 


970  The  Life  of 

ed,  by  seventeen  votes  to  eleven, 
one  of  the  burgesses  of  the  town  of 
Bedford! 

A  still  more  singular  evidence  of 
this  gratuitous  love  of  being  always 
before  the  public  eye,  was  shortly 
to  be  given,  in  the  attack  on  the 
Right  Hon.  George  Onslow.  This 
gentleman,  who,  when  in  opposition, 
had  taken  on  him  the  common  bur- 
den of  party,  and  supported  Wilkes, 
was  now  an  official  under  the  Graf- 
ton  Ministry.  Any  defection  from 
the  supporters  of  the  "  Great  Pa- 
triot," was  an  irredeemable  offence 
to  the  little;  and  Home  took  the  first 
opportunity  of  a  public  meeting  of 
the  freeholders  of  Surrey,  for  which 
county  Mr  Onslow  was  one  of  the 
members,  to  attack  him  in  the  most 
direct  terms,  "  as  a  man  incapable 
of  keeping  his  word."  But  this  at- 
tack, which  had  at  least  the  virtue 
of  openness,  was  followed  by  an 
anonymous  accusation,  which,  if  it 
could  have  been  sustained,  must  ex- 
tinguish the  adversary  as  a  public 
person.  A  letter  appeared  in  the  Pub- 
lic Advertiser,  charging  Mr  Onslow, 
as  one  of  the  Lords  of  the  Treasury, 
with  the  sale  of  a  government  office  in 
the  Colonies,  for  a  thousand  pounds, 
to  be  paid  into  the  hands  of  a  wo- 
man of  profligate  character.  The 
letter  further  stated,  that  the  trans- 
action having  come  to  the  ears  of 
Lord  Hillsborough,  then  one  of  the 
Secretaries  of  State,  that  noble  lord 
had  insisted  on  the  dismissal  of  the 
seller. 

To  this  charge,  Onslow  immediate- 
ly gave  the  most  direct  and  indignant 
denial  in  the  same  paper,  demanding 
the  name  of  the  author,  on  a  threat 
of  prosecution  of  the  printer.  As 
substantiating  his  denial,  he  gave  at 
the  same  time  a  letter  from  the  per- 
son by  whom  the  thousand  pounds 
had  been  paid,  (for  so  far  the  trans- 
action was  founded,)  begging  of  him, 
as  a  public  officer,  to  ascertain  for 
her  whether  she  had  not  been  duped, 
as  she  now  fairly  enough  suspected, 
by  some  swindler,  assuming  the  au- 
thority of  the  Treasury.  Those  letters 
speedily  produced  an  answer,  which 
was  only  a  still  more  bitter  repeti- 
tion of  the  charge.  The  printer, 
Woodfall,  was  now  applied  to  for 
the  writer's  name.  His  reply  was 
"  The  Rev.  Mr  Home;  and  he  has 
authorized  me  to  tell  you  so,"  On- 


a  Democrat — 


[June, 


slow  immediately  took  his  action 
boldly  by  a  civil  suit,  in  which  the 
merits  of  the  charge  must  be  tho- 
roughly sifted,  and  the  verdict  turn, 
not  simply  upon  the  injuriousness 
of  the  libel,  but  upon  the  falsehood. 
His  damages  were  laid  at  L.  10,000. 

The  trial  took  place  at  Kingston, 
April  6,  1770,  before  the  celebrated 
Blackstone.  But  here  the  defend- 
ant's counsel  availed  himself  of  a 
technical  difficulty,  a  difference  in 
the  single  word  "  Esq.,"  between  the 
printed  letter  and  what  the  printer 
declared  to  have  been  the  wording 
of  the  original.  This  original,  how- 
ever, was  no  longer  capable  of  being 
produced,  it  having  been  destroyed. 
The  judge  considered,  that  "  as  the 
declaration  had  been  on  the  tenor, 
and  not  on  the  purport,  the  change 
of  a  single  word  was  fatal."  The 
plaintiff  was  nonsuited  accordingly. 
But  Onslow,  though  repelled  by  this 
legal  artifice,  was  determined  to  per- 
severe until  his  vindication  was  com- 
plete. The  King's  Bench  was  moved 
for  a  new  trial,  on  the  ground  of 
"  misdirection  on  the  part  of  the 
judge."  It  was  granted,  and  the 
cause  was  set  down  for  hearing  at 
the  next  Surrey  Assizes.  On  this 
occasion  Lord  Mansfield  was  the 
judge.  The  "  defamatory  words" 
spoken  before  the  freeholders,  against 
one  of  their  representatives,  "  were 
added  to  the  counts."  The  judge 
strongly  charged  the  jury  on  the 
"scandal  of  the  libel,"  and  a  ver- 
dict was  returned  of  four  hundred 
pounds  damages.  But  Home  was 
not  yet  weary  of  the  struggle.  He 
had  even  found  a  new  temptation  for 
its  continuance.  He  openly  avowed 
his  hostility  to  the  judge.  He  felt 
that  he  had  now  the  hope  of  en- 
tangling himself  with  an  antago- 
nist altogether  of  a  higher  class ; 
a  great  Ministerial  leader,  instead  of 
a  subordinate  official ;  a  man  of 
rank,  of  talent,  and  character — elo- 
quence, and  knowledge — which  had 
naturally  placed  him  at  the  head  of 
professional  eminence,  and  as  natu- 
rally congregated  found  him  all  the 
bitterness  of  disappointed  rivalry, 
all  the  malice  of  conscious  inferiority, 
and  all  the  vulgar  national  jealousy 
which  could  see  nothing  in  this  cele- 
brated personage,  but  that  he  was 
a  Scotchman.  To  shed  the  stain  of 
a  single  misconception  in  point  of 


1833.] 


A  Sketch  of  Home  Tooke. 


law  on  Lord  Mansfield's  ermine, 
was  worth  any  effort.  This  fretful 
litigation  was  continued.  In  No- 
vember of  the  same  year,  a  rule  was 
moved  for,  in  the  Common  Pleas,  to 
shew  cause  why  the  verdict  should 
not  be  set  aside,  on  the  grounds  of 
"  misdirection  of  the  judge."  The 
case  was  argued  by  Sergeant  Glynn 
before  the  twelve  judges,  The 
judgment  was  adjourned  till  the  next 
term,  and  on  April  17,  1771,  the 
judges  declared  in  favour  of  the  de- 
fendant, thus  setting  aside  the  ver- 
dict. Such  is  the  "  glorious  uncer- 
tainty" of  the  law. 

Onslow's  character  was  vindicated 
by  the  obvious  dread  of  his  accuser 
to  meet  him  fairly  on  the  merits  of 
the  charge  ;  secondly,  by  the  charge 
of  Lord  Mansfield  and  the  verdict 
of  the  jury  ;  and  thirdly,  by  the  tes- 
timony of  Lords  Hillsborough,  and 
Pownall,  Secretary  to  the  Board  of 
Trade,  both  of  whom  disclaimed  all 
idea  of  his  having  had  any  share  in 
the  traffic  alleged.  But  still,  Home 
was  not  satisfied.  At  the  next  elec- 
tion he  brought  a  new  candidate, 
the  Hon.  W.  Norton,  afterwards 
Lord  Grantley,  into  the  field.  Home 
was  an  unsparing  canvasser.  The 
new  candidate  was  a  man  of  con- 
nexion and  influence,  and  Onslow 
was  finally  forced  to  give  way.  It 
is  painful  to  the  natural  love  of  jus- 
tice to  see  political  virulence  and 
personal  venom  indulged^  with  even 
a  temporary  triumph.  But  such  is 
the  history.  Onslow's  expenditure 
in  the  just  vindication  of  his  charac- 
ter, amounted  to  not  less  than  fifteen 
hundred  pounds.  Home's  expen- 
diture to  extinguish  it,  was  not  above 
two  hundred.  But  Onslow  was  not 
ruined;  and  the  demagogue  was  de- 
prived of  the  keenest  portion  of  his 
triumph  after  all. 

Those  were  disturbed  times,  but 
their  disturbance  only  shews  the 
power  of  evil  which  may  exist  in 
individuals. 

No  period  of  English  history  had 
presented  a  fairer  picture  of  national 
good  fortune,  than  the  twenty  years 
from  the  accession  of  the  King  iu 
17GO.  With  all  the  external  and  in- 
ternal relations  of  the  Empire  in  the 
highest  state  of  security, — British 
commerce  spreading  through  every 
•egion  of  the  globe, — general  plentyin 
he  country,— the  population  increa- 


971 

sing, — immense  fortunes  constantly 
starting  up,— all  the  sinews  of  public 
strength  in  full  and  healthy  exercise, 
— fame,  opulence,  and  independence, 
the  characteristics  of  the  land, — Eng- 
land displayed  a  combination  of  na- 
tional prosperity  unexampled  in  even 
the  happier  periods  of  her  history. 
Yet,  if  we  turn  from  the  authority  of 
facts  to  the  representations  of  po- 
pular oratory;  from  the  truths  that 
meet  every  man  in  the  visible  state 
of  things,  to  the  sworn  opinions  of 
party;  from  the  actual  conduct  of 
Government,  to  its  libels  in  the  lips 
of  tavern  legislation,  we  must  look 
upon  England  as  treading  on  the 
verge  of  remediless  ruin;  her  liber- 
ties broken  down  into  a  helpless  state 
of  degradation,  that  made  it  scarcely 
worth  a  patriot's  labour,  if  not  utter- 
ly beyond  his  hope,  to  restore  them : 
her  laws  but  the  formality  of  cor- 
ruption, her  government  but  the 
mingled  abomination  of  a  pension 
list,  a  sinecure,  and  a  tyranny  :  her 
King  but  the  alternate  jest  and  dread 
of  the  Cabinet;  the  slave  of  a  secret 
influence,  and  yet  the  headlong  ori- 
ginator of  measures,  which  he  forced 
on  a  council  of  poltroons :  the  Empire 
bankrupt  in  commerce  and  constitu- 
tion, prostrated  by  a  traitorous  Mi- 
nistry to  the  contempt  of  all  nations, 
and  with  only  strength  enough  re- 
maining to  lift  up  her  hands,  fettered 
as  they  were,  in  deprecation  of  the 
lash  of  the  oppressor.  Yet  the  mul- 
titude actually  believed  those  absur- 
dities, or  acted  as  if  they  believed 
them.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that  their 
falsehood  was  shewn  by  the  simplest 
evidence  of  facts;  that  the  malice 
and  monstrous  nature  of  the  fiction 
was  clearly  shewn ;  that  men  of  ta- 
lents and  honour  pointed  to  the  no- 
torious habits  of  the  disturbers ;  and, 
while  they  hung  them  on  the  highest 
gibbet  of  public  infamy,  and  shewed 
their  whole  base  anatomy  stripped 
by  the  hand  of  public  justice,  for  the 
purposes  of  public  example,  demand- 
ed if  such  were  to  be  the  chosen 
authorities  of  the  nation  ?  Character 
was  out  of  the  question ;  the  power 
of  alluring  the  populace  by  the  tale 
of  their  undoing,  and  by  the  maledic- 
tions showered  upon  the  high-born 
and  high  placed  conspirators  in  this 
imaginary  league  of  ruin,  atoned  for 
all  loss  of  character  in  the  tellers  of 
the  tale,  If  Wilkes  had  been  steeped 


97-2 


The  Life  of  a  Democrat— 


in  the  blackest  stream  of  personal 
infamy,  this  shower  would  have  whi- 
tened him  into  the  most  unequivocal 
candidness  of  patriotism.  He  had 
attained  a  rank  which  the  populace 
would  not  suffer  any  evidence  to  de- 
grade. The  man  who  was  not  ready 
to  give  up  the  evidence  of  his  senses 
on  this  subject,  was  voted  an  enemy 
to  his  country. 

Yet  it  is  difficult  to  discharge  Go- 
vernment of  a  dangerous  supineness 
at  this  period.  The  individual  may 
live  down  calumny;  a  Government 
must  strike  it  down.  It  has  not  time 
to  await  the  tardy  arrival  of  popular 
moderation.  The  country  may  be 
destroyed,  while  its  defenders  are 
lingering  for  the  natural  process  of 
public  remorse.  The  Ministry  ought 
to  have  grasped  the  faction  at  once. 
They  ought  to  have  crushed  the  ser- 
pent before  it  rose  to  that  size  and 
strength,  which  had  nearly  involved 
every  thing  dear  to  the  nation  in  its 
folds.  The  arts  of  the  popular  leaders 
laid  the  foundations  of  a  sullen  and 
desperate  aversion  to  order.  The 
most  absurd  extravagances,  all  that 
was  imaginary  in  the  declamation 
of  the  mob  orators,  soon  became 
real  by  the  adoption  of  their  coun- 
sels. The  tavern  bitterness  flowed 
into  the  streets,  and  the  streets  gave 
it  form  in  the  shape  of  open  con- 
tests with  the  King's  authority.  The 
wordy  taunts  against  the  administra- 
tion of  justice,  which  cost  the  taunters 
but  a  tavern  toast,  were  put  in  action 
by  the  populace  in  a  general  defiance 
of  the  laws ;  and  the  contemptuous 
predictions  of  the  general  dismem- 
berment of  the  Empire,  were  eagerly 
borrowed  by  the  Colonies  as  a  model 
for  that  totally  unjustifiable  quick- 
ness of  quarrel,  and  lawless  and  gra- 
tuitous revolt,  which  arrayed  Ame- 
rica in  arms  against  the  most  lenient, 
generous,  and  honourable  Govern- 
ment of  the  globe. 

This  be  on  the  head  of  faction. 
Whatever  suffering,  tumults,  and 
bloodshed,  stained  the  annals  of  the 
reign  for  twenty  years,  was  its  work. 
It  is  idle  to  say,  that  without  public 
causes  to  sustain  the  disturber,  we 
can  do  nothing.  We  demand  those 
causes  in  the  present  instance ;  we 
deny  that  any  existed  but  in  its  own 
furious  and  guilty  cravings  for  over- 
throw. Nothing  is  more  false,  than 
the  conception  that  public  evils  are 


[June, 

independent  of  individual  excite- 
ment. The  history  of  every  period 
of  public  calamity  in  Europe  points 
out  some  actual  leader  of  the  evil, 
some  profligate  originator  of  the  dis- 
content which  afterwards  spread  suf- 
fering through  the  community,  some 
culprit  gatherer  of  the  materials  of 
public  mischief,  and  some  notorious 
inoculator  of  political  pestilence. 
Thus  the  cry  of  measures,  and  not 
men,  has  in  all  periods  been  justly  de- 
nounced as  a  folly  or  a  subterfuge, 
the  voice  of  infatuation  or  of  hypo- 
crisy. In  all  instances,  the  Man  is 
the  object  either  to  be  sustained,  or 
to  be  stricken.  Even  the  French  Re- 
volution, forced  into  sudden  light,  as 
it  seemed  to  be,  by  the  uproused  re- 
sentments of  a  whole  people,  would 
never  have  been  conceived,  if  a 
Voltaire  had  been  crushed  in  his 
first  blasphemies  against  God  and 
man ;  nor  ever  have  matured  its 
guilt  to  the  overthrow  of  the  Legis- 
lature and  the  King,  if  the  hand  of 
justice  had  grasped  Mirabeau  in  his 
first  licentious  assaults  on  morals, 
and  public  subordination ;  nor  ever 
have  covered  itself  with  blood  that 
no  time  can  wash  away,  if  Robes- 
pierre had  been  hanged  for  his  first 
murder.  But  the  maxim  is  equally 
unquestionable  on  the  other  hand, 
that  the  salvation  of  a  country  may 
depend  on  individual  character.  The 
whole  course  of  human  experience, 
ancient  as  well  as  modern,  shews, 
that  in  all  the  great  trials  of  states, 
the  crisis  has  chiefly  turned  upon  the 
efforts  of  an  individual.  Even  the 
formation  of  public  character,  broad 
as  its  institute  may  seem,  and  appa- 
rently spreading  beyond  the  oppor- 
tunities and  talents  of  any  single 
mind,  has  often  been  as  distinctly 
moulded  by  that  single  mind,  as  if  it 
had  been  an  image  of  clay  shaped  by 
his  hand. 

In  what  a  crowd  of  instances  have 
we  seen  the  energy  of  one  man  shoot 
life  into  millions ;  the  intrepidity  of  a 
solitary  hero  rekindle  the  broken 
courage  of  a  nation ;  the  words  of 
some  god  of  eloquence  spread  like 
sunlight  over  the  dullness  and  de- 
jection of  his  country !  The  wisdom, 
virtue,  suffering,  intellect  of  the  man, 
diffused  strength  through  the  count- 
less multitude,  like  the  power  of  ve- 
getation through  the  desert,  till  all 
was  living  and  productive,  And  this 


A  Sketch  of  Home  Tooke. 


973 


view  of  things  is  coiifirmed  by  its 
Huitableuess  to  the  obvious  design 
of  Providence  in  society.  For  what 
purpose  has  society  been  formed, 
but  for  the  formation  of  individual 

•  •haracter;  for  the  increased  vigour, 
resource,  and  elevation  of  the  inen- 
1  al  and  moral  nature  of  the  man  ? 
The  purpose   of  empires,   and   all 
other  great  aggregates  of  mankind  ; 
'lie  whole  ultimate   object  of  Go- 
vernment, in  all  its  shapes  of  public 
subordination  and  national  rule;  the 

vhole  vast  and  complicated  machi- 
nery by  which  the  frame  of  nations 
:s  sustained,  is  simply  for  the  pur- 
pose of  purifying  the  intellectual, 
ihysical,  and  religious  standard  of 
Jie  species ;  of  heightening  the  ele- 
vation of  man,  as  an  accountable 
'jeing;  as  training  the  individual  for 
:he  virtues,  duties,  and  trusts  of  a.n 
endless  progress  in  a  more  illustrious 
ntate  of  existence.  And  the  concep- 
•ion  is  as  strongly  stimulating  and 
cheering  to  all  the  nobler  parts  of 
our  nature,  as  the  contrary  is  en- 
reebling,  indolent,  and  humbling.  If 
ihe  individual  is  persuaded  that  no- 
ihing  can  be  done,  till  it  is  done  by 
ally  nothing  will  ever  be  done.  But 
where  he  feels,  that  at  least  the  future 
possibility  may  exist  of  achieving 
public  good  by  his  single  effort; 
where  he  has  possessed  himself  of 
the  persuasion,  that  in  the  perilous 

•  lays  of  his  country,  even  he  may  be 
summoned  from  his  obscurity,  not 
'or  the  vain  indulgence  of  passion, 
ivarice,  or  love  of  display,  but  to  be 
nade  the  instrument  of  some  great 
mblic  act  of  preservation,  to  illus- 
,rate  some  high  moral  by  his  forti- 
tude under  unjust  suffering,  or  to 
•narshal  the  scattered  spirits  of  the 
Empire   by  his  triumphant  ability 
ind    stainless   virtue;   there   is  no 
•ank  of  resolute  excellence  which 
^uch  a  man  may  not  attain.  The  very 
feeling  may  turn  poverty,  obscurity, 
,md   difficulty,  into   a  school,    not 
nerely  of  the  most  philosophic  con- 
entrnent,  but   of  the   noblest  and 
nost  determined  vigour.  Every  hour 
nay  be  but  an   exercise  of  those 
jualities  which,  if  opportunity  should 
/et  demand  them,  may  yet  shine 
ibrth  in  the  broadest  scale  of  public 
•estoration.     All  the  great  things  of 
he  world  have  been  done  by  a  noble 
md  wise  enthusiasm.    But  enthu- 
iasm,  in  its  noblest  sense,  is  only 


the  strong  and  wise  conviction  of  the 
individual  mind,  that  it  possesses  the 
power  to  achieve  or  to  deserve. 

If  such  is  the  law  of  good,  such) 
too,  must  be  the  law  of  evil.  There 
must  be  a  parent  guilt,  without  which 
the  evil  would  never  have  come  to 
the  birth  ;  and  it  is  the  first  duty  of 
every  Government  that  deprecates 
revolution,  to  waste  neither  its  time 
nor  its  force  in  general  speculations 
on  opinion,  but  to  fix  on  the  revolu- 
tionist at  once,  to  bar  up  his  path 
without  delay,  and  deciding  that 
there  is  centred  the  public  danger, 
extinguish  it,  by  the  most  direct 
punishment  of  the  criminal  within 
the  power  of  the  law.  The  feeble  tam- 
pering of  the  Grafton  Cabinet  with 
the  offences  of  Wilkes,  or  rather 
the  virtual  impunity  which  suffered 
him  for  years  to  insult  the  Govern- 
ment, was  the  source  of  a  series  of 
discontents  and  disaffections  not  ex- 
hausted at  this  hour.  The  moral  still 
exists,  and  the  necessity  is  as  strong 
as  ever. 

Wilkes,  his  injuries,  rights,  and 
even  his  virtues !  continued  to  be  the 
paramount  theme.  Every  fresh  de- 
gradation only  endeared  him  to  po- 
pularity ;  the  darker  his  personal  ex- 
cesses became,  the  brighter  he  shone 
in  the  eyes  of  partisanship ;  his  rejec- 
tion from  Parliament  was  invaluable 
as  a  topic  of  civic  eloquence;  his 
bankruptcy  was  a  merit,  his  flight  a 
proof  of  honour,  until  common  halls, 
aggregate  meetings,  and  superb  ban- 
quets, rung  with  the  panegyric  of 
the  man  and  the  wrongs  of  the  mar- 
tyr. At  a  meeting  held  in  the  Mile- 
End  assembly  rooms,  Home,  as  the 
full  pledge  of  his  patriotic  conviction 
that  liberty  of  speech  was  totally  fet- 
tered, extinguished,  annihilated,  in 
this  land  of  slaves,  moved  and  car- 
ried the  following  Address  to  the 
King:- 

"  Your  Majesty's  servants  have 
attacked  our  liberties  in  the  most  vi- 
tal part;  they  have  torn  away  the 
very  heartstrings  of  the  Constitution^ 
and  have  made  those  very  men  the  in- 
struments of  our  destruction,  whom 
the  laws  have  appointed  as  the  im- 
mediate guardians  of  our  freedom." 
Then  followed  a  sop  to  Opposition. 
"  Yet,  although  we  feel  the  utmost  - 
indignation  against  the  factious !  the 
honest  defenders  of  our  rights  and 
constitution  will  ever  claim  our 


The  Life  of  a  Democrat-* 


974 

praise.  But  that  the  liberties  of  the 
people  have  been  most  grossly  vio- 
lated by  the  corrupt  influence  of 
Ministers  since  the  days  of  Sir  Ro- 
bert Wai  pole,  is  too  notorious  to 
require  either  illustration  or  com- 
ment." Such  was  the  declared  ruin  • 
of  English  freedom  sixty  years  ago  1 

One  perpetual  and  glaring  source 
of  popular  folly  is  popular  vanity — 
the  desire  of  the  low  to  force  them- 
selves into  petty  consequence — the 
love  of  the  mean  for  meagre  op- 
portunities of  appearing  in  contact 
with  persons  above  them — and  the 
general  gratification  of  vulgar  minds 
in  insulting  the  rank,  birth,  and  edu- 
cation, which  are  beyond  their  reach. 
Petitions  now  flowed  in  upon  the 
monarch  from  every  nameless  name, 
to  cashier  his  Cabinet,  remodel  his 
principles,  and,  above  all,  to  dissolve 
his  Parliament, — that  Parliament 
which  had  been  guilty  of  the  unpar- 
donable crime  of  refusing  to  take  the 
purity  and  statesmanship  of  Wilkes, 
in  aid  of  its  councils.  The  London 
corporation  at  last  joined  the  general 
chase  of  fame,  and  a  "  humble  ad- 
dress, remonstrance,  and  petition" 
was  presented  by  the  Lord  Mayor 
and  Sheriff,  which  was  received  by 
his  Majesty  with  the  displeasure  due 
to  its  vulgar  and  unprovoked  inso- 
lence. This  address  had  the  hardihood 
to  state,  "  that  under  the  same  secret 
and  malign  influence,  which,  through 
every  successive  administration,  had 
defeated  every  good,  and  suggested 
every  bad  intention,  the  majority  of 
the  House  of  Commons  had  deprived 
the  people  of  their  dearest  rights. 
They  had  done  a  deed  more  ruinous 
in  it's  consequences,  than  the  levying 
of  ship-money  by  Charles  the  First, 
or  the  dispensing  power  assumed  by 
James  the  Second!  a  deed  which 
must  vitiate  all  the  future  proceedings 
of  Parliament ;  for  the  acts  of  the 
Legislature  itself  can  no  more  be 
valid  without  a  legal  House  of  Com- 
mons, than  without  a  legal  Prince  on 
the  throne." 

Thus,  after  having  declared  that 
the  King  merited  the  fate  of  Charles 
or  James,  and  placed  exile  or  the 
scaffold  before  his  view,  the  address 
pronounced  sentence  upon  the  Par- 
liament. The  whole  Legislative  and 
Executive  being  thus  summarily  ex- 
tinguished— Lords  and  Commons  be- 
ing beheaded  or  banished— the  regu- 


[June, 


lation  of  affairs  advantageously  would 
devolve  upon  the  wisdom  of  the  Lord 
Mayor  and  Aldermen.  Shall  we  be 
surprised  that  the  monarch  returned 
the  reproof,  that  their  presumptuous 
and  foolish  paper  was  "  disrespectful 
to  himself,  injurious  to  his  Parlia- 
ment, and  irreconcilable  with  the 
principles  of  the  Constitution?"  An 
address,  presented  in  a  few  days  after 
by  both  Houses  of  Parliament,  re- 
peated the  royal  sentiment,  charac- 
terising the  civic  representations  as 
"  the  insidious  suggestions  of  ill-de- 
signing men,  who  were  in  reality  un- 
dermining the  public  liberty,  under 
the  specious  pretence  of  zeal  for  its 
preservation." 

Home  was,  as  usual,  in  full  em- 
ployment during  the  progress  of  this 
transaction.  He  was  said  to  have 
drawn  up  the  address  (from  which 
but  an  extract  of  its  long  and  turbu- 
lent declamation  has  been  given); 
but  he  was  more  unequivocally  oc- 
cupied in  despatching  accounts  of  its 
reception  to  the  public  papers,  in  one 
of  which,  after  stating  some  sup- 
posed mark  of  contempt  exhibited 
by  his  Majesty  to  the  deputation,  he 
added  the  line — "  Nero  fiddled  while 
Rome  was  burning."  For  this  libel- 
lous allusion  a  prosecution  was  com- 
menced in  the  King's  Bench,  but  sud- 
denly and  unaccountably  dropped. 
The  Ministry  had  not  yet  learned 
that  the  "  Man  of  the  People"  is  be- 
yond all  appeals  to  his  sense  of  gra- 
titude, that  lenity  with  him  is  but 
another  name  for  weakness,  and  that 
the  only  true  access  to  his  heart  is 
through  his  fears. 

Beckford's  famous  address  follow- 
ed. Its  narrative  is  worth  a  slight 
detail ;  if  it  were  only  for  the  purpose 
of  relieving  a  pompous  tool  of  the 
weight  of  his  illegitimate  renown — 
of  stripping  off  the  lion's  skin — of 
ungilding  the  monument  raised  to 
civic  insolence  by  civic  absurdity. 

On  the  23d  of  May,  in  the  same 
year,  so  perseveriugly  did  party  fol- 
low up  its  attacks,  a  second  deputa- 
tion, headed  by  the  Lord  Mayor,  at- 
tended at  St  James's,  to  remonstrate 
with  his  Majesty  on  the  tenor  of  his 
former  answer,  which  they  declared 
to  be,  along  with  the  general  acts  of 
Government,  "  against  the  clearest 
principles  of  the  Constitution,  and 
the  result  of  the  insidious  attempts 
of  evil  counsellors  to  perplex,  con- 


1*53.] 

found,  and  shake"  the  rights  of  the 
people.  The  address  concluded  with 
a  renewed  demand  for  the  dissolu- 
t  on  of  Parliament,  and  the  removal 
of  Ministers.  The  King's  reply  was 
firm  and  dignified.  "  He  should  have 
leen  wanting  to  the  public,  as  well 
as  to  himself,  if  he  had  not  expressed 
his  dissatisfaction  at  the  late  address. 
His  sentiments  on  that  subject  con- 
t  trued  the  same ;  and  he  should  ill 
deserve  to  be  considered  as  the  Fa- 
tier  of  his  People,  if  he  should  suffer 
himself  to  make  such  a  use  of  his 
prerogative,  as  he  could  not  but 
t  link  inconsistent  with  the  interest, 
and  dangerous  to  the  constitution  of 
the  kingdom." 

As  it  was  of  course  anticipated 
that  a  deputation  which  approached 
with  insults  would  be  sent  back  with 
disgrace,  a  further  and  extraordinary 
insult  was  prepared  already  in  the 
shape  of  a  reply.  In  the  midst  of 
the  Court,  Beckford,  instead  of  with- 
drawing, with  the  usual  etiquette  of 
inspect  to  his  Sovereign,  approached 
tlte  King,  and,  to  the  universal  asto- 
nishment and  indignation,  delivered 
the  following  Jacobin  harangue : — 

"  Most  gracious  Sovereign, — Will 
your  Majesty  be  pleased  so  far  to 
c  mdescend,  as  to  permit  the  Mayor 
o  '  your  loyal  City  of  London,  to  de- 
c  are  in  your  royal  presence,  in  be- 
h  ilf  of  his  fellow-citizens,  how  much 
tlie  bare  apprehension  of  your  Ma- 
jcsty's  displeasure  would  at  all 
times  affect  their  minds.  The  de- 
claration of  that  displeasure  has  al- 
ready filled  them  with  inexpressible 
anxiety  and  with  the  deepest  aflflic- 
tbn. 

"Permit  me  to  assure  your  Ma- 
jesty, that  your  Majesty  has  not,  in 
all  your  dominions,  any  subjects 
IT:  ore  faithful,  more  dutiful,  or  more 
re  ady  to  sacrifice  their  lives  and  for- 
ti  nes  in  the  maintenance  of  the  true 
honour  and  dignity  of  your  Crown. 
We  do,  therefore,  with  the  greatest 
h  imility  and  submission,  most  ear- 
nestly supplicate  your  Majesty, 
tl  at  you  will  not  dismiss  us  from 
your  presence,  without  expressing 
a  more  favourable  opinion  of  your 
faithful  citizens,  and  without  some 
ci  mfort,  at  least  some  prospect  of 
redress."  Thus  far  the  affectation 
ot  loyalty  went,  the  gist  of  this  hy- 
pocritical civility  being  simply  a  re- 
quest that  his  Majesty  would  swal- 
Ipiv  his  own  words.  But  the  more 


A  Sketch  of  Home  Tooke. 


975 


daring  insult  lay  behind.  "  Permit 
me,  Sire,"  added  the  civic  censor, 
"  to  observe,  that  whoever  has  al- 
ready dared,  or  shall  hereafter  en- 
deavour, by  false  insinuations  and 
suggestions,  to  alienate  your  Ma- 
jesty's affections  from  your  loyal 
subjects  in  general,  and  from  the 
City  of  London  in  particular,  is  an 
enemy  to  your  Majesty's  person  and 
family,  a  violator  of  the  public  peace, 
and  a  betrayer  of  our  happy  consti- 
tution, as  it  was  established  at  the 
glorious  Revolution." 

Beckford  was  instantly  lifted  up 
by  the  Common  Council  wonder  into 
a  hero.  The  Corporation  had  found 
one  among  them  who  could  recite  an 
arrogant  paper  to  the  King, and  every 
man  of  the  whole  conflux  of  ignorance 
and  assumption  felt  himself  elevated 
accordingly.  But  Home  felt  no  incli- 
nation to  keep  any  secret  which  de- 
prived him  of  the  most  trifling  tri- 
bute to  his  vanity.  Beckford, inthe  full 
triumph  of  having  uttered  an  impu- 
dent reply  on  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment, had  suddenly  passed  away 
from  faction  and  the  world  together. 
He  died,  luckily  for  such  popularity 
as  is  to  be  gained  by  such  arts,  be- 
fore the  exultation  of  the  crowd  had 
time  to  grow  sober.  In  that  deli- 
rium a  monument  had  been  voted  to 
him  by  the  Corporation,  and  on  that 
monument,  a  memorial  alike  of  bad 
feeling  and  barbarous  taste,  still 
stands  the  effigy  of  this  puppet  lec- 
turer of  kings,  with  the  "Reply" 
engraven  on  the  stone.  But  the 
authorship  was  not  long  left  to  deco- 
rate the  alderman's  memory.  Home 
was  determined  that  no  civic  jay 
should  be  plumed  with  any  feathers 
which  he  could  claim.  He  declared 
himself  as  the  writer,  and  of  ten  pathe- 
tically lamented  the  ill  fortune,  or 
applauded  the  self-denial,  by  which 
"  he  who  had  obtained  a  statue  for 
another,  had  sought  none  for  him- 
self." 

But  a  still  more  hazardous  spirit 
of  faction  was  yet  to  be  displayed. 
The  value  of  the  maxim,  that  "the 
beginnings  of  popular  strife  are  as 
"  the  lettings  out  of  water,"  old  as  it 
is,  never  found  a  stronger  illustra- 
tion, than  in  the  times  which  were 
now  come.  The  ill-judged  impunity 
that  had  suffered  a  handful  of  de- 
magogues to  go  on  from  year  to 
year,  exaggerating  every  trivial  pub- 
lic pressure,  inflaming  every  slight 


076 

discontent,  envenoming  every  casual 
offence,  and  giving  shape  to  every 
imaginary  evil,  was  now  beginning 
to  reap  its  retribution  in  a  series  of 
despotic  designs,  upon  all  that  con- 
stituted the  honour  and  strength  of 
England.  Wilkes  had  hitherto  been 
simply  a  struggler  for  place,  Home 
a  struggler  for  notoriety;  both  ex- 
cluded from  the  pursuit  of  an  ho- 
nourable ambition,  both  had  grasped 
at  their  vulgar  objects  by  a  vulgar 
celebrity.  But  the  ground  was  at 
length  sinking  under  their  feet.  Nei- 
ther had  been  able  to  force  the  Minis- 
try even  to  notice  them,  farther  than 
by  penalties  sufficient  to  vex,  but  too 
feeble  to  restrain.  Still  they  pos- 
sibly had  some  conception  that  they 
actually  influenced  something  above 
the  politicians  of  the  streets,  that 
their  wisdom  was  not  confined  to 
the  echoes  of  Guildhall,  nor  their 
power  to  a  toast  in  a  tavern.  A  sud- 
den change  in  the  Ministry  at  last 
opened  their  eyes.  To  their  utter 
astonishment  they  found  that  the 
Graf  ton  administration  was  broken 
into  fragments,  without  a  blow  from 
their  weapons,  and  a  new  Cabinet 
raised  on  its  ruins,  without  an  appeal 
to  their  influence.  The  Rocking- 
ham  and  Shelburne  parties  had  been 
successively  panegyrized  by  them, 
under  the  palpable  impression,  that 
the  King  must  choose  either ;  and 
that  under  the  wing  of  either  their 
needy  patriotism  might  alike  profit- 
ably repair  its  ruffled  feathers.  But, 
to  their  measureless  wonder,  a  Minis- 
try started  up  before  their  eyes,  un- 
connectedwitheitberparty,  supreme- 
ly contemptuous  of  the  clamour  of 
the  tribunes  of  Brentford, and  looking 
for  its  office  only  to  the  Throne,  and 
for  its  popularity  only  to  its  vigorous 
government  of  the  Empire.  The 
North  Ministry  was  formed,  and  the 
demagogues  found  that  their  hope  of 
making  or  unmaking  Ministers  by 
the  old  tactique  was  at  an  end. 

A  new  expedient  was  therefore 
necessary,  and  it  was  adopted. 
France  has  long  assumed  the  merit 
of  invention  in  all  things  good  or 
evil.  The  clubs  which  overthrew 
first  her  Monarchy  and  then  her  Re- 
public, were  unquestionably  a  dis- 
play of  the  spirit  of  ruin  on  the  lar- 
gest scale  yet  witnessed  by  the 
world.  Yet  the  invention  was  not 
French,  but  British.  The  fifteen 
hundred  clubs  of  France  which  gave 


The  Life  of  a  Democrat-* 


[June, 


the  law  to  King,  Church,  and  People, 
may  repose  for  their  fame  with  pos- 
terity on  the  vastness  of  their  evil,  and 
the  absurdity  of  their  pretexts;  on 
the  ferocious  dexterity  of  their  mas- 
sacres, and  the  contemptible  impo- 
tence with  which  they  finally  yielded 
up  the  fruits  of  their  triumph ;  on 
their  having  scaled,  with  a  giant's 
step,  the  heights  of  atheism,  rebel- 
lion, and  regicide,  and  then  laid 
down  their  necks  under  the  heel  of 
a  military  Usurper.  But  their  model 
was  fabricated  in  the  metropolis  of 
England.  In  1770,  the  "  Society  for 
supporting  the  Bill  of  Rights"  was 
formed  at  the  London  Tavern,  reck- 
oning among  its  members  the  Rev. 
John  Home,  Sergeant  Glynn,  whom 
the  mob  had  brought  in  as  member 
for  Middlesex;  Sir  Francis  Blake 
Delaval,  Aldermen  Sawbridge  and 
Oliver,  members  for  London;  and 
Wilkes,  now  an  alderman ;  and  the 
character  of  the  club  may  be  esti- 
mated from  the  paper  in  which  they 
announced  themselves,  and  which, 
among  a  list  of  resolutions,  hinging 
on  the  ever-popular  topic  of  Parlia- 
mentary corruption,  and  Ministerial 
tyranny,  contained  the  following  out- 
line of  their  labours : — 

"  You  shall  consent  to  no  supplies 
without  a  previous  redress  of  grie- 
vances. 

"  You  shall  endeavour  to  restore 
Annual  Parliaments. 

"  You  shall  promote  a  pension  and 
place  bill,  enacting,  that  any  member 
who  receives  a  place,  pension,  con- 
tract, lottery  ticket,  or  any  other  emo- 
lument whatsoever  from  the  Crown ; 
or  enjoys  profit  from  any  such  place, 
pension,  £c.,  shall  not  only  vacate 
his  seat,  but  be  absolutely  ineligible 
during  his  continuance  under  such 
undue  influence. 

"  You  shall  impeach  the  Ministers 
who  advised  the  violation  of  the 
rights  of  the  freeholders  in  the  Mid- 
dlesex election, and  the  militarymur- 
ders  in  St  George's  Fields. 

"  You  shall  make  strict  enquiry 
into  the  conduct  of  Judges,  touching 
juries. 

"  You  shall  attend  to  the  grievances 
of  our  fellow-subjects  in  Ireland,  and 
second  the  complaints  which  they 
may  bring  to  the  Throne. 

"  You  shall  endeavour  to  restore 
to  America  the  essential  rights  of 
taxation,  by  representatives  of  their 
own  free  election,  repealing  the  acts 


A  Sketch  of  Home  Tooke. 


prssed  in  violation  of  that  right  since 
the  year  1763;  and  the  universal  ex- 
cise, so  notoriously  incompatible 
with  every  principle  of  British  li- 
berty, which  has  been  lately  substi- 
tuted in  the  Colonies,  for  the  laws 
of  customs." 

Thus  a  junta  of  tavern  legislators 
w=M-e  at  once  to  provide  for  the  State, 
to  bring  Ministers  to  the  scaffold,  if 
they  could, for  high  crimes  and  mis- 
df  ineanours  to  their  august  tribunal, 
and  to  undertake  the  patronage  of 
every  clamour  from  Ireland,  Ameri- 
ca, or  the  world's  end.  But  ridicu- 
lous as  this  assumption  of  empire 
was,  it  had  its  effects  in  increasing 
th  3  public  tendency  to  set  the  laws 
at  defiance.  Every  newspaper  which 
hfcd  forced  the  tardy  justice  of  Go- 
vernment to  take  steps  against  its 
proprietors,  was  sustained  by  the 
panegyrics  and  the  pecuniary  assist- 
ance of  the  club,  and  of  course  dis- 
pliyed  its  merits  by  farther  aggres- 
sion. But  a  crisis  was  coming,  which 
was  to  try  the  club  itself.  Money 
is  the  grand  touchstone  of  men,  and 
evsn  of  patriots.  The  fund  which 
had  magnanimously  undertaken  the 
protection  of  the  rights  of  human 
ki  id,  began  rapidly  to  slide  into  less 
exalted  occupations,  and  a  large  share 
of  its  resources  was  suddenly  found 
to  be  devoted  to  the  compounding 
of  Wilkes's  personal  debts!  This 
exposition  naturally  excited  some 
surprise  among  the  subscribers  ; 
murmurs  rose;  still  it  was  on  the 
point  of  being  followed  by  another 
of  even  a  more  patriotic  nature,  the 
purchase  of  a  large  annuity  for 
VVilkes,  which  would  have  indulged 
him  with  the  luxuries  so  highly  d»- 
sewed  by  his  long  career  of  public 
mid  private  virtue.  The  club  of 
sh  eld-bearers,'  the  advanced  guard 
of  freedom  all  round  the  world,  the 
Sa  ered  band  of  rights  and  wrongs,  the 
tei  ror  of  Cabinets,  and  the  cashierers 
of  Kings,  was  on  the  point  of  being 
metamorphosed  into  a  threadbare 
co  nmittee  of  almsgathering,toenable 
1\I  •  Wilkes  to  live  at  the  expense  of 
th  j  public.  The  burlesque  was  too 
gr  )ss  for  the  gravity  of  the  most  de- 
li! erative  shopkeeper  of  Brentford. 
Tl-.e  impolicy  of  appealing  to  the  pa- 
triotism of  the  hedges  and  highways 
f o  •  any  thing  beyond  cheap  uproar 
an  1  gratuitous  indignation  against 
all  Ministers,  past,  present,  and  fu- 

VOL.  XXXI 1. 1.  NO.  CCIX, 


977 

turp.was  felt  in  every  fibre  of  party. 
Home  thought  that  his  hour  to  strike 
was  come.  He  had  served  Wilkes 
too  humbly  not  to  hate  him  ;  he  had 
known  him  too  confidentially  for  re- 
spect; and  he  now  contemplated  the 
fall  of  his  fame  too  glowingly  to  suf- 
fer him  to  forget  that  party  knows 
neither  fidelity  nor  friendship.  He 
instantly  broke  off  his  old  connex- 
ions, abandoned  the  club,  denounced 
it  as  an  Aldermanic  tool,  formed  a 
new  club,  with  a  new  name,  "  The 
Constitutional  Society,"  from  which 
all  who  bore  the  Shibboleth  of  Wilkes 
were  fiercely  shut  out;  and,  as  the 
whole  operation  would  be  thrown 
away  without  publicity,  this  grand 
revolution,  this  demolition  of  the 
dynasty  of  Wilkes,  and  erection  of 
the  empire  of  purity,  protestation, 
and  Home,  on  its  ruins,  was  pro- 
claimed to  all  mankind  in  a  furious 
newspaper  correspondence. 

The  progress  of  this  high  proceed- 
ing furnished  the  talkers,  the  laugh- 
ers, and  the  scorners,  with  perpetual 
occupation  for  six  months.  The 
whole  would  deserve  the  most  mi- 
nute detail  of  contemptuous  history, 
for  the  whole  was  an  exposure  of 
character  invaluable  to  the  despiser 
of  ostentatious  virtue,  and  hypocri- 
tical zeal  for  the  public  cause.  The 
first  blow  was  given  by  a  letter  in  the 
"Public  Advertiser"  of  October  the 
31st,  scoffing  at  Wilkes's  presidency 
of  a  meeting  of  the  Westminster  mob, 
assembled,  in  the  line  of  their  duty, 
simply  for  the  impeachment  of  the 
Prime  Minister !  To  be  laughed  at 
in  the  performance  of  an  office  so 
legitimate,  and  so  appropriate  to  the 
wisdom  of  five  thousand  cobblers  and 
tailors,  must  have  been  galling  to  the 
natural  pride  of  the  distinguished 
functionary  in  the  chair;  but  to  feel 
that  the  blow  was  aimed  by  one  who 
had  hitherto  distinguished  himself 
only  by  an  inflexible  determination 
not  to  be  cast  off,  at  once  the  most 
menial  of  friends  and  the  most  friend- 
ly of  menials,  was  the  envenomed 
point  of  the  injury.  Wilkes  instant- 
ly launched  an  indignant  letter  at  the 
head  of  the  writer,  with  the  motto 
from  CHURCHILL — 

"  Ah  me!  what  mighty  perils  wait 
The  man  who  meddles  with  a  State, 
Whether  to  strengthen  or  oppose, 
False  are  his  friends,  and  firm  his  foes." 

The  motto  was  meant  for  Home; 
3  R 


978  The  Life  of  a 

who, immediately  after,  was  set  upon 
by  two  of  Wilkes's  Sbirri,  under  the 
appropriate  names  of  "Scourge," and 
"  Cat-o'-nine-tails,"  and  denounced 
as  the  assailant  of  the  "  Man  of  the 
People." 

Home  had  now  obtained  probably 
all  that  his  soul  thirsted  for,  an  op- 
portunity of  appearing  in  the  columns 
of  a  public  print.  He  lost  no  time, 
availed  himself  copiously  of  his 
opportunity,  gathered  his  whole 
store  of  wrath,  and  launched  a  letter 
of  the  density  of  a  pamphlet,  upon 
the  formidable  antagonist,  who,  how- 
ever, had  already  trampled  him  un- 
der his  feet.  It  may  throw  some 
light  on  the  dignity  of  both  comba- 
tants, to  give  the  charges  which  Home 
admits  to  have  been  made  against 
himself. 

"  The  Westminster  business  I 
shall  reserve  for  my  future  letter, 
because  it  is  one  of  the  pretended 
causes  of  difference.  The  other 
charges  I  think  are — 1.  That  I  sub- 
scribed to  the  Society  of  the  Bill  of 
Rights,  but  never  paid  one  shilling. 
2.  That  I  have  received  amazing 
Hums  for  Mr  Sergeant  Glynn's  elec- 
tion; ten  guineas  each,  from  most  of 
his  friends.  3.  That  I  have  received 
subscriptions  for  the  Widow  B.'s  ap- 
peal. 4.  That  I  have  received  sub- 
scriptions for  Oilman's  trial.  5.  That 
I  have  received  subscriptions  for  the 
affair  of  the  weavers  in  Spittal- 
fields. 

"Those  five  charges  I  understand 
to  be  of  a  public  nature.  After 
which  there  is  a  charge  upon  me  of 
a  private  fraud,  in  a  story  about  Mr 
Foote's  pamphlet  and  Messrs  Davis 
the  booksellers." 

Such  were  the  subjects  that  private- 
ly engrossed  the  minds  of  those  mo- 
dels of  public  principle;  such  were 
the  consultations  of  their  closets, 
while  in  common  halls  and  news- 
papers they  held  forth  as  the  grand 
correctors  of  imperial  abuses,  the 
impregnable  defenders  of  national 
rights,  the  perfection  of  patriot  ge- 
nius, disdainful  of  all  lower  concerns 
than  the  overthrow  of  royal  oppres- 
sion, the  revival  of  constitutions,  and 
the  general  elevation  of  the  human 
mind  into  the  loftiest  stature  of  in- 
dependence. Yet,  in  what  does  this 
correspondence  differ  from  the  de- 
velopements  that  might  be  expected 
in  the  breaking  up  or'  a  low  gaming- 
house, charges  and  recriminations  of 


Democrat-*  [June, 

the  meanest  artifice,  the  most  con- 
temptible motives,  the  most  restless 
and  degrading  corruption  ?  It  is  no- 
thing to  the  purpose,  that  Home  un- 
dertook to  defend  himself  from  those 
attacks,  or  even  that  he  declared 
Wilkes  to  have  been  actuated  by  the 
direct  spirit  of  falsehood.  What 
must  have  been  the  condition  of  the 
intercourse  that  could  give  even  the 
shadow  of  an  existence  to  such 
charges  ?  What  must  have  been  the 
consciousness  of  either  party,  when 
the  character  of  the  one  could  render 
such  charges  probable,  or  the  other 
be  compelled  to  a  long,  circuitous, 
and  intricate  defence  for  the  purpose 
of  saving  himself  from  universal 
scorn  ?  Nothing  can  be  more  evident 
than  that  under  the  surface  of  their 
public  achievements  there  was  a  vast 
quantity  of  pecuniary  transaction; 
that  however  rough  or  rapid  the  cur- 
rent of  their  patriotism  flowed,  there 
was  a  solid  deposit  of  mere  worldly 
matter  below,  which  stirred  not, 
which  received  continual  augmenta- 
tions, and  which,  however  unsus- 
pected by  the  fools  who  thought 
that  every  patriot  was  born  with  ^ 
a  contempt  for  meaner  things  than 
regicide,  was  deeply  known,  and 
keenly  looked  to  by  the  chosen 
few.  At  length  the  secrets  of  the 
prison-house  had  come  to  light,  and 
Home  now  admitted  that  he  had 
often  privately  charged  Wilkes  with 
converting  the  club  into  an  instru- 
ment of  supply  ing  himself  with  "laced  V 
liveries  and  French  valets,  with  cla- 
ret and  coaches."  He  had  even  ven- 
tured the  length  of  suggesting  that 
the  L.4000  verdict  which  an  influen- 
ced jury  had  given  against  Lord 
Halifax,  should  be  applied  to  the  pay- 
ment of  his  debts.  But  this  advice 
was  only  one  among  a  thousand  in- 
stances of  his  ignorance  of  human 
nature.  It  does  not  appear  that  a 
single  shilling  of  the  sum  §ver  light- 
ened the  obligations  of  the  represent- 
ative of  Middlesex  to  the  credulity  of 
the  people. 

But  if  Wilkes's  purse  was  imprac- 
ticable, his  pen  was  ready.  He  hurl- 
ed a  weight  of  attack  on  his  late 
friend,  which  neither  truth  nor  skill 
could  resist,  and  with  a  single  crush 
extinguished  his  popularity.  Home 
resisted  with  all  the  pugnacity  of  his 
nature  ;  he  harangued,  wrote,  pro- 
tested, besought,  subscribed,  can- 
vassed, and  all  in  vain.  His  antago- 


18:33.] 


A  Sketch  of  Home  Tooke. 


970 


riist  was  now  grinding  him  to  pow- 
der. It  was  in  vain  that  Home  pa- 
t  letically  pleaded  his  services  as  an 
agitator.  ".I  have,"  exclaimed  he, 
"  regularly  and  indefatigably  been 
the  drudge  of  almost  every  popular 
election,  prosecution,  and  public 
business.  For  three  years  past,  my 
t  me  has  been  entirely,  and  my  in- 
come almost  wholly,  applied  to  pub- 
lic measures."  But  the  public  were 
hard-hearted.  No  tears  were  shed 
f«>r  the  agonies  of  an  overworked 
patriot.  The  partisans  of  Wilkes 
vrere  furiously  indignant  at  the  re- 
volt of  one  whom  they  ranked  among 
t  le  meanest  of  his  followers ;  a  bus- 
t  ing  parson,  a  subsidiary  in  a  black 
coat !  The  sounder  portion  of  the 
community  were  amused  by  seeing 
t  >vo  men,  for  whom  they  had  an  equal 
scorn,  stripping  each  other  naked  to 
tie  world, lavishing  mutual  reproach, 
and  instead  of  floating  side  by  side 
on  the  popular  stream,  ludicrously 
struggling  to  sink  each  other  into  the 
r  lost  miry  depths  of  ignominy.  The 
c  uarrel  left  Home  all  but  undone; 
be  was  on  the  verge  of  despair.  The 
outcry  was  fully  raised,  and  it  was 
against  him.  He  was  hunted  down 
i/ith  that  utter  contempt  of  right, 
t  "uth,  and  reason,  which  character- 
ises the  deliberations  of  the  multi- 
t  ide.  Between  the  personal  merits 
of  the  combatants  there  could 
le  no  comparison,  for  Wilkes  had 
1  >ng  since  defied  slander,  yet  Home 
T.'as  now  the  universal  victim.  His 
r  ame  was  mingled  with  every  epi- 
t  let  of  civic  obloquy;  he  was  libelled, 
caricatured,  and  insulted,  while  to 
I  urn  him  in  effigy  became  at  once  a 
l>opular  sport,  and  a  grave  exercise 
tf  popular  justice. 

Another  man  might  have  been 
shamed  out  of  the  absurdity  of  this 
worthless  career,  or  have  felt  the 
degradation  of  stooping  to  the  tribu- 
i  al  of  the  streets,  or  have  discovered 
that  there  were  duties  manlier  and 
laore  honourable  than  the  perpetual 
( hase  of  a  miserable  name.  But 
Home  was  not  of  that  school.  He 
had  bound  himself  to  the  wheel,  and 
1  e  was  resolved  to  roll  on  with  it 
through  every  rut  and  pool  of  the 
j  ourney.  He  now  recommenced  his 
i  cries  of  letters  to  Wilkes,  and  devo- 
ted  himself  to  the  dignified  and  pro- 
ductive task  of  blackening  the  man, 
vhom  he  had  employed  years  in 


blazoning  as  a  paragon  to  the  world. 
Of  those  letters  we  shall  give  some 
extracts.  To  give  the  whole,  would 
be  but  to  copy  some  of  the  most  te- 
dious, feeble,  and  enigmatical  epis- 
tles in  the  language  ;  for,  among  the 
popular  follies  which  have  been  idly 
transmitted  to  our  time,  was  that  of 
conceding  to  Home  Tooke  the  praise 
of  a  skilful  use  of  the  pen.  His  con- 
ceptions are  singularly  destitute  of 
all  that  constitutes  style,  of  all  grace, 
animation,  condensed  pungency,  or 
classic  allusion.  He  is  never  betray- 
ed into  dignity  of  sentiment,  or  even 
into  vigour  of  phrase ;  his  manner  is 
uniformly  dry,  desultory,  and  unima- 
ginative; evidently  endured  in  its 
own  day  only  for  its  bitterness  to  his 
personal  opponents,  and  endurable 
in  ours  only  for  its  exposure  of  the 
arrogance,  violence,  and  venom  alike 
of  the  assailant  and  the  defender. 

In  his  first  letter  he  had  said  to 
Wilkes :  "  It  is  not  my  intention 
here  to  open  any  account  with  you 
on  the  score  of  private  character ;  in 
that  respect  the  public  have  kindly 
passed  an  act  of  insolvency  in  your 
favour;  you  have  delivered  up  your 
all,  and  no  man  can  fairly  now  make 
any  demand." 

Wilkes' s  reply  is  expressive  : 
"  You  say,  it  is  not  your  intention  to 
open  any  account  with  me  on  the 
score  of  private  character,  &c.  I  be- 
lieve, indeed,  you  will  not  choose  to 
open  any  account  on  the  score  of 
private  character.  A  gentleman  in 
holy  orders,  whose  hand  appears  to 
testify  his  belief  of  the  articles  of  the 
Church  of  England,  the  least  moral, 
the  least  conscientious  of  men,  whose 
life  has  passed  in  a  constant  direct 
opposition  to  the  purity  and  precepts 
of  the  Gospel,  whose  creed,  from  the 
first  article  of  it  to  the  last,  is  known 
to  be  non  credo  I  such  a  person, 
with  wonderful  prudence,  chooses 
'not  to  open  any  account  on  the  score 
of  private  character!'"  He  concludes 
by  bidding  him  write  his  other  let- 
ters before  Midsummer- day,  as  "  I 
may  by  that  time  be  engaged  in  the 
discharge  of  the  sheriff's  oath,  not 
that  wliich  you  falsified  T 

Home  had  now  obtained  an  excuse 
for  talking  of  himself,  and  he  employ- 
ed it  remorselessly.  His  reply  was 
not  a  defence,  the  natural  refuge  of 
a  man  unjustly  accused,  but  a  recri- 
mination. "  In  the  year  1765,  I  re- 


980 


The  Lift  of  a  Democrat— 


[June, 


paired  to  Italy ;  passing  through 
Paris,  I  delivered  some  letters  to  you. 
Though  this  was  the  first  time  we 
ever  saw  each  other,  you  exacted 
from  me,  with  very  earnest  entreaty, 
a  promise  of  correspondence.  *  * 
*  *  *  I  wrote  from  Montpelier, 
and  lest,  from  my  appearance,  you 
should  mistake  my  situation,  and  ex- 
pect considerable  services  from  me, 
I  thought  it  proper  to  inform  you,  I 
was  a  poor  country  clergyman,  whose 
situation,  notwithstanding  his  zeal, 
would  never  enable  him  to  do  any 
thing  considerable  either  to  you  or 
the  public.  *****  Receiving 
no  answer,  I  did  not  repeat  my  folly ; 
and  upon  a  second  visit  to  you  at 
Paris,  on  my  return  from  Italy  to 
England,  in  1767, 1  saw  reasons  suffi- 
cient never  more  to  trust  you  with  a 
single  line ;  for  I  found  that  all  the 
private  letters  of  your  friends  were 
regularly  pasted  in  a  book,  and  read 
over  indiscriminately ,not  only  to  your 
friends  and  acquaintance,  but  to 
every  visitor. 

"  In  this  second  visit  at  Paris,  you 
reproached  me  for  not  keeping  my 
promise  of  correspondence,  and 
swore  you  had  not  received  my  letter. 
I  was  very  well  contented,  though  I 
did  not  believe  your  excuse,  and  hug- 
ged myself  in  the  reflection  that  I  had 
furnished  you  with  only  one  oppor- 
tunity of  treachery.  This  letter  you 
copied  some  months  before,  and  shewed 
it  about  to  numbers  of  people,  with 
a  menace  of  publication,  if  I  dared 
to  interrupt  you."  Yet  scandalous 
as  this  conduct  on  the  part  of  Wilkes 
was,  this  was  the  man  whom  he  put 
forward  as  the  moat  fitting  represent- 
ative for  a  great  English  county,  the 
man  whom  he  had  "  reason  sufficient 
never  to  trust  with  a  single  line," 
whom  he  "hugged  himself"  with 
having  empowered  to  commit  "  but 
one  treachery,"  whom  he  did  not 
believe  on  his  word,  whom  he  did 
not  believe  "  though  he  swore." 
This  man,  whom  he  describes  as 
base,  mean,  treacherous,  a  liar,  pro- 
fligate, and  perjured, — this  "  insol- 
vent in  character,"  he  acknowledges 
to  have  perpetually  urged  on  the 
electors  of  Middlesex,  and  laboured 
with  all  his  might  to  bring  into  the 
council  of  the  nation.  But  let  him 
speak  for  himself. 

"  I  found  you  in  the  most  hopeless 
an  outlaw,  plunged   in   the 


deepest  distress,  overwhelmed  with 
debt  and  disgrace,  forsaken  by  all 
your  friends,  and  shunned  by  every 
thiny  that  called  itself  a  gentleman  ! 
at  a  time  when  every  honest  man, 
who  could  distinguish  between  you 
and  your  cause,  and  who  feared  no 
danger,  yet  feared  the  ridicule  at- 
tending a  probable  defeat.  I  leave 
you,  by  repeated  elections,  the  legal 
representative  of  Middlesex,  an  al- 
derman of  London,  and  about  thirty 
thousand  pounds  richer  than  when  I 
first  knew  you."  It  was  evident 
that  Wilkes's  original  scorn  of  his 
correspondence  had  rankled  in  his 
breast  in  the  midst  of  all  his  elec- 
tioneering amity.  Years  of  inter- 
course had  passed  since  that  very 
contemptuous  treatment,  but  poli- 
tics had  skinned  over  the  wound, 
only  to  leave  it  festering  below. 
Such  is  the  sincerity  of  patriot  friend- 
ship. Wilkes'sthirty  thousand  pounds 
were  an  equally  distinguishing  test  of 
patriot  sincerity. 

So  much  for  the  principles  of  the 
two  champions  of  popular  opinion. 
We  find  the  two  grand  renovators  of 
political  morality,  the  two  flaming 
vindicators  of  the  injured  majesty  of 
the  laws,  and  the  sullied  integrity  of 
government,  describing  each  othor 
as  infamous  in  the  deepest  degree, 
as  scandals  to  society,  as  willing  to 
employ  the  most  hideous,  profane, 
and  revolting  means  for  "  tub  Cause." 
But  the  cause  of  truth  and  honour, 
and.  just  con  tempt  and  condemnation 
of  such  articles  of  Democratic  be- 
lief, was  to  have  an  additional  and 
indignant  triumph,  when  the  pecu- 
niary part  of  those  transactions  came 
to  be  discussed.  However,  we  must 
first  give  a  specimen  of  the  easy 
scorn  which  Wilkes  scattered  on  his 
furious  adversary. 

"  To  the  Rev.  Mr  Home.— I  thank 
you  for  the  entertainment  of  your 
sixth  letter.  The  idea  of  an  unfaith- 
ful echo,  although  not  quite  new,  is 
perfectly  amusing ;  but,  like  Bayes, 
you  love  '  to  elevate  and  surprise.' 
I  wish  you  would  give  me  the  list 
of  echoes  of  this  kind,  which  you 
heard  in  your  travels  through  France 
and  Italy.  I  have  read  of  only  one 
such,  in  a  neighbouring  kingdom  ; 
which,  if  you  ask, '  How  do  you  do  V 
answers,  *  Pretty  well,  I  thank  you.' 
The  sound  of  your  unfaithful  echo 
can  be  paralleled  only  by  Jack  Home's 


A  Sketch  of  Home  Tooke. 


silence  with  a  stif/y  sound,  in  the  Tra- 
g°dy  of  Douglas. 

'  The  torrent,  rushing  o'er  its  pebbly  banks, 
Ir  fuses  silence  with  a  stilly  sound.' 

I  have  heard  of  the  babbling,  the 
mimic,  and  the  shrill  echo  ;  the  dis- 
covery of  an  unfaithful  echo  was  re- 
served for  Mr  Home."  He  then  re- 
verts to  a  charge  of  his  intending  to 
pat  one  of  his  dependents  into  a  city 
office,  which  charge  Home  had  made 
01  his  own  authority.  "  Every  thing 
yju  have  advanced  relative  to  the 
town-clerkship  and  Mr  Reynolds, 
you  well  know  to  be  wholly  a  lying- 
inposture  of  your  own.  I  declare 
the  whole  of  this  accusation  against 
noe  is  one  entire  falsehood.  No  cour- 
tier seems  to  me  to  enjoy  the  luxury 
of  lying  equal  to  the  Minister  of 
Zrentford" 

Wiikes  thus  gives  a  pledge  of  his 
own,  which  all  the  world  know  he 
afterwards  completely  falsified.  "  As 
to  the  chamberlainship,  you  and 
n  any  others  have  warmly  and  fre- 
quently pressed  me  to  offer  my  ser- 
vices in  case  of  a  vacancy.  My  an- 
swer has  regularly  been  "  I  never  will 
a<:cept  it!"  Of  course,  he  accepted 
it  without  hesitation,  and  enjoyed  it 
t<>  the  end  of  his  life.  Home's  reply 
i]  >w  opens  the  revolutionary  budget, 
and  explains  the  terms  on  which 
patriotism  drives  its  trade.  "  Whilst 
you  were  candidate  for  the  city  of 
L  >ndon,  a  subscription  was  opened 
01  the  19th  of  March,  1768,  for  the 
p.iyment  of  your  debts,  the  trustees 
for  which  were  Messrs  Oliver,  &c. 
Tiie  public  cannot  be  said  to  have 
contributed.  The  whole  amount 
of  the  subscription,  up  to  Feb.  1769, 
was  L.1116,  7s.  7d.  Your  debts  at 
that  time  were  supposed  to  be  about 
L  6000.  Two  shillings  and  sixpence 
in  the  pound  were  therefore  offered 
to  such  as  would  accept  a  composi- 
ti  >n,  with  a  promise,  that,  if  the  divi- 
dend should  be  greater,  they  who 
ac  cepted  the  two  and  sixpence  should 
receive  their  proportion.  As  fast  as 
sc  mething  was  paid,  something  was 
likewise  added  daily  to  the  list  of  your 
d( '>ts  ;  and  instead  of  increasing  the 
d' vidend,  it  was  discovered  that  two 
ai  d  sixpence  was  more  than  could 
bn  paid !  Your  best  friends,  even 
those  who  were  most  able  and  gene- 
roue,  despaired  of  the  possibility  of 
extricating  you.  Another  subscrip- 


tiori,  however,  was  opened  for  your 
election  expenses  ;  this  subscription 
amounted  to  L.I 227,  3s.  You  were 
chosen  for  the  county  of  Middlesex, 
and  soon  after,  in  this  desperate  situa- 
tion of  your  private  affairs,  were  sen- 
tenced to  two  years'  imprisonment, 
and  two  fines  of  L.1000.  Privilege 
gave  some  respite  from  your  debts; 
but  notwithstanding  this,  and  the 
generosity  of  individuals,  it  was 
found  exceedingly  difficult  to  furnish 
you  even  a  daily  support. 

"  Most  of  those  who  were  so  gene- 
rous to  you  at  that  time,  have  since 
been  the  objects  of  your  bitterest  re- 
sentment. The  best  method  then 
found  for  a  little  knot  of  public-spi- 
rited men  to  procure  you  a  necessa- 
ry subsistence,  was  to  have  very  fre- 
quent meetings  at  the  King's  Arms' 
tavern  in  Cornhill,  where  each  paid 
a  little  more  than  the  reckoning, 
and  when  the  overplus  amounted 
to  about  ten  pounds,  it  was  regularly 
sent  to  you  /" 

To  this  eleemosynary  existence 
was  the  proud  patriot  contented  to 
submit.  But  the  charge  proceeds. 
Every  day  brought  fresh  difficulties 
and  disgrace  on  Mr  Wiikes,  and  yet 
he  was  the  only  person  who  all  the 
while  felt  no  distress,  denied  himself 
720  expense,  was  neither  sensible  to, 
nor  apprehensive  of,  any  disgrace. 
*  *  *  *  The  friends  of  the  cause 
more  anxious  to  cover,  if  possible,  or 
to  lessen  the  infamy,  of  which  he  was 
careless.  The  breach  of  trust  !  com- 
mitted by  him  towards  the  Foundling 
Hospital  began  to  make  a  noise ; 
being  found  on  enquiry  to  be  too 
true,  it  demanded  their  earliest  atten- 
tion. Two  gentlemen  immediately 
advanced  L.300  to  the  hospital,  and 
engaged  themselves  to  pay  the  re- 
mainder. The  whole  sum  due  from 
Mr  Wiikes  to  the  Foundling  Hospi- 
tal amounted  to  L  990,  Is.  3d. 

He  then  states  that  the  Society 
for  the  support  of  the  Bill  of  Rights 
originated  in  Wilkes's  expulsion  from 
Parliament ;  and  as  the  loss  of  privi- 
lege was  equivalent  to  leaving  this 
hopeless  debtor  in  prison  for  lite,  the 
first  object  of  the  club  was  to  free 
him  from  his  creditors.  "  His  debts 
had  now  risen  from  L.6000  to 
L.14,000.  Besides  this  there  were 
two  fines  of  L.1000  each,  and,  besides 
the  expenses  of  repeated  elections, 
support  was  to  be  provided  for  him 


982  The  Life  of  a 

during  two  years  in  prison.  The  sub- 
scription of  the  club  amounted  to 
L.3023.  At  the  third  meeting  of  the 
society,  L.300  were  given  to  Mr 
"Wilkes.  At  the  ninth  meeting,  it 
appeared  that  L.4553  had  been  ex- 
pended in  the  composition  of  debts, 
and  a  further  sum  of  L.2500  was 
ordered  to  be  issued  for  the  farther 
discharge  of  his  debts."  L.300  more 
were  also  voted  to  Wilkes.  "  Any  man 
who  reads  this  account  will  naturally 
suppose,  that  Mr  Wilkes  must  have 
felt  and  expressed  the  warmest  grati- 
tude to  a  Society  like  this,  which  in 
so  short  a  time  had  performed  such 
wonders  in  his  favour.  Whoever 
shall  suppose  so,  will  be  much  mis- 
taken ;  he  abhorred  the  Society  and 
its  members.  *  *  *  *  He  en- 
tertained a  false  notion,  that  had  not 
this  Society  been  instituted,  he  should 
have  received  all  the  ready  money 
subscribed  by  the  Society  into  his  own 
hands.  *  *  *  *  What  they  ap- 
plied to  the  discharge  of  his  debts, 
he  considered  as  a  kind  of  robbery, 
and  hated  them  for  their  care  of  him, 
as  profligate  young  heirs  do  the 
guardians  who  endeavour  to  save 
them  from  destruction.  *  *  *  * 
A  few  weeks  after  this  vote,  Mr 
Wilkes  obtained  a  verdict  against 
Lord  Halifax,  with  L.4000  damages. 
I  waited  on  him,  and  endeavoured  to 
persuade  him  that  he  was  bound  in 
honour,  in  honesty,  and  in  policy,  to 
send  those  L.4000  to  the  London 
tavern,  in  aid  towards  the  payment 
of  his  debts.  I  represented  to  him 
the  poverty  of  our  bank,  which  was 
in  debt.  I  endeavoured  to  make  him 
sensible  that  L.4000  at  that  time, 
would  go  farther  in  compounding 
his  debts,  than  L.I 0,000  would  some 
time  afterwards.  I  shewed  him  the 
reputation  he  would  gain  by  this  act 
of  common  honesty  and  policy,  and 
that  he  would  encourage  the  pub- 
lic to  subscribe  towards  him,  &c. 
I  laboured  in  vain !  ready  cash  made 
Mr  Wilkes  deaf  to  my  arguments. 
He  would  not  send  a  penny  to  the 
Society,  for  the  discharge  of  his  own 
debts  ;  though  it  was  not  many  weeks 
since  the  Society  had,  in  one  year, 
voted  him  the  best  part  of  a  thousand 
pounds  for  his  support.  *  *  *  * 
The  accounts  stand  thus  : — 

Debts  of  Mr  Wilkes    dis- 
charged, above       .        L  12,000 


Democrat-*  [June, 

To  Mr  Wilkes,  for  his  sup- 
port,       .         '.   '    'i';'  1,000 
To  his  election  expenses,  2,973 
To  his  two  fines,            .  1,000 

And  by  all  his  list  of  claims  he  still 
remained  indebted  L.6,821,  13s.  *  *  * 
Mr  Wilkes,  in  perfect  idleness  and 
security,  four  times  elected  member 
for  Middlesex,  twice  alderman  of 
London,  and  a  gainer  of  L.30,000 ! 
is  the  person  to  impute  to  me  an  in- 
terested design.  ******  I  told 
him,  that,  his  debts  being  once  dis- 
charged, I  would  venture  to  answer 
for  it,  that  he  should  have  a  clear 
annuity  of  L.600.  Mr  Wilkes  still 
pressed  for  ready  money,  and  said  it 
would  be  doing  him  more  kindness 
to  give  him  the  money,  and  trust  for 
the  remainder  of  his  debts  to  the 
chapter  of  accidents ."  _ 

Under  all  these  opprobrious  charges, 
which  must  have  utterly  sunk  into 
the  lowest  humiliation  any  man  but 
a  counsellor  of  the  rabble,  Wilkes 
not  simply  retained  his  popularity, 
but  made  fresh  accessions  to  it  hour 
by  hour.  He  alternately  denied, 
laughed  at,  and  execrated  Home.  All 
his  adherents  did  the  same.  Home 
was  flung  from  hand  to  hand.  The 
inferior  disturber  felt  that  he  had 
grappled  with  his  master, and  he  pro- 
bably often  wished  that  he  had  long 
before  shrunk  from  the  desperate 
paths  of  vulgar  popularity.  But  it 
was  now  too  late.  There  was  no 
retirement  for  him.  He  had  cut 
down  the  bridge  between  himself 
and  the  pursuits  and  enjoyments  of 
private  life.  He  could  hope  for  no- 
thing in  his  professional  career,  but 
the  disgust  due  to  a  man  who  had 
almost  totally  abandoned  it ;  his  fame 
was  henceforth  to  be  found  in  stoop- 
ing to  the  most  miserable  dabblings, 
with  the  most  miserable  remnants  of 
party.  His  final  letter  to  his  conquer- 
or is  incomparable  as  an  evidence 
of  the  actual  suffering  (still  more 
obvious  from  its  affected  gaiety) 
which  rewarded  the  foolish  and  fac- 
tious ambition  of  this  beaten  canvas- 
ser for  the  voices  of  the  populace. 
The  letter  begins  by  adverting  to  the 
recent  extraordinary  success  of 
Wilkes  and  his  followers  at  the  city 
election. 

"  Give  you  joy,  sir.  The  parson 
of  Brentford  is  at  length  defeated. 
He  no  longer  rules  with  an  absolute 


1833.J 


A  Sketch  of  Home  Toohe. 


B  way  over  the  city  of  London.  *  *  * 
*  *  *  The  poor  parson  has  been  buf- 
feted in  the  hustings,  where  he  did 
i.ot  appear,  and  hissed  out  of  play- 
houses which  he  never  entered;  he 
lias  been  sung  down  in  the  streets, 
rnd  exalted  to  a  conspicuous  cor- 
ner with  the  Pope  and  the  Devil  in 
the  print-shops  ;  and  finally,  to  com- 
plete the  triumph  over  this  mighty 
rdversary,  you  have  caused  him  to 
be  burnt  in  effigy." 

Those  indignities  had  for  the  most 
part  actually  occurred;  and  Home's 
mention  of  them  shewed  only  how 
deep  the  sting  had  struck  him.  The 
contest  was  now  at  an  end.  The  re- 
f-ult  of  six  months'  scribbling  on 
both  sides  was  simply  to  exhibit 
both  the  combatants  in  the  most  con- 
temptible point  of  view:  the  one, 
us  insanely  craving  for  notoriety  at 
all  risks;  the  other,  as  scandalously 
craving  for  money  under  all  preten- 
res :  the  one,  a  popularity-pauper; 
ihe  other,  a  subscription-pauper: 
each  equally  ready  to  reveal  the 
most  confidential  transactions  ;  each 
equally  unhesitating  in  the  use  of 
the  most  unmanly, contumelious,  and 
repulsive  charges;  each  dealing  in 
anguage  which  is,  by  common  con- 
sent, excluded  from  the  intercourse 
>>f  gentlemen;  and  each  equally  ac- 
knowledging his  close  intimacy  with 
ihe  other,  at  the  moment  while  he 
privately  pronounced  him  to  be  the 
meanest  and  most  unprincipled  of 
mankind. 

Here,  for  the  present,  we  pause. 
Home  was,  from  this  period,  to  com- 
mence a  new  career.  He  had  hither- 
to fought  under  the  shield  of  Wilkes ; 
he  was  now  to  expose  himself  in  bit- 
ter and  angry  nakedness  to  the  law. 
His  apprenticeship  to  disturbance 
was  at  an  end.  His  quarrel  with 
his  master  was  but  the  breaking  up 
of  his  indentures.  He  was  now  to 
plunge  into  speculation  for  himself. 
He  was  no  longer  to  lurk  in  the  rear 
of  tumult,  and  live  by  picking  up 
a  paltry  reputation  among  the  hang- 
ers-on of  party.  He  was  now  to  start 
forward  alone,  and  with  the  courage 
of  rashness,  and  the  wisdom  of  va- 
nity, achieve  his  triumph  in  fine  and 
imprisonment,  live  in  the  perpetual 
anxieties  of  public  prosecution,  and 
close  his  days  a  dependent  on  the 
bounty  of  his  friends. 

The  portion  of  his  life  which  we 


983 

have  yet  to  trace,  is  still  more  preg- 
nant with  interest  and  example  than 
that  which  we  have  given.  It  dis- 
plays a  more  striking  time,  distin- 
guished by  higher  displays  of  cha- 
racter, and  rendered  still  more  con- 
spicuous by  the  superiority  of  the 
cause  of  truth  and  honour  ;  the  rise 
o/  those  eminent  men,  whom  the 
struggles  of  the  period  prepared, 
providentially  prepared,  for  the  sal* 
vation  of  the  Empire  in  the  fearful 
trials  of  the  French  Revolution. 

In  the  quarrel  with  Wilkes,  Home 
was  utterly  defeated.  He  deserved 
his  defeat,  for  his  ignorance  of  hu- 
man nature.  He  had  attempted  to 
overthrow  the  antagonist  by  a  dis- 
play of  his  personal  vileness  to  the 
Eeople.  But  this  was  an  appeal  to 
ielings  that  never  existed,  by  argu- 
ments which  partisanship  has  never 
understood.  To  declare  Wilkes  base 
and  perfidious,  a  betrayer  of  private 
confidence,  an  offender  against  per- 
sonal morals,  a  criminal  against'every 
principle  of  friendship,  decency,  and 
honour,  was  an  utter  waste  of  words. 
Party  demanded  to  find  in  their 
champion,boldne8S,insolence, and  te- 
nacity;  and  they  never  demand  more. 
No  stain  has  power  to  avert  their 
eyes  from  the  man  whom  they  dis- 
cover to  be  fit  for  their  purpose.  An 
advocacy  at  once  subtle  and  daring, 
fills  up  the  whole  measure  of  their 
choice;  and  the  broadest  outpouring 
of  moral  indignation  upon  his  head, 
the  keenest  scorn  of  the  whole  fa- 
mily of  honour  and  honesty,  the 
deepest  brand  which  contemptu- 
ous virtue  can  burn  upon  him,  is 
recognised  only  as  an  additional 
claim  on  their  allegiance.  Home 
should  have  had  the  sagacity  to  know 
that  party  thinks  of  nothing  in  a 
man  but  the  use  to  which  it  can  turn 
him;  that  it  is  proof  against  all  moral 
disgust  where  it  can  discover  de- 
votion to  its  cause  ;  that  to  blacken 
a  demagogue,  only  gives  him  an  in- 
creaseofhold  on  the  popular  heart; 
that  to  offer  him  up  on  the  altar  of 
manly  scorn,  only  consecrates  him 
in  the  popular  confidence;  that  to 
shew  him  utterly  unworthy  of  a  place 
in  society,  only  purchases  for  him  a 
surer  refuge  in  that  mass  of  passion, 
envy,  avarice,  and  revenge,  which 
ferments  into  the  politics  of  the  mul- 
titude, and  poisons  the  Common- 
wealth with  ostentatious  patriotism. 


984 


Loch  Awe. 


[June, 


LOCH  AWE. 


WHAT  sudden  summer !  One  week 
ago  the  Highlands  were  black  and 
bare ;  they  are  now  green  and  glo- 
rious ;  happy  the  grazing  cattle  on  a 
thousand  hills,  the  nibbling  sheep, 
and  the  loud -throated  birds  in  the 
umbrageous  woods.  Umbrageous! 
aye,  though  tlie  ancient  forests  be 
all  moss-sunk, or  shorn  by  the  sweep- 
ing scythe  on  the  mountains,  beau- 
tiful are  the  coppices  on  the  uplands, 
bedropt  here  and  there  with  majes- 
tic single  trees,  oak  or  sycamore,  and 
darkened  not  unfrequently  by  the 
pine-grove.  Magnificent  regions  of 
joyous  sunniness,  with  their  still 
undulations  sublimely  streaked  with 
shadows  for  ever  shifting,  yet  all 
seeming  still.  There  is  not  a  breath 
of  wind.  The  clouds  are  moving 
aloft,but  the  Loch  is  without  a  ripple, 
invisible  almost  to  the  eye ;  but  our 
heart  that  loves  it,  knows  it  is  there, 
and  enjoys  in  a  visionary  dream  all 
its  doubled  islands.  Hushed  are  all 
the  cataracts — silent  lines  of  silver 
sparkling  down  the  cliffs.  The  peace 
is  perfect,  and  life  and  nature  breathe 
in  spiritual  union,  as  if  one  and  the 
same  soul  animated  us  and  our  gra- 
cious Mother  Earth,  own  sister  to 
benignant  Heaven. 

And  we  are  sitting  once  more, 
after  an  interval  of  many  long  years, 
under  the  old  Stone-cross  on  the 
heather-hill  above  Cladich!  Unfor- 
gotten  one  image  submitted  to  our 
gaze !  As  the  "  old  familiar  faces" 
reappear,  the  past  is  as  the  pre- 
sent, and  we  feel  restored  to  our 
prime.  God  bless  thee,  Cruachan,  one 
of  the  noblest  of  Scotland's  moun- 
tain-kings !  Thy  subjects  are  prin- 
ces, and  gloriously  are  they  arranged 
around  thee,  stretching  high,  wide, 
and  far  away,  yet  all  owning  allegi- 
ance to  their  sovereign,  though 
faintly  are  seen  in  the  blue  dis- 
tance their  aerial  heads.  Large  as 
is  the  Lake,  sea-arm-like,  it  shrinks 
in  thy  shadow;  and  dwindled  down 
into  a  hut  seems  now  even  the 
ruins  of  Kilchurn,  the  sublimest 
castle  in  all  the  Highlands.  East- 
ward turn  our  eyes,  and  lo !  another 
dynasty  reigning  over  their  own 
domain,  Bein  -  Laoidh,  Bein  -  a  - 
Chleidh,  and  Meal-nan-Tighearnan ! 


Bet  ween  lies  the  valley  of  the  Orchay, 
with  its  holms  and  meadows,  rich  in 
pasture  and  corn- lands,  and  gleam- 
ing in  the  darkest  day — but  now  all 
is  bright— with  "  spots  of  stationary 
sunshine/'round  many  apeasant's  cot. 
Miles  off,  and  hidden  from  our  senses, 
yet  we  see  and  hear  its  lucid  mur- 
murs as  it  wimples  through  hanging 
shaw,  birks,  alders,  and  willows,"  and 
then  flows  lingeringly  along,  in  si' 
lence  and  shadow,  round  the  church- 
tower  and  churchyard  of  Dal m ally 
—  almost  an  island  —  churchyard 
paved  with  antique  sculptured  tomb- 
stones brought  from  Inishail,  or  the 
"  Lovely  Isle,"  for  such  is  the  mean- 
ing of  the  Gaelic. 

Sroin-Miolchoin !  on  thy  steep 
side  frowns  no  more  the  stronghold 
of  the  McGregors.  Long  ago,  the 
last  chieftain  of  the  red-haired  race 
married  a  daughter  of  the  Lord  of 
Loch  Awe,  who  murdered  the  bride- 
groom in  his  bed,  and  took  posses- 
sion of  his  mountains.  Hardly  now 
is  to  be  traced  the  site  of  the  chief- 
tain's mansion,  once  tree-hidden  in 
wild  Gleann-Sreatha !  At  the  glen- 
head,  now  but  a  shieling  beneath 
the  foot  of  Bean  Mac  Moraidh.  Thi- 
ther from  the  forest  of  Dallness 
sometimes  strays  a  red- deer,  and 
there  sometimes  may  you  hear  the 
eagle's  cry.  But  do  not  think  it  his 
till  you  see  a  speck  in  the  sky ;  for  it 
may  be  but  the  bark  of  the  hill-fox,  or 
the  bleat  of  a  goat  in  the  wilderness. 
Ossian,  they  say,  sang  the  origin 
of  Loch  Awe. 

"  Bera  the  aged  dwelt  in  the  cave 
of  the  rock.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  Griannan  the  sage :  long  was  the 
line  of  her  fathers,  and  she  was  the 
last  of  her  race.  Large  and  fertile 
were  her  possessions :  hers  the  beau- 
tiful vales  below,  and  hers  the  cattle 
which  roamed  on  the  hills  around. 
To  Bera  was  committed  the  charge 
of  that  awful  spring,  which,  by  the 
appointment  of  late,  was  to  prove  so 
fatal  to  the  inheritance  of  her  fa- 
thers, and  to  her  fathers'  race. 

"  Before  the  sun  should  withdraw 
his  beams,  she  was  to  cover  the 
spring  with  a  stone,  on  which  sacred 
and  mysterious  characters  were  im- 
pressed. One  night  this  was  forgot 


1833.] 


Loch  Awe. 


by  tlie  uiibappy  Bera.  Overcome 
with  the  heat  and  chase  of  the  day, 
she  was  seized  with  sleep  before 
the  usual  time  of  rest.  The  con- 
fined waters  of  the  mountains  burst 
forth  into  the  plain  below,  and 
covered  that  large  expanse,  now 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Lake  of 
Awe.  The  third  morning  Bera 
awaked  from  her  sleep.  She  went 
to  remove  the  stone  from  the  spring  j 
but  behold  no  stone  was  there !  She 
looked  to  the  inheritance  of  her 
tribe; — she  shrieked!  The  moun- 
tain shook  from  its  base !  Her  spirit 
retired  to  the  ghosts  of  her  fathers 
in  their  light  and  airy  halls." 

Comparisons,  so  far  from  being 
odious,  are  always  suggested  to  our 
hearts  by  the  spirit  of  love.  We  be- 
hold in  our  imagination  Four  Lochs 
—  Loch  Awe  —  Loch  Lomond  — 
Windermere,  and  Killarney — these 
two  being  lakes.  The  longest  is 
Loch  Awe,  which  looks  like  a  river. 
But  cut  off,  with  the  soft  scythe  or 
sickle  of  fancy,  twenty  miles  of  the 
length  of  the  mottled  snake,  who 
never  coils  himself  up  except  in 
misty  weather,  and  who  is  now 
lying  outstretched  in  the  sunshine, 
and  the  upper  part,  the  head  and 
shoulders,  are  a  loch.  Pleasant  are 
his  many  hills,  and  magnificent  his 
one  mountain.  For  you  see  but 
Cruachan.  He  is  the  master-spirit. 
The  setting  and  the  rising  sun  do  him 
homage.  Peace  loves— as  now — to 
dwell  within  his  shadow — but  high 
up  among  his  precipices  are  the  halls 
of  the  storms.  Green  are  the  shores 
as  emerald,  and  far  up  the  heights 
"  the  smiling  power  of  cultivation 
lies."  But  the  dark  heather — that 
has  not  yet  begun  to  evolve  its  purple 
bloom — sleeps  in  sombre  shadow 
over  wide  regions  of  dusk,  and  there 
is  an  austere  character  in  the  cliffs. 
Moors  and  mosses  intervene  between 
holms  and  meadows,  and  those 
black  spots  are  stacks  of  last  year's 
peats — not  huts,  as  you  might  think 
— but  those  other  specks  are  huts, 
somewhat  browner  —  few  roofed 
with  straw,  almost  all  with  heather — 
though  the  better  houses  are  slated — 
nor  is  there  in  the  world  to  be  found 
slate  of  a  more  beautiful  pale  green 
colour  than  in  the  quarries  okBalla- 
hulish.  The  scene  is  vast  and  wild  ; 
yet  so  much  beauty  is  interfused, 
that  at  such  an  hour  as  this,  its  cha- 


racter is  almost  that  of  loveliness ; 
the  rude  and  rugged  is  felt  to  be 
rural,  and  no  more  ;  and  the  eye  gli- 
ding from  the  cottage  gardens  on  its 
banks,  to  the  islands  on  the  bosom 
of  the  Loch,  loses  sight  of  the  mighty 
masses  heaved  up  to  the  heavens, 
while  the  heart  forgets  that  they  are 
there,  in  its  sweet  repose.  The  dim- 
seen  ruins  of  castle  or  religious 
house,  secluded  from  all  the  stir 
that  disturbed  the  shore,  carries 
back  our  dreams  to  the  olden  time, 
and  we  awake  from  our  reveries  of 
tc  sorrows  suffered  long  ago,"  to  en- 
joy the  apparent  happiness  of  the 
living  world. 

Loch  Lomond  is  not  so  much  like 
an  arm  of  the  sea,  as  the  sea  itself — 
a  Mediterranean.  Along  its  shores 
might  you  voyage  in  your  swift 
schooner,  with  shifting  breezes,  all  a 
summer's  day,  nor  at  sunset,  when 
you  dropt  anchor,  have  seen  half  the 
beautiful  wonders  of  the  Fairy 
Flood.  It  is  many-isled  ;  and  some 
of  them  are  in  themselves  little 
worlds,  with  woods  and  hills, "  where 
roam  the  spotted  deer."  Houses  are 
seen  looking  out  from  among  old 
trees,  and  children  playing  on  the 
greensward  that  slopes  saTely  into 
deep  water,  where  in  rushy  havens 
are  drawn  up  the  boats  of  fishermen, 
or  of  wood-cutters  who  go  to  their 
work  on  the  mainland.  You  might 
live  all  your  life  on  one  of  those  is- 
lands, and  yet  be  no  hermit.  Hun- 
dreds of  small  bays  indent  the  shores, 
*and  some  of  a  majestic  character  take 
a  fine  bold  sweep  with  their  tower- 
ing groves,  enclosing  the  mansion  of 
a  Colquhounor  a  Campbell  at  enmity 
no  more,  or  the  turreted  castle 
of  the  rich  alien,  who  there  finds 
himself  as  much  at  home  as  in  his 
hereditary  hall,  Sassenach  and  Gael 
now  living  in  gentle  friendship. 
What  a  prospect  from  the  Point  of 
Firkin!  The  Loch  in  its  whole 
length  and  breadth — the  magnificent 
expanse  unbroken,  though  bedropt, 
besprinkled,  with  unnumbered  isles 
— and  the  shores  diversified  with 
jutting  capes  and  far-shooting  pe- 
ninsulas, enclosing  sweet  separate 
seclusions,  each  in  itself  a  loch,  the 
mighty  mother  of  them  all  being  in- 
deed a  sea.  Ships  might  be  sailing 
there,  the  largest  ships  of  war;  and 
there  is  anchorage  for  fleets.  But 
the  clear  course  of  the  lovely  Leven 


986 


Loch  Awe. 


[June, 


is  rock-crossed  and  intercepted  with 
gravelly  shallows,  and  guards  Loch- 
Lomond  from  the  white  -  winged 
roamers  that  from  all  seas  come 
crowding  into  the  Firth  of  Clyde, 
and  sometimes,  as  they  glide  along, 
carry  their  streaming  flags  above 
the  woods  of  Ardgowan.  And  there 
stands  Ben.  What  cares  he  for  all 
the  multitude  of  other  lochs  his  gaze 
commands — what  cares  he  even  for 
the  salt-sea-foam  tumbling  far  away 
off  into  the  ocean  ?  All-sufficient  for 
his  love  is  the  loch  at  his  feet.  How 
serenely  looks  down  the  Giant !  Is 
there  not  something  very  sweet  in 
his  sunny  smile  ?  Yet  were  you  to 
see  him  frown — as  we  have  seen 
him — your  heart  would  sink;  and 
what  would  become  of  you — if  all 
alone  by  your  own  single  self,  wander- 
ing over  the  wide  moor  that  glooms  in 
utter  houselessness  between  his  cor- 
reis  and  Glentalloch — what  if  you 
were  to  hear  the  strange  mutterings 
we  have  heard,  as  if  moaning  from  an 
earthquake  among  quagmires,  till 
you  felt  that  the  sound  came  from 
the  sky,  and  all  at  once  from  the  heart 
of  night  that  had  strangled  day  burst 
a  shattering  peal  that  might  waken 
the  dead — for  Benlomond  was  in 
wrath,  and  vented  it  in  thunder  ? 

Perennially  enjoying  the  blessing 
of  a  milder  clime,  and  repaying  the 
bounty  of  nature  by  beauty  that  be- 
speaks perpetual  gratitude — merry 
as  May,  rich  as  June,  shady  as  July, 
lustrous  as  August,  and  serene  as 
September,  for  in  her  meet  the  cha- 
racteristic charms  of  every  season, 
all  delightfully  mingled  by  the  happy 
genius  of  the  place  commissioned  to 
pervade  the  whole  from  heaven,  most 
lovely  yet  most  majestic,  we  breathe 
the  music  of  thy  name,  in  our  morning 
orison,  and  start  in  this  sterner  soli- 
tude at  the  sweet  syllabling  of  Win- 
dermere,  Windermere !  Translucent 
thy  waters  as  diamond  without  a  flaw. 
Unstained  from  source  to  sea  are  all 
the  streams  soft  issuing  from  tjjeir 
silver  springs  among  those  beautiful 
mountains.  Pure  are  they  all  as  dew 
— and  purer  look  the  white  clouds 
within  their  breast.  These  are  in- 
deed the  Fortunate  Groves !  Happy 
is  every  tree.  Blest  the  "  Golden 
Oak,"  which  seems  to  shine  in  lustre 
of  his  own,  "  unborrowed  from  the 
sun."  Fairer  far  the  flower- tangled 
grass  of  those  wood-encircled  pas- 


tures than  any  meads  of  Asphodel. 
Thou  needst  no  isles  on  thy  hea- 
venly bosom,  for  in  the  sweet  confu- 
sion of  thy  shores  are  seen  the  images 
of  many  isles,  fragments  that  one 
might  dream  had  been  gently  loosen- 
ed from  the  land,  and  had  floated 
away  into  the  lake  till  they  had  lost 
themselves  in  the  fairy  wilderness; 
nor  can  any  eye  there  distinguish 
substance  from  shadow,  or  know 
what  it  really  sees  in  that  serenest 
commingling  of  air,  water,  earth,  and 
sky  !  But  though  thou  needst  them 
not,  yet  hast  thou,  O  Windermere  ! 
thine  own  steadfast  and  enduring 
isles—her  called  the  Beautiful — and 
islets  not  far  apart  that  seem  born  of 
her — for  theirs  the  same  expression 
of  countenance — that  of  celestial 
calm — and,  holiest  of  the  sisterhood, 
one  that  still  retains  the  ruins  of  an 
oratory,  and  bears  the  name  of  the 
Virgin  Mother  Mild,  to  whom  prays 
the  mariner  when  sailing  along,  in 
the  moonlight,  Sicilian  seas. 

Killarney !  From  the  village  of  Clog- 
hereen  issued  an  uncouth  figure,  who 
called  himsel f  the  "  Man  of  the  Moun- 
tain ;"  and  pleased  with  Pan,  we  per- 
mitted him  to  blow  his  horn  before  us 
up  to  the  top  of  Mangerton,  where 
the  Devil,  'tis  believed,  scooped  out 
the  sward  beneath  the  cliffs  into  a 
Punch-bowl.  No  doubt  he  did,  and 
the  Old  Potter  wrought  with  fire. 
'Tis  the  crater  of  an  extinct  volcano. 
Charles  Fox,  Weld  says,  and  Wright 
doubts,  swam  round  the  Pool.  Why 
not  ?  'Tis  not  so  cold  as  the  Polar 
Sea.  We  swam  across  it— as  Mul- 
cocky,  were  be  alive,  but  he  is  dead, 
could  vouch  ;  and  felt  braced  like  a 
drum.  What  a  panorama !  Our  first 
feeling  was  one  of  grief  that  we  were 
not  an  Irishman.  We  knew  not 
where  to  fix  our  gaze.  Surrounded 
by  the  dazzling  bewilderment  of 
all  that  multitudinous  magnificence, 
the  eye,  as  if  afraid  to  grapple  with 
the  near  glory — for  such  another 
day  never  shone  from  heaven  — 
sought  relief  in  the  remote  distance, 
and  slid  along  the  beautiful  river 
Kenrnare,  insinuating  itself  among 
the  recesses  of  the  mountains,  till 
it  rested  on  the  green  glimmer 
of  the  far-off  sea.  The  grandeur 
was  felt,  far  off  as  it  was,  of  that 
iron-bound  coast.  Coming  round 
with  an  easy  sweep,  as  the  eyes  of 
an  eagle  may  do,  when  hanging  mo- 


1833.]  Loch 

tionless  aloft  he  but  turns  his  head, 
our  eyes  took  in  all  the  mighty 
range  of  the  Reeks,  and  rested  in  awe 
on  Carran  Tual.  Wild  yet  gentle 
was  the  blue  aerial  haze  over  the 
glimpses  of  the  Upper  Lake,  where 
soft  and  sweet,  in  a  girdle  of  rocks, 
seemed  to  be  hanging,  now  in  air  and 
now  in  water,  for  all  was  strangely 
indistinct  in  the  dim  confusion, 
masses  of  green  light  that  might  be 
islands  with  their  lovely  trees;  but 
suddenly  tipt  with  fire  shone  out  the 
golden  pinnacles  of  the  Eagle's  Nest ; 
and  as  again  they  were  tamed  by 
cloud  shadow,  the  glow  of  Purple 
Mountain  for  a  while  enchained  our 
vision,  and  then  left  it  free  to  feast 
on  the  forests  of  Glena,  till  wander- 
ing at  the  capricious  will  of  fancy,  it 
floated  in  delight  over  the  woods  of 
Mucruss,  and  long  lost  among  the 
trembling  imagery  of  the  water,  found 
lasting  repose  on  the  steadfast  beauty 
of  the  silvan  isle  of  Inisfallen. 

Whew !  we  have  been  most  into- 
lerably poetical ;  but  shall  make  in- 
stant amends  by  being  just  as  prosaic. 
Where  are  we?  Beneath  the  old 
Stone-cross  near  the  eighth  new 
milestone,  on  the  high-road  leading 
from  Inverary  to  Dalmally. 

We  feel  it  is  six  o'clock.  We  see 
the  short  finger  and  the  long  one — 
shadows  on  that  huge  horologe.  At 
three,  under  the  opening  eyelids  of 
the  morn,  we  left  the  beech-woods 
of  Inverary  Castle;  and  a  voice 
within  us  now  whispers  to  descend 
into  Cladich.  What  is  this  ?  An  Inn ! 
a  new  birth — for  seventeen  years  ago 
the  spital  was  but  a  hut,  though  clean 
the  earth-floor,  and  comfortable  the 
heather-bed,  on  which,  roused  at 
daylight  by  the  old  soldier,  we  sat 
upright  and  enjoyed  "  our  morn- 
ing,"— a  gurgle  of  Glenlivet.  The 
smack  is  at  this  moment  on  our  pa- 
late—it has  never  left  it  since  the 
summer  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo—- 
and imagination  has  now  awakened 
it  from  its  slumber. 

House  full  ?  Why,  there  is  sure- 
ly a  nyeuck  where  one  may  eat  a 
quartern  loaf  and  a  dozen  of  eggs, 
without  disturbing  anybody,  our 
worthy  fellow — eh  ?  But  with  your 
leave,  we  shall  walk  into  this  parlour, 
for  "a  well-known  voice  salutes  our 
ear,"  and  we  have  a  knack  of  ma- 
king ourselves  welcome  wherever 
we  go,  except  perhaps  among  the 


Awe. 


987 


sulkiest  of  the  Whigs.  But  our  friend 
Stentor  is  a  Radical ;  for  his  down- 
right honesty  we  respect  him,  and  for 
his  father's  sake,  who  was  a  sad 
sumph,  and  got  into  a  scrape  about 
some  pike-heads,  we  cannot  look  on 
him  without  affection.  What  the 
devil  is  the  matter  with  the  sneck  ? 
But  a  slight  kick  will  do  it — there, 
open  sesame  !  We  call  that  a  cure  for 
the  gout. 

The  uproar  reminds  us  of  the  ani- 
mated description  of  the  arrival  of 
Marmion  at  the  English  van,  when 
the  adverse  battles  were  about  to 
close  on  Flodden.  "  North  !  North  ! 
North  !  Christopher  North  !  Chris- 
topher for  ever !  Kit  to  all  eternity  !" 
The  house  is  thunderstruck,  the  vil- 
lage astounded,  the  parish  alarmed, 
and  rumour  flies  eastward  and  west- 
ward, southward  and  northward, 
from  Loch  Edderline  to  Loch  Tulla, 
from  Oban  to  Blatacheurin.  True, 
that  Ducrow  can  stand  on  six  horses, 
but  we  cannot  sit  comfortably  on 
more  than  one  chair ;  and  when  so 
many  gentlemen  pray  that  we  may 
be  seated,  we  should  be  nonplussed 
entirely,  were  it  not  that  we  observe 
something  shaped  like  a  pulpit  or 
sentry-box,  and  therein  we  set  up 
our  rest.  A  party  after  our  own 
heart.  Not  a  contributor  among 
them,  except  he  be  strictly  anony- 
mous indeed ;  not  a  literary  lounger 
in  booksellers'  shops ;  not  a  man 
who  at  a  confectioner's  would  be 
"  sae  bairnly  as  to  sup  ream ;"  but  a 
set  of  fine,  honest,  independent, 
strapping  young  fellows,  all  follow- 
ing respectable  professions,  and  now 
enjoying  their  annual  summer  holy- 
days  on  Loch  Awe  side.  That  they 
should  all  know  us,  and  love  and 
venerate  us— which,  to  be  sure,  is  an 
instance  of  necessary  connexion  be- 
tween cause  and  effect — cannot  but 
be  pleasant  to  our  feelings,  especially 
as  they  have  not  begun,  which  is  only 
another  word  for  finished,  breakfast. 
They  have  come  bounding,  we  find, 
from  Tynedrum,  some  twenty  miles, 
like  so  many  stags.  Give  us  any 
honest  man's  sirname,  and  we  under- 
take to  add  his  Christian  name,  nine 
times  out  of  ten.  The  face  of  a  Peter 
is  always  as  distinct  as  possible  from 
that  of  a  Hugh,  and  neither  of  them 
ever  bears  any  resemblance  to  that 
of  a  James  or  a  John,  which  again 
are  as  unlike  as  peas  and  beans.  In 


988 


Loch  Awe. 


[June, 


five  minutes  we  are  as  familiar  with 
their  names  as  we  were  at  the  first 
moment  with  their  characters,  and 
the  reign  of  fun  and  fellowship  is 
established  on  a  permanent  footing 
for  the  week.  We  can  eat  any  man  of 
our  years,  weight,  and  inches,  in  Great 
Britain — nay,  we  fear  not  to  give  a 
decade,  a  stone,  and  a  hand.  Hard 
boiled  eggs  are  not  hard  on  the  sto- 
mach, they  are  only  heavy,  and  the 
heavier  the  better ;  for  on  a  light 
stomach  no  man  can  work.  Yet  'tis 
prudent  to  mix  them  with  light 
boiled  ones,  by  alternate  swallows. 
Nothing  can  be  more  vulgar  than  to 
keep  count  of  eggs.  What  signifies 
it  whether  you  eat  half-a-dozen  more 
or  less  ?  The  simple  rule  with  them, 
as  with  every  thing  else,  is,  "  stop 
ere  you  are  sta'd."  Is  there  no 
Ossian  to  sing  the  Feast  of  Shells  ? 
Quarter  of  an  hour  ago  the  parlour 
was  like  a  baker's  shop— or  rather 
of  a  retail-dealer  of  all  victuals.  The 
board  now  how  bare !  With  many  a 
grateful  "  hech1'  we  return  thanks; 
and  our  motion  for  the  production 
of  Glenlivet  is  carried  by  acclama- 
tion. The  smiling  landlord  enters 
in  full  tail  with  the  tower  on  a  tray, 
and  each  man  in  steady  succession, 
from  old  Kit  to  young  Bob,  with  a 
quiet  eye,  inhales  the  essence  of  all 
the  elements — air,  earth,  water,  and 
fire — for  what  else  is  Glenlivet? 

Gathering  in  front  of  the  inn, 
amidst  the  village  stare,  we  all  equip 
ourselves,  each  after  his  own  fashion. 
The  party  splits  into  twos  and  threes, 
and  we  ourselves  keep  together  in 
one,  being  Zimmermannishly  dis- 
posed, and  anxious  in  solitude  to 
sport  the  melancholy  Jacques.  One 
set  are  off  for  Loch  Avich,  where 
the  trouts  are  so  fat  that  they  are 
always  fried  in  their  own  oil.  An- 
other, fond  of  the  trotting  burnies, 
have  agreed  to  try  the  Ara,  flowing 
by  the  door  on  its  nine-mile  rocky 
course,  full  of  plenteous  pools,  and 
river-like  ere  it  reaches  the  Castle. 
A  third  are  for  the  Ferry,  bound  to 
Bunawe,  in  hopes  of  a  salmon.  And 
a  fourth  will  try  their  luck  in  the 
Loch,  somewhere  about  Port  Son- 
nachan,  and  as  far  down,  perhaps,  as 
the  wooded  shores  of  Balliraeanach. 
But  we  all  agree  to  meet  by  sunset 
at  Larach-a-ban — to  compare  bas- 
kets— and  to  enjoy,  with  Christopher 
North  in  the  chair,  a  moral  jollifica- 


tion,   and  an   intellectual   gaudea- 
mus. 

We  saunter  solitarily  down  the 
wooded  banks  and  braes  of  the 
cheerful  rill  that  wimples  its  way 
to  the  Loch — but  nothing  is  farther 
from  our  mind  than  any  thought  of 
angling — for  we  desire  to  yield  our- 
selves  up  gradually  and  gently  into 
the  power  of  an  enchanted  world  of 
old  remembrances,  and  mirthful  ass 
we  have  been  and  are  still,  a  pro- 
phetic intimation  of  stealing  sadness 
is  felt  by  our  heart  even  in  the  very 
warbling  of  that  little  bird.  But 
Tonald  at  our  heel,  respectfully  re- 
quests a  "  sneeshing,"  and  we  hand 
him  the  mull.  Chewing  is  an  un- 
christian habit,  Tonald,  but  as  we  • 
see  from  that  swelling  in  your  cheek 
that  with  you  it  has  become  second 
nature,  there  is  some  shag. 

Our  boat  is  somewhat  clumsy,  and 
as  we  pull  away,  clanks  like  a  steam- 
engine.  So  much  the  better,  for  the 
echoes  in  the  hush  are  as  if  many 
other  unseen  boats  were  issuing  out 
cf  the  wooded  bays  all  along  the 
loch.  Let  them  but  shew  themselves, 
and  we  will  race  the  best  of  them 
for  a  pot  of  heather-honey  and  a  gal- 
lon of  the  creatur.  Innis  Dubh,  how 
are  you,  my  boy  ?  Well  may  men  call 
you  the  Black  Island,  for  you  are 
like  the  floating  palace  of  King  Coal. 
Nay — not  so  black  either,  for  the 
diamonds  are  yet  unmelted  on  the 
heather.  O  bees!  you  will  rue  your 
gluttony  when  you  set  sail  homewards 
across  the  water — many  a  yellow- 
winged  stripling  will  be  gorged  by 
the  scaly  dragons.  Aye,  we  must  land 
for  a  few  minutes  on  Inishail.  Still  it 
does  indeed  deserve  the  name  of  the 
"  Lovely  Isle,"  for  there  is  a  surpass- 
ing sweetness  in  the  glow  and  breath 
of  its  herbage,  but  not  so  much  as 
one  single  tree.  Never  saw  we  such 
brackens !  Why,  they  are  as  high  as 
our  head.  "  Their  groves  of  sweet 
myrtle  let  foreign  lands  reckon," 
but  fairer  far,  and  so  would  say  that 
shower  of  butterflies  could  they 
speak,  to  the  eyes  of  our  heart,  the?e 
groves  of  the  proud  lady-fern,  Pub- 
lic worship,  we  remember  our  dear 
good  old  father  in  God,  Dr  Joseph 
Macintyre,  telling  us,  was  performed 
in  the  chapel  of  the  convent  till  the 
year  1736;  but  there  is  no  chapel 
now — but  a  few  feet  of  the  utter 
ruin  visible  above  the  foundation, 


1833.] 


Loch  Awe. 


989 


grass-grown  and  cheerful  with  gow- 
ans.  What  are  these  heaps  of  stones  ? 
And  can  that  mound  be  the  almost 
obliterated  foundation  of  the  outer 
wall?  Preaching  and  praying  on 
Sabbaths  here  there  are  none;  but 
the  Highlanders  devoutly  love  their 
old  burial-places,  and  this  is  still 
used,  sometimes,  for  interment. 
Bodies  have  been  brought  a  hun- 
dred miles  to  be  buried  here ;  thine 
was,  young  Angus  of  the  yellow 
locks — from  the  great  city — accord- 
ing to  a  dying  request  made  in  thy 
native  tongue  to  a  wild  and  wi- 
thered-looking man,  who  sudden- 
ly stood  from  afar  by  thy  bed-side, 
and  said  that  he  had  come  there  at 
the  bidding  of  a  dream.  Of  old,  this 
The  Fair  Isle  was  the  principal  bu- 
rial-place of  the  highest  of  the  hill- 
bom  ;  and  the  state  of  some  of  these 
tomb- stones  indicates  great  antiqui- 
ty; like  coffin-lids.  Nor  are  they 
without  suitable  rude  ornaments. 
There  is  a  sort  of  fret-work — strange 
figures  of  one  hardly  knows  what, 
mould-eaten  and  moss-woven,  but 
they  look  like  flowers.  Aye,  we  re- 
member it  well — that  is  the  form  of 
a  warrior  with  his  two  -  handed 
stford.  But  there  are  no  inscrip- 
tions— perhaps  there  never  were— » 
"  the  fame  of  their  name,"  it  might 
have  been  thought,  would  never  die 
within  the  shadow  of  Cruachan — 
but  chiefs  lie  there,  all  dust  and  no 
bones,  like  ravens  and  eagles  that 
perished  in  their  pvide  and  became 
part  of  the  thin  soil  on  knolls  and 
cliffs.  Aye  —  nobody  knows  any 
thing  now  of  the  M'Naughtons  of 
Fraoch  Elan,  and  the  Campbells  of 
Inbheraw.  Yet  there,  on  the  south 
side  of  what  once  was  the  Chapel, 
lies  a  large  flat  stone,  with  the  family 
arms  in  high  relief,  which,  they  say, 
is  the  cemetery  of  the  Campbells. 
Two  warriors  bearing  a  shield — sur- 
mounted by  a  diadem.  What  a  mul- 
titude of  rabbits  !  a  perfect  rotten 
burgh  is  the  Lovely  Isle. 

A  young  bird  in  its  first  flight 
could  almost  fly  from  Inishail  to 
Fraoch  Elan.  Not  in  the  whole 
wide  world,  we  venture  to  say,  is 
there  a  more  beautiful  islet.  Small 
as  it  is,  it  wants  nothing — on  one 
side  the  rocks  rise  abrupt  from  the 
deep  water,  on  the  other  a  shrubby 
slope,  shewing  here  and  there  an 
old  stump  or  wreathed-root,  softly 

r  * 


carries  down  its  loveliness  some  way 
into  the  shallows,  through  which, 
at  this  moment,  we  see  large  trouts 
lying  on  the  greensward.  Tall  trees, 
— some  of  them  pines — ennoble  the 
still  stately  ruin  of  the  M'Naugh- 
tons*  Castle  —  and  there,  we  are 
happy  to  see,  still  alive  and  cheer- 
ful, the  large  ash  that  has  been 
growing  for  ages  from  the  founda- 
tion of  what  was  once  the  hall,  and 
proudly  lends  its  shade  to  the  win- 
dow-niches, (rooks!  none  of  your 
impertinence,)  without  intercepting 
the  sunshine  from  the  matted  ivy. 
We  like  gulls.  In  some  weathers 
they  are  a  clamorous  clan,  even  du- 
ring summer,  on  quiet  islands  on  in- 
land lochs ;  but  to-day  they  are  all 
silent  as  their  shadows.  Not  that  they 
are  afraid  of  the  water-eagle,  who  has 
built  his  nest  for  many  and  many  a 
year  on  the  top  of  that  sole  remain- 
ing chimney,  for  he  never  dreams  of 
hurting  a  feather  of  their  heads,  and 
besides,  neither  he  nor  his  lady  is 
at  home;  but  one  might  believe  the 
creatures  are  enjoying  the  day's  se- 
renity, and  are  loath  to  disturb  it 
even  by  the  flapping  of  their  wings. 
One  or  two  only  are  wheeling  about, 
and  now  they  have  alighted,  and 
walking  up  and  down, seem  almost  as 
large  as  lambs.  Loch  Awe  is  a  darling 
haunt  indeed  for  all  manner  of  wild- 
fowl— teal,  widgeon,  divers,  white- 
ducks,  shell-drakes,  kitty  wakes,  pit- 
kairnies  (sea  swallows),  and  mil- 
lions of  anonymous  creatures  very 
fair  to  look  on ;  but  there  is  ample 
room  for  them  all,  for  Loch  Awe  is 
more  than  thirty  miles  long,  and  then 
the  river  is  but  a  short  one  that 
unites  it  with  the  sea. 

This  isle,  according  to  tradition, 
was  the  Hesperides  of  the  Highlands. 
Delicious  apples  grew  here,  but 
were  guarded  by  an  enormous  ser- 
pent. •'  The  fair  Mego,"  says  poetry, 
"  longed  for  the  delicious  fruit  of  the 
isle ;  Fraoch,  who  had  long  loved  the 
maid,  goes  to  gather  the  fruit.  By 
the  rustling  of  the  leaves,  the  ser- 
pent was  awakened  from  his  sleep. 
It  attacked  the  hero,  who  perished 
in  the  conflict.  The  monster  was 
destroyed.  Mego  did  not  long  sur- 
vive the  death  of  her  lover."  No 
fruit  grows  here  now,  but  hips  and 
haws  in  their  season,  and,  we  be- 
lieve, some  wild  strawberries.  Why 
not  put  in  a  few  score  currant  and 


990 


Loch  Awe, 


[June, 


gooseberry  bushes?  Such  small 
fruit  is  most  refreshing,  especially 
grozets,  and  that  they  would  bear 
well  there  can  be  no  doubt,  for  it 
would  require  a  better  botanist  than 
we  are  to  name  all  these  blossoms. 

Last  time  we  were  here,  "  a  sma' 
still"  was  at  work  in  a  cozy  crevice 
formed  by  these  two  inclining  rocks. 
A  more  industrious  creature  never 
saw  we  than  that  "  prime  worm." 
The  spirit  it  produced  was  almost 
unbearable;  indeed, till  he  was  christ- 
ened, no  man  with  impunity  could 
tackle  to  such  a  heathen.  He  laid 
you  on  the  broad  of  your  back  in  two 
glasses.  Rashly  confiding  in  our 
head  arid  heart,  without  drawing  our 
breath,  we  took  off  a  quaich,  and 
from  about  ten  minutes  after  that 
moment  (nine  o'clock  of  a  summer 
evening)  till  what  had  the  appear- 
ance of  sunrise,  and  no  doubt  was 
so,  we  were  without  consciousness 
of  the  existence  of  this  wicked 
world.  Yet,  to  do  our  enemy  jus- 
tice, we  awoke  without  the  slightest 
touch  of  a  headach,  and  our  tongue, 
as  we  took  a  look  at  it  in  the  water, 
was  red  as  a  rose  in  June. 

Now,  let  us  re-embark,  Tonald— 
and  lie  on  our  oars  beneath  the 
Goose's  Rock.  Sassenach  is  a  mean- 
sounding  language — in  Gaelic  'tis 
written  Creag-agheoidh,  but  when 
pronounced,  the  word  is  indescriba- 
bly different  from  any  thing  that 
might  be  expected  by  a  Lowland  eye 
looking  at  that  silent  congregation  of 
letters.  The  silvan  shadow  above 
our  heads  is  Bein-bhuridh,  a  portion 
of  Cruachan.  This  used  of  old  to  be 
one  of  our  favourite  stations,  and  our 
ingenious  friend  John  Fleming  has 
done  it  justice,  with  a  fine  poetical 
feeling,  in  one  of  his  Views,  engraved 
by  our  ingenious  friend  Joseph  Swan, 
for  the  Select  Views  of  the  Lakes  of 
Scotland,  a  publication  which  de- 
serves the  patronage  of  the  public, 
and  we  are  happy  to  hear  receives  it, 
for  it  is  true  to  the  character  of  the 
Highlands,  and  we  remember  with 
delight  the  shadow  of  this  scene  on 
paper,  even  with  the  glorious  reality 
before  our  eyes.  Colonel  Murray, 
too,  of  Ochtertyre,  has  finely  shewn 
us  Loch  Awe,  almost  from  this  very 
same  point,  in  his  lithographic  Scenes 
of  the  Highlands  and  Islands;  and 
these  two  works,  both  wonderfully 
cheap,  are  worth  all  the  printed 


Guides,  and  better  far,  (they  have 
likewise  their  own  instructive  letter- 
press,) excepting  one  we  are  leisure- 
ly writing  ourselves,  and  which  shall 
be  published  as  soon  as  the  "  Trade," 
now  like  a  drooping  poppy,  again 
lifts  up  its  languid  head  in  the  Row, 
and  the  reading  Public  grows  impa- 
tient to  purchase,  in  two  volumes, 
that  choice  poetical  prose  in  which, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  envious 
ninnies,  it  is  admitted  by  mankind 
that  we  egregiously  excel.  But  how 
can  we  prate  thus,  in  presence  of 
Kilchurn  ?  We  have  seen  it  like  a 
great  ghost;  and  once,  on  a  night-like 
day,  during  a  thunderstorm,  when 
it  rose  fitfully  out  from  the  blackness, 
at  every  wide  yellow  flash  of  the 
sheeted  lightning  that  seemed  fierce- 
ly levelled  at  its  time-beaten  bulk; 
but  now  the  ruin  looks  calm  in  de- 
cline, and  happy  in  the  sunshine,  to 
be  insensible  that  it  is  mouldering 
away.  There  it  stands  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  picture— and  there  is 
an  impressive  massiveness  about  the 
old  chief,  in  spite  of  the  dilapidation 
of  his  towers  and  turrets.  Aye — we 
have  just  a  peep  of  the  farm-house  in 
the  near  wood,  the  hospitable  farm- 
house of  Can-a-chraoicin,  where  with 
those  pleasant  old  ladies,  the  Miss 
M'Intyres — now  no  more — we  have 
whiled  away  whole  evenings  listen- 
ing to  their  traditionary  lore.  Very 
rich,  seen  from  this  stance,  is  the 
vale  of  Orchay — still  silvan  in  spite 
of  the  furnaces  of  the  iron-works  at 
Bunawe.  The  white  square  church- 
tower  of  Dalmally  has  more  an  Eng- 
lish than  a  Scottish  look,  and  we 
could  for  a  moment  believe  our- 
selves in  Westmoreland.  High,  and 
far  up  and  away  is  winding  yonder 
the  wild  road  to  Tyndrum.  The 
mountain  in  the  farthest  distance 
can  be  no  other  than  the  conical 
Bein-Laoidh,  or  Mountain  of  the 
Hind  ;  Bein-a-Chleidh  (but  what 
that  means  we  forget,  for  we  have 
little  Erse)  nobly  occupies  the  mid- 
dle background,  and  seems  in  the 
sunshine  more  than  usually  preci- 
pitous ;  and  he  whose  stature  reaches 
the  sky  must  be— yes  it  is — we  re- 
cognise him  by  that  chasm — Meal- 
na-Tighearan,  or  the  Mountain  of  the 
Chieftains.  What  a  mystery  is— a 
Whole ! 

Half  an  hour's  imperceptible  mo- 
tion—with an  indistinct  and  inter- 


1833.] 


Loch  Awe. 


991 


mittent  sound  in  our  ears  of  the  clug 
— clug — dip — dip — of  the  oars,  and 
we  are  at  a  landing-place  on  the  pen- 
insula, where  on  a  rocky  but  not  high 
elevation,  near  the  junction  of  the 
Orchay,  the  Ruin  welcomes  us  with 
a  solemn  but  no  melancholy  smile. 
'Tis  now  connected  with  the  shore  by 
an  extended  alluvial  plain,  frequent- 
ly flooded ;  but  we  see  at  once  that 
the  rocky  site  of  the  castle  was  at  one 
time  an  island.  The  waters  of  the 
Loch  have  so  far  subsided  by  the 
wearing  away  of  the  bed  of  the  Awe, 
while  the  depositions  formed  by  the 
mountain-torrents  were  accumula- 
ting, that  when  the  rivers  are  in 
spate,  'tis  often  an  island  still,  and 
we  have  seen  it  through  the  driving 
mists  and  cloud-rack  surrounded  by 
billows  as  big  as  if  this  were  indeed 
an  arm  of  the  sea.  Castle  Kilchurn, 
Coilchourn,  or  Caolchairn,  had  gone 
considerably  into  disrepair  before 
the  middle  of  the  last  century ;  the 
great  tower  was  repaired  and  garri- 
soned in  1745  ;  but  after  that  period, 
having  been  damaged  by  lightning, 
it  was  allowed  to  go  to  ruin.  Perhaps 
'twas  as  well — for  why  should  stone 
and  lime  last  for  ever  ?  If  old  castles 
were  all  to  be  taken  care  of,  where 
would  there  be  any  ruins?  And, 
besides,  under  reform,  whether  de- 
structive or  preservative,  they  are 
in  danger  of  becoming  mongrel  mo- 
dern-antiques, the  abhorrence  of  gods 
and  men.  What  tremendous  strength 
in  that  Keep  !  six  feet  thick  at  least 
the  walls,  in  which  there  is  a  secret 
passage,  leading,  no  doubt,  to  some 
dismal  place  where  toads  may  have 
been  sitting  for  centuries  with  jewels 
on  their  heads,  and  as  fat  as  puffins, 
for  they  attain  longevity  on  the  va- 
pours of  a  dungeon,  and  in  the  heart 
of  a  block  live  for  ever.  Roof  and 
floors  are  all  gone,  for  time,  though 
slower,  is  sure  as  fire.  Yet  some 
thirty  years  since,  or  thereabouts, 
the  castle  was  not  only  habitable,  but 
inhabited  by  an  old  woman,  who 
showed  us  tapestry  in  a  bedroom  fit 
for  a  honey-moon.  If  we  recollect 
rightly,  there  was  an  iron  door  in  the 
charter-room,  though,  we  daresay, 
within  no  deeds ;  and  on  the  wall  of 
the  armoury  were  hanging  skull-cap 
and  mail-shirt,  and  other  relics  of 
the  olden  time.  For  Colonel  Murray 
says  truly,  these  towers  must  have 
been  no  less  admired  than  feared 


in  the  days  when  the  nobles  of  Glen- 
orchy  were  foremost  in  the  ranks 
of  the  Knights  Templars,  and  when 
that  influence,  which  is  now  felt  in 
the  Cabinet,  and  is  seen  in  the  en- 
couragement of  the  arts  of  peace, 
was  exhibited  in  the  number  of  men- 
at-arms,  and  their  many  majestic 
castles,  while  their  banners  floated 
in  the  Balloch,  Finlarig,  Glenorchy, 
Barcaldine,  and  Loch  Awe 

We  cannot  make  even  a  guess  at 
the  distance  between  Kilchurn  and 
the  Manse  of  Dalmally.  It  has  seemed 
but  a  step.  Nay — were  we  to  tell 
the  public  this — our  veracity  would 
be  more  than  suspected — why,  we 
have  walked  hither  without  our 
crutch  !  We  must  have  a  private  class 
for  grown-up  bachelors,  and  give  les- 
sons in  dancing — in  the  gallopade. 
So — there's  the  step  that  would  have 
astonished  Prince  Swartzenburgh; 
but  we  must  beware  of  pirouetting 
into  the  church. 

'Tis  a  very  beautiful  little  build- 
ing, and  were  we  to  encourage  old 
remembrances,  we  could  weep.  But 
to  keep  them  at  a  distance,  suppose 
we  fire  off  our  pocket-pistol.  There 
— was  a  most  romantic  echo.  As  the 
Glenlivet  gurgled  out  into  the  reci- 
pient old  man,  we  heard  a  faint 
reflective  shadow  of  the  pleasant 
sound  from  the  Hill  of  Hinds.  There 
will  seem  nothing  incredible  in  that 
to  those  who  have  read  Mr  Words- 
worth's verses  on  the  Naming  of 
Places.  A  young  lady,  called  Joanna, 
laughs  ,•  and  all  the  mountains  in 
Westmoreland,  Lancashire,  and  Cum- 
berland, take  up  the  lady's  voice, 
and  there  is  a  general  guffaw.  Now, 
as  Joanna,  though  a  wild  creature, 
had  been  brought  up,  we  presume, 
in  civilized  society,  we  are  justified 
in  asserting  that  her  laugh  at  its 
loudest  could  not  have  been  louder 
than  the  gurgle  of  Glenlivet  into  our 
mouth  from  that  of  our  pocket-pis- 
tol. That  reflection  will  enable  the 
public  to  give  credence  to  the  natu- 
ral phenomenon  now  recorded  in 
our  note-book. 

Yes— the  beautiful  little  church  is 
beautifully  situated  indeed,  and  we 
wish  it  had  been  Sabbath,  that  we 
might  have  taken  some  sermon.  It 
is  built  upon  the  site  of  the  ancient 
place  of  worship,  which  was  Drui- 
dical ;  so  its  name  seems  to  tell, 
"  CJathan  Dieort,"  the  "  Place  of  the 


992 


Loch  Awe. 


High  God."  We  remember  the  old 
church — not  the  place  of  worship  of 
the  Druids — for  that  was  before  our 
time — but  the  old  church  in  which 
Dr  Joseph  did  duty  many  a  year  be- 
fore the  day  when,  with  a  smile  and 
a  tear  on  his  fine  honest  intelligent 
warm-hearted  face,  he  looked  up  at 
this  building,  and  hardly  knew  if  he 
ought  to  bless  it,  so  dear  to  him  in 
his  piety  had  been  the  humble  house 
of  God,  in  which  he  had  ministered 
from  youth  upwards.  Here  is  the 
burying-place  of  the  Breadalbanes ; 
but  it  has  been  disused,  we  believe, 
since  their  removal  to  Taymouth. 
Wherever  the  burial-place  be,  may 
its  gates  be  opened  at  long  intervals, 
and  grow  rusty  on  their  hinges,  for 
we  like  the  name  of  Ormelie.  Here 
are  gravestones  from  Inishail — as  we 
said  before — richly  sculptured  with 
devices  of  flowered  and  wreathed 
work,  with  figures  of  warriors  hel- 
meted  and  mailed,  as  in  the  age  of 
the  Crusades;  and  here  is  a  rude 
stone,  with  anvil,  hammer,  pincers, 
and  a  galley^  initials  D.  M.  N.,  of  one 
who,  in  his  day  (1440),  was  a  fa- 
mous fabricator  of  arms  and  armour, 
and  ancestor  of  the  Macnabs  of 
Barachastailan.  "  Non  omnis  mo- 
riar"  in  this  world,  was  the  desire 
of  Duncan ;  and  the  fame  of  the 
dirk-maker  blossoms  and  smells 
strong,  even  as  he  did  himself  when 
living,  in  the  very  dust. 

And  now  we  trudge  it  along  the 
high-road,  while  Tonald  goes  down 
to  Castle- haven  to  bring  round  the 
boat,  towards  the  Mount  of  Brough- 
na- Store,  the  threshold  of  Glen- 
Urcha.  Here  Burke  stood  enrap- 
tured, and  held  up  his  hands  at  the 
Highlands.  Cowper  once  cried, 

"  Oh  !    for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilder- 
ness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade  !" 

Oh!  for  a  lodge,  cry  we,  on  this 
heaven-kissing  hill,  with  all  Loch 
Awe  at  our  feet ! 

There  would  seem  to  be  two  kinds 
of  time,  physical  and  metaphysical; 
with  the  latter  you  may  do  what  you 
will — cram  an  age  into  an  instant — 
the  former  is  found  to  be  very  frac- 
tious, and  to  bear  a  strong  family  re- 
semblance to  that  obstinate  exist- 
ence, space.  As  a  ini!<>  is  a  mile,, 
though  you  remove  the  milestone, 


[June, 


so  is  a  minute  a  minute,  though  you 
lose  your  reckoning ;  and  all  at- 
tempts to  make  it  otherwise  is  up- 
hill work.  But  the  metaphysical 
triumphs  over  the  physical,  and  no 
wonder,  since  mind  is  superior  to 
matter  any  day  of  the  year.  An  hour 
ago  of  physical  time  we  were  stand- 
ing on  the  platform  of  Brough-na- 
Store;  and  any  one  who  had  chan- 
ced to  see  us  progressing  from  the 
eminence  towards  the  margin  of  the 
Loch,  would  have  had  no  doubt  that 
they  had  at  last  seen  a  land  tortoise. 
Yet  not  more  than  one  metaphysi- 
cal minute  has  elapsed  since  we  "be- 
gan to  crawl  water-wards,  and  here 
we  are  sitting  at  the  bow-oar  with 
our  backs  in  the  direction  of  Port 
Sonnachan.  The  bow-oar  —  that 
is,  the  Crutch.  A  month  ago— as 
you  must  remember — we  used  it 
as  a  landing  net  on  the  banks  of 
the  Tweed,  and  now  it  is  found  han- 
dy in  another  kind  of  aquatics  on 
the  bosom  of  Loch  Awe.  Of  course 
we  handle  it  by  the  end  that  on  shore 
indents  the  gravel ;  and  it  proves—- 
in our  fists— so  powerful  an  impel- 
ler, that  we  have  to  husband  our 
strength,  and  even  occasionally  to 
back  water,  to  prevent  ourselves 
from  turning  Tonald  round,  or  at 
least  diverging  from  our  right  course 
in  the  direction  of  the  Pass  of  the 
Brander.  How  magnificently  and 
scientifically  all  those  mountains  are 
conducting  their  retreat !  That  de- 
monstration looks  as  if  they  had  a 
mind  to  encamp  at  evening  in  the 
moor  of  Rannoch.  Always  ro\v 
away — when  you  can— from  the 
head  of  a  loch,  and  the  army  of 
mountains  will  seem  marching  aVay 
from  you — as  they  are  now  doing 
—-perhaps  with  colours  flying  and 
music  playing,  as  if  about  to  fall 
back  on  a  position,  where  they  pur- 
pose to  offer  pitched  battle  before 
the  rising  of  the  stars. 

Ha !  a  capful  of  wind — nay,  a  sud- 
den flaw  that  makes  our  galley  heel 
and  our  kilts  rustle.  We  had  forgot 
that  we  are  in  kilts,  but  are  re- 
minded of  the  fact  by  Favoriius.  A 
general  breeze  is  springing  up — and 
though  for  the  present  whispering- 
from  "  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can 
blaw,"  will  soon  settle,  we  see,  in  a 
North-Easter,  and  in  an  hour  or  less 
ure  shall  be  at  the  Ferry.  Ship  oars, 
Tonald — let  us  hoist  every  inch  of 


1833.] 


Loch  Awe. 


993 


canvass,  and  away,  goose-winged, 
right  before  the  wind.  There — she 
is  masted  in  a  jiffy — and  now  for  the 
sails.  No  need  for  either  standing 

0  •  running  rigging — our  check-shirt 
will  do  for  a  foresail — let  it  blow 
great  guns,  the  Crutch  (what  a  stick!) 
will  stand   the  storm,  nor  ever  be 
sprung  so  as  to  require  being  fished ; 
and   that  tartan   jacket    of    yours, 
Tonald — though  rather  ragged — will 
make  a  passable  mainsail.   There  she 
has   it — Tonald!    Why,  we   cannot 
be  going  under  nine  knots!      But 
hang  her — she's  luffing — up  with  that 
thoft,  Tonald,  and  iling  it  to  us  in  the 
siern-sheets.     That'll  do,  my  boy  ! 
we  shall  take  out  a  patent  for  our 
r adder — why  you  could  steer  her 
with  your  little  finger !     If  Inishail 
does  not  slip  her  anchor  and  get  un- 
der weigh,  we  shall  cut  her  in  two, 
right  in  mid-ships,  and  astonish  the 
rabbits.    What !  you  were  never  be- 
fore now,  Tonald,  in  a  schooner? 
S  he  is  called  the  Water- witch,  Tonald ; 
and  dang  it,  if  we  don't  challenge 
Cowes.   "  Pry  thee,  why  so  wan,  fond 
lover — prythee,  why  so  wan  ?"   You 
would  not  have  us  take  in  a  reef  in 
our  foresail  ?     Whew  !    check-shirt 

1  lown  overboard  !  Sit  still,  you  lub- 
ler — we're  in  a  squall — and  if  the 
live  ballast  shift  to  larboard  we  cap- 
size.    These  holes  in  the  mainsail 
fcre  most  providential,  for  the  wind 
(scapes    through  them    like   water 
from  a  sieve.     If  your  jacket  goes, 
Tonald,  we  must  hoist  our  kilt — that 
oar  makes  a  far  superior  figure  as  a 
mast — we  call  that  flying,  Tonald — 
jind  lo !  not  a  cable's  length  ahead 
on  our  weather- beam — the  Ferry  ! 

There — we  have  run  her  up  along- 
{ ide  of  the  jetty — and  are  once  more 
fafe  and  sound  on  terra  firma.  Proc- 
tor — our  good  fellow — how  are  you 
•  —how  is  the  Missus  and  the  Graces  ? 
What  do  you  mean,  you  Southron, 
by  that  smile  on  your  jib  ?  Oho  !  we 
f^ee  how  it  is — here  stands  Christo- 
pher North  on  the  margin  of  Loch 
Awe,  in  front  of  the  inn  at  Larach-a- 
!>an — except  for  his  kilt,  in  a  state  of 
nature — yea,  verily,  in  puris  naturali- 
sms— for  a  squall,  d'ye  see,  carried 
uway  our  fore-sail,  Proctor — and  in 
"he  excitement  of  such  a  crisis,  the 
'act  of  its  being  our  shirt  had  wholly 
escaped  our  recollection.  Thanks, 
Fon aid,  for  our  jacket — now  all's 
VOL.  XXXIII,  NO,  CCIX. 


right,  and  we  are  impatient  to  salute 
the  ladies. 

The  public-house  at  Cladich  will 
be  found  a  comfortable  howf  to  those 
who  know  how  to  make  themselves 
comfortable ;  and  at  Port  Sonnachan, 
we  understand,  the  accommodation 
is  excellent,  and  the  view  of  the  lake 
very  good,  which  perhaps  is  no  very 
great  matter.  We  ourselves  like  a 
pleasantly  situated  inn,  but  are  easily 
satisfied  in  that  particular,  and  can- 
not say  that  we  care  much  about  look- 
ing out  of  a  window,  when  there  is  a 
table  in  the  room  with  eatables  and 
drinkables  and  readables  close  at 
hand,  and  perhaps  an  agreeable  fami- 
ly-party. An  inn  should  not  abso- 
lutely turn  its  blind  back  on  a  loch 
or  river,  but  'tis  unreasonable  to  de- 
mand of  it  that  it  shall  command  all 
the  wood,  water,  and  mountain  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  also  in  the 
distance.  Gleams  and  glimpses 
there  must  be  from  parlour  and  bed- 
room ;  but  we  say  to  it,  "  Give  all 
thou  canst,  and  let  us  dream  the  rest." 
People  there  are  who  must  be  al- 
ways staring;  but  strong  in  our  in- 
ward sense  of  the  sublime  and  beau- 
tiful, we  are  in  noways  dependent 
on  our  eyes.  The  situation  of  the 
inn  at  Larach-a-ban  is  delightful. 
Here  it  stands,  about  a  mile  to  the 
south  of  Hay  field,  (many  a  pleasant 
day  have  we  passed  there,)  on  a 
rising  ground,  commanding  a  mag- 
nificent view  of  a  great  part  of  the 
Loch.  Our  dear  friend  Goldie — plea- 
sant man  and  accomplished  angler — 
calls  it  "  the  Elleray  of  Loch  Awe." 
Quite  in  the  style  of  a  minister's 
manse,  white-washed  and  slated, 
with  some  trees  immediately  be- 
hind it — a  modest  grove.  The  door, 
as  all  doors  should  be  in  regular 
houses,  built  for  accommodation  and 
not  for  the  gratification  of  a  foolish 
fancy  for  the  picturesque,  is  in  the 
centre ;  and  the  room  to  the  right, 
in  which  we  are  now  sitting,  is  the 
principal  apartment,  and  the  perfec- 
tion of  snuguess.  Behind  it  is  a 
small  dormitory,  (ours,)  with  one 
window  looking  to  the  Modest 
Grove.  To  the  left  of  the  door  is 
another  neat  parlour.  Up  stairs, 
above  our  apartment,  is  the  Lascel- 
les-bedroom,  so  called  from  a  gentle- 
man of  that  name,  who,  from^Liver- 
pool,  annually  visits  Loch  Awe,  some- 
3  s 


994  Loch  Awe. 

times  with  two  fine  lads,  his  sons, one 
of  whom  sings  like  a  nightingale, 
and  the  father  is  allowed  on  all  hands 
to  be  the  best  angler  that  was  ever 
seen  in  Scotland.     On  the  opposite 
side — iip-stairs — isthebarrack-room, 
now    famous    on    Loch    Awe-side 
as  the  dormitory  of  our  excellent 
friends  Tom  Allan  and  Tom  Sprot. 
Canvass  curtains  are  hung  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  this  room  from  the  roof, 
to  screen  one  individual  from  an- 
other when  at  their  toilette.     The 
kitchen  range  is  in  a  small  addition 
made  to  the  back  of  the  house — the 
only  plan  for  quiet — and  so  are  the 
sleeping  apartments  of  the  family—- 
so that  when  all  have  gone  to  roost, 
we  can  well  believe  that  you  might 
hear  a  mouse  stirring.  We  have  been 
thus  particular,  because,  should  we 
lick  these  pages  into  the  shape  of  an 
article,  our  account  of  Larach-a-ban 
may  meet  the  eyes  of  some  of  our 
English  brethren  of  the  angle,  who 
may  have  been  deterred  from  ventu- 
ring into  the  Highlands  by  stories, 
often  too  true,  of  the  miserable  ac- 
commodation at  some  of  the  most 
wretched  of  our  out-of-the-way  hut- 
inns.  Here  they  will  find  every  thing 
equal  to  their  heart's  desire.    We 
hold  that  a  public  is,  in  all  essentials, 
a  private-house,  and  with  that  feel- 
ing shall  say  no  more  of  the  family, 
than  that  husband,  wife,  and  daugh- 
ters are  as  well-mannered  and  plea- 
sant people  as  we  ever  met  with ; 
that  they  all  vie  with  each  other  in 
making  their  guests  happy ;  that  every 
thing  in  the  house  is  good ;  and  that 
the  charges  are  so  moderate  that  we 
should  be  uneasy  to  think  of  them, 
were  we  not  assured  that  our  host 
and  hostess  were  too  sensible  cul- 
pably to  neglect   their    own   inte- 
rests.    We  have  walked  all  Scotland 
through — "lowland  and  highland,  far 
and  near" — butnever  yet  found  plea- 
santer  quarters  than  at  Larach-a-ban. 
In  proof  of  the  truth  of  what  we 
are  jotting,  here  comes  lunch.    We 
breakfasted,  as  we  have  told  you, 
about  seven  o'clock,  and  'tis  now 
two.     More  ravenous  we  have  often 
been ;  the  state  of  our  appetite  may 
be  expressed  by  the  not  unhomeric 
epithet,  sharp-set.    Here  is  a  cut  of 
pickled  salmon — ham  and  eggs — and 
a  cold  shoulder  of  lamb.    The  lamb- 


[June, 

the  forest.  What  think  you  of  this 
cheese  ?  Double  Gloucester — and 
in  condition  to  a  mite.  Nor  does  the 
butter  and  bread  (would-be  gentility 
simpers  bread  and  butter)  look  un- 
worthy of  butter's  brother.  This  is 
a  gutty  bottle  of  "  Barclay's  Particu- 
lar." Can  you  draw  a  cork  with 
your  silk  handkerchief  ?  So — 'tis  by 
sleight  of  hand.  We  question  if  there 
be  a  livelier  hour  in  the  four-and- 
twenty  than—Two.  The  stomach  of 
a  man  of  a  well-regulated  mind  is 
then  prompt  without  being  importu- 
nate; and  we  cannot  give  a  more 
convincing  proof  of  that  in  our  own 
case  than  by  carrying  on  this  journal 
of  ours  in  the  vicinity  of  that  Lunch. 
The  fried  eggs  are  beginning  to  look 
rather  stiffish,  and  the  ham  crunkled 
at  the  turned  up  edges  j  but  it  is  pro- 
bable we  shall  not  pay  our  respects  to 
them  at  this  juncture ;  and  the  truth 
is,  we  are  waiting  for  a  sallad.  There 
it  comes — borne  in  breast  high  by  as 
pretty  and  amiable  a  young  woman 
as  one  may  see  on  the  longest  day  of 
the  year,  and  our  only  fear  is  that 
her  smile  may  sweeten  the  vinegar. 
Wait  a  few  moments — my  child — till 
we  have  helped  ourselves  to  lamb — 
those  pretty  fingers  plucked  the  sal- 
lad — let  them  place  it  on  our  plate 
— the  one  in  the  middle  if  you  please 
— love — like  a  green  rosette — bless 
your  sweet  eyes — now  some  water- 
cresses  wet  from  the  spring — you 
need  not  wait — dearest — but  in  a  few 
minutes  look  in  to  see  what  the  old 
man  is  about — good  bye — Beauty. 
Loch  Awe  !  she  is,  in  good  truth,  the 
loveliest  of  all  thy  Naiads. 

Despatch  is  the  soul  of  business. 
Our  faults  are  too  numerous  to  be 
mentioned,  and  were  they  to  be  all 
jotted  down,  and  summed  up,  fear- 
ful would  be  the  amount  of  the 
items.  But  indolence  would  not  be 
found  in  the  catalogue.  Our  occu- 
pations may  be  sometimes  thought 
trivial,  but  we  are  never  idle;  hu- 
man eye  never  saw  us  paring  our 
nails.  Finished  our  article  on  the 
Greek  Anthology  Monday  afternoon 
at  seven— dined— drank  tea— played 
the  fiddle— paid  our  farewell  visit — 
and  were  off  in  the  mail  at  nine  for 
Glasgow.  Found  ourselves  on  board 
a  steamer  at  the  Broomielaw,  a  little 
after  three  on  Tuesday  morning— 


ing-season  has  been  pretty  good  on    having  had  little  better  than  half  an 
Loch  Awe-side—far  better  than  in   hour  in  the  coach-office  for  refresh- 


1633.]  Loch 

nient,  which  we  found  prepared  ac- 
ccrding  to  the  spirit  of  our  instruc- 
tions in  a  confidential  letter  to  old 
Joe.  In  twelve  hours  we  made  In- 
vcrary,  and  disembarked  from  the 
Clyde.  That  delightful  river  may 
lose  its  name  at  any  point  people 
clioose  to  say,  but  not  the  less  is  it 
the  same  river,  and  in  Loch  Fyne  we 
ac  knowledge  but  a  continuation  of 
the  Clyde.  We  have  sailed  several 
times  round  the  world,  and  cannot 
cl  arge  our  memory  with  lovelier  sce- 
nery than  one  glides  through  all  along 
the  Kyles  of  Bute.  We  laid  in  a  few 
poetical  images  during  our  transit 
which  we  hope  to  turn  to  account  in 
ourGreatPoem,  and  somethingmore 
substantial  than  images,  but  made 
no  regular  meal.  You  will  find  it 
an  admirable  way  of  staving  off  hun- 
ger, when  travelling  by  land  or  voy- 
aging by  water,  or  even  sitting  at 
h»>me,  every  five  minutes  or  so  to 
take  a  wine-biscuit,  about  once  every 
t\  ro  hours  to  add  a  bit  of  ham,  and 
once  every  four,  the  leg,  or  wing, 
or  breast  of  a  cold  fowl,  without  in- 
curring the  slightest  risk  of  spotting 
your  appetite  for  dinner.  You  thus 
prevent  that  uneasy  sense  of  empti- 
n<;ss  which  is  apt  to  grow  into  a 
gnawing  at  the  stomach,  especially 
with  literary  people  like  us  of  se- 
dentary habits,  when  kept  long  in 
the  open  air,  and  exposed  to  any  un- 
U!  ual  exercise.  At  four  we  mounted 
a  shelty,  and  took  a  survey  of  some 
of  the  finest  woods  about  the  Castle  ; 
at  six  we  found  ourselves  sitting  on 
tl  o  summit  of  Dunnequech.  The 
accent  is  rough  and  steep  and  long, 
nor  should  we  have  essayed  and 
elfected  it  without  a  stronger  in- 
(1  icement  than  mere  love  of  the  pic- 
ti  resque.  There  lay  the  very  self- 
s?  me  stones  in  the  same  position  in 
\\  hich  we  had  left  them ;  we  knew 
tl  em  in  a  moment,  though  weather- 
stained  and  sprinkled  with  moss- 
stars.  We  raised  the  lid — as  of  a 
c«>ffin — say  rather  of  a  cellar — and 
tl  ere  he  lay,  unchanged  by  twenty 
years'  immurement,  a — MAGNUM  OP 
G  LENLIVET.  We  were  affected  even 
t(  tears.  Cautiously  did  we  lift  him 
u  )  from  his  tomb,  and  tenderly  did 
w  e  press  him  to  our  heart.  Was  it 
ft  ncy  ?  But  we  thought  he  returned 
tie  pressure!  Sealed  was  he  with 
o  ir  own  seal,  and  we  knew  that  his 
sleep  had  been  inviolate.  The  ful- 


Awe. 


995 


ness  of  time  was  come,  and  we  drew 
his  cork.  The  air  was  balm.  Oh ! 
what  an  aroma !  not  so  sweet 

"  Sabaean  odours  from  the  spicy  shores  of 
Araby  tliu  blest." 

Imagine  a  bouquet  composed  of  one 
of  each  kind  of  all  the  most  fragrant 
flowers  that  ever  grew  in  Paradise, 
and  you  may  have  some  faint  idea  of 
that  perfume.  We  felt  as  if  about 
to  faint.  But  summoning  up  all  our 
strength  and  resolution,  we  raised 
him  from  our  breast  to  our  lips,  and 
pantingly  inhaled  the  divine  inspi- 
ration. The  taste  trembled  from 
temple  to  toes.  'Twas  like  the  in- 
fusion of  a  new  life.  The  spirit  of 
the  Highlands  became  mingled  with 
our  inner  being,  though  we  were 
Lowland  born,  and,  to  our  delighted 
astonishment,  we  began  to  speak 
Gaelic  like  a  native.  Call  it  not  in- 
toxication—away with  the  vulgar 
word — we  grew  into  an  eagle ;  and 
we  soared.  The  sky  seemed  our 
home,  our  companions  the  clouds, 
and  we  wished  it  had  been  meridian, 
and  not  the  decline  of  day,  that  with- 
out winking  we  might  have  outstared 
the  sun.  Homer,  Milton,  Shakspeare, 
seemed  poor  poets.  An  Epic  poem 
and  several  tragedies  composed 
themselves  in  our  mind,  charmed  us 
with  their  stupendous  grandeur,  and 
for  ever  disappeared. 

It  was  near  nine  when  we  return- 
ed to  the  Inn,  which  we  found  in  a 
state  of  general  consternation;  for 
shelty  had  preceded  us,  and  it  was 
feared  we  had  been  flung,  and  might 
have  been  dragged  in  the  stirrups. 
They  said  we  "  looked  raised,"  and 
they  were  right ;  we  were  raised  to 
the  highest  heaven  of  invention,  and 
conceived  a  gigantic  plan  of  draining 
the  sea.  As  a  preliminary  step,  we 
discerned  the  necessity  and  the 
means  of  destroying  the  power  of 
the  moon.  For  we  saw  intuitively, 
as  if  we  had  been  in  a  state  of  som- 
nambulism produced  by  animal  ma- 
nipulative magnetism,  that  we  must 
begin  with  putting  an  end  to  tides, 
before  one  of  our  eight  million 
Irishmen  should  be  Buffered  to  flou- 
rish a  spade.  We  became  masters 
of  the  mystery  of  evaporation.  The 
globe  all  dry,  we  saw  at  once  the 
new  Order  of  Things — and  were 
ourselves  elected  "  sole  monarch  of 
the  universal  earth."  The  landlord 


Loch  Awe. 


'June, 


for  a  while  thought  we  talked  wildly, 
but  he  and  all  the  house  soon  be- 
came converts  to  our  opinion.  They 
were  dragged  captive  in  triumph  at 
our  chariot-wheels.  Our  eloquence 
was  irresistible — 

"  Winged  with  red  lightning  and  impetu- 
ous rage ;" 

we  were  shewn  to  bed  by  a  great 
number  of  people  bearing  torches ; 
and  we  awoke  at  cock-crow,  alas ! 
in  the  disenchanted  composure  of 
common  humanity,  and  thought,  with 
a  slight  sensation  of  shame,  of  the 
summit  of  Dunnequech. 

From  three  to  five  this  day  have 
we  not  been  stirring  our  stumps  ? 

We  know  not  which  of  the  three 
sisters  is  the  mostengaging— butnow 
that  they  have  cleared  decks,  let  us 
open  this  parcel  of  books,  (the  post- 
gig  from  Inverary  to  Oban  is  a  great 
convenience  to  the  inmates  of  La- 
rach-a-ban,)  and  see  if  it  contains 
any  thing  worth  perusal.  Two  thin 
volumes  of  verses  published  at 
Boston,  America  —  with  a  letter 
—let  us  see  — from  the  author's 
brother— our  amiable  and  enlight- 
ened friend  Henry  M'Lellan,  now 
at  Liverpool,  it  would  seem,  about 
to  embark  for  his  native  land ;  and 

Eleasant  be  his  voyage,  and  happy 
is  return.  We  have  been  very  for- 
tunate in  our  American  friendships, 
and  for  their  sakes  love  the  New 
World.  Aye— there  is  feeling  and 
fancy  here— he  writes  like  a  Scots- 
man> — and  does  not  his  name  tell  the 
land  of  his  ancestors  ?  We  can  get 
by  heart  any  little  poem  that  touches 
it,  at  two  readings;  and  laying  the 
open  pamphlet — it  is  no  more — on 
its  face  on  the  table— we  shall  recite 
to  Mary,  Anne,  and  Elizabeth.  Fair 
creatures,  listen  to  "  The  Church- 
Bell." 

Hark!   the  tolling  Sabbath  bell 
Sounding  far  o'er  hill  and  dell ! 
It  inviteth  high  and  low 
To  the  house  of  prayer  to  go. 
It  inviteth  wrinkled  age 
To  attend  the  sacred  page. 
It  invites  the  blushing  bride. 
And  the  bridegroom  at  her  side, 
— Hermit,  tottering  o'er  his  staff, 
Schoolboy,  with  his  jocund  laugh, 
Soldier,  clad  in  garb  of  gold, 
Seaman,  noble,  frank,  and  bold, 
State5inan,  with  the  anxious  look, 
Scholar,  brooding  o'er  his  book, 


Merchant,  musing  o'er  his  gain-, 

Pauper,  fretting  o'er  his  pains, 
And  in  every  human  ear, 
Rings  that  summons  to  appear. 

Win  thy  thoughts  from  Earth  away, 
Let  them  be  with  Heaven  to-day. 
Think  not  now  of  sordid  gold, 
Nor  of  gaudy  flags,  unrolled, 
Nor  of  learned  books,  the  lore 
Prized  by  Pagan  men  of  yore, 

Nor  thy  vessels  tossed  at  sea, 

— T       •»'  -U''  i»*  jJtini,'  iij 

JNor  thy  lands  so  dear  to  thee, 

But  unto  thy  God  repair, 
To  his  holy  place  of  prayer. 

The  difference  is  indescribable — 
and,  as  far  as  the  mere  words  go, 
slight  —  between  poetry  and  no- 
poetry  —  but  people  who  are  no- 
poets  never  know  that — nor  can  you 
convince  them  that  their  clippings 
are  merely  poor  verses.  These  sim- 
ple and  natural  lines  we  have  now 
recited  are  very  touching,  and  trite 
as  the  subject  is,  please,  by  appeal- 
ing directly  to  feelings  that  in  per- 
petual flow  are  welling  in  every  hu- 
man heart.  Trite  —  trivial  —  com- 
monplace— what  senseless,  soulless 
use  is  often  made  of  these  words ! 
Birth,  marriage,  death,  are  the  com- 
monest occurrences  in  the  lot  of 
rnan.  You  read  of  them  in  all  the 
newspapers — but  also  in  Shakspeare. 
Who  ever  wearied  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer  ?  Many  touches  are  sprink- 
led up  and  down  these  poems,  de- 
scriptive, we  perceive,  of  the  fea- 
tures of  American  scenery,  that  be- 
speak no  unskilful  hand;  and  many 
mild  meditationgffr  }0  jjoi.if 

"  The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye, 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  its  own  heart." 

There  is,  we  think,  an  affecting 
tone  of  cheerfulness  and  solemnity 
in  the  following  strain ;  we  are  heed- 
less of  any  slight  verbal  defects  in  the 
expression  ot  sentiments  so  consola- 
tory and  ennobling;  nor  can  we  read 
it  without  affectionate  respect  for  the 
character  of  the  writer,  who  must  be 
a  good  man. 

BURIAL  OF  A  FILGROi  FATHER, 

IN  1630.. 

We  anxiously  hollowed  the  frozen  ground, 
And  heaped  up  this  lonely  barrow, 

For  the  Indian  lurked  in  the  woods  around, 
And  we  feared  his  whistling  arrow. 

When  the  surf  on  the  sea-beach  heavily  beat, 
When  the  breeze  in  the  wilderness  mut- 
tered, 


1303.J 

We  deemed  it  the  coming  of  hostile  feet, 
Or  a  watch-word  cautiously  uttered. 

•  ;t  A. 

Above,  frowned  the  gloom  of  a  winter's  eve, 
And  around,  the  thick  snow  was  falling  ; 
And  the  winds  in  the  dreary  branches  did 
grieve 

Like  spirits  to  spirits  calling. 

.  loA 

A  s  we  looked  on  the  spotless  snowy  sheet, 
O'er  the  grave  of  our  brother  sweeping, 

It  seemed  to  us  all  an  emblem  meet 
Of  him,  beneath  it  sleeping. 

,*s  we  gazed,  we  forgot  our  present  pain  ; 

And  followed  our  brother's  spirit, 
t  'nto  that  fair  heaven  we  hope  to  gain, 

Which  the  good  after  death  inherit. 

And  we  left  the  dust  of  our  brother  to  lie 

In  its  narrow  habitation  ; 
With  the  trust  that  his  spirit  had  flown  on 
high, 

And  taken  its  glorious  station. 
•  iflaqqfi  \<-  /toe  ad?  as 

The  empty  concerns  of  human  Life, 

Its  vanity  and  its  glory,    ;  v/pF 
Miall  no  more  vex  his  ear  with  strife 

Nor  cheat  with  its  specious  story. 


Many  American  men  of  genius  have 
delighted  to  sing  the  praises  of  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers  ;  nor  can  we  imagine 
?i  better  subject  for  a  national  poem. 
Our  brethren  will  surely  not  suifer 
;t  to  be  written  on  this  side  of  the 
Atlantic.  Could  our  voice  reach  him, 
\ve  should  recommend  it  to  Bryant. 
There  is  much  beauty  in  Isaac  M'Lel- 
ian's  "Song  sung  at  the  Anniversary 
Celebration  of  the  Charitable  Me- 
chanic Association,  Boston,  October 

7,  183Q.uvj(,  gji  ao  sq^i 


Loch  Awe.  997 

At  tlie  Evening's  mellow  clo^c 


ii*  ^Anl 
e  Indian's 


, 
Long  the  Indian's  flitting  oar 

Glanced  around  this  lonely  shore, 
And  the  brimming  rivers 

barls- 


On  the  hill,  and  in  the  wood, 
Long  the  red-man's  cabin  stood  ; 

111  t'f     I  !•.  1 

Bid  50OJ|  ft 


All  was  lifeless  solitude, 
Desolate  and  dark. 


But  the  pious  Pilgrim  came : 
Science  kindled  her  pure  flame  j 
And  the  Indian  fled  in  shame  ; 

And  the  Desert  smiled. 

itoibaf  3di  to5! 

Then  Invention  shaped  the  tree; 
Launched  the  ship  upon  the  sea ; 
Reared  these  dwellings  of  the  Free ; 
Brightened  all  the.  Wild! 


In  the  bosom  of  the  wood, 
On  the  mountain  bleak  and  rude, 
Rose  the  homes  of  men. 


^1       „.__       „ „„.        wr, 

Mustered  hero  the  savage  foe?  ; 
— When  the  Morning  sun  arose 

jfi    rfqOTBT??       et      ae    dn    •      ^mf»  919  w 

Bowed  the  old  Woods  in  the  Waste  j 
Rose  the  dome,  divinely  chaste  ; 
When  Mechanic  Skill  and  Taste 
Waved  their  golden  wand. 

ifis/fs.a  ^d.bad  qj  i.    ,  *  aw 

At  the  border  of  the  flood,     ,n  ^j^ 

Piety  knelt  to  -her  God  ; 
Plenty  bless'd  the  fruitful  sod ; 
Valour  broke  Oppression's  rod  ; 

SCIEXCE  triumph'd  then. 
99irtj  BuJ  10  rioiuw  Jon  VT- 

Bless  us — Proctor — my  good  fel- 
low— we  have  forgot  to  tell  you  that 
eight  of  the  hungriest  men  you  per- 
haps ever  saw,  are  to  dine  with  us  at 
sunset !  Why,  you  receive  the  in- 
telligence with  all  the  serenity  of  a 
martyr.  You  must  kill  a  cow.  Mrs 
Proctor— pray,  ma'am,  by  the  hands 
of  what  high-priest  may  have  been 
traced  on  the  wall  of  this  lobby  or 
trans  these  enigmatical  Egyptian 
hieroglyphics  ?  Ho  !  ho !  Salmo 
Ferox.  Twenty-two  pounds  and  a 
half,  you  say;  these  other  semblan- 
ces are  gentry  of  the  same  kidney; 
— and  the  original  must  have  had 
gizzards  like  the  Irish  Gulloroos. 
Taken  by  Mr  Lascelles!  We  are 
sorry  he  is  not  here  now — for  we 
have  seen  all  the  greatest  philoso- 
phers, orators,  poets,  and  pugilists  of 
the  age,  but  should  have  more  real 
satisfaction  in  shaking  hands  with  the 
greatest  of  all  living  anglers.  These 
enormous  fish,  you  say,  Proctor,  are 
found  in  all  parts  of  the  deeper 
quarters  of  the  loch — rarely  rise  at  a 
fly — and  are  taken  only  by  such  tack- 
ling as  you  have  now  in  your  hand — 
eight  large  double  hooks  on  wire- 
twist,  sufficient  for  a  shark — baited 
with  a  trout  the  size  of  a  herring — 
the  trolling-line  of  twine,  sixty  or 
eighty  yards  long  ?  What  devils ! 
and  M.  Lascelles  has  killed  a  greater 
number  of  them  than  any  man  in 
Britain  ?  Aye — one  of  his  finest  spe- 
cimens stuffed  and  in  the  Manchester 
museum  ?  You  please  us  by  telling 
us  that  he  has  fished  all  the  best 
streams  and  lakes  of  England  and 
Ireland,  and  says  that  not  one  of 
them  all  can  hold  up  its  head  with 


998 


Loch  Awe. 


[June, 


Loch  Awe.  That  the  smaller  trout- 
fishing  is  his  great  delight,  and  the 
grey  trout  trolling  merely  made  an 
accessory  to  it  in  passing  from  one 
part  of  the  loch  to  another,  is  of  it- 
self enough  to  confirm  us  in  the 
conviction  that  he  is  an  illustrious 
artiste.  Those  flies  are  of  his  dress- 
ing ?  They  are  exquisite.  And  his 
whole  arrangement  of  feathers, 
downs,  silks,  &c.  £c.  beyond  all 
praise — eh — splendid  ?  And  he 
brought  down  a  beautiful  boat  of  his 
own  from  Liverpool  with  every  thing 
complete  about  her  ?  and  his  sons — 
you  say — are  fine  fishermen  ?  Why 
you  make  us  sad,  Mr  Proctor.  We 
are  dwindling— dwindled  into  the 
most  absolute  and  abject  insignifi- 
cance of  any  creeping  thing  that 
crawls  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  or  on 
the  heads  of  its  inhabitants.  We  are 
no  angler — not  we ;  and  as  for  sons 
— we  are  too  plainly  an  aged  bache- 
lor— Proctor— barren  as  that  block. 
But  shove  off— only  don't  laugh — and 
we  shall  try  a  cast  or  two  along  the 
Hayfield  shores. 

Mr  Lascelles  says  that  Cheval- 
lier  of  Temple  Bar  is  the  only  man 
that  understands  the  proper  shape 
and  proportiorfof  a  rod?  True.  This 
is  one  of  Chevallier's  Tip -toppers. 
Thank  you — we  always  use  our  own 
flies,  though  we  admire  those  of  our 
friends— and  we  have  found  this 
imp  with  the  green  body,  half  black 
heckle,  and  brown  mallard  wings, 
in  all  waters  and  at  all  seasons 
very  bloody.  We  generally  make  a 
few  circles  in  the  air — so — ere  we 
drop  the  devils.  You  seem  rather 
surprised — why  the  old  buck  can 
handle  his  tool  pretty  tidily  for  one 
of  the  antique  school; — and  hang  it 
— we  wish  this  admirable  Crichton, 
this  miraculous  Lascelles,  were 
here — in  his  own  boat  the  Liverpool- 
ian  ; — were  he  to  give  us  five — why 
we'd  play  him  the  game  of  twenty 
for  a  greasy  chin,  and  a  gallon  of 
Glenlivet.  Lie  on  your  oars — for  we 
know  the  water.  The  bottom  of  this 
shallow  bay — for  'tis  nowhere  ten 
feet — in  places  sludgy,  and  in  places 
firm  almost  as  the  greensward — for 
we  have  waded  it — of  yore— many  a 
time  up  to  our  chin — till  we  had  to 
take  to  our  fins — there  !  Mr  Yellow- 
lees  was  in  right  earnest,and  we  have 
him  as  fast  as  an  otter.  There  he 
goes  snoring  and  snuving  along  as 


deep  as  he  can — steady,  boys,  steady 
— and  seems  disposed  to  pay  a  visit 
to  Rabbit  Island.  There  is  a  mystery 
in  this  we  do  not  very  clearly  com- 
prehend— the  uniformity  of  our 
friend's  conduct  becomes  puzzling — 
he  is  an  unaccountable  character.  He 
surely  cannot  be  an  eel.  Yet  for  a 
trout  he  manifests  an  unnatural  love 
of  mud  on  a  fine  day.  Row  shore- 
ward— Proctor — do  as  we  bid  you — 
she  draws  but  little  water — run  her 
up  bang  on  that  green  brae — then 
hand  us  the  crutch — for  we  must 
finish  this  affair  on  terra  firma.  Loch 
Awe  is  certainly  a  beautiful  sheet  of 
water.  The  islands  are  disposed  so 
picturesque— we  want  no  assistance 
but  the  crutch — here  we  are  with 
elbow-room,  and  on  stable  footing 
— and  we  shall  wind  up — retiring 
from  the  water-edge,  as  people  do 
at  a  levee,  with  their  faces  towards 
the  King.  Do  you  see  them  yel- 
lowing, you  Tory?  WThat  bellies  I 
Why  we  knew  by  the  dull  dead 
weight  that  there  were  three— for 
they  kept  all  pulling  against  one 
another,  nor  were  we  long  in  disco- 
vering the  complicated  motion  of 
triplets.  Pounders  each  —  same 
weight  to  an  ounce — same  family- 
wallop — all  bright  as  stars.  Never 
could  we  endure  angling  from  a 
boat.  \Vhat  loss  of  time  in  getting 
the  whappers  wiled  into  the  landing 
net.  What  loss  of  peace  of  mind  in 
letting  them  off,  when  their  snouts, 
like  those  of  Chinese  pigs,  were 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  gunwale, 
and  when,  with  a  last  convulsive  ef- 
fort, they  whaumled  themselves  over 
with  their  splashing  tails,  and  disap- 
peared for  ever.  Now  for  five  flies. 
Wind  on  our  back — no  tree  within 
an  acre— no  shrub  higher  than  the 
bracken — no  reed,  rush,  or  water- 
lily  in  all  the  bay — what  hinders  that 
we  should,  what  the  Cockneys  call 
whip  with  a  dozen  ?  We  have  set 
the  loch  a-feet3.  Epicure  and  glut- 
ton alike  are  rushing  to  destruction. 
Trouts  of  the  most  abstemious  ha- 
bits cannot  withstand  the  temptation 
of  such  exquisite  evening  fare;  and 
we  are  much  mistaken  if  here  be  not 
an  old  dotard,  a  lean  and  slippery 
pantaloon,  who  had  long  given  up 
attempting  vainly  to  catch  flies,  and 
found  it  is  much  as  he  could  do  to 
overtake  the  slower  sort  of  worms. 
Him  we  shall  not  return  to  his  na- 


1833.]  Loch  Awe. 

tive  element,  to  drag  out  a  pitiable 
existence,  but  leave  him  where  he 
lies,  to  die— he  is  dead  already— 

"  For  he  is  old  and  miserably  poor!" 

Two  dozen  in  two  hours  we  call 
fair  sport, — and  we  think  they  will 
average  not  less,  Proctor,  than  a 
pound.  Lascelles  and  North  against 
any  two  in  all  England.  We  beseech 
you — only  look  at  yonder  noses. 
Thick  as  frogs— as  powheads.  There 
— that  was  lightly  dropt  among  them 


999 

on  Larach-a-ban,  steady,  as  if  towards 
spawning  ground  in  the  genial  month 
of  August,  but  never  again  shall  he 
enjoy  his  love.  See — he  turns  up  a 
side  like  a  house.  We  shrewdly  sus- 
pect he  is  pretending  to  be  dead, 
and  reserving  his  strength  for  a  last 
struggle  at  the  shore.  Aye — that  is 
indeed  a  most  commodious  landing- 
place,  and  the  hypocrite,  ere  he  is 
aware  of  water  too  shallow  to  hide 
his  back-fin,  will  be  walloping  upon 
the  yellow  sand.  A  dolphin !  a  dol- 


— each  fatal  feather  seeming  to  melt    phin !  large  enough  to  carry  on  his 
on  the  water  like  a  snow-flake.    We    shoulders  a  little  green  fairy  aquatic 


have  done  the  deed,  Proctor — we 
have  done  the  deed.  We  feel  that  we 
have  five.  Observe  how  they  will 
come  to  light,  in  succession,  a  size 


Arion,  harp  in  hand,  and  charming 
the  Naiads  with  a  dulcet  song. 

"Hurra!   hurra!  hurra!  Christo- 
pher for  ever ! "     We  look  around ; 


larger  and  larger,  with  a  monster  at    and  lo  !  the  Cladich  breakfast-party 


the  tail-fly.  Even  so.  To  explain  the 
reason  why,  would  perplex  a  mas- 
ter of  arts.  Five  seem  about  fifty, 
when  all  dancing  about  together  in 
an  irregular  figure,  but  they  have 
sorely  ravelled  our  gear.  It  matters 
not;  for  it  must  be  wearing  well  on 
to  eight  o'clock,  and  we  dine  at  sun- 
set. 

Why  keep  so  far  out  from  shore  ? 
We  are  not  bound  for  Cladich,  but 
Larach-a-ban.  Whirr !  Whirr !  Whirr ! 
SALMO  FEROX,  as  sure  as  a  gun.  The 
maddened  monster  has  already  run 
out  ten  fathom  of  chain- cable.  His 


waving  their  bonnets  round  their 
heads  at  our  enormous  capture. 
When  they  talk  about  it  in  Glasgow, 
it  will  be  thought  a  ggegg.  Let  us 
weigh  the  monster — up  with  him  by 
the  gills — and  fasten  him  to  our  poc- 
ket steel-yard.  He  had  there  well- 
nigh  broken  our  back.  TWENTY- 
SEVEN  POUND  JIMP  ! ! !  Nay — nay—- 
nay, boys — no 'crowning,  no  crown- 
ing of  the  old  man.  Yet,  if  you  will 
have  it  so — we  forgive  the  enthu- 
siasm of  youth.  That  is  classical,  and 
with  joy  we  submit  our  brows  to  the 
Parsley  Wreath.  All  we  want  now  is 


spring  is  not  so  sinewy  as  a  salmon's  a  Pindar.     And  nothing  will  pacify 

of  the  same  size, but  his  rush  is  more  you,  you  madcaps,  but  to  bear  us, 

tremendous,  and  he  dives  like  one  of  shoulder-high,  up  to  Larach-a-ban  ? 

the   damned    in    Michael   Angelo's  And  you  are  so  kind  as  to  cry  that  bone 

Last  Judgment.  All  the  twelve  barbs  never  bore  a  nobler  burthen  ?  What 

are  gorged,  and  not,  but  with  the  will  Lascelles  say  when  he  hears  of 

loss  of  his  torn-out  entrails,  can  he  our  triumph!  It  will  go  hard  to  break 

escape  dry  death.    Give  us  an  oar —  his  heart.  No— he  is  a  fine  generous 

or  he  will  break  the  rope — there —  creature,  we  are  told,  envious  of  no 

we  follow  him  at  equal  speed  stern-  other  great  man's  reputation,  though 

foremost — but  canny — canny — for  if  justly  jealous  of  his  own.     O  thou 

the  devil  doubles  upon  us,  he  may  glorious  setting  sun !   slow   sinking 

play  mischief  yet  by  getting  under  behind  the    crimson    ridge  of   old 

our  keel.    That  is  noble.     There  he  Cruachan,  thou  seemest  to  say  in  that 

sails  some  twenty  fathom  off,  paral-  solemn  light  of  thine,  celestial  moni- 

lel  to  our  pinnace,  at  the  rate  of  six  tor — 

knots  —  and    bearing — for  we   are  CHRISTOPHER,  REMEMBER  THOU  ART 

giving  him  the  butt — right  down  up-  MORTAL  ! 


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INDEX  TO  VOLUME  XXXIII. 


Abortion,  papers  circulated  by  persons  be- 
longing to  the  Political  Economists  in 
London,  to  procure,  443 — Suggestions  as 
atrocious  circulated  and  acted  upon  in  the 
Factories,  ib. 

Absentees,  injudiciousness  of  a  tax  on,  617 
A  Dozen  Years  Hence,  265 
Affections,  Characters  of  the,  124,  143 
AH  Pasha,  his  war  with  the  Sultan,  498 
Alison,    Archibald,    Esq.,    History    of    the 

French  Revolution,  by,  889 
Annunciation,  the,  by  Mrs  Hemans,  804 
Anthology,  the  Greek,  No.  I.  865 
Antwerp,  807 
Antwerp,  siege  of,  by  Lady  E.  S.  Wortley, 

113 

Apostates  political,  Burke's  character  of,  297 
Appeal,   a  last  one,   to   King,   Lords,   and 

Commons,  358 

Aristocratic  ministries,  fall  of,  598 
Armatoles,  or  Greek  militia  in  the  service  of 

the  Porte,  484 

Ashton,    Dr,  evidence  on  the  Factory  sys- 
tem, 431 
Awe,  Loch,  984 
Ayans,  magistrates  in  Ottoman  cities,  elected 

by  the  inhabitants,  936 
Barry  the  painter,  Burke's  admirable  letters 

to,  604 

Beranger,  songs  after  the  French  of,  844 
Beresford,  Rev.  Marcus,  his  account  of  the 
principles  of  the  Irish  Conservatives,  234 
Bethany,  sisters  of,  after  the  death  of  Laza- 
rus, 805 

Bible,  child  reading  the,  by  Mrs  Hemans,  262 
Billy-roller,  nature  and  uses  of,  441 
Bird,  Mr,  letter  concerning  costumes  for  his 
picture  of  Chevy  Chase,  62 — and  answer 
from  Sir  Walter  Scott,  64 
Bishops'   Lands,    Lord   Althorp's  proposals 

concerning,  653 

Blair,  Mr,  dinner  to,  in  Edinburgh,  266 
Bluebeard,  a  dramatic  tale,  by  Tieck,  206 
Blundell,  Dr,  evidence  on  the  Factory  sys- 
tem, 433 

Bolingbroke,  Lord,  character  of,  283 
Bonaparte,  invasion  of  Portugal,  2 
Boyton,  Mr,  his  description  of  the  system 
pursued  by  the  Irish  government,  232 — 
his  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  Dub- 
lin Conservative  Society,  235 — his  speech 
on  the  Dutch  war,  238 
Brazils,  arrival  of  the  Portuguese  royal  fami- 
ly in,  4 — subsequent  history  of  the  coun- 
try, ib. 

Bringing  up  Lee  Way,  298,  451 
Brunswick,  Duke  of,  his  manifesto,  899 
Bull,  Rev.  G.  S.,  evidence  on  the  Factory 

system,  443,  447 

Burke,  Edmund,  Part  I.  277 — his  eloquence 
did  not  apply  to  temporary  emergencies 
only,  but  embodied  principles  universally 


applicable,  278 — his  university  career, 
'279 — favourite  authors  in  earJy  life,  280 
—his  pamphlet  against  Brooke,  and  Letter 
to  Dr  Lucas,  ib. — account  of  the  metro- 
polis, ib.— stands  candidate  for  the  pro- 
fessorship of  Logic  in  Glasgow,  282 — 
design  of  going  to  America,  283 — his 
Vindication  of  Natural  Society,  ib.— 
Treatise  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful, 
287 — Johnson's  opinion  of  him,  ib.— - 
anecdote  of  an  encounter  with  a  clergy- 
man at  Litchfield,  ib. — editor  or  author  of 
a  History  of  the  European  Settlements  in 
North  America,  and  of  Dodsley's  An- 
nual Register,  288 — private  secretary  to 
Single-speech  Hamilton,  289 — private 
secretary  to  Marquis  Rockingham,  290— 
comes  into  parliament,  291 — defence  of 
the  Rockingham  administration,  296 — 
his  character  of  political  apostates,  297 — 
Part  II.  597 — Burke's  Thoughts  on  the 
cause  of  the  present  discontents,  598 — his 
occupations  at  Beaconsfield,  603 — patro- 
nage of  Barry,  604 — the  part  he  took  in 
behalf  of  America  on  the  commencement 
of  disputes  with  the  mother  country,  607 
— his  disapproval  of  a  tax  on  absentees, 
617 

Caesars,  Chap.  III.  Caligula;  Claudius,  and 
Nero,  43 

Caligula,  his  cruelties,  44 

Carlisle,  Sir  Anthony,  evidence  on  the  Fac-* 
tory  system,  432 

Chalmers,  Rev.  Dr,  his  argument  that  a  sys- 
tem of  poor's  laws  is  destructive  of  charity 
borrowed  from  the  present  Bishop  of  I  an- 
daff,  and  at  the  same  time  erroneous,  318 

Characteristics  of  Women,  No.  I.  Characters 
of  the  Affections,  124 — No.  II.  143 — 
No.  III.  Characters  of  Passion  and  Ima- 
gination, 391 — No.  IV.  Characters  of  In- 
tellect, 539 

Charlemont,  Lord,  character  of,  288 

Chatham,  Lord,  administration  of,  295 — 
Burke's  humorous  character  of  it,  ib.— . 
character  of  his  lordship,  967 

Chief,  the,  or  the  Gael  and  Sassenach,  503, 
763 

Child  reading  the  Bible,  by  Mrs  Hemans, 
262 

China  monopoly,  796 

Church  Establishment,  advantages  of,  332 

Church,  Irish,  danger  of  the  new  measures 
to  it  as  a  spiritual  body,  660 

Church  property,  real  nature  and  amount  of, 
360 

Conservative  dinner  in  Edinburgh,  late,  266 

Conservative  party,  strength  and  duties  of, 
115 

Conservative  system  of  government,  563 

Conservatives,  Irish,  234 

Corn  Laws,  danger  of  abolishing,  363 


1002 


Index. 


Cornwall  and  Devonshire  illustrated,  No.  I. 

689 

Cortes  of  Lamego,  history  of,  20 
Craven  heart,  the,  by  Mrs  Godwin,  '264 
Cringle,  Tom,  his  log,  Chap.  XVII.  Scenes 

in  Cuba,  26— Chap.   XVIII.    Cruise  of 

the  Wave,   170— Chap.  XIX.  Bringing 

up  Lee  Way,  298 — Chap.  XX.  Bringing 

up  Lee  Way,  451 — Chap.  XXI.    Second 

Cruise  of  the  Wave,  737 
Crocodile  island,  105 
Ouger,  Mr,  anecdote  of,  610 
Cruise  of  the  Wave,  170 — second  cruise,  737 
Cuba,  scenes  in,  26 
Danton,  character  of,  906 
Democrat,    life   of  a,    a  sketch  of   Home 

Tooke,  96:3 

Dere  beys,  or  hereditary  Turkish  nobles,  905 
Despair,  by  the  Hon.  Augusta  Norton,  123 
Desultory  reading,  its  injurious  effects,  279 
Devonshire  and  Cornwall  illustrated,  689 
Diebitsch,  his  defeat    of  the   Turks  under 

Redschid,  942 

Dismemberment  of  the  Empire,  223 
Doctor,  the,  and  the  patient,  845 
Donatus,  his  account  of  Ireland,  923 
Doyle,  Dr,  his  able  evidence  in  favour  of  the 

introduction  of  poor's  laws  into  Ireland, 

831 

Dutch  war,  Mr  Boyton  on  the,  238 
Dying  request    of  a   Hindu    Girl,   by  Mrs 

Godwin,  595 
East  India  question,  776 
Elliot,   Ebenezer,  description   of  a   Reform 

jubilee,  by,  444 

England,    degradation  of,  under  the   influ- 
ence of  revolutionary  passions,  945 
Engraving,    improvements    and    abuses    in 

modern,  952 
Factory  system,  419 
Fall  of  Turkey,  931 
Farre,  Dr,  evidence  on  the  Factory  system, 

434 

Ferns,  anecdote  of  the  Bishop  of,  ^59 
Forrest-Race  Romance,  243 
Fountain,  the  ruined,  by  Mrs  Godwin,  595 
France,  state  of  the  poor  in,  822 
Franklin,  vindictive  and  selfish  character  of, 

616 

French  Revolution,  the,  889 
Future  Balance  of  Parties,  115 
Future  state,  rabbinical  traditions  concern- 
ing, 641 

Gael  and  Sassenach,  503,  763 
George  II.,  character  of,  597 
Gilfillan,  Robert,  songs  by,  855,  856,  857, 

808 
Girondists,  their  hypocritical  and   cowardly 

conduct  and  deserved  fall,  898,  902,  903, 

908 
Godwin,  Mrs,  Lyrics  of  the  East,  by,  No. 

III.   263— No.  IV.   264— Nos.   V.   and 

VI.  595 
Goldoni,  his  character  as  a  dramatic  writer, 

372 


Gordon,  Mr,  his  history  of  the  Greek  Revo- 
lution, 476 
Gozzi,  Count,  his  Turandot,  371 — his  Loves 

of  the  Three  Oranges,  374 
Graces,  the,  527 
Grave,  my,  596 
Grave  of  the  Gifted,  by  Lady  E.  fe'.  Wortley, 

260 

Greek  Anthology,  No.  I.  865 
Green,  Mr,  evidence  on  the  Factory  system, 
435 

Greece,  Revolution  of,  Part   I.   476 that 

event  proved  fatal  to  the  naval  power  of 
the  Porte,  943 

Gu'euse,  Water,  song  of  the,  810 
Hamilton,  Single-speech,  character  of,  289 
Hartley,  David,  Burke's  rejoinder  to,  615 
Hebron,  widow  of,  a  rabbinical  tradition,  630 
Hemans,  Mrs,  Hymns  of  Life,  by,  No.   I. 
120— No.    II.    122— Child  reading    the 
Bible,    by,    262 — Female    characters    of 
Scripture,  a  series  of  sonnets  by,  593,  804 
Hetaeria,  or  secret  society  of  Greece,  489 
Hodson,  Margaret,  Lines  to  the  memory  of 

Ensign  Holford,  by,  60 
Home  Tooke,  a  sketch  of,  963 — his  educa- 
tion, 964 — his  first  libel,  965 — letters  to 
Wilkes,  966 — insulted  by  Wilkes,  967 — 
labours  in  his  behalf  nevertheless,  968 — 
his  libel  on  Mr  Onslow,  970 — the  address 
of  the  London  corporation  said  to  have 
have  been  drawn  up  by  him,  974 — Beck- 
ford's  famous  address  claimed  by  him,  975 
— Society  for  supporting  the  Bill  of 
Rights,  976 — quarrel  with  Wilkes,  and 
mutual  recriminations  and  exposures,  977 
Hymns  of  Life,  by  Mrs  Hemans,  120 
Ireland,  No.  I.  66 — redundant  population, 
ib. — indulgent  legislation  of  James  I.  69 
— and  consequent  rebellion,  ib. — conces- 
sions by  George  III.  70 — and  consequent 
rebellion,  ib. — Catholic  Emancipation,  71 
— and  present  state  of  Ireland,  ib. — Tithes, 
73 — bad  effect  of  liberal  institutions  on  an 
ignorant  and  volatile  people  like  the  Irish, 
75 — measures  necessary  .to  restore  peace 
and  prosperity,  78 — conduct  of  the  present 
-ministry,  81 — strength  of  the  Repealers, 
84 — No.  II.  Dismemberment  of  the  Em- 
pire, 223 — the  Repealers,  224 — union 
and  objects  of  the  Irish  Catholics,  227 — 
their  murders  and  burnings,  ib. — incon- 
stancy of  the  Irish  government,  231 — 
Conservative  Society  of  Dublin,  235 — 
anarchical  meetings,  237 — No.  III.  The 
Administration  of  Justice,  338 — Ireland 
incapable  of  governing  herself,  ib. — 
changes  in  the  administration  of  justice 
recommended  by  the  committee  during 
last  parliament,  340 — evidence  of  Sir 
John  Harvey,  342 — of  Mr  Barrington, 

343,  344,  347— of  Col.   John  Rochfort, 

344,  345,  346,  348,  349— of  Sir  Hussey 
Vivian,  348,  355— of  MX  Dupard,  349 
—of  Mr  Dillon,  350— of  Hovendea  Sta~ 


Index. 


1003 


pleton,  Esq.  35 1  —of  Maj.  -Gen.  Crawford, 
352,  354— of  Dr  Doyle,  354— general 
remarks,  356 — frightful  list  of  crimes 
committed  in  some  of  the  Irish  counties, 
357,  note — No.  IV.  563 — The  Coercive 
Measures,  570 — Church  Spoliation,  573 
—The  Grand  Jury  System,  580 
.Ireland,  on  the  introduction  of  poor's  laws 

into,  811 
"rish  clergy,  income-tax  to  be  imposed  on, 

656 
;  rish  church  bill,  letter  to  the  King»on  the, 

723 
>ish  garland,  87 

sle  of  Beauty,  by  Lady  E.  S.  Wortley,  261 

Janissaries,  massacre  of  the,  938 — insuffi- 
ciency of  the  troops  raised  in  their  stead, 
941 

Tamaica,  remonstrance  of  the  House  of  As- 
sembly  against  interference  with  their  in- 
ternal affairs  on  the  part  of  the  Reform 
Parliament,  226 

Jameson,  Mrs,  Characteristics  of  Women, 
by,  124,  143,  391,  539 

Jerusalem,  women  of,  at  the  cross,  by  Mrs 
Hetnans,  8  06 

Joy,  Judge,  his  charge  to  the  Longford 
grand  jury,  237 

Saye,  Dr,  on  the  Factory  system,  437 

Kicking,  a  common  punishment  in  the  Fac- 
tories, 441 

King,  letter  to  the,  on  the  Irish  church  bill, 
723 

Ladies,  studies  of  the,  a  la  Fran9ois,  844 

Landaff,  present  Bishop  of,  his  erroneous  ar- 
gument that  a  system  of  poor's  laws  is 
destructive  of  chanty,  818 

Landscape,  Scottish,  512 

Late  Discontents  in  Mauritius,  199 

Lay-figure,  the,  a  painter's  story,  583 

Life,  comparative  table  of  the  duration  of, 
450 

Lifting  of  the  Conservative  standard,  88 

)  .ifting  of  the  Revolutionary  standard,  88 
.ittle  Brown  Man,  the,  844 

Little  Leonard's  last  good-night,  61 

Lot^h  Awe,  984 

1  ,ord  Advocate,  his  behaviour  in  the  Edin- 
burgh election,  267 

Louis  XVI.  character  of,  898,  901 

1  .yrics  of  the  East,  by  Mrs  Godwin,  No. 
III.  263— No.  IV.  264— Nos.  V.  and 
VI.  595 

I  lacculloch,  his  preposterously  false  doctrine 
that  workmen  in  manufactories  are  health- 
ier and  more  virtuous  than  country  la- 
bourers, 439 

HacNeill,  Mr  Duncan,  his  speech  at  the 
Edinburgh  Conservative  Dinner,  272 

Mahmoud,  present  Sultan  of  Turkey,  his  fa- 
tal innovations,  934 

S  fanufactories,  unhealthiness  of,  437 

Marat,  character  of,  906 

?  [ary  at  the  feet  of  Christ,  by  Mrs  Hemans, 
805^Memorjal  of,  by  the  same,  ib, 


Mary  Magdalene  at  the  Sepulchre,  by  Mrs 
Hemans,  806 — bearing  tidings  of  the  re- 
surrection, ib. 

Mathematics  injudiciously  made  the  chief 
source  of  distinction  in  Dublin  University, 
279 

Mauritius,  late  discontents  in,    199 

Mess,  Nights  at,  924 

Mignon's  song,  90 

Miguel,  Dom,  history  of,  17 

Miriam,  song  of,  by  Mrs  Hemans,  593 

Mob  oratory,  weight  of,  iu  the  House  of 
Commons,  225 

Moorish  Maid  of  Granada,  40 

Motherwell's  Poems,  668 

Movement,  progress  of  the,  651 

My  Lisette,  she  is  no  more,  845 

Nero,  his  cruelties,  45 — his  flight,  49— and 
death,  52 

Nights  at  Mess,  924 

Norton,  Hon.  Augusta,  Despair,  by,  123 

Oak,  the  parent,  961 

O'Connell,  concessions  of  ministers  to,  81— 
his  continued  agitation,  82 

Ottoman  empire,  rise  and  progress  of,  481 

Parish  cess,  651 

Parisian  mob,  their  reception  in  the  Na- 
tional Assembly,  897 — they  storm  the 
palace,  900 — massacre  of  the  prisoners  of 
the  Abbaye,  907— and  of  theBicetre,  907 

Parties,  future  balance  of,  115 

Pedro,  Dom,  history  of,  6 

Penitent,  the,  anointing  Christ's  feet,  804 

Picture,  the,  90 

Poetry. — Moorish  Maid  of  Granada,  40 — 
to  the  Memory  of  Ensign  George  Holford 
Walker,  by  Margaret  Hodson,  60 — Little 
Leonard's  last  good-night,  61 — Ye  Gen- 
tlemen of  Ireland,  87 — Ye  Jackasses  of 
Ireland,  ib — Lifting  of  the  Conservative 
standard,  88 — Lifting  of  the  Revolution- 
ary standard,  ib.— Zephyrs,  89 — The 
Picture,  ib. — Mignon's  song,  ib.— Siege 
of  Antwerp,  by  Lady  E.  S.  Wortley,  113 
— Prayer  of  the  Lonely  Student,  by  Mrs 
Hemans,  120 — Traveller's  evening  song, 
by  the  same,  1 22 — Despair,  by  the  Hon. 
Augusta  Norton,  123— To  the  year  1832, 
187— Grave  of  the  Gifted,  by  Lady  E.  S. 
Wortley,  260— Isle  of  Beauty,  by  the 
same,  261 — Child  reading  the  Bible,  262 
— Lyrics  of  the  East,  by  Mrs  Godwin, 
No.  HI.  The  Shiek's  revenge,  263— No. 
IV.  The  Craven  Heart,  264 — A  Dozen 
years  hence,  265 — The  Graces,  527— ~ 
Lines  on  a  thrush  confined  in  a  cage  near 
the  sea,  by  Lady  E.  S.  Wortley,  592—- 
Female  characters  of  Scripture,  a  series  of 
sonnets,  by  Mrs  Hemans,  593 — Lyrics  of 
the  East,  Nos.  V.  and  VI.  by  Mrs  God- 
win, 595 — My  Grave,  596 — Female 
characters  of  Scripture,  by  Mrs  Hemans, 
804— Antwerp,  807— Song  of  the  Water 
Gueuse,  810 — Songs  after  the  French 
of  Beranger,  84.4.~Peath-&ong  tf  Reg- 


1004 


Index. 


ner   Lodbrog,   910 — The    Parent    Oak, 
961 

Poor's  laws,  and  their  introduction  into  Ire- 
land, 811 

Portugal,  invasion  by  the  French,  2 — Re- 
turn of  King  John  from  Brazil,  15 

Portuguese  war,  I 

Poussin,  Caspar,  the  only  true  pastoral  painter, 
685 — prints  from  his  paintings,  949 — a 
scene  near  Vico  Varo  the  subject  of  one  of 
his  pictures,  954 

Prayer  of  the  lonely  student,  by  Mrs  He- 
mans,  120 

Rabbi  David,  story  of,  649 

Rabbins,  traditions  of,  628 

Regner  Lodbrog,  Death-song  of,  910 — ac- 
count of  his  adventures,  915 

Repealers,  224 

Revolution,  progress  of,  in  France  and  Eng. 
land,  565 

Revolution,  the  French,  889 

Ricardo's  erroneous  definition  of  rent,  322 

Rizpah,  the  Vigil  of,  by  Mrs  Hemans,  594 

Roberton's  Remarks  on  the  health  of  Eng- 
lish manufacturers,  439 

Robespierre,  his  character,  906 — his  fate, 
909 

Rockingham's  administration,  294 

Roden,  Earl  of,  his  account  of  the  object  of 
the  Dublin  Conservative  Society,  236 

Romance,  Historical,  on  the  picturesque 
style  of,  621 

Romans,  universal  depravity  of,  under  the 
Caesars,  54 

Rome,  burning  of,  47 

Russia  the  power  destined  to  overthrow  the 
Ottoman  empire,  947 

Ruth,  by  Mrs  Hemans,  594 

Sadler,  Mr,  his  bill  on  the  Factory  system, 
423— his  statesmanlike  advocacy  of  poor's 
laws,  815 

Scenes  in  Cuba,  26 

Scotch  and  Yankees,  by  Gait,  91,  188 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  original  letter  from,  62 

Scottish  landscape,  512 

•Scripture,  female  characters  of,  by  Mrs 
Hemans,  593 

Scrope,  Mr,  his  able  arguments  for  poor's 
laws,  817 

Shakespeare's  Hermione,  127,  148 — Per- 
dita,  130 — Desdemona,  131,  155 — Imo- 
gen, 133,  150— Cordelia,  138,  159— 
Juliet,  392 — Ophelia,  398, — Miranda, 
409 — Beatrice,  541 — Rosalind,  548 

Shiek's  revenge,  by  Mrs  Godwin,  263 

Shunamite  Woman,  reply  of  the,  by  Mrs 
Hemans,  594 

Siege  of  Antwerp,  by  E.  S.  Lady  Wortley,  1 13 

Simmons,  Dr,  evidence  on  the  Factory  sys- 
tem, 431 

Sinclair,  Mr,  his  pamphlet  on  Indian  affair?, 
778 

Sketcher,  the,  No.  I.  682— No.  II.  949 


Slade,  Mr,  his  Travels  in  Turkey,  93 1 

Slavery,  gradual  abolition  of,  41 

Smith,  Mr  Samuel,  evidence  on  the  Factory 

system,  431 
Solomon,    rabbinical  tradition    concerning 

647 

Standard  newspaper,  its  account  of  the  ob- 
jects of  the  Conservative  Society  of  Ire- 
land, 236 

Suliotes,  sketch  of  their  history,  485,  note 
Talents,  it  is  a  fallacy  that  they  make  their 

own  foitune,  290 

Tea,  price  of,  in  England,  misrepresentation 
of  the  Edinburgh  Review  concerning,  789 
— table  showing  the  sale  price  of,  in  Eng- 
land and  on  the  continents  of  Europe  and 
America,  by  which  it  appears  that  tea  is 
furnished  fully  as  cheap  by  the  East  India 
Company  as  by  the  free  traders  any  where 
else,  801  . 
Thackrah,  Mr,  evidence  on  the  Factory  sy»- 

tera,  432 
Thomson,    Col.   his  exposure    of   Ricardo's 

erroneous  definition  of  rent,  323 
Thrush,  lines  on  one,  confined  in  a  cage  near 

the  sea,  by  Lady  E.  S.  Wortley,  592 
Tieck,  Bluebeard,  a  dramatic  tale,  by,  206 
Tithes,  Irish,  73,  82,  321 
To  the  year  1832,  187 
Transmigration  of  souls,  rabbinical  opinions 

concerning,  628 
Traveller's  evening  song,   by  Mrs  Hemans, 

122 
Turandot,  a  dramatic  fable,  by  Count  Gozzi, 

371 

Twaddle  on  Tweedside,  846 
Turkey,   the  fall  of,  931 — strange  indiffer- 
ence of  England  on  seeing  the  Russian 
power  extended  in  that  quarter,  932 
Ulema,  the,  or  peerage  of  Turkey,  937 — 
their  lands  free  from  arbitrary  taxation, 
937 

Virgin,  song  of  the,  by  Mrs  Hemans,  804 
Vivares,  character  of  his  etching,  95 1 
Walker,    Ensign    George    Holford,    to   the 

memory  of,  60 

Wilkes,  character  of,  963,  967 
Winstanley,    Dr,  evidence  on  the    Factory 

system,  431 

Women,  Characteristics  of,  No.  I.  124 — 
No.  II.  143— No.  III.  391— No.  IV. 
539 

Wortley,  Lady  Emmeline  Stuart,  Siege  of 
Antwerp,  by,  113— Grave  of  the  gifted, 
by,  260— Isle  of  beauty,  by,  261— Lines 
ou  a  Thrush  confined  in  a  cage  near  the 
sea,  by,  592 

Yankees,  Scotch  and,  by  Gait,  91,  183 
Yc  Gentlemen  of  Ireland,  87 
Ye  Jackasses  of  Ireland,  87 
Ypsilanti,  Alexander,  unsuccessful  msum-e- 

tion  of,  495 
Zephyrs,  98 


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